Going Through the Notions(35)

“Like a weird sort of Stockholm syndrome thing?”

“I guess so.”

The door bell jangled and Cyril Mackey marched into the store.





Chapter Seven





We stood there, frozen in place, as he came up to us.

“I brought tha plate back,” he announced, thrusting it at me.

“Um, thank you.” It was actually Martha’s plate, but I wasn’t about to correct him.

“Them treats were champion,” Cyril growled, turning to her.

Martha simply nodded, hands still raised above her head holding her hair, her cheeks flushed. She had always been outspoken, and now with Teddy gone, she usually said whatever she damn well felt like saying, but this was the first time I had ever seen her rendered speechless.

“Ay, up.” Cyril observed her with interest for a few moments, and then looked around, sizing up the store. “Freezing in here.”

With the body-hugging Lycra wrap top Martha was wearing, it was easy to see what he was getting at.

Silence reigned as we all struggled to form a sentence.

He focused on me again. “How’s Angus, then?”

“He’s okay. I visited him this morning.” I cleared my throat with an effort. “Um—we’re going to help Betty with the auction this weekend.”

Cyril nodded. “Just as well. That old biddy couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.”

“Good God, man, there are ladies present!” Martha exploded, finally finding her voice, hands collapsing to her sides, and her hair falling down in red waves.

I fought the urge to close my eyes, but Cyril merely put up a hand as if to calm a skittish mare. “Now then, simmer down, lass.”

Martha looked like an apoplectic goldfish as she opened and closed her mouth.

Cyril shrugged. “Thought you women would be nattering on in here. Always heard it were like a party or summat, but nowt much happening, far as I can see.”

I hurriedly wrapped some of the shortbread in aluminum foil and pressed it into his hands.

“Much obliged.” He tipped his cap at us. “Afternoon, ladies.” And with that, he was gone.

There was another minute of shocked silence until Martha spoke.

“Good God. Who does that man think he is anyway?”

She turned on me. “And why the hell did you have to give him more treats? It’s like feeding a stray cat. You know it’ll be back for more.”

I handed her the clean plate. “I don’t know. I couldn’t think of anything else to do at the time.”

“I think he fancies you,” Eleanor said to Martha.

Sarah burst out laughing, and after a moment, I joined in.

Martha slammed the plate down so hard it was a miracle it didn’t break. “Don’t mess with me today, woman. It’s too stinking hot. If I wasn’t so old, I’d think I was having hot flashes.”

She twirled her hair up into a thick knot, grabbed a jade hairpin from a glass jar, and stabbed the whole mass with it. “Maybe I have a brain tumor or something. That’s one of the symptoms, you know.”

“Too much self-diagnosis on the Internet is dangerous to your health.” Eleanor drained her coffee cup.

I brought over the pot for a refill and grinned at Sarah. If laughter was good for the heart, I should live to about a hundred and fifty after spending time with these two.

Business in the store picked up after Eleanor and Martha left, and I was busy for the rest of the afternoon.

“Tell Daddy I’ll be late,” I said to Sarah as she headed home around four o’clock. “You guys go ahead and eat dinner without me. I’m going to help Betty after work.”

*



“All down the twisting River Road, houses in a gamut of styles rose up along one side with stone walls appearing to catch them from sliding right down into the water. Some were cottages cramped together, with tiny front doors no more than a few feet from the road, and flowers spilling over window planters. Some were exuberant Victorians painted aqua, rose, and peach with the Stars and Stripes flying proudly on their porches. And some were breathtaking properties with curved stone archways and pillars, mullioned windows, Tudor markings, and garages that looked like barn doors set into the side of the rock.

The Delaware River was sluggish in this heat, its wide brown expanse of water dappled with patches of green. River Road crossed over the canal, so as I headed toward Sheepville, the river was always on my left, but sometimes the canal was to the left, sometimes to the right. Masses of Queen Anne’s lace and goldenrod grew in unfettered abandon along its banks.

White onion-shaped finials on a fence overlooking the river surrounded a blue-shingled house with a white sign that read, HOME-AT-LAST.