He passed the smithy, Cooper Crenshaw’s shop, and a row of taverns. Just beyond a vacant warehouse, he could see the red-and-white striped poles marking either side of Buddy Lincoln’s barbershop door.
Buddy hadn’t arrived yet, but years before he had misplaced his key and never bothered to replace the lock. As Micah let himself in, a bell tinkled overhead. The room was small and square, with several open shelves that housed the barber’s tools of trade. On one sat an assortment of razors, straps, scissors, tooth-pulling instruments, and a beautiful blown-glass bowl full of squirming leeches. Another held cloths, brushes, pans, and a whole spectrum of colorful glass bottles. If truth were told, many on Water Street held Buddy in greater respect than Dr. Buford.
Across the room, Micah noticed Buddy’s ancient Franklin stove missing from the corner it had occupied since the dawn of time. The new wood burner his father had delivered stood in its place like a big, cast-iron brick, a kettle of water on its top and an empty drying rack leaning against the wall nearby, as if it hadn’t quite made friends yet.
A spittoon stood in another corner, right next to a table holding outdated copies of The Saturday Evening Post. Micah helped himself to a magazine and sat in the high chair to await the barber. Ten minutes later the slender little man came whistling up the street.
“Micah,” Buddy exclaimed in surprise. “You here for a shave?” He scraped the back of his hand against Micah’s jaw and sadly shook his head. “Still smooth as a kitten. Must be you want me to trim those flowing locks.”
Micah grimaced. “Not me. My father.”
“Ah, yes,” Buddy replied. “Your father does hold some rather distinct opinions. Well, take off your glasses and let’s see what we can do.”
He slapped a smelly oilcloth over Micah’s shoulders and set to work. As the clippings sprinkled the floor, Buddy kept up an incessant stream of conversation, one-sided for the most part. He had lived among the town’s residents all his life and could speak at length about each of them.
Buddy was the fifth son of Joseph Lincoln, a local fisherman who had gifted his first four boys with a full share of his brawn. Then Buddy arrived, as fine-boned and delicate as his mother. He had gamely worked the lines with his brothers, but as soon as circumstances allowed, he’d left the family business and opened his shop.
Growing up, Buddy’s stature made him the butt of numerous jokes. He had endured nicknames like “runt” and “little girl,” but nowadays few dared to cross him. Soon after his career change, one of the town jokesters came in for a shave. He had looked around the room, amused, and suggested it would make the perfect dressmaking shop for the only Lincoln daughter. Buddy had waited until his tormentor was lathered and comfortable. Then he pulled the man’s head back by his hair and pressed the point of the razor into his throat. “Would you care to see just how well I stitch a seam?”
The comic had left quickly, still lathered, and Buddy had earned a new reputation. Perhaps, in the back room of a tavern or on some schooner out at sea, ridicule might still be directed at delicate Buddy Lincoln. But that was the last taunt ever made in his hearing.
“—it was during that last storm we had. All hands were rescued,” the barber was saying, “but ol’ Ben lost his rig. That will set him back some.”
“Mr. Lincoln,” Micah broke in, “do you have any idea who might want to buy a bonnet?” If anyone could help him, Buddy could. On any given week, half the town’s men frequented the place, and they could chatter like a flock of Canada geese; Micah had heard them. He opened his sack, tumbling the kaleidoscope of calico. “My father’s making me sell these door-to-door.”
Buddy pursed his lips in thought. “Hmmm—don’t go out to the Howell farm. There’s been measles out that way. Might try McGreggor’s wife. Or Harold Luskin’s. The Crenshaws have a wedding next month. She may need a new hat. And it’s Fanny Mae Riley’s birthday next week.”
The bell over the door tinkled again, and a rough-looking fellow came in, badly in need of a shave. “Ah, Bradley,” Buddy greeted him. “Have you cleaned up in a jiffy. Is your prize milker faring any better?”
The conversation soon turned to livestock ailments, and Micah wasn’t unhappy to take his leave. Buddy refused the generous sum of money Micah offered him. “Put it on my bill in your daddy’s store,” he said instead.
The bell jangled. Outside, the sun barely stretched over the tops of the trees and hadn’t yet stolen the freshness of morning. Micah gathered his sack and resolutely started for a weathered house.
An old woman answered his knock and squinted up at him from behind a sharply defined nose. “What do you want?”
She looked like a nearsighted weasel. He cleared his throat and wrestled a smile down to proper proportions. “Hello. I’m from Randall’s General Store. We have a special on lady’s hats this month. I’m wondering if you’d like to look over our selection.”
He opened the sack and her nose poked down among the fabrics. She picked out a gray cap with a bit of black lace edging and tried vainly to focus on it, her arm extending and retracting. Finally she dropped the hat and peered up at him. “Reckon the one I have is still serviceable.” The door clicked shut.
Micah threw the sack over his shoulder and strode toward the next building. Up and down the streets he trudged, displaying his wares to every house and business. It was the same at each stop.
“Don’t need one.”
“Too pricey.”
“Too wrinkled.”
“No thanks.”
