Always Florence Read online

  “Your son was spying on me,” she explained, “and your pony destroyed several days’ work and tried to kill my cat.” She indicated the collapsed shelf behind her, most of the tools and supplies it had held now floating in her pot of paper pulp. Monet, her orange tabby, looked down on them from the top of the oil tank against the wall, tail swishing. Below him, the giant dog with its black muzzle and wide mouth, black tongue lolling, studied the cat.

  Bobbie looked over the destruction. Stress was her enemy, so she drew several steadying breaths. To be fair, the man Sandy had told her was new to the neighborhood—almost as new as her—appeared to be as frustrated as she felt.

  And he was looking at her hair. It had grown back to at least cover her scalp in a cap of tight curls, and her eyebrows were back. She looked better than she had a couple months ago, but the glossy, shoulder-length hair in her art school graduation photo was a thing of the past. Worse, she knew her face showed the wear and tear of chemotherapy and radiation.

  She hated that she cared. Cancer survival, and life in general, were all about what you had inside, not what adorned you outside. But she’d never get over her love of clothes and makeup and all things girlie. Though she was an artist and wore grubbies when she worked, she loved to dress up. In the past, that had earned her admiring looks, but these days it was easy for others to see what she was dealing with. Most men took an unconscious step back. Cancer was scary stuff. No one wanted to be near it if they could help it.

  This man, though, stood his ground. It was entirely possible he hadn’t figured it out yet. Sandy had told her she had a handsome, single neighbor and Bobbie had told her she didn’t want to hear anymore. Sandy had tried to add interesting details but Bobbie had refused to listen. He called the dog to him, told him “sit!” and patted his head.

  “I’m sorry. Arnie is very big and can’t help making a mess. But he wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Her neighbor turned slightly to catch the arm of the boy he’d placed protectively behind him and pulled him forward. “This is Dylan. He’s fascinated by everything. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.” He gave the boy a firm look. “But it isn’t polite to spy on people. Please apologize.”

  Dylan folded his arms. “She was chanting while she was stirring,” he said. “People who aren’t witches don’t usually do that, do they?”

  Chanting. Bobbie had to think about that a minute. Then she realized what he must have heard, and had to laugh. “Okay, I don’t have a great voice. But I was singing to ABBA.”

  “Who?”

  “ABBA,” the man repeated for her. “Remember when Stella made us watch Mamma Mia for her birthday? The movie about the wedding in Greece and all the singing?” When the boy winced and nodded, he explained, “That was music by a group called ABBA. They’re from Sweden.”

  “Weird name.”

  “Yeah. There are four members and I think it’s their first initials. About the apology...”

  Dylan complied. “I’m sorry.” Then he added to Bobbie, as though it was important, “I’m not his son. I’m his nephew.”

  “Oh.” She’d been watching them come and go for the past month and assumed they were father and sons. She hadn’t noticed a woman, except for the older housekeeper. “I just assumed...”

  The man extended his hand. “I’m Nate Raleigh,” he said.

  “Bobbie Molloy,” she replied.

  Seeing the handshake, the younger boy apparently felt it was safe to come closer. He hid behind his uncle’s arm and pointed to the garage. “What’s in there?”

  “This is Sheamus,” Nate said. “I’m sure he wants to apologize, too.”

  She smiled at the boy and made a conscious effort to be understanding. “Hi, Sheamus. That’s my studio. I’m an artist.”

  “You paint pictures?” Dylan asked.

  “Sometimes. Other times I use clay and sculpt things. Right now I’m making paper.” She pointed ruefully at the mess behind her. “I’d show you, but I think I’m going to have to start over.”

  Sheamus looked confused. “You’re supposed to buy paper in the store.”

  He had a pinched little face and the most beautiful light blue eyes. His brother was darker featured, like his uncle. And there was nothing pinched about him. He gave an impression of energy and attitude.

