Hope you find it in everything, everything that you see.
Chapter 10: Hide and Seek
Saturday mornings are pretty casual in the Belden household. Moms generally makes something for breakfast, but it’s a come-and-get-it-when-you-want-it deal, not a everyone-at-the-table-together thing. When I dragged myself into the kitchen a little before 8:00, I found Bobby at the table with a plate of half-eaten pancakes, his attention apparently absorbed by the comic book he had spread out in front of him.
“If you aren’t careful, you’re going to get syrup on that,” I told him as I walked behind him and made for the fridge. He didn’t verbally respond, but I was easily able to imagine the face he was making at my back.
Mart was at the sink, washing his plate. “Jim’s asked that we meet at the warehouse no later than ten,” he told me, with a wide grin. “That gives you some time to do the vacuuming this morning, Sis.”
“Actually, I was kinda hoping we could… take care of a few other things before we head over there?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to check out the gatehouse, first of all. I know we saw… what we saw, and I’d like to see if anyone has… been inside?” I glanced over at Bobby, and knew, even though he was pretending otherwise, he was listening to every word we said.
I had to keep things intentionally vague, but I was reasonably sure Mart would have no problem understanding. He considered my suggestion for a moment as he dried his hands and replaced the towel on the oven handle. “Okay. Guess that couldn’t hurt.”
“I’d also like to swing by the library,” I continued. “I want to find out more information about rare books and how much they could be worth.”
My twin nodded. “Again. Not a bad idea.”
I smiled briefly at that as I took a yogurt cup from the refrigerator. “I’ve been thinking about things and making some plans,” I said. “But I fully admit I’m stuck on the Regan Conundrum.”
Mart regarded me with a blank expression. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said slowly, “but what exactly is the Regan Conundrum?”
I sighed heavily as I turned to lean up against the counter. “That’s just it. I don’t know. All we know is he came here and spoke to Moms about something and then later came back to let her know he’d decided to take her advice. Advice about what?”
“You do know there’s a very high possibility that it’s none of our business, right?” Mart frowned at me and reached out to tap me on the top of my head. “I appreciate that you always like to know what’s going on and I know you genuinely care about people and want the best for them, but that doesn’t mean you should always be completely involved in their lives.”
“I know,” I muttered. “But that doesn’t stop me from worrying.”
“It’s an experiment,” Bobby said, seemingly pleased with the thought that he might know something his older siblings did not.
“What? What are you talking about, Bobby. What’s an experiment?”
“Moms’ advice to Regan,” he replied with a superior look. “She told him to give it some time as a test and he said it would be an experiment and she said she hoped it all worked out because she knew it was going to be difficult for everyone.”
I moved to the table and sat down, studying my youngest brother. “Bobby? You were listening in when Moms and Regan first talked?”
His eyes narrowed. “Like you never do?” he asked disdainfully.
“He’s got you there,” Mart said with a chuckle, pulling out another chair to join us.
“I’m not criticizing you,” I said quickly. “I just want to know if you heard anything else. Anything that would explain what this experiment was?”
Bobby shrugged both shoulders. “Nope. That was it.” He lifted his fork and shoved an enormous bite of pancake into his mouth.
I chewed on my lower lip, thinking hard. Mart watched me silently, waiting. “I can’t figure out if that gels with my theory or not,” I finally told him.
“What’s your theory?” he wanted to know.
I started to answer, then caught myself with a significant look in Bobby’s direction. Mart got my message. Thankfully, Bobby’s attention was back on his comic book and he didn’t seem to notice or care about my non-response.
The air was chilly as we walked down Glen Road, but the sky was a beautiful, brilliant blue and it was shaping up to be another perfect autumn day.
“Okay,” Mart said, “so, spill it. What’s your theory on Regan?”
“Well, I couldn’t figure out why he was coming to Moms for advice. I mean, he’s got the Wheelers and there’s always Miss Trask, so why Moms? And then I was thinking maybe it was somehow medically related, since she works at the hospital? So, I’m worried that maybe he’s sick. Like cancer or something.”
Mart blew out a low whistle. “That’s a bit of a jump, Trix. And I don’t mind saying I hope you’re totally off base on this one.”
“Me, too! I do not want to be right in this case. I just can’t think of anything else.”
“Yeah… I’m coming up empty, too,” he admitted quietly. “But we obviously don’t have all the facts, so let’s say we’re going to remain optimistic.”
