Absolutely Truly

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “So? It’s her happy place,” my aunt replied from her perch on a stepladder behind the counter. She fiddled with the clothesline she was anchoring to the ceiling. “Pass me a thumbtack, would you please, Truly?”

  Cha Cha and Jasmine and I poked around in the pile of literary T-shirts (EAT SLEEP READ! LITGEEK! I MR. DARCY!) that were heaped by the cash register, waiting to be strung up. The T-shirts were one of the new sidelines Aunt True had decided we should stock.

  “You’re turning us into the General Store,” my father said, picking one up and grimacing at its slogan (SO MANY BOOKS, SO LITTLE TIME!).

  “If it brings in customers, why not?” Aunt True replied cheerfully.

  Mom and I think the sidelines have really livened things up. Cha Cha and Jasmine agree. They drop in often after school now to check out the new stuff on display, from cool little notepads and pens and tote bags to stationery, mugs, jewelry, and locally made soaps and candles. We’ve started stocking maple syrup and maple candy from the Freemans’ farm too.

  “Have you girls seen Truly’s new Valentine’s Day window?” Aunt True asked.

  “It’s not mine, exactly,” I said. My aunt and I had worked on it together last night after dinner.

  “You did the lion’s share of the work,” Aunt True replied.

  I followed Cha Cha and Jasmine as they went over to the front of the store to check it out.

  “Sweet!” said Cha Cha.

  Across the top of the window was a banner with WE HAPPY ENDINGS on it, and I’d taped red construction-paper hearts and Cupids on the glass. The display table was covered in a floor-length red tablecloth and piled high with things that my aunt and I had gathered from the far-flung corners of the store: Valentine’s Day cards; a red leather-bound copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets; heart-shaped chocolates and soaps; a pink mug with white hearts on it, pink notebooks, pink sticky notes, pink pens—everything we could think of that celebrated love and romance. There were piles of books too: Pride and Prejudice, Cinderella, Jane Eyre, and a whole bunch more.

  “I love happy endings too,” sighed Jasmine. “They’re so romantic.”

  Cha Cha and I looked at each other and grinned.

  “Here are the new necklaces I was telling you about,” I told my friends. “The ones made of Scrabble tiles. See? There’s a letter on one side, and a design on the other.”

  “Cute!” said Cha Cha.

  “I have a ballerina on mine,” said Pippa, emerging from her favorite hideout under the table. “And a P for ‘Pippa.’ Aunt True gave it to me.”

  Jasmine and Cha Cha fussed over her necklace, of course, and Pippa let them each take a turn wearing it. Then she disappeared back under the table again.

  “Ooh, look at this one!” Jasmine held up a tile with a picture of a bear on it reading a book.

  Aunt True was wearing one just like it in honor of Story Hour.

  “So, all systems go for tomorrow?” I asked my friends, and they nodded.

  “I’m sleeping over at Jazz’s tonight,” Cha Cha told me. “And my parents said I could go to church with her tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. We’ll all be there—Calhoun’s coming too.”

  Jasmine looked over at Cha Cha. “How are his private lessons going?”

  “He’s making progress, but he’s not exactly Romeo on the dance floor,” Cha Cha replied, and the three of us giggled. It was going to be hard to keep the lid on Calhoun’s real name.

  The bell over the door jangled, and Mrs. Abramowitz came in with Baxter. I pointed to where Pippa was hiding and he dove under the table to join her. Mrs. Abramowitz took off her coat. She looked like she’d just breezed in from a dance competition. She often looks that way. She has thick, curly dark hair like Cha Cha’s, but Mrs. Abramowitz’s is always swept into an elegant updo, and unlike my mother, who dresses mostly in jeans these days now that she’s a college student again, or Aunt True, who dresses like, well, a parrot, sequins are a staple in Cha Cha’s mother’s wardrobe. Even her snow boots have high heels.

  “I don’t know about you girls, but I am ready for spring,” she said, unwinding her scarf. “Where is that January thaw when you need it?” She glanced around the store. “Is your mother here, Truly?”

  I shook my head. “She’s coming in later. We’re driving down to Manchester this afternoon.”