  She gestured to the boys to follow her to the pot, where she pulled out pieces of shelving that had fallen into her soaking pulp. They dripped with the mucky grayish mixture, and she put them aside on newspaper she’d spread earlier to protect the garage floor.

  She took the old oar she used for stirring and swept it through the contents. “This is paper pulp, and I stir it and sort of beat it with this to break it down. It’s made of linter and...” She saw that she was losing them and backed up. “It’s stuff we get from a cotton plant, and when I mix it with water and do a few things to it, it makes beautiful paper. That’s how they used to make it in the old days. When it’s ready, I dry it on a rack.” She moved over to show them a sheet that was already drying. Fortunately, the flying debris had missed it and the precious, specially made frame it was drying on.

  “But this isn’t the old days,” Dylan said. “Why do you do it this way?”

  “Because I have a commission,” she replied, her spirits buoyed a little as she talked about it. “I make this special paper and paint a saying on it, then put it in a frame.”

  Sheamus looked up at his uncle. “What’s a commission?”

  “When somebody hires an artist to make a special picture, that’s called a commission. And when the work is done, the artist is paid.”

  Dylan asked, “Artists don’t always get paid?”

  “Sometimes artists make things they think people will like and put them in a gallery—that’s a place where they sell artwork. The artist only gets paid if somebody buys it. And then he or she shares the money with the gallery.”

  “Who hired you?” Dylan asked Bobbie.

  “A law office in Astoria. A friend of mine from college works there. She showed them something I made for her birthday, and they hired me to do four pieces for their conference room.”

  Dylan looked around at the mess. “So, you won’t get paid until this is finished?”

  “Right.” She appreciated the distress on his face and felt herself begin to relax a little. “But I know this was an accident. I have one big piece in the house that’s already dry, and I’ve got one piece drying here that seems okay. I’ll do the calligraphy on those while I’m getting more pulp ready. It’ll work out all right.”

  “Calligraphy?”

  “It’s like painting words, only you do it with a pen with special tips instead of a brush.”

  “Well, we’re going to help you clean this up.” Nate pushed up the sleeves of his plain gray sweatshirt. “Come on, guys.” He pointed the dog to a spot on the lawn. “Stay, Arnold.” He turned to Bobbie, all business. “Where’s your garbage can?”

  “You don’t have to clean up. I...”

  He wasn’t listening. He went to the side of the garage, then peered inside and saw the can at the back. He stepped carefully over the rubble and carried the can out to the grass. “You separate what has to go from what can be fixed. We can replace that shelving for you.”

  She got down on her knees and began to sort through the broken earthenware pots and saucers, the rusty tools, the old army blankets she used for her paper press. “Thanks, but I can put up new shelves. Most artists worth the name are carpenters, too. Otherwise we spend a fortune on stretchers and frames.”

  “But you didn’t break it, so you shouldn’t have to fix it. And Dylan’s pretty good.”

  As his uncle began tossing into the can the things she put aside, Dylan looked surprised, then pleased by the compliment. But his pleasure showed for only a moment. He bent over the broken shelf. “We have boards le
ft from a bookshelf we made for Uncle Nate’s room.” He turned to him. “Can we use those?”

  “Go ahead,” Nate said. He looked Dylan in the eye. “Nothing fancy, okay? No power tools. Those boards should be just the right size, but measure them against the old one. If anything needs cutting, call me.”

  Dylan picked up two pieces of a broken shelf and headed off to the basement entrance at the side of their house.

  Bobbie wondered if trusting the boy to do as he was told might be a stretch after what she’d experienced, but she was sure his uncle knew the risk. He watched Dylan head off, mild concern pleating the spot between his eyebrows.

  “You can go with him,” she suggested as she dropped a rag into the can. “Sheamus and I can take care of this.”

  Nate shook his head. “No. Dylan would hate that. I put the power saw away after he cut my workbench in two on his last unapproved project, so he’ll be okay.” He turned his attention to Sheamus and nudged him with his elbow. “I’m not finding any kid feet, are you?”