“I want to, but what do you make of what Bobby said, about it being something difficult for everyone?”
He didn’t answer right away and I let him consider my question as we left the road and stepped onto the trail that would bring us to the gatehouse. The most direct route there was to simply head up the front drive, but that was blocked by the closed gate. I occasionally wondered if Mr. Wheeler had plans to eventually fence off his entire property, though that would be one extremely monumental undertaking. For now, it was quite easy to trespass any time by simply picking up any one of the many trails and paths that started and ended all along Glen Road.
“I think we can’t do anything for Regan unless we’re directly asked,” Mart finally said, “so my suggestion is a prayer for him tomorrow at church – for whatever difficult thing it is he’s struggling with - and our focus on what we can do, which is help our brother.”
I nodded to acknowledge his suggestion, which was, I knew, a wise and logical one. “And along those lines,” I said, “I have a bit of confession to make. I was already here, last night while everyone was at the game.”
It only took me a few minutes to bring Mart up to speed on my gatehouse visit the previous evening. He shot me a long-suffering look, but refrained from out-and-out lecturing me for my folly.
“So what is it you’re hoping to see this morning, then?” he wanted to know as the gatehouse came into sight.
“I’m not sure. It was really dark last night so I definitely could have missed something. And maybe you’ll pick up on something I didn’t even notice?”
The tracks on the dusty floor were a lot easier to make out in the sunlight filtering through cracks in the roof. There were even a few fairly clear prints. “Those were made from boots,” Mart said firmly. “Not sneakers or tennis shoes.”
“Like riding boots?”
“No. At least not Western style, and no one around here wears English that I know off. These look more like heavy hiking boots.”
“Could they be combat boots?” I asked him.
Mart knew exactly where I was going with my question. “Yeah… maybe. But I don’t think these belong to Dan.”
I shot him a surprised glance. “Why not?”
“They look too big. Dan’s really not that big of a guy and I’m guessing his shoe size is smaller than this. I think we’re looking at prints that belong to someone more my height, or taller even.”
“Well, that rules out Mr. Maypenny,” I said thoughtfully. “What about Regan?”
“Possibly.” Mart stepped carefully over the threshold and immediately stopped. “Something was dragged across the floor.”
“I noticed that last night,” I told him. “But whatever it was, it’s gone now.”
He walked over to one of the windows and bent down. “Gum wrapper,” he said, picking up a small, wadded up bit of foil. “I doubt Regan dropped this. He’s got more respect for his employer’s property than to litter.”
So someone was here. Someone probably not Mr. Maypenny, Regan, or Dan. I ruled out Mr. Wheeler and Jim for the same reason Mart gave for their groom. Sure, a gum wrapper was a small and insignificant piece of trash, but I just didn’t see either of them tossing it carelessly on the floor like that. I realized I now had even more questions, but few answers. Who had been in the gatehouse, and why, and how did that connect with seeing Dan’s jacket Thursday after school?
We spent a few more minutes looking around without any more significant discoveries, then agreed to head home. We needed to pick up the wagon and head to town for part two of my morning investigations.
The Bowdon Public Library sits about two blocks off the main town square. It’s the “new” library, built a little over ten years ago when the city commissioners decided we’d outgrown our old one. Unfortunately, it’s very much a product of the early 70s. One look would tell you the construction budget didn’t cover anything that included “pleasing façade” in its plans. Two stories of bland brick and narrow windows with dull metal frames give our library the appearance of something plucked from a particularly grim part of the Soviet Union rather than anything you would expect in our quaint, all-American town. The old library, an adorable Victorian structure just across from City Hall, now houses an insurance agent and a couple of law offices.
Upon arriving, I marched right up to the check-out desk and asked the elderly lady seated there if she had a few moments to answer my questions. This was where I launched into another factually inaccurate fabrication. I should probably feel at least a little bad about how good I seemed to be getting at making things up, but I’ve decided to take the attitude that this is similar to when cops go undercover and have to create entirely new personas to get the intel they need.
“I’m doing a story for the Bulldog Beagle,” I said. “About the robbery and fire at O’Neil’s Bookstore. I’m looking for information about rare books and how valuable they might be.”
“Oh, they can be quite valuable, dear,” she told me. “There are some books that sell for many thousands of dollars at auctions.”
“Were there books like that at O’Neil’s?”
