The Sparkle of Fish in Sky-Blue Water

By A.M. Mann

Anthem Waller is living her best life in the small fictional town of Barclay, West Virginia. She had a complicated beginning to her life, losing her parents to violence and despair while still too young to know, being adopted by the town and her recently arrived uncle. Forty years later, married but childless, she is content in the relaxed pace of her 'bump on a knob.'

And then a stranger arrives. He has been traveling for forty years in search of merchandise stolen from a German Jewelers Collective. The theft was not reported to the authorities but assigned to agents to find. Eden Chase is one of the original and only one of two to still be on the hunt. He arrives in Barclay convinced that this is either the x-marks-the-spot he has been searching for so long. Or, perhaps, Barclay might be where this charade ends.

The story begins with Anthem recounting how she and Eden disrupted Barclay forever for the better. Now retired in a converted turn-of-the-century resort, she wants to fill in the blanks and set the record straight.

In the book's second part, we are introduced to Sabine's story as told to her daughter, Ilse. Ilse is the thief's daughter and has been estranged from her birth mother for forty years. Sabine also wants to set the record straight, as her health is falling.

And lastly, we learn about the pond, the angling discourse published centuries before, the clues embedded within its text, the unlikely partnership Anthem and Mr. Chase form in pursuit of what was stolen, not only from those jewelers so many years before, but also from them as a result.

All crimes are absurd. In this instance, the wrong created meaningless trouble, generated an equally absurdist and quixotic search, and tore asunder the lives of everyone touched by the crime.

It's a love story, and a story where love is lost, where isolation is broken, and friendships were unexpectedly forged. Oh, and there are fish!

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.M. Mann
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9780982959374

A.M. Mann

I have been a professional writer for over twenty years. And although the lure of creating content for a nonfictional world (finance, business, etc.) remains an attractive alternative to my NEED to write, I no longer have the passion for that genre.Over the last several years, since walking away from that world in 2018, I have refocused my efforts on fiction. I have learned several things as I dabble in various styles of varying lengths. I prefer writing novels. However, a collection of short stories is being gathered. There is a seventh novel, which I have queried with little success. The release on this platform is now scheduled for May 1, 2023.I hope you enjoy my work. It is a bit dark, perhaps slightly misanthropic, or at least my main characters tend to be, but hopeful. Even when isolation is preferable, these tales allow well-meaning social interactions with supporting characters. Ironically, I do consider my novels to be love stories.I have lived in Portland, OR with my wife for almost four decades.

Book preview

The Sparkle of Fish

(in Sky Blue Water)

A.M. Mann

Copyright © 2023 A.M. Mann

ISBN# 978-0-9829593-7-4

All Rights Reserved

The characters and events in this book are fictional. Any resemblance of real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This is a second edition (please see the acknowledgements).

Requests for scanning, uploading, or electronic sharing can be obtained by emailing the author: [e-mail]

For my wife as we approach forty years of wedded bliss.

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A Note to Readers

You will notice, if you read the disclaimers on the previous page, I suggest this is a second edition. That proposes that there was enough of a revision between the first and second to warrant a change. I think eight thousand or so words fewer qualifies. Why the harsh edit?

Perhaps it was the script I adapted from the book. That’s right. The characters from the novel would not go away. While I believe every writer leaves something of themselves in each character, my Anthem Wallers seemed to follow me for much longer than any previous ones had. And I have had protagonist appear in trilogies. Perhaps that would have satisfied this haunt, a continuation, an origin story, or even just a demise tale as I did with my last novel, THE OBITIST.

What changed? The opening section, where I introduce Anthem and her tragic beginnings. She is standing in the church parking lot of her mother’s funeral, a toddler that is just too cute for the solemnness of the service. The misfortune visited upon the little girl began well before her current situation. Her father had been killed in a fit of jealousy, by his younger brother, leaving Anthem’s mother Emme shattered. We find out that Emme could not handle the incident and after depositing her infant with a so-called church lady, she disappears. In the interim, the child is fostered by the town’s benevolent society while these church ladies groom her uncle to take control of his niece’s care until her mother’s return. However, Anthem’s mother never does return, dying of mysterious and unnamed circumstances. Her Uncle Van is now her sole caregiver and responsible for her upbringing.