  “Let me guess—dress shopping?” Cha Cha’s mother smiled at me. “Your mother told me you’ve grown another inch since your move to Pumpkin Falls.”

  There really are no secrets in small towns.

  “That’s the best part of Cotillion, I think,” Cha Cha’s mother continued. “It’s such fun to have an excuse to get all dressed up.”

  Um, not really, I thought. I don’t do dresses. They’re way up there on the list of things I’m not good at.

  Maybe Mrs. Abramowitz saw the worried look on my face, because she slipped an arm around Cha Cha, and smiled at Jasmine and me. “You girls are all going to shine, no matter what you wear.”

  Over at the sales counter, Aunt True pinned the last of the T-shirts to the clothesline, then climbed down from the stepladder and picked up the old-fashioned handbell she’d bought next door at Mahoney’s Antiques.

  “Story Hour!” she called, ringing it loudly.

  Pippa and Baxter popped out from under the table and dashed to the children’s room. Mrs. Abramowitz and my friends and I followed. So did Belinda Winchester, who was quickly surrounded by an admiring crowd of young kitten- lovers.

  “She’s like Mary Poppins or Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle or something,” Aunt True said, watching her.

  Dad looked mystified. “Who?”

  Aunt True sighed. “Never mind.” My father is so not a bookworm.

  Initially, my father had been worried that Belinda might scare kids away, and more important, their parents—who were the paying customers, after all, as he pointed out—but she hadn’t. In fact, she’s kind of turned into another store mascot.

  Of course, it helps that she almost always has a furry creature or two with her. Dad was not thrilled about allowing more pets into the shop, but the kittens have proved to be a huge hit.

  “They’re free advertising!” Aunt True had argued, and it’s true. Some people—especially those with little kids—drop by the store now just to see the kittens, and most of them end up buying something.

  “Girls, why don’t you go ahead and pass these around,” said my aunt, handing us each a plate of mini whoopie pies.

  We dutifully distributed the snacks, which disappeared in nothing flat. The silver-dollar-size treats are almost as popular with the Story Hour crowd as the kittens are.

  “Are these the same ones you brought in last week?” Aunt True asked Belinda, peering into the basket beside the chair where she was sitting.

  “Maybe,” Ms. Winchester replied slyly.

  Aunt True frowned. “These are orange, though. I thought last week’s were gray.”

  Belinda Winchester drew a large cotton handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose loudly.

  “How many do you have, exactly?”

  “Handkerchiefs?”

  “Kittens.”

  A slow smile spread across Mrs. Winchester’s face. “Hundreds of cats, thousands of cats—”

  “Millions and billions and trillions of cats!” Aunt True finished, laughing. “Perfect choice for today’s Story Hour.” She winked at me. “Change of plans,” she said, then went over to the picture-book section and plucked a slim volume from one of the shelves. Holding it up, she asked, “Who knows the name of this book?”

  A flock of little hands flew into the air.

  “Baxter?” said Aunt True.

  “Millions of Cats,” he replied, and she nodded.

  “That’s right. It’s Millions of Cats, by Wanda Gág.” Aunt True sat down, and the little kids crowded around her as she started to read.

  The bell over the front door rang again. I glanced over to see Ella Bellow come in. My heart sank as I realized
that my father had vanished. Again. He had an uncanny way of doing that whenever Ella showed up.

  It was up to me to man the sales counter. “Back in a sec,” I whispered to my friends, and crossed the store to greet her. “Can I help you?”

  “May I help you,” she corrected.

  Whatever, I thought, but aloud I replied meekly, “May I help you?” adding, “ma’am” for good measure and plastering a smile on my face. Paying customers are paying customers.

  There was a burst of laughter from the children’s room, and the postmistress and I looked over to see what the commotion was about. Aunt True and Cha Cha and Jasmine had the kids on their feet now, and they were all singing “Three Black Cats” to the tune of “Three Blind Mice” as they marched around Belinda’s chair.

  Ella Bellow sniffed. “So unsanitary.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about Story Hour, or Belinda Winchester, or the kittens, or what.