She pursed her lips and thought for a moment before answering. “I know they had a few first editions of some popular works,” she finally replied. “Though, I wouldn’t guess any were worth more than a few hundred dollars, if that. I do recall hearing something about a Hemingway… or was that a Faulkner? I’m sorry, child. It was some time ago.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’m lucky to remember things I heard last week.”
“O’Neil’s mostly does – did trade in used books for folks looking for older novels no longer for sale in the chain stores. Jonas O’Neil isn’t really what one would consider a genuine bibliophile. He’s more a businessman than anything. We do have a rather famous collector of rare books here in Bowdon, though. Perhaps she could be of more assistance to you?”
I wrote the name and address of one Mary Alice Townsend in my Investigator’s Notebook and thanked the librarian for her help. Mart walked up with a stack of books to check out and I wandered over to read the announcements and advertisements on the public bulletin board. There was the usual assortment of wanted and sale ads, a flyer for the community playhouse, and a handyman’s offer for ten percent off his usual fees for any job over five hundred dollars.
As we left the library and hurried around to the small parking lot out back, I filled my brother in on what I’d learned. “We don’t have time to visit the book collector now,” I said with a glance at my watch, “but I think we should drop in on her as soon as we can.”
Our next stop was the float warehouse. Bowdon holds three annual parades each year. Homecoming, Christmas, and the Founder’s Day parade, which takes place in late April. We take our parades so seriously, there’s a warehouse that’s dedicated to building and storing floats year-round. We maintain a collection of flatbed trailers that groups and organizations can borrow, with the understanding that they must be returned in as good as or better condition than they were received in.
Luckily, there were still a few available. As an Honor Society officer, Jim signed the paperwork for our loaner, and we were directed to an open stall near the back of the building. With Homecoming only a week away, we weren’t the only group at work and the sounds of hammers and buzz saws filled the air.
“We’ve got some donated plywood that a couple of the guys have gone to pick up,” Jim told us as we surveyed the condition of our trailer. “And Di’s bringing the paint. Mr. Lynch chipped in for that and made a nice monetary donation, too.”
As the supplies rolled in, we got to work. I left the construction of the little schoolhouse to Jim and a few others while I helped Di draw out the lettering for the two signs. It wasn’t long before I had several streaks of black paint on both arms and one straight across the front of my t-shirt. At noon, Jim called for a break and we walked as a group the two blocks over to a Long John Silver’s near the Bowdon Junior High campus. When we’d returned from lunch all wearing the paper pirate hats usually reserved for young children ordering kids’ meals, I have no idea what the other float builders thought of us, but I reasoned we were having a good time and it didn’t matter much if anyone else considered us crazy.
The warehouse has large doors that run along both the front and back of the building. Most of them stood open letting in the fresh air and sunshine and as I was carefully drawing a stack of books on the bottom of one of the signs, I happened to glance up and see an older gentleman striding briskly along the sidewalk directly across the street. Ordinarily that wouldn’t hold my attention, but this particular gentleman bore a striking resemblance to the description provided by the waitress at Chez José.
“Mart!” I hissed at my twin, trying to get his attention. “Mart! Mart! Mart!”
“Sheesh, Sis. What?” My brother turned slightly to look over his shoulder while still holding a board in place that would serve as one of the schoolhouse walls. Jim, hammer poised to strike another nail, was also looking at me expectantly.
I waved my hand in the direction of the man hurrying along outside, suddenly glad I was clutching a pencil and not a paint brush dripping with paint. Mart’s eyes tracked over to follow where I was pointing and for a moment, I could tell he wasn’t sure what I was making such a fuss about. But then his eyes rounded and he called to another boy to take his place.
An idea occurred to me. It was probably crazy, but I scrambled over to my backpack and quickly yanked out my copy of The Return of the Native. I’d only brought it along last minute that morning, thinking I might get in a few pages of reading while we drove to town and back. With a quick “We’ll be right back!” thrown out to anyone who might be listening, Mart and I darted out of the warehouse, crossed the street, and jogged up the sidewalk to close the distance between the man and us.
“Where do you think he’s headed?” Mart asked quietly.
“Not a clue,” I responded. “Listen… uh, just play along with what happens next, okay?”
To say that my twin’s face was a mask of trepidation was an understatement. And really, I couldn’t blame him. He’s been dragged into all sorts of bonkers ideas of mine through the years and they don’t always work out well, especially for him.
