Hearts Kept Waiting

By Julianne Elliott

Another unsought fantasy flashed through Melissa's mind, an image of Justin seizing her, kissing her as if his life depended on it, fisting her curls with one hand, dragging her shorts down and off with the other-- Stop it right now! she commanded herself.  What on earth has come over you?  So what if he has some sort of animal appeal?  So what if he would probably oblige you and pin you to the wall right here, right now, without further ceremony, if  you showed the slightest interest?  He's married. And you're going back to New York in two days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597050203

Book preview

One

Arrival

On the first and longest leg of her flight that hot October afternoon, Melissa Lagomarsino’s seatmate had been a gawky teenage boy who spoke only to the flight attendant, and then only to ask for more Coke. He had occupied himself by squirming, scratching, and changing CD’s all the way from New York to Sacramento. She knew from experience that it could have been a lot worse.

And then, on the short, cramped hop from Sacramento to Stockton, it was. She found herself trapped between the window and a pretty, swishy-haired girl who only stopped talking when it became necessary to breathe. Melissa nodded gravely through the young woman’s tragic tale of a recently-concluded, adulterous affair, then offered congratulations while the twit raved about her new love—a single man this time, one who was eager to tie the knot.

But when the girl wrestled a three-ring binder out of her carry-on, and opened it to reveal tabbed sections labeled invitations, bridesmaids, tuxedos, church, reception, dress, veil, and entertainment, Melissa turned to the window and fervently hoped the young lady might forget to inhale.

Melissa had been working sixteen-hour days for the past three months helping launch a new section at Alive!—the magazine where she’d worked for ten years—and she was worn out. Her boss Gerard had force-marched her and the rest of his handpicked cadre of photojournalists until the artwork and articles were ready. With the entire crew focused on the goal—and more or less abandoning their personal lives, families, and sleep—they’d finished, hours ahead of deadline.

Toying with plans for a short vacation to some exotic place had kept Melissa sane during the intense period. Then, just as life was returning to normal at work, and she could finally make plans for a real holiday instead of daydreaming, a letter had arrived from an attorney in Stockton, one Wilfred Humbertson. Her beloved great aunt Gladys had suffered a heart attack and died, leaving Melissa a house and fifty acres of walnut trees in tiny Copperville, which lay eleven miles east of Stockton.

The letter from Humbertson had filled her with remorse. She’d neglected her aunt, coming back to visit only once since taking the job at Alive! straight out of college. The magazine’s circulation had grown over the years, as had Melissa’s reputation. She’d put her career first, ahead of everything.

Although she was looking forward to seeing her aunt’s home again, it wasn’t going to be like all her childhood visits. She remembered how Gladys used to hurry down the steps and squash Melissa to her big, bosomy front, laughing, sharing news about all the characters in close-knit Copperville. The thought of letting herself into that empty house made Melissa feel sick with regret that she’d neglected her aunt for so long.

According to Humbertson, a neighbor had been maintaining and harvesting the orchard for the past few years, for a twenty-five percent share of the profits. So all Melissa needed to do was decide if she wanted to continue that arrangement or sell the trees.

Either way, she would definitely hang on to the house and the tiny guest cottage that comprised the heart of the property. These had been built by her great-grandfather, and some day, if she ever got around to finding the right man and having children of her own, she would share the magic and history of the place with them.

THE INSTANT THE PLANE touched down in Stockton, the chatterbox slammed her wedding binder shut. Then with a gushy goodbye, the girl sprang into the aisle, determined to be first off the plane. Melissa watched until the girl had snaked past all the sluggish cowboys and gentleman farmers, then wrestled her laptop and camera bag out from under the seat.

While she waited in the baggage claim area for her luggage to appear, Melissa redid her hair, gathering all the errant brown ringlets back into a fresh bun, then fanned her legs with her gauzy dress. She’d stood beside so many thousands of carousels over the last ten years. At least here the routine monotony was broken by the occasional saddle banging down onto the belt.