However, I included that section in the script adaptation of the novel. I am not a screenwriter – unless of course someone options the script. The scene proved more visual than literary and I will allow you to judge for yourself. This second revision includes that scene, written as a script at the end of this book.

While it still remains a quixotic crime story of vast ranging times and places, spanning several generations, it is still a tale of understanding isolation. Also, the previous ending of the book needed an unexpected twist that was evident when the script was completed. It is not a major change but instead, a clarification that may not have been as apparent. I think Anthem would be pleased with how her story reads now. I know I am.

CONTENTS

Part One – Anthem’s Story

Part Two – Sabine’s Story

Part Three – The Story of the Pond

Ilse

About the Author

The Gotham folly will be found

Discreet, ere ta’en she must be drown’d.

The tench, physician of the brook,

In yon dead hole expects your hook;

THE COMPLEAT ANGLER

ISAAK WALTON

SIR NICHOLAS HARRIS NICOLAS,

TRANSLATION, 1875

2018

Anthem’s Story

D id you have a nice meeting?

It was a pleasant meeting, Jean. Jean Ware had been Mrs. Anthem Waller’s personal assistant for the last eight years. It was a peach of a job caring for one of the most vibrant women she had ever met. But she was changing in noticeable ways. She seemed less at ease with time, and if her latest project was any indication, her ninety-second birthday would find her embarking on a trip down memory lane.

The meeting, a once-a-month affair, was attended faithfully by six board members in charge of the day-to-day operations of this sprawling historic resort. It remained historic however the resort side was now only part of what this gracious location offered. Whisper Ridge Resort kept the name even as it had converted half of the spacious rooms that once entertained dignitaries from around the world, into permanent residences for seniors. It seemed all too Anthem-like in logic: Whisper Ridge was for sale; Anthem had the money to purchase it; Anthem needed a place to spend her golden years. The full half residence, half resort renovation was completed twenty years ago, and Anthem has rarely left since. The world, she said, or all I care to know about the world will come to me.

There were seven club chairs in a circle in the center of the room. Anthem had suggested the ‘disarming comfort of deep cushions’ would be preferable over the stiff confines of a long table. The board members were all relatives of people who lived in the town of Barclay, West Virginia. They were the bright shining faces of WRR, even though they were all middle-aged. Deacon Ragel, the co-chair, was Anthem’s cousin’s son, and the one with the greatest appreciation for what his great aunt had done. And why. And more importantly, the journey she had taken.

Jean had forewarned Mr. Ragel that her charge was considering a memoir. The topic had been broached several times over the previous few days and weeks, her thoughts actively formulating how she would approach the subject of those early days. Everyone knew everything about what happened from their perspective; it was without a doubt a life-changing experience for everyone in that town. However,  no one had heard Anthem Waller’s version of those events.

Deacon had seemed incredulous and yet could not deny his curiosity. How does she envision this? he asked.

She says she’s hired a memoirist.

When did this happen?

Jean shook her head. It didn’t. She winked and for a moment, her face twisted like a sardonic Robert DeNiro might. Deacon realized in that moment, that had Anthem been his mother, he would have wanted this person to care for her. While Anthem needed little care, Jean’s companionship was worth her salary and more.

She hasn’t hired anyone. She winked again. Ilse is beginning on Monday. I’ve been told she ‘will take tea on the veranda at ten, in the atrium if the weather proves inclement, break for lunch at twelve-thirty, and end the session at three sharp.’ When Jean smiled her face looked Elvin, sharp, and Peter-Pannish as if this might be a good prank if it weren’t true.

Ilse?

I’ve been told she is coming to us from Nova Scotia, and is on her way to Alabama, for some reason or other she has yet to disclose. And she’s a cousin. Which would make her the first relative either of us has met from her mother’s side. I know, seems very specific. But it is Mrs. Waller. No detail unturned.

Wait. Is this her CBS? Jean held out her hand to Deacon. It held a bar brooch that Mrs. Waller often sported. The tourmaline stone had been removed and replaced with the most dazzling blue diamond. The older woman was fond of white, head-to-toe most days; this pin provided a colorful compliment to her expressive eyes. You need to have this mic’ed.

As in wired?