As we approached an intersection, I sped up again. The light turned red and our quarry stopped to wait for the signal. To what I’m sure was my brother’s complete horror, I slammed right into the guy. He stumbled forward before whirling around to see who or what was attacking him.
“Oh, my gawd!” I exclaimed. “I am so, so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going! It’s this book! I just can’t put it down, even when I’m walking!” I waved The Return of the Native around between us and hoped I looked convincingly apologetic.
He was older than I’d first thought, seeing him from a distance. His dark brown hair was liberally shot with grey streaks and there were heavy lines on his forehead and around his eyes. I hoped they were laugh lines. His mouth moved as if he were about to speak, but apparently I’d temporarily robbed him of the ability to form complete sentences.
“I -uh, I - that is…Thomas Hardy?” He blinked at my novel in clear surprise.
“Oh, yes!” I gushed. “Do you know him? I mean, obviously you don’t know him, but have you read his novels, Mister…?”
“Uh, Reynolds. Jonathan Reynolds,” he said, extending his arm toward me.
I wasn’t very accustomed to shaking hands with adults, or really anyone for that matter, and I felt a bit awkward doing so now, but I kept the wide smile pasted to my face as we completed the ritual. “I’m Trixie,” I said brightly. “Uh, how do you do?”
“I do well, thank you,” Mr. Reynolds replied. “I must say, it’s unusual to find a Hardy fan in someone so young. I was beginning to think your generation had abandoned reading altogether in favor of the television set. It’s nice to see I was at least somewhat mistaken.”
“Oh, yes. Reading is my very favorite thing! Hardy, Dickens, Eliot… I just adore English literature. Oh! The light’s changed. I’m sorry again for crashing into you like that. I will definitely be more careful from now on!”
He merely smiled at me and continued on his way as I pretended my destination involved making a right turn and walking up Chimney Street.
Mart quickly caught up with me. “I cannot believe you just did that,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re certifiably nuts. Do you know that?”
I shrugged, unoffended. “Nuts or not, I got his name. Jonathan Reynolds. Now we need to see what we can learn about our mysterious friend.”
“He may not even be the same guy! And we don’t even really know if he has anything to do with anything!” Mart reminded me in exasperation.
“True. But I think he is the same guy. He matches the description we had and he’s definitely a book lover. I think he’s involved somehow, I just don’t know exactly how that is. Yet.”
“If you aren’t careful, you’re going to get syrup on that,” I told him as I walked behind him and made for the fridge. He didn’t verbally respond, but I was easily able to imagine the face he was making at my back.
Mart was at the sink, washing his plate. “Jim’s asked that we meet at the warehouse no later than ten,” he told me, with a wide grin. “That gives you some time to do the vacuuming this morning, Sis.”
“Actually, I was kinda hoping we could… take care of a few other things before we head over there?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to check out the gatehouse, first of all. I know we saw… what we saw, and I’d like to see if anyone has… been inside?” I glanced over at Bobby, and knew, even though he was pretending otherwise, he was listening to every word we said.
I had to keep things intentionally vague, but I was reasonably sure Mart would have no problem understanding. He considered my suggestion for a moment as he dried his hands and replaced the towel on the oven handle. “Okay. Guess that couldn’t hurt.”
“I’d also like to swing by the library,” I continued. “I want to find out more information about rare books and how much they could be worth.”
My twin nodded. “Again. Not a bad idea.”
I smiled briefly at that as I took a yogurt cup from the refrigerator. “I’ve been thinking about things and making some plans,” I said. “But I fully admit I’m stuck on the Regan Conundrum.”
Mart regarded me with a blank expression. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said slowly, “but what exactly is the Regan Conundrum?”
I sighed heavily as I turned to lean up against the counter. “That’s just it. I don’t know. All we know is he came here and spoke to Moms about something and then later came back to let her know he’d decided to take her advice. Advice about what?”
“You do know there’s a very high possibility that it’s none of our business, right?” Mart frowned at me and reached out to tap me on the top of my head. “I appreciate that you always like to know what’s going on and I know you genuinely care about people and want the best for them, but that doesn’t mean you should always be completely involved in their lives.”
“I know,” I muttered. “But that doesn’t stop me from worrying.”
“It’s an experiment,” Bobby said, seemingly pleased with the thought that he might know something his older siblings did not.
