Читать книгу The Family Album - Kerry Kelly - Страница 4

She hated donuts. She felt bad about it, and vaguely unpatriotic, but there it was. She hated the heavy sweetness and the grease stains they left on her napkin and, inevitably, her pants and shirt cuffs. Still, she had been sucking them back wholesale for the past three weeks. Every morning from nine to noon as she made her slow, circuitous march around her office building, solidarity slogans emblazoned across her chest, she did it with a cruller in hand.

She ate them out of boredom, and because she was angry and depressed watching her colleagues staring into their reflections in the mirrored windows of their employer, cursing all those still inside. Really, she ate them because they were the offerings of the dwindling percentage of the public not yet openly hostile about how this little media set-to she found herself embroiled in was cocking up their prime time viewing and access to the news of the day. But she could see that even these rank-and-file supporters of public broadcasting were reaching their tolerance limit. The large, square boxes of full-sized chocolate glazed and plain old-fashioneds had been downgraded to toolbox-shaped containers of sourdough globs and the gross coconut and raisin monstrosities that even children don’t like.

The night before, she had even started dreaming about them, waking from a nightmare in which she found herself buried to the chin in a child’s bouncy ball castle overflowing with sticky pellets, trying to keep her head from going under as her mother called out to her that she shouldn’t get her picket sign dirty. That was just too much. When the alarm went off, she knew she couldn’t face another morning pastry and called in sick from not working.

She coughed disdainfully in response to her strike captain’s admonishments that she had a responsibility to be there and his persistent reminder that the enemy, who only a few short weeks ago he’d been more than happy to go out with for after-work drinks, were devious, money-grubbing jackoffs and that they would not be calling in sick today. “Those sons of bitches will be all over the air talking about how hard they are working to get us back in there … like they weren’t the ones to lock us out. Sonsabitches.”

She stared at the stucco ceiling, thinking again what an insidious invention stucco was, how easy it had been to put it up there and how impossible to get it off, and how dated and crappy it looked, while the drone in her ear talked of her duty to make sure the public understood this wasn’t their doing.

“We’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about here, Cyn; we’re the ones getting screwed.”

She wasn’t embarrassed. For the better part of her radio career, Cynthia had found herself having to justify her publicly funded salary to some private-sector rube or another. She had been on the picket line before and had to face the angry comments and valid questions of those who felt they were being used as pawns in somebody else’s war. This wasn’t her first barbeque. She wasn’t embarrassed at all. She was just tired — tired and bloated. She was forty-five and a single mom and slightly arthritic in her left hand and fifteen pounds overweight, and she just didn’t damn well feel like going downtown today to march around a building to beg for the chance to do her job.

“I’m really not feeling well, John,” she sniffled unconvincingly. “Stop giving me hell and show a little solidarity with this injured comrade, would you.”

“I expect to see you here tomorrow, Cynthia, no kidding. People want to see the public faces out here on the block too. No one gives a damn about the electricians. We have got to pressure these bastards into fixing this mess.”

She considered reminding him that they worked in radio and no one knew what the hell she looked like anyway. She also toyed with the idea of reminding him that once they fixed this mess, he was going to have to have to work with those “bastards” once again. In the end she just said she’d see how she was feeling tomorrow, hung up, and dropped happily back into bed.

But now that she was free to lie there for the remainder of the day, of course she couldn’t. She was all of a sudden antsy and unsure of what to do with this stolen time. The kids had headed off to school and Ellen would already be en route for their walkabout, unaware that Cynthia had pulled ’chute.

Getting out of bed, she headed towards the stairs, resisting the urge to pop her head into the kids’ rooms and bear witness to the ungodly chaos they had unleashed. That would only end with Cynthia up to the knees in her son’s dirty laundry and on the losing side of a guaranteed fight about “privacy” when her daughter got home, so she pressed on, stopping briefly to notice the carpet on the stairs was decidedly worn and wondering tiredly when the hell the whole house had begun to fall apart. In the kitchen she started a pot of coffee, and her mood, which had lately taken to turning on a dime, improved exponentially. She took immense pleasure in the scent of the beans as she ground them, the splash of cold distilled water hitting the glass carafe, and the feel of the warm ceramic of her favourite mug in her hands.