Even with Buddy’s leads, he sold only three hats by the time the church bells tolled the noon hour. He passed into the new sector, hoping for better luck on the long, flat stretches. But after another dozen doors slammed in his face, his frustration loosed itself in a rock booted halfway down the street. He had to strap down an urge to march into his father’s store, shove the burlap bag into his chest, and explain just exactly what he thought of women’s apparel!
Just then a figure carrying a basket over one arm flitted across the street.
“Gabby!”
She popped her head out from between two buildings and flashed him a toothy grin. “Can’t stop. Maggie Barlow went into labor and the midwife sent me after these herbs. I have to get them to her right away.”
“Gabby, I need to talk to you!”
“I’ll meet you at the beach in a few hours.” She waved and disappeared.
He kicked another stone, wincing as it cracked against the lumbered side of a building, and dropped onto the bench in front of the bank. His stomach felt as empty as his sales record, and the oppressive humidity had drawn huge wet spots on his shirt. He reached for a bonnet and wiped his face and neck, then flung it in the dust at his feet.
The door opened behind him. “Micah,” Mr. DeWitt called. “I was just about to sit down to my lunch. I packed more than I can eat and you look like you could use some refreshment. Will you come in and join me?”
Micah cast him a look of utter gratitude. At that moment, he would have befriended a porcupine had it spoken kindly to him. “Thank you! I think I could eat a whole shark.”
The banker laughed. “Sorry, I only have ham sandwiches and sliced turnips, but they wash down well with a cold jug of cider.” He flipped the sign in the window to “Closed.”
Micah grabbed the sack and followed him inside.
“What have you got there? Starting a new business venture?” Mr. DeWitt asked, pulling another chair up to his desk. It was warm in the building, but a breeze tickled the window shade and poured a salty tang into the room.
Micah threw the bag down in disgust, splashing its contents across the floor. “Hardly. My father is making me sell these on the street.”
“Why on earth did he order so many?”
Micah bit into his sandwich and chewed slowly. “He didn’t. They just kind of—appeared.”
“Where did they come from?”
A smudge of bewilderment altered Micah�
��s features and sent his gaze skimming out the window. “I don’t know. I used the quill pen to write in the number and—oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m the lucky one who gets to dispose of them.” He took another bite of sandwich. “Know anyone who might want to buy one?”
The banker smiled. “I’d like to help you out, but I’m not in the market for women’s headwear. Sorry.”
Micah lurched forward, an idea pricking him. He plunged a hand into his pocket and fished out the haircut money. “I have enough here to buy eight of the cursed things. Can I make a withdrawal to cover twelve more?”
“You want to buy your own hats?”
“I sure do. Does Lou Riley come in here often?”
DeWitt shrugged. “I see him every market day.”
With a sly smile, Micah selected a score of bonnets from the sack. “It’s his wife’s birthday next week. Will you give these to him for me? Tell him he can have the pick of the lot if he’ll pitch the rest overboard next time he takes out his sloop.”
The banker threw back his head and howled. “I’ll get that money for you right away.”
***
The man hauled himself off the deck and looked around at the glaring faces. Faces he had toiled with, sweated with, laughed with. He felt their fear, their mistrust. He heard their muttering.
“Lucky son of a devil,” one murmured. “It ain’t right.”
“Ain’t natural. Fall like that shoulda kilt ’em.”
“That’s exactly what he is. A son of the Devil.”
The man faced them squarely and they held their distance. He was lucky. But he was also a survivor. Hadn’t he been plucked out of the sea after fifteen days? How many others could make such a claim?
He prided himself on his iron will and his strength. A will that survived accidents such as this. Strength that earned him respect. The strength of a younger man. If it came down to it, not one of these complainers could match him in hand-to-hand combat.
He clutched his bruised shoulder and stared them down. One by one, the sailors turned away, casting uneasy glances behind them.
They were simply a superstitious lot, he told himself. He made his own luck.
But even he had begun to hold secret suspicions. Perhaps it was time to move on.
11
_______
“Hey there, handsome. Are you a shipwrecked sailor?”
Micah opened his eyes to find Gabby grinning down at him. He stretched lazily. “As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied. “Is there anything to do in this town?”
She dropped a small spade at his feet. “You can help a girl dig clams.”
The bag of remaining bonnets still sat beside him, but the tide had traveled far out to sea. “Right,” he answered, ambling to his feet.
They spaced themselves out on the beach, watching the sand for a telltale dimple that indicated a shellfish buried beneath. When he spotted one, Micah dug out a scoop or two next to it and reached in with his fingers to pull the clam out through the wall of the hole. It was a tricky business. He had to scoop carefully so as not to damage the shell, but if he moved too slowly, the clam could rebury itself with amazing speed.
Next to him, Gabby dug with a sharp stick and, he noticed with some chagrin, made more contributions to the bucket than he did. He spoke over the expanse of sand between them. “I stopped by your house yesterday.”
“Papa said you two went fishing. I was delivering a basket of vegetables to Mrs. Nelson and stayed to visit. She’s been doing so poorly since her husband died.” She tossed another clam in the bucket. “Are you almost finished at the widow’s?”
“About halfway.”