  “I’m sure it’s a violation of our town’s health code to have so many animals on the premises,” she said, casting a sour look at Miss Marple, who was sleeping peacefully in her dog bed on the floor below the sales counter.

  I didn’t reply, grateful that Memphis was upstairs in Aunt True’s apartment. Ella Bellow was another item on the list of things my aunt’s cat didn’t like.

  “You left a message that my special order is in.” Ella picked up one of the flyers stacked by the cash register and scrutinized it while I retrieved her book from behind the sales counter. I looked at its title: Second Acts: Starting a New Career in Your Golden Years. So maybe the rumors really were true! Maybe Ella really was thinking about retiring.

  “Grand Reopening Celebration, huh?” the postmistress said, peering down her knife blade of a nose at me.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She waved the flyer. “You’re holding it during Winter Festival?”

  I nodded. That was Aunt True’s idea, of course. She wanted to do something splashy to spotlight the bookshop’s makeover.

  “The paper says they’re expecting a record crowd, since it’s the centennial,” Aunt True had told my father, who as usual was skeptical of her plan. Mostly because he didn’t want to spend any money. “The bed and breakfast and all the motels up along Route Four are booked solid. What better time to show off our store?”

  Ella Bellow frowned as she peered over her black-framed glasses at the schedule of events. In addition to next weekend’s Valentine’s Day Story Hour, featuring special guest star Mr. Henry from the local library, there was a love poetry open mic night, prize drawings and giveaways all weekend, special gift bags with all purchases, a cooking demonstration by Franklin and Annie’s mother with maple syrup from the Freeman farm, and a reading and book signing by Augusta Savage, aka Augustus Wilde, a.k.a. Captain Romance.

  Ella Bellow arched an ink-black eyebrow at me. “Don’t you think you might have bitten off more than you can chew? Do you really think that visitors will want to bother with all this?”

  I stared at her. This was the real reason that she’d come in! The old crow was in fishing mode, not shopping mode, snooping around for gossip about our family’s business as usual. Well, I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of leaving with any.

  “Of course they will!” I gushed in reply. “Business has been fantastic ever since Hello, Boston! Thank you so much, by the way, for telling Carson Dawson about us. That was brilliant.”

  Ella seemed taken aback. “I see. Well, I—that’s good news, then,” she said, and after paying for her book she beat a hasty retreat to the door.

  It was almost as if she was hoping for bad news, I thought. But why? What possible difference could our bookstore’s struggles make to a soon-to-be-retired postmistress?

  CHAPTER 30

  “Hey, Little O,” said my mother.

  “Hey, Mama Owl,” I replied.

  We smiled at each other.

  “Can’t sleep?” I shook my head and she set her book aside and patted the sofa. “Come sit by me.”

  I curled up next to her and she rearranged the quilt to cover us both. The remnants of a fire crackled softly in the fireplace. I stared at the glowing embers while my mother sipped her tea.

  I’d missed this. We hadn’t been Little Owl and Mama Owl for ages, not since before Black Monday. I was probably getting too old for it, but still, it was really nice.

  “Seems like old times, doesn’t it?” my mother murmured, resting her chin on my head. “So, are you happy with your dress?”

  I nodded. The two of us had actually had a lot of fun shopping earlier. And the dress we’d finally settled on was okay, as far as dresses go.

  “And are you happy with your new friends? Cha Cha and Jasmine sure seem like great girls,” my mother continued. “And that Winthrop boy has taken a shine to you too.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “They’re all really nice. I still miss Mackenzie, though.”

  “We were going to keep this as a surprise, but your dad and I have been talking. We know this move hasn’t been easy for you, and we really appreciate the way you’ve pitched in to help here at home and at the bookstore. So we’re getting you something special for your birthday.” My mother smiled at me. “Mackenzie!”

  I sat bolt upright. The quilt dropped from my shoulders. “Really?”

  She nodded. “Really. I’ve already checked with Aunt Louise and Uncle Teddy, and they said she can come for spring break. Aunt True donated some frequent-flier miles, and the ticket is booked.”