Taking that first sip of the first decent cup of coffee she’d had since this whole pain in the ass started, Cynthia Wilkes sat at her kitchen table, kicked up her feet, and allowed herself to consider that perhaps her life was not an entire disaster. She still had two kids home with her, and all three bright and healthy. She was fairly confident that they were happy, if sometimes unbearable in the way that only adolescents can be. She owned her own home, quite the feat if you considered the city she lived in and the work she did. Plus, she noted as the warmth from her cup slowly began to soothe her stiff fingers, a few achy joints aside, she was holding up pretty well. In fact, only just the other day a man had called her stone cold fox. Well, to be precise, the term he’d used was stone cold silver fox, and the man was the homeless and most certainly alcoholic fellow who guarded, of his own volition and seemingly with no financial motivation, the door to her neighbourhood public library. Still, he’d sounded sincere.

She also knew, from unfortunately not-uncommon experience, that this pissing contest at work would eventually come to an end, and while she would probably end up going back to a place that was just a little bit worse than before, she would be going back, which wasn’t a guarantee for everyone walking around down there.

For Cynthia, things would generally continue to roll along as they had for the past decade or so. While the past held its traumatic moments, and whose had not, hers had been a voyage of generally placid seas, one on which she was afforded all necessities and more than a few perks. It was without question more than most had. This thought didn’t make her feel much better, which she found mildly surprising and a bit pretentious. It was a little too “First World problems” for her liking, and she didn’t really want to think about it, so she decided that not thinking would be the order of the day. She brought the mug up close to her face to inhale the warmth and aroma and turned her head to stare idly out the picture window at the fading remnants of her summer garden.

From this position she did not see the girl standing on the front porch, staring at her intently. The girl was ten years old. She seemed younger, unless you looked into her eyes. Her name was Abigail and she was standing fascinated, on tiptoe, watching Cynthia sipping on her morning coffee with her slippered feet up on the opposite chair.

Abigail knew Cynthia. She knew of her. They were strangers really, though they had much in common. Most valuable among them, in Abigail’s mind, was the family name she saw engraved on the antique mailbox beside the door. This was how she knew she had arrived at the right house. Her hand had already started to lift up the lid when she spotted Cynthia walking across the kitchen, and she froze. She had been standing there like a statue ever since, only her eyes moving as she surveyed all she could through the window.

Abigail had come to the house by herself, unannounced, not expecting anyone to be home. She had hoped only to leave a polite note, thoughtfully composed in her best cursive writing. Abigail had the best penmanship in her class by far, though this hadn’t garnered the recognition she felt it should. But Cynthia … Mrs., Ms.? Wilkes was there. So Abigail was stuck. She wondered whether Cynthia would hear if she dropped the mailbox lid, and even if she didn’t, would Abigail’s footsteps on old wooden porch slats give her away? She knew she should not be there and was now a little frightened and unsure about what to do next. She also felt exhilarated and did not want to waste a golden opportunity to observe this woman up close, only ever having been able to look at her from the back window of her parents’ car.

The woman had grown to be an almost mythic legend in young Abigail’s mind, a person who was hardly mentioned and never discussed without an awkward, careful tone creeping into all voices. Cynthia Wilkes was a secret that Abigail had uncovered one day when she stumbled across the old photos her father kept out of sight of her mother in faded cloth-covered albums stored on the bottom shelves of his office bookcase. She was a voice Abigail would listen to from time to time, her ear buds jammed in tightly, the volume almost inaudibly low and the thrill of doing something dangerous and covert running through her body, even though she was unsure of why it should be so.

Abigail waited another minute, watching Cynthia stare out the window, before her arm began to protest. Then, murmuring something that might have been “Carpe diem,” which she’d heard in a movie once and been suitably impressed, she dropped the lid with a thud and began knocking sharply on the door.

Cynthia jumped, sloshing coffee onto the table, first startled, then annoyed at being disturbed so early in the day, as well as by a latent Catholic guilt that equated staying home to some kind of sin. Through the glass she saw a little girl in a bright red rain slicker and matching hat and noted that it wasn’t raining. But she was still too tired and dazed by all the not thinking she’d been doing to look much closer. She opened the door with the assumption that today she’d be trading a breakfast of donuts for that of Girl Guide mint chocolate wafers.

