Meeting Miss 405 by Lois Peterson

turn the next page.
    Tansy’s Book
    In Her Own Words
    For her eyes only
    â€œMy own calligraphy notebook! I love it.” I give her a big hug, breathing in the smell of her cucumber soap.
    â€œNot everyone gets their own handmade book with calligraphy by the famous Stella Vickers,” Dad says.
    â€œOh, hush, Lew,” says Miss Stella. “You missed something, Tansy.”
    When she rattles the paper, a long thin box slips out. Inside is a pen. “That’s a special felt pen for calligraphy,” she says. “No ink required, so you can take your notebook and your pen and write anywhere.”

    We are only going to the Sunshine Coast for the day. But as we get in the car, Miss Stella calls good-bye from her balcony as if we plan to be away for ages. “Have a wonderful visit. And enjoy the ferry trip.” She has been watering her balcony, and it
drip-drip-drips
down the wall, like a clock ticking.
    â€œThank you for my book,” I call back. From below, I can only see one of her arms flapping and a strand of her hair that has escaped from her messy bun. “Don’t be late for your friend.”
    As we drive away, I open the notebook again and run my fingers over the title page. “Isn’t this beautiful, Dad? But I am afraid to write in it. What if I mess it up?”
    â€œIt’s your book. No one will see whether you mess up or not.”
    I flip through the book and find something I did not see before. On every single page, Miss Stella has made a little ink drawing of a tansy flower.
    I think of all the time and concentration it has taken Miss Stella to make such a perfect gift.
    And while I am thinking about this, I forget to worry about what will happen when we get to the Sunshine Coast and see Mom for the first time in weeks.

CHAPTER 17
The Best Girls in the World
    When we drive up the gravel road to Grandpa’s house, he is standing on the porch shaking a rug over the railing.
    â€œThere you are, then.” He bends down at the top of the stairs and hauls me into a big hug. I can feel the tight muscles in his arms from all the woodcutting. His cheek is bristly and his mustache smells smoky.
    â€œWhere is Mom?”
    â€œDown by the water. I suggest you go down to see her one at a time. She’s a bit shaky.”
    â€œYou go, Dad.” I feel shy. Will Mom still be crying? Will she recognize me?
    â€œWe could go together. We can take it slowly,” Dad says.
    But Grandpa puts one hand on his arm. “You go ahead, Lew. Tansy and I will go inside and catch up on all our news.”
    â€œI need our bag.”
    When I get back from the car, I see Dad walking down the slope to the chairs where we always sit to count stars. “Come on, Tan. Let’s put some coffee on,” says Grandpa. He makes horrible coffee, Dad says. I can smell that he must have made some already today.
    His house always looks like a campsite. He leaves blankets all over the place, stacks of books and greasy tools on tables, and clothes piled on any old chair. But today everything has been put away and cleaned up.
    â€œYou hungry? I have muffins and fruit. Homemade.”
    â€œMuffins?” Mom is a great baker.
    â€œFresh from the oven this morning. I’ll take the bottoms if you want the tops.” Grandpa and I always share them that way.
    â€œDid Mom make these?”
    He sets a stack of plates and cutlery at the table. “‘Fraid not, lovey. Louella Harris. Remember her? She’s taken it upon herself to help fatten up your mother. Fresh muffins to take every time I visit her at the clinic. A double batch when she heard you were on your way.”
    He stirs three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. Then one more. “Your mom is doing very well. This house is shipshape, thanks to her. Now, juice or milk?”
    Dad takes forever. When I peek out of the window there is nothing to see. Just two chickadees dancing around the bird feeder. And