Perspiration trickled down the back of her legs. The San Joaquin Valley’s intense summer heat forced its way in through the sliding glass doors every time a traveler entered or exited the terminal.

Glancing around at the crowd, she couldn’t help noticing her former seatmate locked in the arms of a beefy young man who brandished an unlit cigar and kissed the girl long, and hard, and deep. Definitely a way-above-average grapple, Melissa decided as she hefted her bag and the boxes containing her scanner and printer off the belt.

It had been a long time since a man devoured her like that.

Melissa was looking around for a cart rental station, when she noticed a short, balding man in a three-piece suit lumbering and sweating his way across the terminal. She fanned her legs again and wondered why anyone in his right mind would wear more clothing than was absolutely necessary in this sweltering place.

Then it occurred to her that this must be Wilfred Humbertson, Esq., who had promised to meet her plane. Every other man in the lobby either strode purposefully around the place in dusty, well-worn cowboy boots and Levis, or stood fidgeting with his Stetson and dreaming of the beloved soil and crops and animals that needed him back home.

Miss Lagomarsino? the squat gentleman asked, arriving at her side and smiling as he swabbed his forehead and upper lip with a fresh white handkerchief.

Yes. And you must be...

Humbertson, Wilfred Humbertson. He extended his soft, damp, perfumed hand for her to shake, then looked over her luggage.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Humbertson, said Melissa, wiping her palm dry on her skirt. I was just about to get a cart.

I think we can manage, don’t you? He picked up the boxes and waited patiently like a Brooks Brothers Buddha while she shouldered her camera bag, laptop, and suitcase.

As they made their way outside into the broiling summer sun, Humbertson said, I had Gladys’s truck detailed for you. It was filthy. There was dust and dirt everywhere. He shook his head in disgust.

Oh. Thanks, but you really didn’t have to do that. Melissa remembered going with Gladys to take delivery of the truck years ago. Its new-car shine had lasted until they cleared Stockton’s city limits. Then warm red dust from farms and fields had blown all over the factory-fresh paint job and sifted into the interior through the vents. Forever after, the love objects and mementos the old woman kept on the dash were always overlaid with a fine layer of topsoil.

The boys from the carwash were supposed to have delivered it here this morning, Humbertson said, scanning the crowded airport parking lot.

She followed the attorney and his cloud of aftershave across the steaming blacktop. The smells of nearby agriculture filled the broiling air. She almost crashed into Humbertson’s back when he abruptly stopped, gasped, and yelped, Oh, good heavens!

He was staring at a dust-covered pickup parked just ahead. Melissa recognized the truck’s license plate through the reddish grit and said a quick prayer of thanks that the car wash employees’ hard work had been foiled by the elements.

It looks just the way I remembered it! she exclaimed, checking out the truck’s bed. It seemed clean enough for luggage, so she threw in her suitcase then plucked the keys from the attorney’s apoplectic fingers and hopped in.

Humbertson collected himself sufficiently to stow her boxes, then came around and peered into the cab.

Oh, my lord! he groaned. Pardon my language. But it looks as though those imbeciles cleaned nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It’s no big deal. I’ll hose it off when I get to the house, she smiled, enjoying the scent of her aunt’s homemade pomander which dangled from the rear-view mirror.

Oh, but, my dear—

It’s not a problem, Mr. Humbertson. Really. As the attorney undertook to inspect the little truck’s unwashed exterior, Melissa perused the interior, gently fingering a crocheted snowflake hanging beside the pomander. Another of her aunt’s creations. Long ago, Gladys had taught Melissa how to crochet, and knit and embroider and bake as well. But Melissa’s career had diverted her creativity down a different road.

On the dashboard she noticed a large mailing envelope with Justin Noviello written in Gladys’s lavish hand across the front. There was no address, but Melissa remembered that the Noviello family owned the property adjacent to her aunt’s land. The package wasn’t sealed, so Melissa peeked inside and saw something neatly folded, ready for delivery.

