Best Friends (7 page)

Mary Woolsey's house had become one of Flora's favorite places in Camden Falls. Flora had visited it in all sorts of weather. She had sat in the tiny parlor in autumn with red and gold leaves drifting past the windows, in winter with a fire going to keep out the chill as the wind whistled down the chimney and around the corners, on rainy days when Mary turned on all the lamps to dispel the gloom, and on sunny days when Mary opened the windows to let in the breeze and the scents from her gardens.

Today the air was soft and gentle, carrying the fragrance of early lilacs. The curtains waved languidly in the breeze, and no lamps were needed because the sun burned brightly.

“We ought to sit outside,” said Mary, who was ready to be interviewed by Flora.

Flora looked longingly at Mary's gardens. “I need to plug in the tape recorder, though,” she replied. “Anyway, if we stay inside, I can pat Daphne and Delilah.”

“Sleepy creatures,” said Mary fondly, stroking the two old cats. “All right. We'll sit inside. I'll make us some tea before we start.”

When the tea was ready, Mary brought it into the parlor on a large tray. “Have some cookies first, Flora, and tell me what's going on. Do you have any news?”

Flora reached for a gingersnap, which she knew Mary had made herself. “Well,” she said, “Aunt Allie bought a house.”

“Did she, now?”

Flora nodded.

“And where is it?”

“Here in Camden Falls. Aunt Allie drove Min and Ruby and me by it the other day. It's really nice. It's old, I think. Like maybe colonial? And it's pretty. I don't remember the name of the road it's on, but it's about ten minutes from the Row Houses.”

“When will she be moving in?” asked Mary.

“In June. At least, that's what she's hoping for. She said these things never go as planned. But anyway, she's going to New York City again soon so she can pack up the rest of her stuff.” Flora paused and reached for a second cookie. “You know, I'm still not sure why she decided to move back here. It seemed so sudden.”

“It's possible that something happened,” said Mary. “Something she doesn't want to talk about. But it could also be that she just wanted to come home. Sometimes our roots have a pretty strong pull.”

“Do you think,” said Flora, “that you can have roots in a place that
isn't
the place where you were born?”

Mary considered this. “I do. Roots are about family, but they can also be about location. Each person has to find the place that calls to him.”

“I came to Camden Falls because of the accident,” said Flora, “but I think maybe this is also the place that calls to me.”

“Well, I'm very glad of that.” Mary smiled at Flora, then said briskly, “Now, let me clear away the tea things, and we'll get started.”

Flora sat beside Daphne and Delilah and stroked their silky heads. She thought again about Mrs. Fitzpatrick's words and about what she knew she must say to Mary this afternoon. She decided to save that for after the interview, however. And she would turn off the tape recorder then, since this was Mary's private business.

Mary returned to the parlor and sat in the armchair, and Flora switched on the recorder. “This is actually a little silly,” she began. “I mean, interviewing you is silly, since I know your story already. But I want to be able to use your words when I write my — my … Did I tell you that Mr. Pennington thinks I should write a book? An actual book? Well, not a book like Aunt Allie writes, one that she sends to her publisher and then lots of copies of it are printed up and sold in stores. But Mr. Pennington told me that if I type my project on the computer, I can take the pages to this place on Boiceville Road and they'll bind them in a real cover — a hardcover with the title and
BY FLORA MARIE NORTHROP
printed on it and everything.”

“Oh, Flora, what a wonderful idea!” exclaimed Mary.

“I know. And then the historical society can put the book on display. Imagine. A book with my name on it.”

“Maybe you'll be a writer like your aunt one day,” said Mary.

“Maybe. Okay,” said Flora. “Even though I know it, could you please tell me your story, starting when your father had the job in town and your mother was working at Min's house?”

Mary folded her hands in her lap and drew in a breath. “All right. I'll start in the fall of nineteen twenty-nine. As you said, my father had a job then, and it was a good one. He worked in an office, and later my mother used to tell me proudly that there had been the opportunity for him to advance. Between his pay and the wages my mother earned as a maid for your great-grandfather, my parents were doing fairly well for a young couple. They already owned this house, and the plan was for my mother to work until just before I was born, then to stay at home with me. By that time, they thought, my father might have been given a raise. Plus, there was their nest egg — their savings, which my father had turned over to your great-grandfather to invest. They would dip into that, if necessary, to tide us over until my father earned a larger salary.

“But,” continued Mary, “the best-laid plans …” She shifted her gaze from her folded hands to Flora's eyes. “The stock market crashed that fall, several months before I was born. Your great-grandfather let my mother go, but far worse, my parents lost their savings — the money they had been counting on — and then my father lost his job, too, when his employer had to shut down the business. So … no jobs, no savings, and I was on the way. By the time I arrived, my parents had little except this house. Neither of them had been able to find another job, mostly because there were so many people who, like my parents, were out of work. And there were few jobs available, since so many businesses had closed. It was a long time before my father found work at the factory, and it certainly wasn't the sort of job he'd been seeking. But he was in no position to turn it down.”

