Allie said. "These are perfect."
"You really like them?" She twisted her hands in the hem of her shirt. "It isn
't what you asked for."
i Jodi Picoult
"It's more than I asked for." She looked up at Mia, taking in the florist's m oss trapped beneath her nails, the leaves clinging to the soles of her shoes.
"Mr. MacDonald will love them."
"If Mr. MacDonald ever sees them," Mia said, and then abruptly looked away
. "I would assume he'd be in jail when they have the funeral."
"Oh, Cam wouldn't do that," Allie said easily.
"Cam?"
"The chief of police. He's my husband."
Mia thought back to the early afternoon, to the tall red-haired man who had burst into the flower shop with such a presence that the air around her ha d started to hum. Of course he was the police chief; he'd been in charge at the scene with Mr. MacDonald. Mia had seen him put his arm around Allie wh en she volunteered to sit with the body. He had bent low to talk to her, bu t to Mia it seemed he was curling over Allie, a method of protection.
"Mia," Allie said, "where in town are you staying?" Mia had thought about it during the day; in fact had even called the Wheelo ck Inn to see how many nights she could afford to stay in a room before her dwindling stock of money was replenished with a paycheck from Allie. But t he Inn had suddenly found itself blockaded by the police, the site of a mur der investigation.
"To tell you the truth," Mia said, "I'm not entirely sure." Allie glanced at the row of funeral baskets. It was very likely her own fa ult that Mia hadn't had any time to find accommodations. She thought of Ma ggie MacDonald and knew that the last thing she wanted was even a moment a lone by herself. "Why don't you stay with me, for the night? Cam isn't goi ng to be home until late, and it'll be nice to have some company." Mia smiled. "I'd like that." Then she bit her lip. "I have a cat out in my car." Allie waved her hand. "It can't possibly do anything to the house that Cam h asn't already done." She picked up a broom and began to sweep the cuttings i nto a pile, concentrating, with a stroke that bordered on violence so that h er mind would not wander. She raked the heavy bristles across the wooden flo or, over and over and over, until the scrape of the raffia against the polyu rethane rang like a scream in her ears.
39
She stopped sweeping, balancing her forearm on the knob of the broom, tak ing deep breaths so that she would not break down in front of this woman she hardly knew.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Mia's voice came softly from behind. Allie shook her head, letting her throat close with tears. "I don't know what'
s the matter," she said, trying to smile. "I guess I just keep thinking how mu ch you'd have to love a person, to be able to do something like that for her." She wiped her eyes on the shoulder of her shirt. "It's a horrible thing to im agine."
"Maybe," Mia said quietly. "Maybe not." 1\ /l"ia Townsend believed in love, she really, truly did. She knew it L fl could strike certain people like a stray line of lightning, leaving them pro strate and burning and gasping for breath. After all, this had been the case with her parents. She had grown up surrounded by their consuming love, cons tantly in its presence, but always on the outskirts. In fact when she though t of her childhood, she imagined herself standing in the snow, her nose pres sed to a small, cleared ring of glass on an icy windowpane, watching her par ents waltz in circles. She pictured the circles getting tighter and smaller and warmer, until her mother and father converged into one. So when asked if she believed in love, Mia said yes--without hesitation---but she did not count herself as a participant. She thought of it as the chemica l reaction it was, and saw herself not as part of the equation but as the byproduct you sometimes find after the combustion. Allie MacDonald had driven her to the small Colonial she'd lived in for fiv e years with Cam. She'd made
"You really like them?" She twisted her hands in the hem of her shirt. "It isn
't what you asked for."
i Jodi Picoult
"It's more than I asked for." She looked up at Mia, taking in the florist's m oss trapped beneath her nails, the leaves clinging to the soles of her shoes.
"Mr. MacDonald will love them."
"If Mr. MacDonald ever sees them," Mia said, and then abruptly looked away
. "I would assume he'd be in jail when they have the funeral."
"Oh, Cam wouldn't do that," Allie said easily.
"Cam?"
"The chief of police. He's my husband."
Mia thought back to the early afternoon, to the tall red-haired man who had burst into the flower shop with such a presence that the air around her ha d started to hum. Of course he was the police chief; he'd been in charge at the scene with Mr. MacDonald. Mia had seen him put his arm around Allie wh en she volunteered to sit with the body. He had bent low to talk to her, bu t to Mia it seemed he was curling over Allie, a method of protection.
"Mia," Allie said, "where in town are you staying?" Mia had thought about it during the day; in fact had even called the Wheelo ck Inn to see how many nights she could afford to stay in a room before her dwindling stock of money was replenished with a paycheck from Allie. But t he Inn had suddenly found itself blockaded by the police, the site of a mur der investigation.
"To tell you the truth," Mia said, "I'm not entirely sure." Allie glanced at the row of funeral baskets. It was very likely her own fa ult that Mia hadn't had any time to find accommodations. She thought of Ma ggie MacDonald and knew that the last thing she wanted was even a moment a lone by herself. "Why don't you stay with me, for the night? Cam isn't goi ng to be home until late, and it'll be nice to have some company." Mia smiled. "I'd like that." Then she bit her lip. "I have a cat out in my car." Allie waved her hand. "It can't possibly do anything to the house that Cam h asn't already done." She picked up a broom and began to sweep the cuttings i nto a pile, concentrating, with a stroke that bordered on violence so that h er mind would not wander. She raked the heavy bristles across the wooden flo or, over and over and over, until the scrape of the raffia against the polyu rethane rang like a scream in her ears.
39
She stopped sweeping, balancing her forearm on the knob of the broom, tak ing deep breaths so that she would not break down in front of this woman she hardly knew.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Mia's voice came softly from behind. Allie shook her head, letting her throat close with tears. "I don't know what'
s the matter," she said, trying to smile. "I guess I just keep thinking how mu ch you'd have to love a person, to be able to do something like that for her." She wiped her eyes on the shoulder of her shirt. "It's a horrible thing to im agine."
"Maybe," Mia said quietly. "Maybe not." 1\ /l"ia Townsend believed in love, she really, truly did. She knew it L fl could strike certain people like a stray line of lightning, leaving them pro strate and burning and gasping for breath. After all, this had been the case with her parents. She had grown up surrounded by their consuming love, cons tantly in its presence, but always on the outskirts. In fact when she though t of her childhood, she imagined herself standing in the snow, her nose pres sed to a small, cleared ring of glass on an icy windowpane, watching her par ents waltz in circles. She pictured the circles getting tighter and smaller and warmer, until her mother and father converged into one. So when asked if she believed in love, Mia said yes--without hesitation---but she did not count herself as a participant. She thought of it as the chemica l reaction it was, and saw herself not as part of the equation but as the byproduct you sometimes find after the combustion. Allie MacDonald had driven her to the small Colonial she'd lived in for fiv e years with Cam. She'd made
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