Deacon, she’s going to tell the story to an imaginary writer. She’ll believe her cousin, Ilse, is with her. And we need to record it. We need to know the story. She handed him the brooch, an art deco piece she had told Jean was a gift from Eden Chase. The name sounded as fictitious as Ilse. It was a white gold pin about the size of her hand’s width, the stone centered, a rose-shaped closure adding an elegantly simplistic touch to the period piece. She needs this to be cleaned by Monday. She tells me Ilse knows of the pin and would be flattered by her accenting her attire with it. Do you have a friend who could, maybe, fix it so we could record her sessions?

Jean busied herself around the room, a stately and well-appointed apartment in a stately and well-appointed retirement home. Anthem Waller, always punctual, always in white, her hair having drifted from the blonde of her youth to the white of her childhood. She would make what she called ‘her rounds’ at eight, wandering the entire resort. It was a spacious affair, forming a boomeranged-shape, angled, so every room of the three story structure was looking west over the Appalachian mountains. From the lobby, located at the elbow, residents and guests could meander through the glass-enclosed atrium, which acted as a gateway to the spacious verandah. Anthem had both built when she purchased the building. If you were to meet her on the verandah, have tea with her, and chat for a bit, the story she would divulge would seem out-sized, even magical, and you’d be forgiven if you suspected the trickery a memory might play. You’d nod and convince yourself that this pleasant older woman’s memory has eroded into a place that is magical, where realism is on the wane. As many of the residents are in a most enjoyable way. But you’d be wrong.

Anthem Waller defies the demonstrative definition so often attributed and instead, reinforces the notion that if someone tells you who they are, believe it. She is different in several respects. One, she does own Whisper Ridge and still actively makes decisions that, while they are smartly voted on by younger, more operationally-capable administrators, are very professional, even astute. Jean is not present for the board meetings but does get a text message update from Deacon on how her patient presents.

Two, until she mentioned Ilse, there had been little concern for her mental acuity. What Jean revealed to Deacon came as a surprise, albeit an expected one, and was handled with pragmatism. Charles Bonnet Syndrome was rare but not an unexpected age-related malady. Whomever Ilse was, Anthem, as her CBS would dictate, would be the only witness to the meeting.

Deacon had to admit that the recording device was a brilliant move. Jean knew his aunt's story had been shrouded in mystery. There was the Anthem after-the-fact that was well-known, even more, well-loved, and ultimately, the woman who saved Barclay, which, until then, was a typical bump on a knob fated to experience terminal decline as too many small rural outposts often do. And there was the Anthem before then. This Anthem was less well-defined. Old newspaper clippings about a murder-suicide in Barclay were reported by the Sulphur Springs Sentinel in 1931, providing a sketch involving Deacon’s family, uncles mainly, a woman named Emme Ragel, and her newborn daughter, Anthem. The mother-daughter were mentioned as survivors of the domestic tragedy with little else in the way of details. No one was alive that could recount those days, that tale, the story leading up to the event that changed everything. What was left of the Ragel clan moved to Oklahoma and as misfortune seems to favor the already unfortunate, disappeared in the dust storms of ’36. Anthem was aware of Deacon’s lineage and accepted the moniker of aunt without question.

And the last difference that separated her from her age group, and frankly everyone else was her charm. It never waned, never manifesting itself to any influence, always the perfect southern lady, even if she had not been raised in such a household.

Whisper Ridge had always been a resort, and for the people who live here full-time, it is. The influx of vacationing seniors from all parts of the world, looking for the solitude of the Appalachians make this seem like a way station of sorts. President Coolidge stayed here once, in secret so as not to detract from his parsimonious platform of frugality. That was several years before Mrs. Waller bought and renovated the place. This combination of an ever-shifting cast of travelers with long-term residents provided an unusual symbiosis. Mrs. Waller always believed that the right stranger could make a person’s day, maybe even change the course of a life.

To the untrained eye and the inexperienced visitor, so much pleasantness and white hair might be disarming. However, Anthem Waller was clearly the queen of this roost. Thinking that time was now playing tricks on her, a term which delighted her, a suggestion that some spritely creature might be the cause, and she was the effect, would be your mistake.

Are we sure what she tells this imaginary writer will be worth recording? I mean, will we be able to distinguish between what we know to be true and what we suspect to be true?

Deacon, you don’t. Why should you? When it comes to Mrs. Waller, everything is real, and actually happened. And if it seems fictitious, and it might, it will make for entertaining listening, maybe reading.