So it came as quite a shock to find that she was staring at her daughter. To be more precise, she was looking at the wide blue eyes, pointed chin, and dark Irish curls of her daughter. But it was not Julia. She was already at school and was not a ten-year old Girl Guide but an angst-ridden seventeen-year-old. As the little girl shyly smiled Julia’s smile, a sight Cynthia didn’t see nearly often enough and very much missed, the cogs in her brain creaked into action and she recognized this child as her daughter’s sister, her ex-husband’s child. Abigail Wilkes. The little bundle whose unexpected arrival had led to the hasty dissolution of what had, up to that point been, for both parties, a pretty satisfying marriage.

Cynthia suddenly felt very much older than forty-five, and her arthritic hand ached as she reached to slam the door shut before another synapse fired and she remembered herself to be the kind of woman who didn’t slam the door in faces of smiling young girls in red rain slickers.

Abigail’s eyes grew wide and she remained silent as Cynthia slowly swayed in the doorway, her mouth hanging open and her hand still on the door. Cynthia craned her neck left and right, looking for traces of Tom and his new wife — not so new now, Cynthia supposed, but it was how she had thought of Jennifer ever since Tom had decided to make their little affair legit and married her. After that it seemed inappropriate to call her children’s stepmother “That Whore.” If ever they decided to make an impromptu visit, they would of course choose to do so when Cynthia was wearing a bathrobe and playing hooky from the picket line, but it seemed the little girl was alone.

Cynthia heard the girl swallow nervously before abruptly sticking out her hand and almost shouting: “I am Abigail Wilkes. How do you do? You have a lovely home. May I come in?”

Smiling in spite of herself at the voluminous introduction, Cynthia couldn’t think of anything else to do but and accept the tiny hand, shaking it gently up and down.

“And I am Cynthia Wilkes. I know who you are….” Then, making the most logical assumption at the reason for this unlikely morning guest, she added, “Are you here to see Julia or Ben? They’ve gone to school.”

Abigail shook her head. She wasn’t here to see her siblings. She was standing on her father’s first wife’s front porch because she wanted to be a writer. Along with taking the prize for penmanship, she was the best storyteller in her class, and she thought she’d be a really great writer too. Her brothers and sister were good at it. People told them so all the time — even Ben, who didn’t care about anything but sports. “They’re naturals, it’s in the genes,” she’d heard her father say, though never when her mother was around.

But was not in Abigail’s genes. She didn’t think she could have inherited a lick of talent for it from either of her parents, one a boring lawyer the other an even more boring administrative assistant. No, what came naturally to Matthew, Julia, and Ben came from Cynthia, and Abigail hadn’t gotten any of it. And it wasn’t fair, because writing was what Abigail wanted to do more than anything else in the whole wide world. Way more than she wanted to be in those stupid dance classes her mother was always signing her up for.

So she had decided that if she hadn’t been born with the writer’s touch, she’d earn it — in fact, she’d learn it. And she couldn’t think of anybody better to teach her than Cynthia, who told stories all the time on the radio, whose name Abigail had seen in real magazines, who had even written a book, a copy of which sat amongst the collection of worn and highly abused books that lined the walls of Matthew’s recently vacated bedroom. Abigail was hanging all her ten-year-old hopes that Cynthia would be able to offer her the tools she’d need to spin some stories of her own. Ones that were good enough to make people want to read them. And she told her so.

Cynthia took this all in with arms crossed, leaning against the frame for support. She examined the child carefully, looking for hints of mockery or mental health concerns around the edges of the request, but couldn’t find any. The girl looked so sincere, and so much like Julia, like Tom, that she couldn’t stop staring. There had been a short time, still vivid in Cynthia’s mind, when she had hated this little person more than anybody on earth, with the exception of the girl’s mother. Hated her very existence and what it meant for her and for her little girl and her sons, all so young at the time. It seemed ridiculous now, shameful that she could have ever felt this way about a child. Abigail was only a child, a sweet little thing too, it seemed, so guileless, earnest, and hopeful. Just a little girl. Then Cynthia’s parenting instincts suddenly kicked in, and she looked up and down the street again for a sign of either of Abigail’s talentless parents.

“How did you get here?”

“I took a cab.”

“Your parents put you in a cab … alone? To my house?”

Cynthia was incredulous until she thought a little bit about Tom, something she almost never did any more, and suddenly didn’t completely rule it out. She shook her head, trying to coax her brain into keeping up with the conversation she was, still unbelievably, having. It felt like trying to get directions in a foreign language.

