Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three by Constance C. Greene Page A

her marshmallow. Isabelle liked to hold hers in her mouth, swishing it about until she swallowed it whole.
    â€œI like being alone,” Mrs. Stern confided. “And it’s a good thing, too. If you don’t enjoy your own company, you’re in trouble.”
    â€œWhere does John live?” Isabelle asked.
    â€œIn Florida. I hate Florida. Too many old people there.” They both laughed.
    â€œJohn loves to go, you see. He likes to dance and go to the track to watch the horses race, and would you believe”—Mrs. Stern rolled her eyes—“he’s learning to tango.”
    â€œIs that a game or what? I never heard of tango,” said Isabelle.
    â€œIt’s a dance, a very tricky, exotic dance. John says he’ll conquer the tango before it conquers him, and he probably will.”
    â€œHe must be a very nice man,” Isabelle said primly. “If you like him.”
    â€œHe’s a lovely man.” Mrs. Stern stared down into her empty cup. Isabelle could see the marshmallow sitting there, all soft and squishy, just the way she liked them.
    â€œIsabelle, I’d like to discuss something with you, something private and something I’d like you to keep to yourself. May I?”
    â€œSure.” Isabelle dragged her eyes away from Mrs. Stern’s marshmallow. “Shoot.”
    â€œWell, it’s an adult sort of thing, and I know you’re a child and I’m an old woman, but still, you seem a sensible child.”
    Isabelle was stunned. She’d been called many things but “sensible” was a first.
    â€œI certainly can’t tell Stella, although I must admit I’d love to.” Stella was Mrs. Stern’s sister-in-law, who was always bragging about what great shape she was in, even if she was seventeen months older than Mrs. Stern.
    â€œIf you want to borrow some money,” Isabelle said, “I have forty-four dollars in my savings account.”
    â€œBless you.” Mrs. Stern’s silver eyes glistened. “No, it’s not money. I have enough money.”
    â€œBoy, you’re probably the only person I know who does,” Isabelle said.
    Mrs. Stern cleared her throat and laced her fingers together. “John has asked for my hand,” she said.
    â€œYour hand? How about the rest of you?” Isabelle asked indignantly. “Didn’t he ask for the rest of you?”
    â€œThat’s an old-fashioned expression, Isabelle. To ask for one’s hand means you want to marry the person you ask, hand and all.”
    Isabelle was shocked and tried not to show it. Mrs. Stern married! A bride? Bizarre.
    â€œWell, if you gave him your hand,” she said in her new sensible fashion, “then he could live here and help you clean your gutters and weed the garden and paint and all. Then you could take it easy.”
    â€œNo,” said Mrs. Stern. “We would go to live in his condo in Florida, and John said I’d never have to do another lick of work in my life. Everything would be done for us. For me.”
    â€œWould you like that?”
    â€œWell, no. No, I don’t think so. As a matter of fact”—Mrs. Stern tapped the table with her finger—“I think I’d hate it. It’s odd how sometimes if you put things into words, you get a clearer picture, isn’t it?”
    Isabelle knew Mrs. Stern didn’t expect an answer, so she clammed up and only nodded in her sensible way.
    â€œYes, I think I’d absolutely hate it,” Mrs. Stern said. “I thank you, Isabelle, for your help. You’ve been a great help.” Mrs. Stern smiled. “Now I must get back to the weeds before they take over.”
    â€œSure.” Isabelle got up. “Mrs. Stern, if you’re not going to eat your marshmallow, can I have it?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s the least I can do,” said Mrs. Stern. “Take it and how about one more for the road?”
    Isabelle