had been years since anyone had muscled him around like Buck Leeper had just done.
“They’s a paper in your booth. J.C. come early and left it for you, said look on page five.”
Percy peered intently at him. “Page ... five ...” He said this slowly, as if speaking to someone deaf as a stone.
Sitting in the booth, he stirred his unsweetened tea as if it were poison. He couldn’t think of anything he detested more than a glass of tea without a few spoonfuls of sugar.
He glanced at the paper on the table but couldn’t concentrate. He was remembering Louella’s face when she stopped him at the front door.
“We goan tell her ’bout Miss Olivia?”
He had thought for a moment. “No. Something tells me we ought to wait.”
“If she fin’ out I been knowin’ all my days ’bout Miss Olivia bein’ her kin, she goan be plenty mad and hurt. Law!” Louella had turned an odd, gray color.
“Let’s keep our peace,” he had said. “And whatever you do, don’t worry. It’s going to work out.”
Frankly, he wasn’t so sure.
He continued to stir his tea, as if there might be something in there to stir.
How would Miss Sadie feel toward Louella, knowing she had hidden that ancient secret about her mother? And what if they told Miss Sadie it was her own great-niece who’d be wearing those hats?
“You seen it yet?”
The Muse editor tossed his battered briefcase on the seat and sat down heavily.
“Seen what?”
“Page five. Dadgummit, I told Percy to tell you to look on page five.” He stared at the rector, disgruntled, until page five was located.
“You probably know this, already, bein’ her neighbor, but I wanted you to see how I wrote it up.”
The story appeared under a picture of Fancy Skinner’s new beauty shop, the Hair House.
J.C. tapped the headline with his stubby finger. “Right here,” he said, “Local Woman Wins Critical Acclaim.”
He read the article silently.
Cynthia Coppersmith, a local author and illustrator of children’s books, has been praised by reviewers for her new release, The Mouse in the Manger.
Mrs. Coppersmoth, who lives on Wisteria Lane in the house that once belonged to her uncle, Joe Hadleigh, has been writing and drawing since she was ten years old, according to a news report released to the Mitford library.
Mrs. Copermoth’s story about a mouse who attended the birth of the baby Jesus was called “a rare jewel” by one library journal, and another called it “a tiny masterpiece.” Our library volunteers say, “This could be another medal winner.”
Avette Harris, our local library head, says the book is great for story hour, any time of year. “The only trouble,” says Avette, “is that both our copies already have jam or something on the covers and we could do with a new batch.”
Mrs. Coppersmitj’s book, Violet Goes Abroad, won a Davant medal five years ago. It is just one in a series of books about her white cat, Violet, who also lives on Wistoria Lane. According to the titles of the books, this cat has been to school, learned to play a piano and speak French, not to mention has visited the queen. The entire collection is at the library, so hurry on over.
As the rector put the paper down, the editor leaned forward, obviously pleased. “I tried to give it a personal touch. What do you think?”
Think? He couldn’t think. His mind felt like it had been stirred with his teaspoon. “Great,” he said, feebly. “Terrific. What else did the story at the library say?”
“Said she liked to walk in the rain and eat peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches. Said somethin’ else, too, ah ... let’s see, oh, she likes to dance the rhumba, I thought all that was a little weird, so I left it out. ”
“Good idea.” His heart felt leaden.
“I tried to call her for an interview, but th’ machine said she was in...”
“New York.”
“Right. Well, I gotta get outta here. The Presbyterians have a big story brewin’.”
The rector didn’t
“They’s a paper in your booth. J.C. come early and left it for you, said look on page five.”
Percy peered intently at him. “Page ... five ...” He said this slowly, as if speaking to someone deaf as a stone.
Sitting in the booth, he stirred his unsweetened tea as if it were poison. He couldn’t think of anything he detested more than a glass of tea without a few spoonfuls of sugar.
He glanced at the paper on the table but couldn’t concentrate. He was remembering Louella’s face when she stopped him at the front door.
“We goan tell her ’bout Miss Olivia?”
He had thought for a moment. “No. Something tells me we ought to wait.”
“If she fin’ out I been knowin’ all my days ’bout Miss Olivia bein’ her kin, she goan be plenty mad and hurt. Law!” Louella had turned an odd, gray color.
“Let’s keep our peace,” he had said. “And whatever you do, don’t worry. It’s going to work out.”
Frankly, he wasn’t so sure.
He continued to stir his tea, as if there might be something in there to stir.
How would Miss Sadie feel toward Louella, knowing she had hidden that ancient secret about her mother? And what if they told Miss Sadie it was her own great-niece who’d be wearing those hats?
“You seen it yet?”
The Muse editor tossed his battered briefcase on the seat and sat down heavily.
“Seen what?”
“Page five. Dadgummit, I told Percy to tell you to look on page five.” He stared at the rector, disgruntled, until page five was located.
“You probably know this, already, bein’ her neighbor, but I wanted you to see how I wrote it up.”
The story appeared under a picture of Fancy Skinner’s new beauty shop, the Hair House.
J.C. tapped the headline with his stubby finger. “Right here,” he said, “Local Woman Wins Critical Acclaim.”
He read the article silently.
Cynthia Coppersmith, a local author and illustrator of children’s books, has been praised by reviewers for her new release, The Mouse in the Manger.
Mrs. Coppersmoth, who lives on Wisteria Lane in the house that once belonged to her uncle, Joe Hadleigh, has been writing and drawing since she was ten years old, according to a news report released to the Mitford library.
Mrs. Copermoth’s story about a mouse who attended the birth of the baby Jesus was called “a rare jewel” by one library journal, and another called it “a tiny masterpiece.” Our library volunteers say, “This could be another medal winner.”
Avette Harris, our local library head, says the book is great for story hour, any time of year. “The only trouble,” says Avette, “is that both our copies already have jam or something on the covers and we could do with a new batch.”
Mrs. Coppersmitj’s book, Violet Goes Abroad, won a Davant medal five years ago. It is just one in a series of books about her white cat, Violet, who also lives on Wistoria Lane. According to the titles of the books, this cat has been to school, learned to play a piano and speak French, not to mention has visited the queen. The entire collection is at the library, so hurry on over.
As the rector put the paper down, the editor leaned forward, obviously pleased. “I tried to give it a personal touch. What do you think?”
Think? He couldn’t think. His mind felt like it had been stirred with his teaspoon. “Great,” he said, feebly. “Terrific. What else did the story at the library say?”
“Said she liked to walk in the rain and eat peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches. Said somethin’ else, too, ah ... let’s see, oh, she likes to dance the rhumba, I thought all that was a little weird, so I left it out. ”
“Good idea.” His heart felt leaden.
“I tried to call her for an interview, but th’ machine said she was in...”
“New York.”
“Right. Well, I gotta get outta here. The Presbyterians have a big story brewin’.”
The rector didn’t
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