“What? What are you talking about, Bobby. What’s an experiment?”
“Moms’ advice to Regan,” he replied with a superior look. “She told him to give it some time as a test and he said it would be an experiment and she said she hoped it all worked out because she knew it was going to be difficult for everyone.”
I moved to the table and sat down, studying my youngest brother. “Bobby? You were listening in when Moms and Regan first talked?”
His eyes narrowed. “Like you never do?” he asked disdainfully.
“He’s got you there,” Mart said with a chuckle, pulling out another chair to join us.
“I’m not criticizing you,” I said quickly. “I just want to know if you heard anything else. Anything that would explain what this experiment was?”
Bobby shrugged both shoulders. “Nope. That was it.” He lifted his fork and shoved an enormous bite of pancake into his mouth.
I chewed on my lower lip, thinking hard. Mart watched me silently, waiting. “I can’t figure out if that gels with my theory or not,” I finally told him.
“What’s your theory?” he wanted to know.
I started to answer, then caught myself with a significant look in Bobby’s direction. Mart got my message. Thankfully, Bobby’s attention was back on his comic book and he didn’t seem to notice or care about my non-response.
The air was chilly as we walked down Glen Road, but the sky was a beautiful, brilliant blue and it was shaping up to be another perfect autumn day.
“Okay,” Mart said, “so, spill it. What’s your theory on Regan?”
“Well, I couldn’t figure out why he was coming to Moms for advice. I mean, he’s got the Wheelers and there’s always Miss Trask, so why Moms? And then I was thinking maybe it was somehow medically related, since she works at the hospital? So, I’m worried that maybe he’s sick. Like cancer or something.”
Mart blew out a low whistle. “That’s a bit of a jump, Trix. And I don’t mind saying I hope you’re totally off base on this one.”
“Me, too! I do not want to be right in this case. I just can’t think of anything else.”
“Yeah… I’m coming up empty, too,” he admitted quietly. “But we obviously don’t have all the facts, so let’s say we’re going to remain optimistic.”
“I want to, but what do you make of what Bobby said, about it being something difficult for everyone?”
He didn’t answer right away and I let him consider my question as we left the road and stepped onto the trail that would bring us to the gatehouse. The most direct route there was to simply head up the front drive, but that was blocked by the closed gate. I occasionally wondered if Mr. Wheeler had plans to eventually fence off his entire property, though that would be one extremely monumental undertaking. For now, it was quite easy to trespass any time by simply picking up any one of the many trails and paths that started and ended all along Glen Road.
“I think we can’t do anything for Regan unless we’re directly asked,” Mart finally said, “so my suggestion is a prayer for him tomorrow at church – for whatever difficult thing it is he’s struggling with - and our focus on what we can do, which is help our brother.”
I nodded to acknowledge his suggestion, which was, I knew, a wise and logical one. “And along those lines,” I said, “I have a bit of confession to make. I was already here, last night while everyone was at the game.”
It only took me a few minutes to bring Mart up to speed on my gatehouse visit the previous evening. He shot me a long-suffering look, but refrained from out-and-out lecturing me for my folly.
“So what is it you’re hoping to see this morning, then?” he wanted to know as the gatehouse came into sight.
“I’m not sure. It was really dark last night so I definitely could have missed something. And maybe you’ll pick up on something I didn’t even notice?”
The tracks on the dusty floor were a lot easier to make out in the sunlight filtering through cracks in the roof. There were even a few fairly clear prints. “Those were made from boots,” Mart said firmly. “Not sneakers or tennis shoes.”
“Like riding boots?”
“No. At least not Western style, and no one around here wears English that I know off. These look more like heavy hiking boots.”
“Could they be combat boots?” I asked him.
Mart knew exactly where I was going with my question. “Yeah… maybe. But I don’t think these belong to Dan.”
I shot him a surprised glance. “Why not?”
“They look too big. Dan’s really not that big of a guy and I’m guessing his shoe size is smaller than this. I think we’re looking at prints that belong to someone more my height, or taller even.”
“Well, that rules out Mr. Maypenny,” I said thoughtfully. “What about Regan?”
“Possibly.” Mart stepped carefully over the threshold and immediately stopped. “Something was dragged across the floor.”
“I noticed that last night,” I told him. “But whatever it was, it’s gone now.”