Mrs. Waller is dressed in spotless white from her floppy hat to her shoes. Jean escorted her from her room to the verandah, arms, intertwined like two French school girls. They chat effortlessly, smiling and greeting anyone they encounter. She makes her way through the after-breakfast crowd towards a suggestively private table on the verandah. The table is surrounded by small hedges, small purple jasmine flowers dangle listlessly from the pots. She settles into an equally brilliant rattan chair with a delicately woven peacock back. A small side table with a tea service separates an equally magnificent matching seat.

The sun is soft today, as she sits under the shifting shadows of the pergola that rims the inner area between the hotel/home and the expanse of manicured lawn nestled between the arms of the building. A pennywise viewer might disdain, even scoff at this place’s comfortable, almost excessive opulence. Its Georgia marble columns and its whitewashed exterior against the greenest backdrop of virgin forest were almost too picturesque. Mrs. Waller was proud of the WRR, the way an owner might be.

Jean poured two cups of tea and departed.

Day One

"W e should begin with Eden Chase. Of course, that is not where the story actually begins; it is where my story with Mr. Chase begins. Four continents later. Forty years hence. It was 1974. And he was on a quest that had become, without much forewarning, something that he would identify as part of his nature. Imagine a multiple decennium effort interweaving into his personality, indelibly, invariably. However, I was unaware of this when we first became acquainted. Eventually, I found out.

"He was a man committed to a particular effort, perhaps even noble, had there been no money involved. Money tarnishes nobility, no matter what. Eden was a principled man, though, well-suited to his career. He had been hired to recapture and return stolen property, an unreported crime. It was a treasure the owners wanted to be returned. That might make him a treasure hunter. But there was a reward, so he might have been a bounty hunter. Still, he was a man committed to what could easily be described as folly from any reasonable distance and the undertaking of a lonely fool. But it was neither. And it was both.

"You’ll find that a lot in life, Ilse, the either-or or neither-nor decisions. Whatever it had become, it was now who Eden was. I wonder if we gravitate towards the employment we are best suited to, something we can and do without questioning the nature of our choice. Doesn’t everything possess just a little touch of insanity, just for seasoning, to sweeten the deal, perhaps? Maybe, in Eden’s situation, it eventually became moot.

"I suppose he probably fared better than most because he wasn’t inclined to self-examination. Almost as if he never saw what people saw when they looked at him. I asked him if he had ever thought about the life he left. I never got a straightforward response as to why he ignored the before times, the people he knew who might have cared, who might have shared important moments in time. Had they long since forgotten him? Maybe you can figure out whether his madness is, or should I say, was futility. Maybe sometimes a person’s methods underscore, even overshadow the craziness. As a third-party observant, you may be better suited to determine.

"Eden Chase’s patronymic name seemed prescient to his profession. The Chase part. The name Eden suited his appearance if any name ever could. He was what you might imagine. Or what I imagined a man named Eden might look like. Even though he was the same age as my Uncle Van, he was some kind of ruggedly handsome. I’m sure my infatuation will show numerous times over the course of this anecdote. I offer no apologies. I was young. But I had been around the turn as they say. When I met him, he was near the end, but I didn’t know at the time. He certainly still seemed mighty vital to me. It turns out it took this stranger to help me discover that everyone close to me in the little hamlet of Barclay knew something about something and that something was unknown to me. People I knew and thought had loved me knew. People I believed had shared their inner selves with me hadn’t let me in on this precious secret. It seems like everyone knew but yours truly. It took a stranger like Mr. Chase.

"So, let’s start with the day Mr. Chase wandered up Tallow Road. That day wasn’t all that special. With the exception of a few in the early years, there hadn’t been but a handful of special days since. This would be one I would remember.

"He arrived in our little community at the other end of town from where I worked. We were one of those one-road through-town towns. We were barely a town then so that might be a misnomer. A visitor would enter from either east or west and leave either west or east. Our real estate office, the Bloom Homes office, was at the west end of town, and the diner was the first thing he would have seen at the time, arriving from the east. The Hummingbird Café, its official name, but it was a diner, is probably not unlike any one of a million such byway treasures and dives frequented by locals and passer-throughs. Typical, I suppose. But this one, the Hummingbird, was known for its Hummingbird Cake, making it unique to Barclay. It’s good home-style food you don’t have to cook, dishes you don’t have to do, and it never requires you to fancy up. 

