AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She had begun celebrating far too early. “A week from Saturday at ten o’clock.”
No, that was too soon.
But she’d already blurted it out, and as Avis stammered out a good-bye, there was no chance to change it.
“A book club?” she whispered to the empty hallway. What had she beenthinking? Yes, she shelved books, catalogued them, accepted donations of them, but she didn’treadthem and certainly never discussed them.
Besides, who on earth would she invite?
Russell’s words came back to her:“You have no friends.”
It wasn’t true. Itwasn’t. And yet, try as she might, Avis couldn’t think of anyone who might want to come. Even the thought of asking made her feel ill.
The sliver of light under their bedroom door told her where Russell had barricaded himself for the evening. She raised a hand to knock—then turned away. Better not to disturb him. Why should he care about her petty troubles when he was busy feeling sorry for himself?
Trying not to think about the harsh words they’d exchanged, she tucked dinner away in the refrigerator. That done, she pulled out the cake stand, hidden in the shadow of the breadbox, and lifted the lid to reveal a chocolate cake with lemon-zest frosting. It looked almost like the one in the recipe from theRoyal Baking Powder Cookbook, the one she’d paid six cents plus shipping for weeks ago to be ready for today.
And after plunging her fork into it, Avis decided it tasted as good as it looked, a light sponge with just enough sour to cutthe sweet. She’d risen early to bake it before work and even had time to fashion a decorative sugar rose over her noon break since Mother had called, saying she’d mistakenly planned a hair salon appointment for today, and might they reschedule their lunch plans? They’d hung up without setting a date.
When the phone rang tonight, she’d had a false hope that her in-laws had remembered. But it was only awful Miss Cavendish with her grim news.
Avis replaced the cake stand cover, climbing the stool to set it on the top shelf of the cabinet, hidden alongside the punch glasses they never used. If Russell had forgotten, he didn’t deserve a single slice.
She was perfectly content to eat her entire birthday cake by herself.
six
GINNY
APRIL 10
DERBY, MAINE
Ginny took a look at the haul she’d bought off the Boy Scout down at the scrapyard for a nickel. One old bugle, a copper jewelry box, a paperweight of the Lincoln memorial, and six chocolate molds shaped like lobsters.
Wasn’t any good, letting a treasure trove like this get melted down for a scrap drive. Anyway, as she’d explained to the kid, it was barely enough for the hubcap on a Sherman tank. He’d found her logic—given outside of the troop leader’s hearing—persuasive. Or at least he pictured the box of Milk Duds he could buy on the way home with the nickel she gave him in trade and figured it was worth it. Not a bad day’s work.
Her arms heaped full, Ginny nudged open the door of Maloney Pawn Dealership with her foot, the art deco–lettered sign in the window unchanged since the early days of flappers and speakeasies.
Unchangedalso described Danny Maloney’s hairstyle, come to think of it.
“Anyone home?” she called, instead of ringing the bell on the counter.
She heard a muttered curse from behind the moth-gnawed curtain that separated the back room from the rest of the shop,but when Mr. Maloney emerged, adjusting his suit over a protruding belly, he was all professionalism—until he spotted her.
“You again.”
Ginny made a tsking sound. “Is that any way to greet your favorite customer?”
“Favorite cutthroat is more like it,” he grumbled. Slow week, probably. Most weeks likely were in a town as small as Derby. She could almost feel the dust collecting on his wares—antique bookcases holding pipes and leather goods, a glass case for a collection of jewelry and thumbprints, and shelves of mismatched china.
“All right, what’ve you got?”
She laid out the items on the counter, turning them so their best sides were up, but Mr. Maloney was already shaking his head before she could start the pitch. “You know I can’t sell stuff like this, missy. No money in it. Now, jewelry and watches, that’s the ticket. Maybe a fine luggage set or musical instrument.”
She hefted the bugle aloft. “What d’ya think this is, a hearing trumpet?”
“Might as well be, dinged up like that.” Still, he ran his thick fingers over the bell of the horn like he could feel the story in every dent. “Civil War?”
