my teenage years. Miss Porti a Fallon, 1232 Sweet Tree Lane, T ruly, Georgia. The addressee was always one line: Lyle Jackson Tripplehorn. I ’ d never had an address to put under the name.
I pulled one out and opened it. A picture of me from the sixth grade fell on top of the pile. The writing was round and fat. I dotte d my I s with tiny circles.
Dear Jack,
I turned twelve last week. I got a Walkman from Mags, a Billy Joel tape from Bev. Vera gave me a stuffed polar bear. She ’ s nice and everything, but she still thinks I ’ m a kid or something. I ’ m getting all A ’ s in school and I ’ m especially good in English and Social Studies. I hope you are doing well and maybe someday you will come see me. I ’ m a good kid, and I ’ m getting my braces off in three months.
Love,
Portia
I put the cover back on the box and stuck it b ack on the top shelf, then got dressed and headed the six blocks toward the Printed Page.
“ Portia? Portia baby?”
I swatted lazily at the hand on my arm and opened my eyes. I looked up. Vera. I blinked, and shifted in the hideous orange chair. “ Hmmm. I must have fallen asleep.”
“ We were worried about you, sweetie. I wish you had left us a note.” Vera walked over to the coffee bar and put down the big platter of muffins she ’ d been carrying. “ Although we all figured you ’ d come here to read. You having trouble sleeping again?”
I pushed myself up in the chair. “ Sorry. I didn ’ t mean for you to worry.”
“ Oh, don ’ t you think twice about it.” She stepped around the bar and stood next to me, a small smile spreading over her face. “ Good reading?”
I looked down at the bo ok in my arms, and the itty bitty booklight that was glowing all over the handsome face of Mr. Ian Beckett, otherwise known as Alistair Barnes. I turned off the itty bitty and tossed the book onto a side table.
“ He ’ s not bad,” I said, getting up and stretc hing. “ I really think we should have him come in for a book signing.”
“ You know what, baby?” Vera said, smirking. “ I think that ’ s a wonderful idea. Why don ’ t you go out to the Babb farm and see if Ian has any time for us?”
I blinked at her. “ Why can ’ t we j ust call?”
“ Oh, that phone hasn ’ t been hooked up for ages. You ’ ll have to go out there yourself.”
“ I can ’ t,” I said. “ I haven ’ t showered.”
She jerked her head toward the ceiling. “ Use the shower in the apartment upstairs. We haven ’ t used it in a while, but it should still work.”
“ Don ’ t you need my help here?”
She pulled a small basket out from under the coffee bar, lined it with a linen towel, and filled it with muffins from the big tray.
“ Oh, I can get by for an hour or two. Bev said she ’ d come in for a li ttle while this morning.” She held the basket out for me with a smile. “ Now go. Be neighborly.”
When I was a kid, I spent one summer selling eggs for Morris Babb at the farmers ’ market, working a table in the high school parking lot every Sunday afternoon until I could afford the ten- speed bike I ’ d had my eye on. Working at the Page after school contributed to the family income, and as part of the family, I never saw an actual paycheck. Morris gave me five dollars a week, and at the end of that summer I r o de my new bike out to the Babb farm to show it off to Morris and his wife, Trudy. She invited me in and made cornbread. He gave me iced tea and sat on the porch with me, telling stories about Trudy when she was young.
“ Now Miss Trudy Bates was the pretties t gal in Catoosa County, and there were plenty of fellas tryin ’ to catch her eye, you know.” He laughed and winked at me. “ Now, how do you suppose the upstart son of a dairy farmer got that beauty for himself?”
I smiled and shrugged. He leaned forward.
“ We ll, I knew the only way I ’ d get a chance with Trudy was to get her attention. So I got me up at four in the
I pulled one out and opened it. A picture of me from the sixth grade fell on top of the pile. The writing was round and fat. I dotte d my I s with tiny circles.
Dear Jack,
I turned twelve last week. I got a Walkman from Mags, a Billy Joel tape from Bev. Vera gave me a stuffed polar bear. She ’ s nice and everything, but she still thinks I ’ m a kid or something. I ’ m getting all A ’ s in school and I ’ m especially good in English and Social Studies. I hope you are doing well and maybe someday you will come see me. I ’ m a good kid, and I ’ m getting my braces off in three months.
Love,
Portia
I put the cover back on the box and stuck it b ack on the top shelf, then got dressed and headed the six blocks toward the Printed Page.
“ Portia? Portia baby?”
I swatted lazily at the hand on my arm and opened my eyes. I looked up. Vera. I blinked, and shifted in the hideous orange chair. “ Hmmm. I must have fallen asleep.”
“ We were worried about you, sweetie. I wish you had left us a note.” Vera walked over to the coffee bar and put down the big platter of muffins she ’ d been carrying. “ Although we all figured you ’ d come here to read. You having trouble sleeping again?”
I pushed myself up in the chair. “ Sorry. I didn ’ t mean for you to worry.”
“ Oh, don ’ t you think twice about it.” She stepped around the bar and stood next to me, a small smile spreading over her face. “ Good reading?”
I looked down at the bo ok in my arms, and the itty bitty booklight that was glowing all over the handsome face of Mr. Ian Beckett, otherwise known as Alistair Barnes. I turned off the itty bitty and tossed the book onto a side table.
“ He ’ s not bad,” I said, getting up and stretc hing. “ I really think we should have him come in for a book signing.”
“ You know what, baby?” Vera said, smirking. “ I think that ’ s a wonderful idea. Why don ’ t you go out to the Babb farm and see if Ian has any time for us?”
I blinked at her. “ Why can ’ t we j ust call?”
“ Oh, that phone hasn ’ t been hooked up for ages. You ’ ll have to go out there yourself.”
“ I can ’ t,” I said. “ I haven ’ t showered.”
She jerked her head toward the ceiling. “ Use the shower in the apartment upstairs. We haven ’ t used it in a while, but it should still work.”
“ Don ’ t you need my help here?”
She pulled a small basket out from under the coffee bar, lined it with a linen towel, and filled it with muffins from the big tray.
“ Oh, I can get by for an hour or two. Bev said she ’ d come in for a li ttle while this morning.” She held the basket out for me with a smile. “ Now go. Be neighborly.”
When I was a kid, I spent one summer selling eggs for Morris Babb at the farmers ’ market, working a table in the high school parking lot every Sunday afternoon until I could afford the ten- speed bike I ’ d had my eye on. Working at the Page after school contributed to the family income, and as part of the family, I never saw an actual paycheck. Morris gave me five dollars a week, and at the end of that summer I r o de my new bike out to the Babb farm to show it off to Morris and his wife, Trudy. She invited me in and made cornbread. He gave me iced tea and sat on the porch with me, telling stories about Trudy when she was young.
“ Now Miss Trudy Bates was the pretties t gal in Catoosa County, and there were plenty of fellas tryin ’ to catch her eye, you know.” He laughed and winked at me. “ Now, how do you suppose the upstart son of a dairy farmer got that beauty for himself?”
I smiled and shrugged. He leaned forward.
“ We ll, I knew the only way I ’ d get a chance with Trudy was to get her attention. So I got me up at four in the
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