"I remember everything was shiny red vinyl or chromium, vermillion booths and stools against endless argent walls, a brilliant illumination, somewhat like the way light bounces around on stained glass windows. Even on grey days, it seemed brighter inside, and when the sun was out and sat just right in the winter sky, the place was like sitting inside a prism. Sam, the cook, complained that it was too bright and put his food on too much of a display. More like putting his bloodshot eyes on display. The man never encouraged a friendship with sobriety. But I will say, even though plating fancy was not his style, he did put a twisted orange slice on every plate. It was Sam fancy.

"At the time Mr. Chase walked in, it was just after breakfast. The place would have been mostly empty, quieter then, and that place could get loud, people talking without filters, almost like being hushed was outlawed. The folks that worked there were probably the loudest. Made it seem like being in a being family kitchen, in the middle of some chaotic discourse. Sam would be banging dishes, Sid, that’s the kid who did dishes, banging pots and utensils in the back to indicate he was doing something, Rae, with the cigarette rasp of a voice taking orders at the counter, and Raxcine, even though she was born in Barclay, she came back toting a New York attitude to the place now that she owned it. It was as noisy as Penn Station and it seemed to suit her.

"To Mr. Chase’s fore, once his eyes started seeing again, he would have noticed a line of mushroom-topped stools, half of which were occupied. Men and kids liked the counter more than the ladies. The kids got free ice cream if they could guess what number Sam was thinking. The men might’ve favored the counter because Barclay’s dry, and it reminds them of a bar. Dry means no alcohol. The men he’d seen would have been the old-timers Jonah, Micah, and Eb. Fixtures. There every day, right after the breakfast rush. They’d be hunched over morning coffee and gossip, each occupying the allotted space given each customer, invisible lines neatly apportioned by condiment and napkin sets, and on that morning, a small yellow daffodil in a vase, a plastic version of the blossom in the winter.

Mr. Chase called it tradecraft. The stuff he noticed. He would have turned left, always left, because it was the counterintuitive direction, disruptive and unnatural in modern society. Mr. Chase then slipped into a booth nearest three men at the counter. 

"Now, Mr. Chase told me he was a poet when we first met and sought to transact. It was a believable falsehood; he certainly had the nature to be poetic, I suppose. But he wasn’t—a poet. Rae would have spotted him the moment he walked in. She would have employed her waitressing tradecraft, leaving just enough time to make it seem as if she had eventually arrived his tableside, not too fast or too chipper, country casual, something just shy of hillbilly insouciance. Not an easy feat in an almost empty restaurant. She would have been aproned, in blue jeans, not young but not yet as old as the other woman talking to the three counter customers.

"You could see the hardscrabbleness in Rae, maybe because you could see it day-to-day around town without much effort. You know how some days you’re asking, what else could go wrong? Well, those some days seem like they happen every day for some people. It’s kind of sad, actually. For some folks, it is never easy, never making the right decision, and always being frustrated. I was more than fortunate to have survived the few relatable interactions with the downside of life I did have. Better luck found me, and that encounter left me on the plus side of life’s balance sheet. But that wasn’t how it was with everyone in Barclay.

"Rae wore her hair straight, kind of listlessly, and invariably colored a shade of red that didn’t seem natural. But the way it framed the pain in her face, Ilse, the complicated set of her jaw, well, it looked good on her. Really. And throw a million-dollar smile into the mix, and Rae was a wonderment of visual confusion. She once said, in the most self-deprecating way, that she never needed a parent because she was just ugly enough that life would teach her all she’d ever need to know. That wasn’t completely true. She wasn’t a beauty, but she was all right.

"After enough time had passed, she would arrive with a coffee pot and cup, the weighty Buffalo pottery kind. Rae would have suggested, and he would have orderedthe coconut pancakes with a side of ham.If you ever go, Ilse, and they still have them on the menu, they are worth it.

"Then Mr. Chase hears the name Griffin. As bad luck might suggest, Rae arrives on the heels of that name, sliding six saucer-shaped pancakes, the ham, cut thick and massive, coming on its own on another equally sized plate, and places a carousel of syrups in front of him. I can almost see her step back, satisfied that everything is where it should be. The Rae I remember always took such great pride in what she did. Now, Mr. Chase has a table full of food when he hears the name Griffin again, floating within earshot.

