Page 16 of Part of Your World

“I know.”

Alana clasped Muriel’s palm and squeezed. “Hold tight to the Lord’s hand, Muri, wherever this takes ye. And if ye need me, I’ll be there. No matter what. Yer me sister, and I love ye.”

Muriel squeezed her sister’s hand in return, her voice thick with emotion. “I love ye, too, Alana. And I promise I’ll keep my wits about me.”

Alana smiled a gentle, motherly sort of smile. “See that ye do.”

Muriel gave her sister’s hand a final squeeze then dashed out of the bookshop and hurried across the street to the music store. She searched the entire store, even climbed to the second floor where the pianos were displayed, but her quarry had disappeared.

Undeterred, Murial exited the music shop and turned right on Market Street. She might have missed him today, but all was not lost. She’d learned something valuable about him, something to aid her search. Muriel might not possess the connections to find a gentleman living among the East End elite, but she knew someone who did.

Chapter 7

“Muriel? I didn’t expect to see you today. Did I forget you were coming?” Laraline Seward’s brow puckered, but she opened her door wide in welcome anyway.

“No, ma’am.” Muriel gave the older lady’s arm a soft squeeze as she stepped inside the cottage. “Ye forgot nothin’. And if it be a poor time for me to be payin’ a call, just say so, and I’ll skedaddle. I can seek yer advice on the morrow.” Though she hoped it didn’t come to that.

Her heart had swollen to painful proportions the moment she spotted Zane outside the bookshop, and the tightness had only grown worse the longer she went without finding him. She wasn’t completely sure she’d make it to tomorrow without something in her chest springing a leak.

“You know you’re always welcome here, child. I just wish I’d known you were a-comin’ so I coulda thrown some cookies in the oven first.”

“As tasty as yer cookies be, Miss Laraline, that’s not why I came. I need yer help.”

“Then you’ll have it.” Laraline lifted her chin like a soldier awaiting orders. “Whatever you need.”

Something did spring a leak then, though it was in Muriel’s eyes, not her chest. Of course, her chest felt pretty warm and mushy at the moment, so maybe there’d been a leak there too.

Muriel threw her arms around Laraline and hugged her tight. The retired cook sputtered a bit then patted Muriel’s back with her gnarled hands, obviously unaccustomed to spontaneous displays of affection.

“Well, get in here and close the door before the chickens decide to move in.”

Muriel chuckled as she gave her cheeks a quick swipe with the back of her hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

As they often did, they found their way to the kitchen. Laraline had a small parlor, but she’d lived too long in a kitchen to feel comfortable elsewhere. She gestured for Muriel to sit, then lifted a cloth off a nearly new loaf of bread, cut two slices, and slathered both with butter before carrying them to the table.

Muriel forced her impatience into the bouncing leg she kept hidden beneath the table and smiled as she accepted the offering. It was a physical impossibility for Laraline to have someone in her house for more than five minutes without feeding them. Not that Muriel minded the ritual. She lifted her slice and took a generous bite, savoring the touch of honey baked into the loaf. Some might consider bread and butter humble fare but only because they’d never tasted Laraline’s loaves. Muriel was fairly certain the woman had found God’s manna recipe, because her bread was divine.

Laraline sat down at the head of the table, took her own bite of bread, then turned her attention to Muriel. “So what pickle brings you to my door?”

Muriel leaned forward in her chair. “I need to find someone. A young man. One who likely comes from the fancy side of the island.”

Laraline frowned and shook her head. “Girl, I thought you had better sense than to go chasing after a rich fella.” She blew out a disgruntled breath. “Young’uns,” she muttered under her breath. “Thinkin’ money solves every problem.” She wagged an arthritic finger at Muriel. “Honey, listen up and listen good. Money ain’t the key to happiness. Some of the unhappiest folk I’ve ever seen are those in the big houses on the East End. You’ll be much better off findin’ you an honorable man who loves God and loves you. That’s the key to happiness.”

Feeling as if Laraline had just overturned her egg basket, sending her fragile dreams rolling away in a dozen different directions, Muriel scrambled to gather them back together. “Ye don’t understand. I’m not trying to find him because of his money. I want to find him because my heart is connected to his.”

Laraline’s eyebrows arched. It seemed she’d need more convincing. “How can your heart be attached to his if you don’t even know who he is?”

A valid question, and one lacking a sensible answer. But not everything in life was sensible. Some things had to be taken on faith.

“I can’t explain it, but my heart . . . recognized him.” She told Laraline about the boat, the rescue, and seeing him again today outside the bookshop. “I know ‘tis possible he’s a married man. He could be an arrogant snob or an unscrupulous womanizer. But my heart insists he’s none of those things. I have to find him, Laraline. ‘Tis the only way to learn what kind of man he be. If I discover me heart is steerin’ me astray, I’ll let him go. But if he’s the one God means to pair me with, I can’t turn me back just because he’s from the fancy side o’ town. All I’m askin’ is fer a chance to test the waters, Laraline. Will ye help me? Please?”

Laraline stared at Muriel long and hard, making Muriel squirm a bit beneath the scrutiny. At last, the cook released her breath and gave a small nod. “Very well, but you gotta promise me that you’ll keep your wits about you. I’ve seen too many girls end up with babes without fathers because some handsome fella charmed the sense right out of them. I don’t want that life for you.”

Muriel pressed a hand over her heart. “I’ll be careful, I promise. I won’t dishonor God or me da by playin’ loose wi' me virtue.”

“Good.” Laraline smiled for the first time since this conversation began. “Then let’s get to work. What do you know about your mystery man?”

“Not much. His name is Zane. He has black hair and enjoys sailing.” Muriel scrunched her nose. How could that be all she knew about him? There seemed to be so much more. But how did one describe the intangible? “Oh, there was an older man at the beach. Maybe a grandfather? I think I heard Zane call him Grandpa Clem.”