The caption read: Deirdre Mc?Comb, co-owner of Holy Frijole, Castle Rock’s newest fine dining experience, nears the finish line of the New York City Marathon, where she finished FOURTH in the Women’s Division! She’s announced that she will run in this year’s Castle Rock 12K, the Turkey Trot. HOW ABOUT YOU?

The details were below the caption. Castle Rock’s annual Thanksgiving race would take place on the Friday following the holiday, starting at the Rec Department on Castle View and finishing downtown, at the Tin Bridge. All ages were welcome, adult entrance fee five dollars for locals, seven dollars for out-of-towners, and two dollars for those under fifteen, sign up at the Castle Rock Rec Department.

Looking at the bliss on the face of the woman in the photo—runner’s high at its purest—Scott understood that Missy hadn’t been exaggerating about Holy Frijole’s life-expectancy. Not in the slightest. Deirdre McComb was a proud woman with a high opinion of herself, and quick—much too quick, in Scott’s opinion—to take offense. Her allowing her picture to be used this way, probably just for that mention of “Castle Rock’s newest fine dining experience,” had to be a Hail Mary pass. Anything, anything at all, to bring in a few more customers, if only to admire those long legs standing beside the hostess station.

He folded the poster, tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, and walked slowly down Main Street, looking in shop windows as he went. There were posters in all of them—posters for bean suppers, posters for this year’s giant yard sale in the parking lot of Oxford Plains Speedway, posters for Beano at the Catholic church and a potluck dinner at the fire station. He saw the Turkey Trot poster in the window of Castle Rock Computer Sales & Service, but nowhere else until he reached the Book Nook, a tiny building at the end of the street.

He went in, browsed a little, and grabbed a picture book from the discount table: New England Fixtures and Furnishings. Might not be anything in it he could use in his project—where the first stage was nearing completion, anyway—but you never knew. While he was paying Mike Badalamente, the owner and sole employee, he remarked on the poster in the window, and mentioned that the woman on it was his neighbor.

“Yeah, Deirdre McComb was a star runner for almost ten years,” Mike said, bagging up his book. “She would have been in the Olympics back in ’12, except she broke her ankle. Tough luck. Never even tried out in ’16, I understand. I guess she’s retired from the major competitions now, but I can’t wait to run with her this year.” He grinned. “Not that I’ll be running with her long, once the starting gun goes off. She’ll blow the competition away.”

“Men as well as women?”

Mike laughed. “Buddy, they didn’t call her the Malden Flash for nothing. Malden’s where she originally came from.”

“I saw a poster in Patsy’s, and one in the window of the computer store, and the one in your window. Nowhere else. What’s up with that?”

Mike’s smile went away. “Nothing to be proud of. She’s a lesbian. That would probably be okay if she kept it to herself—no one cares what goes on behind closed doors—but she has to introduce that one who cooks at Frijole as her wife. Lot of people around here see that as a big old screw you.”

“So businesses won’t put up the posters, even though the entry fees benefit the Rec? Just because she’s on them?”

After having Bull Neck throw the poster from the diner at him, these weren’t even real questions, just a way of getting it straight in his mind. In a way he felt as he had at ten, when the brother of his best friend had sat the younger boys down and told them the facts of life. Now as then, Scott had had a vague idea of the whole, but the specifics were still amazing to him. People really did that? Yes, they did. Apparently they did this, as well.

“They’re going to be replaced with new ones,” Mike said. “I happen to know, because I’m on the committee. It was Mayor Coughlin’s idea. You know Dusty, the king of compromise. The new ones will show a bunch of turkeys running down Main Street. I don’t like it, and I didn’t vote for it, but I understand the rationale. The town just gives the Rec a pittance, two thousand dollars. That’s not enough to maintain the playground, let alone all the other stuff we do. The Turkey Trot brings in almost five thousand, but we have to get the word out.”

“So . . . just because she’s a lesbian . . .”

“A married lesbian. That’s a deal-breaker for lots of folks. You know what Castle County’s like, Scott, you’ve lived here for what, twenty-five years?”

“Over thirty.”

“Yeah, and solid Republican. Conservative Republican. The county went for Trump three-to-one in ’16 and they think our stonebrain governor walks on water. If those women had kept it on the down-low they would have been fine, but they didn’t. Now there are people who think they’re trying to make some kind of statement. Myself, I think they were either ignorant about the political climate here or plain stupid.” He paused. “Good food, though. Have you been there?”

“Not yet,” Scott said, “but I plan to go.”

“Well, don’t wait too long,” Mike said. “Come next year at this time, there’s apt to be an ice cream shop in there.”

CHAPTER 2