After the bland meal was over and the tin foil discarded, Dean donned his coat and walked up town. Darkness had fallen and the streets were silent. He passed the recently restored Beaumont Hotel, a beautiful structure that after several decades of disuse and deterioration had finally been returned to its past glory. The building was a superb example of craftsmanship from an era when quality was meant to survive those skilled men who proudly worked it. The building stood there, gazing down on the quiet town like some magnificent matron, watching over her citizens as she had for a hundred years.
Dean wondered if Annie Quincy had ever entered through its portals. Probably not. Rev. Martin and his socially conscious wife must have dined there many a time, perhaps as poor Annie, like some wayward match girl, hovered outside. It seemed to Dean she'd spent her life on the outside, in some respects by choice, somehow driven from one social plane down to another, much lower, until there was nothing left but death. In her mind, at least. It bothered Dean, the choice Annie had taken. He was, by nature, a fighter, not someone to toss in the towel in despair, regardless how trying life had become. He always tried to govern his thinking by logic. While he knew he couldn't duplicate the feelings and situations of another, in a far different time and circumstances, he was nevertheless disappointed at the actions of this young woman whom he'd come to admire. Her writing showed she was intelligent and perceptive, though she demonstrated incredibly poor judgment at times. What would he have suggested she do? That she give birth to the baby and march up to the parsonage steps? He had no ready solution, but continued to believe the ultimate solution she chose to these insurmountable obstacles was a cop-out. Love. That was the overpowering emotion that had come to rule poor Annie's life. It drove her to final despair. Blind, illogical love. Would Dean ever make such irrational and illogical decisions if faced with a test of his love? He wondered, and hoped he would not. He considered stopping for a beer or two but realized bellying up to the bar was no solution to life's problems. Instead, he returned to Bird Song to once more try to contact his wife.
Fred O'Connor sat alone in the parlor, notes spread around him on the couch and coffee table. A Country and Western singer was mourning a lost love on Fred's mini boom box. Mrs. Lincoln formed a pillow behind the old man's head. Dean nodded on his way back to his quarters but didn't stop.