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“What sweet little babies…”
They are babies. Right now, these Kunekune piggies are tiny—smaller than the puppies. They’re mottled black and pink, and oh-so huggable. I play with them for a while before going back inside, grabbing my yoga mat, and heading to the senior center.
The class I lead there is eighty minutes long—on the slightly longer side for yoga classes these days—but the retirees would rather take it slow, and so would I. After yoga, I stop by the Shake & Bake, a Zumba place and tanning salon where Leah’s working, and we chat for a while. I’m home just in time to throw some chicken salad together for a late lunch and have a quick phone chat with Latrice, who’s gone to Albany to sell one of the older tractors. The money we get from it should cover planting costs for the largest peanut crop we’ve endeavored yet.
I shower, change my clothes, and hop into the truck with two juice boxes and big, shiny apples for Margot and Oliver to eat when they hop in the truck after school. The dirt road’s hazy when I reach the end of my driveway, so I figure Mrs. Manson just passed by with my mail.
I stop at the box and pull out a package. No return address. But it’s from France.
“That’s weird…” I use a key to slice it open. Inside, I find two tiny Eiffel Tower pencil sharpeners and three blue bottles of bubbles bearing a French brand sticker, along with three bags of Haribo Orangina Pik gummies. At the bottom, folded beneath a layer of tissue paper, is a soft, maroon Gryffindor T-shirt in my size and a paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.
I grin at the cover. It’s the original British edition. I thumb through it. Inside the cover, taped to the first page, is a pale green sticky note that says 1st Edition in familiar script.
Sure, enough, Bloomsbury is the publisher, and the publication date is 1997. I start laughing like a fool and hold the book to my chest.
“Oh my lands. Why did you do this, Burke?”
I set the paperback on the dashboard and tear through the box again. There’s no note, though. I assume he put the sticky in the book so I didn’t let Margot and Oliver run around playing with it. I assume it has some value.
A quick search on my phone’s web browser reveals it could be worth…four thousand dollars!
There is no way.
Is there?
I flip through the book again. It does look slightly old; the pages are stiff and maybe just a little yellowed.
“Well hot dog.”
I take off down the dirt road, tires spinning over stray pebbles, a dust cloud enveloping the truck as I speed toward the paved road.
He didn’t do it. But I know he did. So ostentatious. It’s his style. Didn’t even leave a note in the box, but he spent around four thousand dollars. Dipshit.
I text him from the pickup line in front of Heat Springs Primary. I’m sending this back to you.
I’m in France.
One of your people can babysit it till you get home.
The little bubble showing someone’s texting pops up and then disappears, as if he’s not sure what to say. Finally he asks, Are you anti vintage books?
I don’t want you spending money on me!
Someone gave it to me.
What? Really?!
Really, he says.
Are you sure?
I’m pretty sure.
Oh. Well…hmmm. I still don’t like it.
You can keep it for Margot and Oliver if you want, he says. I thought you would like it.
Well now I feel like a jackass.
You’re not a jackass.
For a heady second, I can’t believe we’re really texting one another. After two months of silence. Two months I spent wondering what he was thinking about me. Does he see me as some wanton woman, throwing myself at him? So confusing, because it didn’t seem one-sided to me.
What are you doing in France?
Just had some meetings here.
I scan the school’s front lawn, but it’s still empty. I don’t know if it’s a bad idea to keep the conversation rolling, but I find I kind of can’t stop. U like it there?
Yeah. I’m a fan of France.
What do you like about it? Lord knows I’ve never been. Probably never will.
He takes so long to answer that I wonder if he gave up on the text chat. I don’t know. I like the look of it, I think. Paris. That’s where I am right now. I like the pace, the architecture. I don’t know.
What a thorough answer from the man who didn’t want to stick around and say bye to me. You don’t know much, do you, Sly?
Sorry, I’m kind of under the weather.
What kind of weather’s got you down? I smirk to myself, even as my heart is going pitter-patter like jazz dance shoes.
Idk I think the flu.