“Oh, no. They think I am at school. My mom wouldn’t ever let me come here on account of the way you think you are soooo much better than everybody else,” Abigail said, stretching out the syllables in imitation before she paused at the sight of Cynthia’s raised eyebrows and blushed deeply. “Oh. No offence,” she said, charging ahead. “I googled your address and came by myself.”

Cynthia found that she was smiling through the insult, at this odd little kid and the outrageous request. Coming back to herself, she also remembered how young the girl was.

“So no grown-ups know where you are right now?”

“You do,” Abby countered. She was Tom’s daughter all right.

“Yes. Fair enough. I’ll rephrase … you are telling me you snuck out of school to come here, even though you think your mother will disapprove?”

“For sure she will.

“Don’t you think that’s a little dangerous? That you might get into some trouble doing things like that?”

“I know that people need to suffer for their art.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“Writing made Dorothy Parker suicidal.”

“Oh.”

“I love Dorothy Parker.”

“Huh. And you’re …” Cynthia quickly did the actual math and was reminded of the longevity of certain kinds of aching, “… ten years old?”

“Yes, but I’m a very advanced reader. The best reader in my class.”

“I would imagine.”

“I’m the best storyteller too. My teacher said.” As proof, Abigail pulled two hard-covered black notebooks out of the backpack at her feet. “Would you like to see some of my work?” Holding out the books, she said offhandedly, “These notebooks are the same ones that Hemingway used.… Well, not these exact ones, I bought these new. But he liked this style.”

“You’re a Hemingway fan as well?” Cynthia said, taking the books and trying not to sound like an asshole grown-up.

“Yeah, he’s okay, I guess. Not so funny.”

“I can see that.” Then, tucking the books under her arm, “Okay, so I think it would probably be an excellent idea if we let your parents know that you are here.”

Abigail’s pale, lightly freckled face went a shade whiter as she started to visualize the potential consequences of being found out of school, on her own, and in the company of this particular person.

“Yeah, I guess. It’d probably be better if you called my dad.”

Better for who? thought Cynthia, although she had to admit if you were going to have to pick the lesser of two evils here, you’d have to pick Tom.

“Good idea.”

Afraid that she may never again have this kind of opportunity, Abigail asked, “Can I come inside while you call? Maybe you can read some of my stuff while we wait?”

This had not been part of Abigail’s initial plan, but now that she was here, she found herself desperate to see inside the house where her siblings lived, having already taken in all that she could see around Cynthia through the open door.

Ignoring a sudden longing for the simple drama of the picket line, and even for the donuts, Cynthia stepped from the doorway back into the house. “Come on in then.”

Abigail didn’t wait to be asked twice, hopping into the foyer, dropping her bag at the same time. She scanned the living room, taking in all the exotic accoutrement of her siblings’ primary dwelling.

“That’s Julia’s,” she said, pointing at a raggedy pink sweatshirt tossed over a wing chair by the fireplace, a favourite reading spot when she was willing to share common space with the other members of the household. “I have one too. Matthew got me one when he went away to school. Mine doesn’t fit any more, though.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” But the wistfulness in the statement seemed to have already passed as Abigail headed towards the piano at the back of the room, giving the ivories an exuberant pounding, all the while craning her neck see what else was to be seen in the dining room. “Cool piano!”

“That it is … though maybe it’s a bit early to be quite so … musical.” Cynthia was mesmerized by how at home this little stranger seemed in her house. Not so much because of the liberties she was taking, well that too, though it was the divine right of ten-year-olds to think the world really was designed just for them. It was the way she blended into the room, so much like Julia and like Matthew, eyes on everything her hands hadn’t gotten a hold of yet, the constant commentary and unnerving energy. Ben was the only child who favoured Cynthia both in looks and temperament. Abigail acted just like one of the kids — but she wasn’t, at least not in this house. Sobered, Cynthia put on what the real kids called her serious voice.

“Okay then, why don’t we get you a drink or something while I call your dad.”

Abigail turned two saucer eyes towards Cynthia and put to shame the display of sorrow felt over an outgrown sweatshirt. “I guess.”

“Maybe I can wrangle up a Pop Tart to sweeten the deal?”

“Really? I’ve never tried one before. My mom won’t let me have them. She says they are evil. Oh … sorry.”