"Griffin was not whom Mr. Eden Chase had been tasked to find. Not by a long shot. However, he was a man of a similar profession with the same commission. Think of Griffin as a redundancy of sorts. He’d only been at for twenty years.

"I know; I had a problem with the math too. Remember me saying forty years? If a person spent forty years working in a factory, or an office, or as a miner, or anything for that matter, that’s one thing. No one would bat an eye at that story. But forty years chasing a thief! It redefines the notion of a cold case and maybe defines absurd in a whole new way.

Worse, Griffin wasn’t exactly covert in applying his methodology. Eventually, just about everybody in Barclay knew of Griffin. But only a handful of people knew about him. Even fewer knew him intimately. For the record, I refused to be one of them. Even before I made the Chase-Griffin connection, the man gave me the creeps. And his sudden appearance gave me more than a reason to be concerned. And here’s a little irony: Mr. Chase knew about Griffin, but Griffin didn’t know about Mr. Chase, or that he even still existed.

***

"I should tell you about Barclay circa 1974. That was the pivot year. That was the year I found out this little town was bit on the despondent side, not unlike many small towns and elbows along these mountain roads. I say that now because I had never, up until that moment, ever ventured far from there. As it turns, it was the X on a treasure map almost no one knew existed. Our Mr. Chase did. Or, came to know. Quite, it seems by happenstance and skill.

"Barclay had intentions. That much I know. My grandparents did their best, I am told, to drag us out of, a similar fate. Everywhere on the Knob, my world, the world I was born into, everything seemed to have rusted. Partially hidden in overgrown hollows and front yards were all those once made promises, the supposed association with the land, the people, the once-believed suggestion that this would be an excellent place to live, outposts servicing workers mostly, pillarized by religion and prodded into a bourgeoise belief of family, and if that’s the definition of forgotten America, Barclay was an aberration at that point. It was unlike those other towns. I know this because we worked hard at making it otherwise. Van and me. Don’t ask why or what propelled us to do what we did. The carrying-on what the first Blooms had done. Neglect is merely a distraction, Van would say. We knew all too well that towns arise by necessity and fall by the failure to reach some lofty visualization. I suspect that this might be the way it si for most places. But here, and nearby, it’s always been that way. Out of seeming nowhere, enclaves wed themselves to some industry that needed workers, and it works until the tether of that agreement unravels, and both the industry and the town that supported it dies. Is it at the hand of others’ misfortunes? Should they have been more? Of course. Barclay though might credit its survival to the simple fact that it did not hitch its star to any company. That probably saved us all. 

"Tallow Road, the main thoroughfare through Barclay, swung two lanes gently up one side of Hog Mountain – that’s the state map name for it; locals call it Spruce Knob, or just the Knob. A traveler on that road would circle gently through the low mountain stands of Ohio Buckeye, Horse Chestnut, and Mockernut Hickory. As the blacktop passed through town, the road would level off, running east-west. It would take only several minutes of brisk walking before a wanderer would find themselves drifting down-slope on the other side of town, where the traveler would encounter Dwarf Hackberry and Yellowwood trees along with Bear Oak and Table Mountain Pine. Like two different worlds. We gained a small reputation once as a woodcarver’s mecca and even held a Whittler’s fair one year, but that’s another story. Coming into town the way Mr. Chase did, on foot, in the spring, could not have been more emotionally ascending. I’ve never tired of the subtle fecundity of the springtime undergrowth; damp moss from an early morning rain offering nourishment to the approaching humidity always gave me a sense of urgency. Enjoy the moment before the ground sweats into the sky, we used to say.

"As the hill crested, a traveler such as Mr. Chase would encounter a quaint carveout of a town. The Hummingbird Café was located at one end of Tallow Road. As he exited the forest, the yellow stripe at the center went from suggestion to imperative as the street leveled off. Fresh paint, road work, and general town maintenance fell to a nice man named Horatio Jackson. The local dogs knew they could hit him up for one of those bone-shaped biscuit treats he carried in his overall pockets. Always funny how the dog got one and

Reviews for The Sparkle of Fish in Sky-Blue Water

[PPetillo · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

You won’t be disappointed with this adorable little tale!