He walked over to one of the windows and bent down. “Gum wrapper,” he said, picking up a small, wadded up bit of foil. “I doubt Regan dropped this. He’s got more respect for his employer’s property than to litter.”
So someone was here. Someone probably not Mr. Maypenny, Regan, or Dan. I ruled out Mr. Wheeler and Jim for the same reason Mart gave for their groom. Sure, a gum wrapper was a small and insignificant piece of trash, but I just didn’t see either of them tossing it carelessly on the floor like that. I realized I now had even more questions, but few answers. Who had been in the gatehouse, and why, and how did that connect with seeing Dan’s jacket Thursday after school?
We spent a few more minutes looking around without any more significant discoveries, then agreed to head home. We needed to pick up the wagon and head to town for part two of my morning investigations.
The Bowdon Public Library sits about two blocks off the main town square. It’s the “new” library, built a little over ten years ago when the city commissioners decided we’d outgrown our old one. Unfortunately, it’s very much a product of the early 70s. One look would tell you the construction budget didn’t cover anything that included “pleasing façade” in its plans. Two stories of bland brick and narrow windows with dull metal frames give our library the appearance of something plucked from a particularly grim part of the Soviet Union rather than anything you would expect in our quaint, all-American town. The old library, an adorable Victorian structure just across from City Hall, now houses an insurance agent and a couple of law offices.
Upon arriving, I marched right up to the check-out desk and asked the elderly lady seated there if she had a few moments to answer my questions. This was where I launched into another factually inaccurate fabrication. I should probably feel at least a little bad about how good I seemed to be getting at making things up, but I’ve decided to take the attitude that this is similar to when cops go undercover and have to create entirely new personas to get the intel they need.
“I’m doing a story for the Bulldog Beagle,” I said. “About the robbery and fire at O’Neil’s Bookstore. I’m looking for information about rare books and how valuable they might be.”
“Oh, they can be quite valuable, dear,” she told me. “There are some books that sell for many thousands of dollars at auctions.”
“Were there books like that at O’Neil’s?”
She pursed her lips and thought for a moment before answering. “I know they had a few first editions of some popular works,” she finally replied. “Though, I wouldn’t guess any were worth more than a few hundred dollars, if that. I do recall hearing something about a Hemingway… or was that a Faulkner? I’m sorry, child. It was some time ago.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’m lucky to remember things I heard last week.”
“O’Neil’s mostly does – did trade in used books for folks looking for older novels no longer for sale in the chain stores. Jonas O’Neil isn’t really what one would consider a genuine bibliophile. He’s more a businessman than anything. We do have a rather famous collector of rare books here in Bowdon, though. Perhaps she could be of more assistance to you?”
I wrote the name and address of one Mary Alice Townsend in my Investigator’s Notebook and thanked the librarian for her help. Mart walked up with a stack of books to check out and I wandered over to read the announcements and advertisements on the public bulletin board. There was the usual assortment of wanted and sale ads, a flyer for the community playhouse, and a handyman’s offer for ten percent off his usual fees for any job over five hundred dollars.
As we left the library and hurried around to the small parking lot out back, I filled my brother in on what I’d learned. “We don’t have time to visit the book collector now,” I said with a glance at my watch, “but I think we should drop in on her as soon as we can.”
Our next stop was the float warehouse. Bowdon holds three annual parades each year. Homecoming, Christmas, and the Founder’s Day parade, which takes place in late April. We take our parades so seriously, there’s a warehouse that’s dedicated to building and storing floats year-round. We maintain a collection of flatbed trailers that groups and organizations can borrow, with the understanding that they must be returned in as good as or better condition than they were received in.
Luckily, there were still a few available. As an Honor Society officer, Jim signed the paperwork for our loaner, and we were directed to an open stall near the back of the building. With Homecoming only a week away, we weren’t the only group at work and the sounds of hammers and buzz saws filled the air.
“We’ve got some donated plywood that a couple of the guys have gone to pick up,” Jim told us as we surveyed the condition of our trailer. “And Di’s bringing the paint. Mr. Lynch chipped in for that and made a nice monetary donation, too.”
As the supplies rolled in, we got to work. I left the construction of the little schoolhouse to Jim and a few others while I helped Di draw out the lettering for the two signs. It wasn’t long before I had several streaks of black paint on both arms and one straight across the front of my t-shirt. At noon, Jim called for a break and we walked as a group the two blocks over to a Long John Silver’s near the Bowdon Junior High campus. When we’d returned from lunch all wearing the paper pirate hats usually reserved for young children ordering kids’ meals, I have no idea what the other float builders thought of us, but I reasoned we were having a good time and it didn’t matter much if anyone else considered us crazy.