  Bobbie reached for the broom and turned, certain she’d misheard them. “What? Kid feet?”

  Sheamus looked into the pot of now brown, mucky pulp, then smiled up at her. “Dylan told me you were a witch and that you were making a... I forgot the word. It’s the stuff that a witch has in her big pot and it makes explosions and lightning and loud noises.”

  “A potion?” Bobbie guessed.

  “Yeah. And he said you put bats and bugs and parts of little kids in it.”

  Bobbie was aghast. She hadn’t spent that much time with children, except for the few she’d met when she had her treatments, and they were, sadly, very adult. She was startled by what went on in the minds of little boys.

  “I promise I’m not a witch,” she told Sheamus seriously. “That was probably pretty scary for you to think that.”

  He shrugged a small shoulder. “Dylan said you wouldn’t take me, because only brave kids would work.”

  She saw his uncle straighten up from the trash can and frown. “You ran to get help when you thought your brother was in trouble,” he said, patting the little boy’s head. “That was brave. Come on and help me clean off this table. Grab that brush and dustpan.” He pointed to the ancient set propped in a corner that had been in the garage when she moved in.

  After salvaging what she could, Bobbie went inside and put half the brownies she’d made that morning into a freezer bag, and took it out to Nate and Sheamus. They were placing the lid on the trash can. The garage floor was remarkably clean. Nate carried the can back to where he’d found it.

  “What do you want to do with the ruined pulp?” he asked, peering into the pot. All kinds of dust, shavings and debris were now mixed in its murky contents.

  “I’ve got an old plastic bucket with a lid.” She pointed to a shelf above the oil tank. Nate reached up to bring it down. “If you can pour it into that and put the lid on, I’ll keep it for later. It might still be useful for something.”

  Sheamus helped him replace the lid, then he put it in a corner, out of the way.

  “Thank you for cleaning up,” she said, handing Sheamus the bag.

  The boy looked thrilled. “Brownies!” Arnold sniffed interestedly.

  Nate dusted his hands on his jeans and thanked her. “Brownies are something all of us agree on. But I’m not sure you should be giving gifts to the kids who caused the damage.”

  He’s gorgeous, she thought with the comfortable distance of a woman who didn’t really care. Now that much of the mess was cleaned up and she felt calmer, she could observe him with detached interest. Tall, lean, hazel eyes with stubby lashes, nice nose, Saturday morning stubble around a straight mouth that was a little tight. He didn’t smile much. She was willing to bet he had a dynamite smile when he used it.

  She wondered what had happened that his nephews were living with him. He seemed to be good with them, though she sensed an undercurrent of antagonism with the older boy.

  She could list Nate Raleigh’s qualities without a stirring of feminine interest because she had a life plan that didn’t involve a husband and children. She was going to Florence, Italy, to study art. It had been a dream since she was sixteen, and the last year had made it an obsession. She was in remission, but she didn’t have forever. Follicular non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma was less aggressive than the B-cell form, but it was a lifelong disease. She had to go now. The need to make art lived inside her like the creature in Alien, and was always trying to break out. She had to go to the birthplace of classical European art. She wanted to study and learn, to find the depths of her talent.

  She offered her hand again. “I’m happy to share. It was nice to meet all of you.”

  “Again, we apologize for destroying your work.” He shook her hand. “We’ll bring the shelves over soon. Is there anything else we can do before we go?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t have kid feet in there,” Sheamus said.

  She pinched his chin. “Me, too. They would have looked awful sticking out of my paper.”

  Sheamus laughed infectiously.

  Bobbie watched them walk across the yard to the big yellow Craftsman-style house next door, the man and the boy hand in hand, the dog lumbering along beside them. She smiled at the sight.

  Nice, but not for her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NATE LOOKED THROUGH the rack of Halloween costumes, spotted the bright red and blue, and triumphantly pulled out Spider-Man. They’d been to four stores, found Dylan’s Iron Man right away, but had been searching all afternoon for Sheamus’s choice. Everyone was now tired and grumpy.