“Do you remember the day of the fire?” asked Flora.

Mary shook her head. “I was only about two years old. But my mother sometimes talked about the day. She would talk about it the way people talk about September eleventh now, because it was the worst tragedy she could remember, and it affected so many people in town. She would start off by saying that the day was beautiful. It was an early summer day, very warm, with a clear blue sky. She always mentioned the clear blue sky, I think because when the fire started burning, the sky became smoky for miles around. Even people in other towns could smell the smoke. As soon as word spread about the fire, the families of the factory workers began gathering to wait for news. My mother joined them, but she left me with a neighbor. She waited outside the factory for hours, then came home and waited some more.”

Mary stopped talking, so Flora said, because she had heard Mary say this before, “And your father never came home. Right?”

“Right. My mother checked at the hospital, of course, and at hospitals in other towns. But my father wasn't located, and … he never came home. So my mother and I put together a life for ourselves. We weren't wealthy, but we didn't do badly. I think you know the rest of the story, Flora.”

Flora switched off the recorder. “Yes. Thank you for telling me this part in your own words. When I go home, I'll write them down.”

Flora set the recorder on a table, along with her notebook. She looked out the window, looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall, watched Delilah twitch in her sleep. Flora opened her mouth, then closed it. She drew in a breath, tried to speak, but instead reached over to scratch Daphne, who had rolled onto her back and was purring loudly.

“Flora? Is there something you want to say?” asked Mary.

“Yes. But I don't know how to say it.” Flora retrieved her notebook and turned to the pages on which she'd taken notes when she interviewed Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “I have to tell you something,” she said at last.

“All right,” said Mary gently.

“When I talked to Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” Flora began, “she said something … I really don't know how to say this.”

“Please. Just tell me what she said.”

“She said that her mother had a friend. Isabelle. Does that name sound familiar?” Mary shook her head. “She said Isabelle was your father's sister.”

Mary frowned. “That would make her my aunt. But I didn't think I had any relatives, apart from my mother.”

“And she said,” Flora continued, “that after the fire, Isabelle was never the same.”

“What did she mean?”

“I'm not sure, but then Mrs. Fitzpatrick told me that her mother used to say …” Flora stopped again. “This is the hard part. She said her mother used to say that if someone wanted to leave his life behind and start over, like with a new identity, the fire would have been a good way to do that.”

Flora looked anxiously at Mary, searching for signs that she had upset her friend. She saw instead that Mary's lined face had softened.

“Ah,” said Mary. “I understand.”

“You do?”

Mary stood and crossed the room to a littered desk. “I have something to show you.” She ignored the papers spilling off the surface of the desk and opened a drawer. She withdrew a sheet of blue stationery. “I found this several months ago,” she said, “with some of my mother's things.” Flora glanced at the page, and Mary explained, “It's a letter from my father to my mother. And it's dated nineteen thirty-five. That was three years after the fire.”

“Oh!” Flora let out a gasp. “So … you knew?”

“I'd begun to suspect. The letter confirmed it. I think,” said Mary, “that my father took the fire as an opportunity to escape a life that had become overwhelming for him. I'm not trying to excuse what he did but to understand it. And I don't think he was a bad man, just confused. After all, he helped support me after he left.”

“He did?” said Flora. “How?” And then in a flash all the pieces fell together. “You mean
he
was the one who sent you the money?”

“I think so,” said Mary. “I'll never have proof. The letter mentions money but nothing specific.”

“I don't understand. Why didn't your mother tell you your father was alive?”

“I think she was trying to spare me. She didn't want me to know he'd abandoned me. She was in touch with him, though. Probably for years.”

“Huh,” said Flora. “I wonder about Isabelle. It sounds like she lived in Camden Falls or nearby. I wonder if she kept in touch with her brother. She was probably horrified by what he had done. But he
was
her brother.”

“I don't know. I'll have to talk to Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Isabelle wouldn't be alive now, of course, but perhaps Mrs. Fitzpatrick knows something more.”

“Maybe,” cried Flora with sudden enthusiasm, “Isabelle had children! You might have cousins, Mary. You might have a whole, big, huge family! And they might know what happened to your father. It's kind of exciting.”

Mary smiled, and Flora felt deeply satisfied. A mystery — a decades-old mystery — had been solved. And Flora was writing a book. She tried to picture it on display at the historical society. Then she tried to picture Annika's face when she saw it. The book would establish Flora's place in Camden Falls. It would say that she belonged here as surely as busy Ruby, who had found a place for herself here months ago, or as surely as Olivia or Nikki or anyone else who had been born in Camden Falls. Flora couldn't wait for Annika to see her project.