He plunged in his spade and pulled out another mollusk. He’d been waiting for this opportunity. “I found something in her attic,” he ventured.
Gabby glanced up expectantly, but Micah paused. Now that he had her attention, how could he possibly explain his suspicions? They sounded so crazy, even to himself.
After three waves lapped around their ankles and receded, Gabby prompted, “So?”
Still Micah hesitated. He felt like he was standing in the middle of a slippery log with a stream rushing beneath him. One false step and splash!
Gabby straightened and placed her hands on her hips, her digging stick angling earthward. “Are you going to tell me what you found, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”
Micah grinned. What was the worst that could happen? That his best friend might laugh? He plunged in. “It’s a quill pen.”
“Sounds rather unimpressive.”
“It doesn’t require any ink.”
She screwed up her eyes. “Then you won’t get many letters written with it, will you?” She dropped to her knees and jabbed her stick into the sand.
“But it does write.”
“What do you mean it writes? You just told me it doesn’t take ink.”
Micah sighed. This wasn’t going as planned. “It doesn’t need any ink. It just writes.”
She threw him a skeptical glance.
He shrugged. “It’s true. I don’t know why it works, but it does. And that’s not all. The stuff I wrote with it, what happened—” he fumbled to a stop. A gulped breath sucked air deep into his lungs. “I think it has magical powers.”
Gabby stood to her full height and glared at him. “Micah Randall, do you expect me to believe that heap of malarkey? Those stories about Widow Parsons must be affecting your reasoning.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the honest truth. Listen,” he gushed, “I used that pen to record the inventory and accidentally wrote a wrong number. I ended up with thirty-one bonnets that I can’t explain. Later I wrote in my journal, wishing Jeb would be honored instead of old man Ruby. I’m sure you heard what happened at the historical society’s meeting.”
One corner of Gabby’s mouth twisted with disgust. “For heaven’s sake, Micah. The widow has done more outrageous things than that without any help from you. It’s a coincidence she found that letter. She has been cleaning her attic, after all. And the bonnets?” She shook her head, exasperated. “They don’t just materialize. Someone put them there.”
“But who?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. But not a silly feather.”
His shoulders slumped. Her words simply reaffirmed what the logical half of his brain had been telling him, yet the disappointment felt almost like a loss. “I suppose it does sound ridiculous.”
“Honestly, Micah, the things you come up with.” Her skepticism quickly melted into amusement. She chuckled, then laughed out loud. “A magic feather?”
Micah kicked at a shell, feeling the sting of her reproach. But her mirth proved infectious. Before three waves had crested, both children were giggling in the sand.
Micah caught his breath first. “You have to admit, it would be nice to discover a magic feather.”
She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand, her smile lighting her eyes. “What would you wish for if it was real?”
He snorted. “That’s not hard. I’d turn my father into a mouse, burn down the store and the Fremantle Boys’ Academy, and live happily ever after.”
“Oh, you would not,” she scoffed good-naturedly. “You’re too much of a mouse yourself.”
He shrugged. “Then maybe I’d wish myself enough courage to try it.”
She looked at him oddly. “Courage isn’t something you can add or take away. It’s something already inside you, like hope or love or compassion. The more you use up, the more you find in reserve.”
Micah’s lip gave a wry twist. “I haven’t found any yet. Maybe God forgot to include mine before he stitched me up.”
“Nonsense. Everyone is given some measure of courage. But drawing on it is a choice. Like when you found Jade. Most people would have run her off, but you treated her with kindness. You fed her, spoke gently to her, found her a home. You chose to act with compassion. It’s the same
with courage.”
Micah looked down and flicked a ladybug over the sand. “So you’re saying I haven’t made very courageous choices.”
Gabby pursed her lips. “No, that’s not it. I think you haven’t been forced into drawing from your courage yet.”
The conversation had grown uncomfortable. “How about you?” he asked. “What would you do with a magic pen?”
Gabby remained silent a long while, and her jaw hardening with the seriousness of her thoughts. “If I had a magic feather,” she finally answered, “I would uncover secrets.”
It was Micah’s turn to scoff. “Like the nonsense Mary Jane and Allison giggle about in the back row at school? Don’t waste your time.”
Gabby’s eyes grew darker. “No, Micah. Deeper secrets. Ones that stand like glass walls between people.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head and spoke almost to herself. “I’m not sure, but I can sense them. I can feel their coldness reaching out to me in the night.”
Her tone made him shiver, as if a wave of frigid water passed over him. “Gabby, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A sudden, sunny smile swallowed up the ghost in her eyes. “Neither do I. Let’s talk about something else. Like your new haircut. I liked it better long. It looked so roguish. Why did you hack it short?”
“I didn’t ‘hack it.’ I went to Buddy. My father made me.”
“Your father made you.” She rolled her eyes. “Micah, if your father told you to climb the church steeple, would you do it?”
“Probably.”
“Would you give all your money to Father Holcomb?”
“He’d never tell me to do that.”
“Would you”—she paused and a devilish light came to her eyes—“would you kiss Widow Parsons full on her wrinkly old lips?”
The Quill Pen Page 7
