THE RIDE HOME WASN’T nearly as harrowing as the ride to the funeral. Estelle, despite the fact that she chased storms for a living, appeared to drive at much more restrained pace than Florence. Once they’d left the cemetery, Myrtle got right to the point. “Estelle, it seemed as if you wanted to tell me something back there. Was it something about Florence?”
Estelle’s hands briefly clenched the steering wheel. “Well, I hate to say anything. This is long-ago history. In fact, you may know it much better than I do. I’ve only heard it secondhand.”
Myrtle frowned. “Well, you have whetted my interest. Although I can’t say I remember anything about Florence from the past.” There did seem to be some sort of faraway memory trying to poke its way to the surface, however.
“It’s about Florence’s fa