“Well … I’m not your mom,” Cynthia replied sweetly as she reached for the box, and taking some satisfaction in it.

Once Abigail was set up at the kitchen table, well-occupied by her snooping, Cynthia took extra care in her preparation of this mid-morning snack as she gathered her thoughts about the impending call.

It wasn’t like they didn’t talk. She and Tom spoke often enough, but no more than was necessary to ensure the basic survival of their shared dependents. They never chatted. They didn’t share or empathize or entertain. While theirs had been recognized by their acquaintances as a remarkably civil divorce considering the circumstances, it had never been a comfortable one. From the beginning Tom had been too ashamed and overwhelmed to offer any explanation or apology, and Cynthia far too humiliated to ever let him try. So, with the exception of one no-holds-barred throwdown fight that neither of them had ever mentioned again, they had opted for a crude but effective emotional amputation that had allowed them to move swiftly from intimate life partners to functional associates in the care and preservation of their children.

Even before she dialed the number, Cynthia could picture him when he picked up the phone. She could still imagine him at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, one hand reaching aimlessly for the freshest cup of coffee, the other being subjected to an oral assault as he systematically bit each nail down to the quick. It had been more than a decade since she’d seen him like that, but she was sure the scene hadn’t changed. She knew that people can become strangers to you overnight, but the little things that make up a person, those habits and peccadilloes, they don’t change.

The toaster popped, filling the air with scent of fruit and plastic, synonymous with her children’s particular breakfast poison, and Cynthia was yet again jolted back to the situation at hand. She served up a plate of piping hot treats, having stuck one in every slot of her six-slice toaster, and was pleased to see the look of expectation on Abigail’s face.

“Don’t just go diving in there,” she cautioned, seeing Abigail reaching out. “Count to a hundred or you’ll burn yourself.” It was one thing to offer forbidden treats to your ex-husband’s child, another entirely to maim her. Abigail’s eyes had finally found a fixed focal point as she rapidly mouthed her countdown, and Cynthia picked up the phone, punching in a number she rarely used but still knew off by heart.

“Thomas Wilkes’s office,” an aging, smoke-damaged voice responded. It had not escaped Cynthia’s attention that once the news of Tom’s affair had gone public and Jennifer had left the firm to avoid the gossip and the judging eyes, Tom’s next choice of office assistant had been a middle-aged, homely, and married chain-smoker. It was the first time Cynthia had to grudgingly admit that perhaps Mrs. Wilkes the second wasn’t as dumb as she looked.

“Hello, Margery, it’s Cynthia Wilkes calling for Tom.”

“Oh.” These calls always seemed to begin with an “oh.” “Oh yes, I will pass you through.”

“Hi. Everyone okay?” Calling at work usually meant at least a code orange family emergency; suspension, broken limb, the visual presence of at least one bodily fluid.

“Hi. Yes. Well, I think so.”

“Good. So no hospitals, prisons, missing children alerts?”

“Well, not missing so much as misplaced,” Cynthia offered.

“Sorry? I’m not following you. Is everyone okay?” Tom repeated, genuine concern now entering his voice. She knew she was being a bit cryptic, but she was never her best when she was talking on the phone with Tom. Their calls were always rapid and perfunctory, and she never had enough time to recall how they used to talk to one another. She was better at it in person.

“Everyone is safe, but …” she stalled, trying to figure out what to say, aware of how still the gadabout little girl had become, of how intently she was listening.

“What’s wrong Cyn, spit it out.” He was so impatient, she couldn’t help thinking, always in a rush to get to the point.

“I am. I am trying to say that your daughter is here.”

“And what? Wait, I thought you said she was at school. Was she lipping off to the history teacher again?”

“No, not that daughter. What I mean is … what I’m trying to tell you is that your daughter is here. Abigail.”

“What?”

“Abigail is here. She is fine. She’s having a snack right now. She got here about twenty minutes ago. I thought you should know.”

“What the hell is she doing at your house?” The tone was still short, but confusion was the key undertone now.

“Well, I am not entirely sure. It’s not like I was expecting her,” Cynthia replied, trying to sound cheerful and smiling slightly at Abigail, wishing she had made the call in the other room so that she didn’t have to temper her annoyance for the sake of the girl.

“How did she get there? She’s supposed to be at school.”