  I started to squeal, but my mother quickly put her finger to her lips, so I threw my arms around her instead. “Thank you so much, Mom!” I whispered, doing a quick calculation in my head. Spring break—and my birthday—was in the middle of March. That was only a little over a month away!

  “Bedtime for bonzos,” my mother announced a few minutes later. She gave the embers a good stir with the poker and secured the fireplace screen. “Come on, I’ll walk you upstairs.”

  The following morning I woke at the crack of dawn. Between the rendezvous with my friends at church in a few hours and the thought of my cousin’s upcoming visit, I was too excited to sleep. I glanced at my alarm clock. Still too early in Texas to call Mackenzie. I could text her, though.

  Throwing back the covers, I slid my feet into my fuzzy slippers and grabbed my bathrobe from off the bedpost.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Miss Marple was awake too, her tail smacking softly against the bedspread as she wagged it.

  “Hey, girl,” I murmured, giving her a pat. Over the past month I’d had to resign myself to the fact that I was Miss Marple’s favorite Lovejoy, at least while Gramps and Lola were away. I’d given up trying to foist her off on Lauren, and totally caved on letting her into my room. Miss Marple even slept in here most nights. She’d start out on the floor, but somehow she always ended up at the foot of my bed by morning.

  The house was silent, except for the telltale clank and rattle from the radiators as they roused themselves to their daily business of keeping us warm. I dashed off a quick text to Mackenzie, telling her to call me the minute she woke up, then crossed to the window. It was still dark outside, except for a patch of light on the snow below me. My bedroom was directly over the kitchen, so someone was up. Most likely my father. Lieutenant Colonel Jericho T. Lovejoy is an early bird, up at zero dark thirty every morning for his daily run.

  Sure enough, I found him in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the paper. The radio on top of the fridge was on low, a melodious male voice letting listeners know that the record-breaking cold that had gripped the valley for weeks now might finally be coming to an end.

  “According to the National Weather Service, we can expect a warming trend by the end of the week,” the announcer said. “Nothing like the January thaw finally showing up in February!”

  “Too bad it’s not showing up today,” I said, glancing at the thermometer outside and shivering.

  “What?” said my father, looking up from his paper. �
��Oh, right.”

  “Morning, by the way,” I said.

  “Morning,” he replied.

  “Hey!” I blinked in surprise when I spotted the big box of donuts on the counter, along with a pitcher of juice. That’s what we always used to have on Sunday mornings, whenever Dad was home on leave. Yet another family tradition that got shelved after Black Monday.

  “Hey, what?” Dad asked.

  “Um, nothing.” I gave him a sidelong glance. Silent Man seemed to have made a donut run. I helped myself to a chocolate-covered old-fashioned with sprinkles, poured myself a glass of juice, and sat down at the table across from him.

  He was wearing the Terminator. The new prosthesis had made a lot of things easier for him to do, and I watched as he gripped the newspaper in its high-tech fingers and turned the page.

  My father has three prosthetic arms to choose from now: the Terminator, Captain Hook, and the one he’s dubbed Ken, which is his least favorite, even though it’s the one that looks the most human. Ken is made of this plastic stuff that’s matched to Dad’s skin color. He named it after Barbie’s companion, because all it does is hang around looking pretty.

  “It’s useless,” I heard him tell Mom in disgust. “It doesn’t move; I can’t pick anything up or do anything with it—what’s the point?”

  My father had shocked us all at dinner one night recently when he’d made a joke about the “arms race” in his closet. It was a tiny joke, but still, it was a joke. It made me think that maybe Mom and Aunt True are right, maybe Pumpkin Falls has been good for him.

  “Dad, what do you know about Ella Bellow?” I asked, taking a bite of my donut.

  He peered at me over the top of the paper. “Why do you want to know?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious. She’s really nosy.”

  “That she is.” He was quiet for so long I figured I’d been dismissed. Then he said, “I’ve known Ella all my life. She’s a good woman, and she’s good at her job, but she’s never been good at staying out of other people’s business. And it seems to have gotten worse since her husband died a couple of years ago. I hear she’s retiring soon—maybe she’ll move to Florida and leave Pumpkin Falls in peace.”