By the Book by Mary Kay McComas

minutes before I could come up.”
    “Oh no,” she said, glancing back at him, her stomach lurching with excitement when their eyes met. Breezy. Easygoing. Self-assured, she reminded herself. “You should have come up. Or are you a stickler for punctuality?”
    “It’s an old habit.”
    “Ah, yes,” she said playfully. “A military-CIA-FBI-spy guy would have an old habit like that.”
    He chuckled as they came to the bottom of the stairs, and was about to reply when they heard Mrs. Phipps.
    “Oh, Ellen,” she said, swinging the door wide from its cracked position. “We thought we heard someone out here. We thought Eugene was bringing the trash down. But don’t you look pretty,” she added, looking at Jonah.
    “Thank you. Mrs. Phipps, this is Jonah Blake. He’s in town visiting his father for a while,” she said, then addressed Jonah. “Mrs. Phipps taught third grade here for ... how long, Mrs. Phipps? A hundred years?”
    “Goodness. Was it only that long?” She laughed at Ellen’s gentle teasing. “Seems more like two hundred to us, although we have to admit it sometimes feels like it was at least that long ago since we did it. But then, time has a way of speeding up and slowing down all in the same day so you don’t know how long ago anything has been.” She held out her hand to Jonah. “And are you Earl Blake’s son? From the camera shop downtown?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said, sliding his hand between both of hers, allowing her to rub and chafe it as they spoke. Ellen was relieved to see she wasn’t the only one around with a soft spot for sweet little old ladies. “Do you know him?”
    “Yes, indeed, though not very well at all. We understand he’s ill. How is he?”
    “He’s had a stroke, ma’am. They say he’s stable but ...” He shrugged.
    “Oh, what a shame, what a shame.” She patted Jonah’s hand sympathetically, then finally released it. “He is so talented. We remember him coming to our AARP meeting to talk about his pictures one time, years ago. He showed us the magazines and journals and told us about all the places he’d been to. He really is a fascinating man. You look a good bit like him, you know.”
    “I’ve heard that.”
    “It’s true. And what do you do? Are you also a famous photographer?”
    “No, ma’am.” He and Ellen exchanged an amused glance. “I’m a terrible photographer. I haven’t any artistic talents at all.”
    “What a shame. But then, neither do we.” She laughed. “My son was very artistic though. Not like your father, but when he was little, he drew wonderful pictures in crayon. Very ... alive. Colorful.” She hesitated a moment as if she’d lost track of her thoughts. She did this sometimes—especially when she talked about her son, who had died in his adolescence in a farming accident. “And what is it you do?”
    Again their gazes met and held and shared an amusement as Ellen turned toward him with great interest to hear his answer. Sharing a thought or idea with only a look, without touch or word or gesture, was very intimate somehow. An invisible linking between them. She liked it.
    “Right now I’m trying to keep my father’s camera shop afloat in case he recovers enough strength to go back to it,” he said, evading the question not because he needed to, but to entertain Ellen. “From what I can tell, it’s about all he’s got, and he hasn’t been able to tell me yet what he wants done with it. Leaving it closed up while I sat around the hospital doing nothing seemed like a waste.”
    “And it would have been. That’s very good thinking, young man. We know your father will appreciate what you’ve done for him.”
    “I hope so.”
    “Oh, look at me. Holding you up in the hall here, all dressed up. You look so nice together. A very handsome couple.”
    They both smiled at her and edged toward the door, saying their good-byes and good nights.
    “Nice lady,” he commented moments later.
    “Yes. Very