“Yes, she mentioned that. It’s my understanding that she took a taxi.”

“Are you telling me that they let a ten-year-old get in a cab?” His voice was rising.

“Well, I’m no star witness here, Counsellor Tom, but I am under the impression that the school is currently unaware of her whereabouts as well.”

“Oh my god. Okay. Well, what do we do about this?”

“I am not sure what your plan should be. Again, may I remind you that I didn’t orchestrate this little get-together.” Then, looking over at the dark curls hung low over the plate, the treats untouched and getting cold, “As pleasant a surprise as it may have been. Perhaps you could come and pick her up, Tom.”

“Right sorry. Oh so … right. That’s probably … sorry.” Presumably not knowing what to say next, Tom said nothing, silence burning up the line between them for an interminable few seconds. She could see him now, a hand running roughly through his hair as he tried to come to a plan of action … something he was infuriatingly bad at. Tom had built a life on the uninspiring combination of reaction and inaction.

“Ah, Cyn. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m really sorry about this. I know it must be awkward for you.”

The sound of her name from that voice, tinged with sympathy, a reminder to both of them that she had been the loser in what had transpired, that tone of victim empathy, it was not something she was willing to tolerate on this particular morning.

“Just get over here, would you Tom?” she ordered sharply before hanging up.

“I guess he’s pretty mad,” Abigail said from underneath her sheath of hair.

“Maybe a little. He’s on his way to get you.”

It was evident to both of them that neither was looking forward to this. Dropping into a chair at the table, Cynthia pulled the plate into the middle and grabbed a tart. Breaking it in half, she passed a piece to Abigail, who accepted, her face unreadable as she nibbled on a corner, though the thrill seemed lost. They sat in silence for a while as Cynthia tried to process some of what had happened in the short time since she’d opened her eyes only an hour before. Looking over at the glum little face taking her in from the corner of those big blue eyes, Cynthia decided she might as well try to cheer her up a little, because she was probably in for a rough ride when she got home.

“So you were saying you’re a Dorothy Parker fan?

“I adore her,” Abigail said, some animation returning.

“So how did that … come about?” Cynthia asked, fishing for a way around asking “isn’t that a little old for you?” with little success.

“You think I’m too little to like grown-up books?”

“No, no. Just wondering where you might have come across her.” She did not add, Considering your dad can barely stand to read the paper and I’m pretty sure your mother is illiterate.

“I found it in Matthew’s room. You know, his room at our house. I am going to read all the books he left behind. I’m allowed. He said so.”

“Ah,” said Cynthia, prickling a little at the mention of her son’s second home. “Fair enough.”

Her eldest son had opted to spend the summer before his final year at his father’s place. It was a bigger space closer to his summer job and had its own entrance, which, at twenty, she had been told was an absolute necessity. She had resisted the idea, and Matthew had accused her of bordering on the ridiculous, requesting that she not to get all “mom” about this. But none of his valid reasoning had made it any easier for Cynthia to take, and she had not handled the situation with that much grace … or any, really. She remembered with embarrassment hovering in the doorway as he’d packed up an impressive number of boxes full of those books. Some of them had been hers, and she had said so, removing them from the pile even though she didn’t want them, hadn’t even thought about them in years.

She could see Matt slowly extricating himself from the routines and traditions of the family since he started away at school, shedding her influence as he tried to figure out who he was going to be and treating her care and advice like some sort of poisoned apple. That hurt her, even though her friend Ellen assured her that it was natural and absolutely necessary to ensuring he could function as an adult. That had been cold comfort, and she’d remained a little petty and distant after he left, leading to a chill between mother and son that hadn’t thawed entirely before he left to go back out west.

At the moment, if she were honest she could admit that she was 0 for 2 in relationships with her oldest kids, and with Ben gearing up for a season of hockey with Tom filling the role of ultimate hockey parent, she had been feeling a little usurped of late. It struck her as funny that while her kids were flocking to their father, his daughter was risking a backlash at home and at school for the chance to hang out with her. She looked at the clock only to realize that Tom was at least a half an hour away. Getting up to fill her coffee cup, she spied the Hemingway-approved notebooks she’d been handed earlier. Picking up the first one and selecting another tart from the pile, she nudged the plate back towards Abigail with an encouraging nod and flipped open the book.

“Well, we have some time to kill, kiddo. Let’s take a look-see, shall we?”