  Certain this find would change the mood, Nate was surprised when he held up the costume and turned around, only to discover Sheamus close to tears—again. Nate drew a breath for patience.

  “I thought you wanted to be Spider-Man.”

  “I want the one with the muscles.” Nate looked to Dylan for help. Dylan, holding the bag with his own costume in a death grip, reached up to a shelf of masks for a skull with a rubber snake crawling out of the mouth. “Would you lend me a hand here, please? What is Sheamus talking about?”

  Dylan rolled his eyes, clearly disdainful of his uncle’s ignorance. “Some of the superhero costumes have built-in muscles. They’re more expensive.”

  “Built-in muscles,” Nate repeated under his breath. What he needed was built-in patience and endurance.

  A smiling older clerk gave him a sympathetic look. “Musclemen are over there.” She pointed to a long rack across the floor. A half dozen parents and children were rummaging through it.

  Sheamus ran in that direction. Dylan shook his head. “He’s not going to be able to reach it. Then he’ll start crying again.”

  “Why don’t you go help him,” Nate suggested, nerves frayed after the grueling afternoon, “instead of making fun of him?”

  “Because he’s such a baby!”

  Nate directed him toward Sheamus, who was already being pushed aside by older kids. “You find things hard sometimes, and he’s a lot younger than you are. You should try giving him a hand rather than telling him the neighbor is a witch who collects body parts of little kids.”

  “Who’d believe that, anyway?”

  “He’s seven, Dylan. And he’s scared.”

  “So? Isn’t everybody scared?”

  The profound question stopped Nate in his tracks, but the frantic shoving going on at the rack precluded a discussion. And Dylan had already wandered away, looking as though he regretted that admission.

  Nate spotted all the red-and-blue costumes hung together, and reached for a small one at the same moment that a beautiful, pregnant young woman did. Prepared to fight her for it no matter how bad it made him look, he was relieved when she grasped another size instead. He yanked the small outfit
off the rack and got down on one knee to hold it up against Sheamus. Stitched to create the appearance of muscles across the torso and along the arms, the costume brought a smile to the boy’s face. Sheamus wrapped his arms around Nate’s neck. “Thanks, Uncle Nate! We got it!”

  “Great. Now we have to get candy for the trick-or-treaters.”

  “How can we give out candy?” Dylan asked. “Aren’t we going to be at the Monster Bash?”

  “Stella’s going to stay until we get back,” he said.

  Nate cringed inwardly at the thought of the event. The city-sponsored Halloween celebration held in a Parks and Recreation building was intended to keep children safe while letting them enjoy a ghoulish experience. He heard it was an ordeal for parents, who often commiserated with each other about having to go.

  There was a brief discussion over the merits of mini chocolate bars, small boxes of licorice and sour candy. Nate bought several bags of each.

  “Can we get something to drink?” Dylan asked at the checkout. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Sure.” Nate pictured a tall gin and tonic, but led the boys to the Starbucks on the other side of the store. “We shoulda brought the brownies with us,” Sheamus said on the drive home. “They would taste good with this.”

  Nate found the boy’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Sheamus drew on the straw of his smoothie so hard that his thin cheeks sucked in. “We can have them for dessert tonight. Stella left us mac and cheese for dinner.”

  Dylan grumbled. “She’s a really good cook, but I like the mac and cheese in the box better.” Then he asked seriously and without warning, “Do you think Bobbie had cancer?”

  His older nephew’s out-of-the-blue observations never failed to surprise Nate. Mostly because they were usually on target.

  “Her hair looks like a man’s. And she looks kind of like she has a bad cold. You know what I mean?”

  Nate knew exactly what Dylan meant. Their neighbor had beautiful eyes, but they were a little soupy, as though she wasn’t quite well. And he, too, had wondered about her hair.