The warehouse has large doors that run along both the front and back of the building. Most of them stood open letting in the fresh air and sunshine and as I was carefully drawing a stack of books on the bottom of one of the signs, I happened to glance up and see an older gentleman striding briskly along the sidewalk directly across the street. Ordinarily that wouldn’t hold my attention, but this particular gentleman bore a striking resemblance to the description provided by the waitress at Chez José.
“Mart!” I hissed at my twin, trying to get his attention. “Mart! Mart! Mart!”
“Sheesh, Sis. What?” My brother turned slightly to look over his shoulder while still holding a board in place that would serve as one of the schoolhouse walls. Jim, hammer poised to strike another nail, was also looking at me expectantly.
I waved my hand in the direction of the man hurrying along outside, suddenly glad I was clutching a pencil and not a paint brush dripping with paint. Mart’s eyes tracked over to follow where I was pointing and for a moment, I could tell he wasn’t sure what I was making such a fuss about. But then his eyes rounded and he called to another boy to take his place.
An idea occurred to me. It was probably crazy, but I scrambled over to my backpack and quickly yanked out my copy of The Return of the Native. I’d only brought it along last minute that morning, thinking I might get in a few pages of reading while we drove to town and back. With a quick “We’ll be right back!” thrown out to anyone who might be listening, Mart and I darted out of the warehouse, crossed the street, and jogged up the sidewalk to close the distance between the man and us.
“Where do you think he’s headed?” Mart asked quietly.
“Not a clue,” I responded. “Listen… uh, just play along with what happens next, okay?”
To say that my twin’s face was a mask of trepidation was an understatement. And really, I couldn’t blame him. He’s been dragged into all sorts of bonkers ideas of mine through the years and they don’t always work out well, especially for him.
As we approached an intersection, I sped up again. The light turned red and our quarry stopped to wait for the signal. To what I’m sure was my brother’s complete horror, I slammed right into the guy. He stumbled forward before whirling around to see who or what was attacking him.
“Oh, my gawd!” I exclaimed. “I am so, so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going! It’s this book! I just can’t put it down, even when I’m walking!” I waved The Return of the Native around between us and hoped I looked convincingly apologetic.
He was older than I’d first thought, seeing him from a distance. His dark brown hair was liberally shot with grey streaks and there were heavy lines on his forehead and around his eyes. I hoped they were laugh lines. His mouth moved as if he were about to speak, but apparently I’d temporarily robbed him of the ability to form complete sentences.
“I -uh, I - that is…Thomas Hardy?” He blinked at my novel in clear surprise.
“Oh, yes!” I gushed. “Do you know him? I mean, obviously you don’t know him, but have you read his novels, Mister…?”
“Uh, Reynolds. Jonathan Reynolds,” he said, extending his arm toward me.
I wasn’t very accustomed to shaking hands with adults, or really anyone for that matter, and I felt a bit awkward doing so now, but I kept the wide smile pasted to my face as we completed the ritual. “I’m Trixie,” I said brightly. “Uh, how do you do?”
“I do well, thank you,” Mr. Reynolds replied. “I must say, it’s unusual to find a Hardy fan in someone so young. I was beginning to think your generation had abandoned reading altogether in favor of the television set. It’s nice to see I was at least somewhat mistaken.”
“Oh, yes. Reading is my very favorite thing! Hardy, Dickens, Eliot… I just adore English literature. Oh! The light’s changed. I’m sorry again for crashing into you like that. I will definitely be more careful from now on!”
He merely smiled at me and continued on his way as I pretended my destination involved making a right turn and walking up Chimney Street.
Mart quickly caught up with me. “I cannot believe you just did that,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re certifiably nuts. Do you know that?”
I shrugged, unoffended. “Nuts or not, I got his name. Jonathan Reynolds. Now we need to see what we can learn about our mysterious friend.”
“He may not even be the same guy! And we don’t even really know if he has anything to do with anything!” Mart reminded me in exasperation.
“True. But I think he is the same guy. He matches the description we had and he’s definitely a book lover. I think he’s involved somehow, I just don’t know exactly how that is. Yet.”
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