Spring that year, the year Camden Falls turned 350 years old, was the loveliest Nikki could remember. This was partly because of the fair weather, and partly because Nikki had friends, and partly because there had been no word from her father since Christmas, so Nikki could truly enjoy everything. She enjoyed playing in the yard with Paw-Paw without having to listen for the sound of her father's truck grinding along their drive. She enjoyed reading in bed late at night against a backdrop of peepers and owl calls instead of raised voices from the kitchen. She enjoyed drawing and being able to leave her work lying out in the open.

Furthermore, every time Nikki walked down Main Street, she saw new signs of the town birthday festivities. This was all very exciting until the week before the big event. It was then that Nikki learned a new term: Murphy's Law. She heard it first from Min.

On a spectacularly bright and sparkling afternoon, Nikki walked into town after school with Olivia, Ruby, and Flora, as she often did now, having asked Tobias to pick her up at Needle and Thread on his way home from work later that day.

“Isn't it beautiful?” Nikki exclaimed, throwing her arms out and tipping her head back. “Isn't everything beautiful? Isn't everything great?”

Olivia and Flora and Ruby smiled.

“You're crazy,” said Ruby.

“Nope. Only happy. Look — Main Street is getting dressed up.”

“It
is
exciting,” said Olivia as they watched a crew of workers setting out pots of flowers along the sidewalk.

Already lights had been twined around lampposts and outlined most of the store windows. “Just like at Christmastime,” said Ruby.

“Min drove us by the fairgrounds on Saturday,” said Flora. “The tents are going up. Oh, I can't wait for the fair. I hope there will be candy apples.”

“And cotton candy,” said Ruby.

“Balloons,” said Nikki.

“Games with prizes,” said Olivia.

“Maybe I'll win a stuffed animal,” said Flora. “I never win stuffed animals. Only plastic necklaces.”

“I want to win a goldfish for Mae,” said Nikki.

“I want to go on rides,” said Olivia. “Do you think there will be rides?”

Nikki shook her head. “I don't know. Probably. I like bumper cars and the Ferris wheel.”

Nikki sighed, thinking of soaring through the air. Then she thought of hot dogs and corn on the cob and fireworks and the ring toss and the china smash. She hoped there would be a china smash. She also hoped to be able to go to the fair at night, when everything would be glowing and twinkling. She'd been saving her money for weeks.

“Look!” exclaimed Ruby as they passed Dutch Haus. A sign had been placed in the window. It read
HAVE A SUNDAE NAMED AFTER YOU! DRAWING TO BE HELD MAY 24
TH
! ENTER INSIDE
. “I want a sundae named after me,” said Ruby. “It could be made with strawberries and pink ice cream, because of my name.”

Across the street in the windows of the real estate agency were photos not of houses for sale but of Camden Falls homes over the years, going back more than a century. “Hey,” said Flora, “there are the Row Houses in eighteen ninety-four.”

Nikki and her friends wandered up Main Street as far as the Cheshire Cat, crossed back to the other side, and walked down to Needle and Thread. It was when they entered the store that Nikki learned about Murphy's Law.

“Hi, Min!” Ruby and Flora called to their grandmother.

“Hi, Gigi!” Olivia called to her grandmother.

Their greetings were answered with grunts.

“What's the matter?” asked Olivia.

Min and Gigi were at the table in the back of the store, the costumes for the parade float spread before them. “Not a single costume is ready,” said Min. “This one needs hemming.” She paused. “This one needs an entire
dress
.”

“This one needs trim that we don't have in stock,” said Gigi.

“Less than a week to go. Well, that's Murphy's Law for you,” said Min.

“What's Murphy's Law?” asked Nikki.

“‘If something can go wrong, it
will
go wrong,'” quoted Min darkly.

“Well, I don't think you should say that!” exclaimed Nikki. “It sounds like bad luck.”

And maybe it was.

The next afternoon, Nikki, Olivia, and Flora peeked in at Ruby's play rehearsal. They were standing at the back of the auditorium, commenting on Ruby's ability to cry real tears (which she seemed to have perfected), when John Parson's house fell over. It fell, luckily, in such a way that it crashed down all around Ruby but didn't touch her, since she was in the path of the open window. When the crash subsided, Ruby was left standing in a little open square, surrounded by the mangled house.

“Uh-oh,” said Olivia.

Flora and Nikki smothered giggles.

“Ruby! Are you all right?” cried Mrs. Gillipetti.

Already, three sixth-graders had rushed to the house and were trying to stand it up again.

“I'm fine,” said Ruby. “But look! Look at the house.”

As it was righted, the door fell off. Then the house wobbled and tumbled over in the other direction.

“It's ruined!” exclaimed Ruby.

“It isn't ruined,” said Mrs. Gillipetti calmly. “It just needs some shoring up.”

Ruby made a face and stomped off the stage.

“What's her problem?” asked Nikki.

Flora frowned. “I don't know. She's really touchy about the play these days. I guess she's nervous.”

“Murphy's Law,” said Olivia under her breath.

The girls tiptoed out of the auditorium. They headed for town, checked in with Min and Gigi at Needle and Thread, and continued down the sidewalk to Sincerely Yours.

“Wow,” said Nikki as they stepped inside. “I can't believe your store is almost ready, Olivia.”

Gone were the piles of lumber, the cans of paint, the drop cloths and coils of wire. In their places were gleaming shelves stocked with toys and trinkets for the gift baskets and a polished counter for displaying Mrs. Walter's candies and baked goods.

“Here's everything you need to create any kind of basket,” said Olivia proudly. “For instance, how about a birthday basket? You could put candles and blowers and this little book in it, along with chocolates and caramel popcorn. Or you could put together a basket for a new baby with a rubber ducky and a washcloth and a rattle and pink or blue chocolate. The chocolate would be for the parents,” she added unnecessarily.

“This is
so
cool,” Nikki was saying, and at that moment, from the back of the store, she heard a small crash.

“Mom?” called Olivia. “Dad?”

Mr. Walter emerged from the kitchen a moment later, grumbling mightily.

“What happened?” asked Olivia. “Are you all right? Is Mom all right?”

“We're fine,” said her father. “But we're going to have to replace part of the refrigerator.”

“Part of the refrigerator!” exclaimed Olivia. “But … how long is that going to take? The opening is in three days.”

Mr. Walter didn't reply, just turned grimly to the Yellow Pages.

“We
have
to be ready for the grand opening,” Olivia said urgently to her friends. “Oh,
why
did Min mention Murphy's Law?”

“I told you it was bad luck,” said Nikki.

Not until that evening did Nikki experience Murphy's Law for herself. It happened during the quiet hour after dinner when, on school nights, Mrs. Sherman engaged Mae downstairs so that Nikki could have time alone in their room before Mae went to bed. On this evening, Nikki needed to make the final selection of her drawings for the art exhibit. Previously, she had narrowed them down to six, but each entrant was allowed only three pieces of work, so Nikki needed to weed out three more. This was not going to be easy.

Nikki sat down at her desk. Her drawings, her best ones — actually, they were the best of the best — were now kept in a folder in the top drawer. Nikki opened the drawer.

The folder was gone.

Nikki frowned. She opened the other drawers. She looked under the books and papers on her desk. She looked in the top drawer again, even though there was no way she could have missed the folder the first time.

“Mom!” yelled Nikki, and she began to search her room. She looked on her dresser and then on Mae's. “MOM!” she shouted again. She looked under her bed. She looked under Mae's bed. She had begun to search places in which she was quite certain she wouldn't find the folder (such as Mae's treasure box, which was smaller than the folder), when Mrs. Sherman appeared in the doorway.

“Nikki, what's wrong?”

“My drawings are gone! The whole folder is gone!”

“What drawings?” her mother asked. “What folder?”

“My best drawings. I keep them in a folder, and I was going to choose three of them for the exhibit. But the folder is missing.”

“Are you sure? Where do you —”

“I'm positive,” Nikki interrupted her mother. “I keep the folder in my top drawer and it isn't there. Mom, I've been working on these drawings
all year
.” Nikki's thoughts swooped around in her head like bats at twilight. Maybe her father had returned when no one was at home. He had stormed through the house, had searched Nikki's room, and had found the folder. Nikki imagined her father tearing the drawings into confetti-size pieces and scattering the pieces through the yard.

Her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts. “Well, all right. First of all, try to calm down. Let's think. When was the last time you put the folder back in the drawer?”

Nikki closed her eyes and concentrated. “On Monday,” she said. “I looked at them after school. Then I called Olivia to ask her a question about the art exhibit, but she wasn't home, so I put the folder back.”

“And you didn't take it out again after that?”

Nikki shook her head fiercely.

“Are you
sure
?”

Nikki started to shake her head once more, but then she said, “Oh, wait!” and she could feel herself beginning to blush. “Um, I took the folder to school on Tuesday so I could show the drawings to Olivia and Flora.”

Mrs. Sherman tried to hide a smile.

“I think they're in my desk,” said Nikki sheepishly. “I mean my desk at school.”

The next day, Nikki ran to Mr. Donaldson's room, searched her desk, and retrieved the folder. All the drawings were safe and sound. That afternoon, Ruby reported that John Parson's house had been fixed. Later, Olivia discovered that the refrigerator at Sincerely Yours had already been repaired. And when the girls arrived at Needle and Thread, Gigi said, “Liz and Rick are coming in for a full day to do nothing but finish the costumes. And the trim we needed arrived on the UPS truck at lunchtime.”

Nikki whispered to her friends, “The curse of Murphy's Law is over.”