She shook the envelope. Out fell a small baby quilt with little blue teddy bears appliquéd in an alternating pattern with yellow ducks. This formed a border, and in the center her aunt had embroidered: Justin James Noviello. Born August 15. Weight 7 lb. 14 oz. God Bless You.

Melissa was admiring the hand stitching when Mr. Humbertson reappeared at her window.

Ah! That must be for Mark’s new baby, he told her, swabbing his face again. He was born a few weeks ago. Your aunt no doubt finished it shortly before she died.

Mark Noviello? The neighbor who’s been maintaining Gladys’s orchard?

Precisely, and I know he’d like to continue doing so, unless of course, you decide to sell.

I see.

He’s waiting to hear from you. Perhaps you could go by with the gift and talk to him.

Good idea, she agreed, carefully refolding the blanket and slipping it into the envelope.

If you don’t mind my saying so, you should speak to him right away because the harvest is about to begin, and once that gets underway, farmers have no time for anything else for weeks.

Thank you. I remember. Having spent her childhood a day’s drive away in Los Angeles, Melissa hadn’t learned much about her aunt’s livelihood, but she did know how insanely busy farmers became once the nuts were ripe. Visiting Copperville during harvest season had always been strictly out of the question.

She put the key in the ignition and revved the engine. Who’s the best realtor in the area?

Ron Amestoy and his son Dick. Their office is right on Main Street.

Melissa shook Humbertson’s hand, thanked him for all his help, promised to be in touch about any and all decisions regarding the property, then drove off to inspect her inheritance.

Two

The Corner Market

After zipping along for twenty minutes at seventy m.p.h. past orchards, fields, and farms, Melissa abruptly arrived in Copperville, all two blocks of it.

She parked in front of the tiny corner market and climbed down from the cab, unsticking her skirt from the backs of her legs and tidying her wild, wind-blown curls. The place hadn’t changed in all the years she’d been coming here. The owner, Corky, was probably still inside, manning the register, selling gumballs to a new generation of little girls. She shouldered her purse and stepped up onto the sidewalk.

Two huge dogs lounged on either side of the store’s entrance. Although both looked heavily sedated, Melissa hesitated, unsure how to proceed, unnerved by their size and the possibility that they might not take kindly to strangers.

Just as she had decided to boldly sashay between them like she owned the place, the door swung open and a tall, dark-haired man emerged. He was talking over his shoulder to someone inside, paying no attention whatsoever to where he was going.

Still focused on the giant dogs, Melissa ignored him until he was one long stride away from where she stood rooted to the concrete. She barely managed a panicked Um before he turned and pulled up short, his grocery bag an inch from her chest. Looking up at him, she saw that he was drop-dead gorgeous, like a Calvin Klein billboard model slumming in jeans and a bright white tee shirt.

Excuse me, he said, stepping back quickly. I should have been watching where I was going. He frowned down at her, his black eyes intent, studying her face as if trying to place her.

Oh. No. It’s my fault, she said, taking a step back herself, feeling suddenly naked. It was those dogs, I was worried that they might—

Lumpy and Peaches? He took his dark eyes off of her long enough to smile at the two languishing creatures. They’re harmless. I’m sorry if they bothered you. He hesitated, cocking his head slightly. Have we met?

No, I don’t think so. No woman in her right mind would ever forget meeting this man, with his Bowflex body and dark, chiseled features. She wiped her sweating hands on her skirt and took a second, longer step away.

At the sound of his voice, the dogs perked up a bit, raising their heavy heads off the sidewalk and slobbering happily. They looked like twins except that one was reddish brown and the other was black, with skin drooping all around their sorrowful faces.

Hmm. You look very familiar. The man frowned then shrugged his broad shoulders and said, Well, my mistake. He slapped his hand on his thigh and called, Peaches! Lumpy! Let’s go. The two dogs bounded to his side, wriggling and drooling like a couple of village idiots.

Melissa took a third step back, away from the man’s Ivory soap smell and the dark chest hair peeking out over the top of his tee shirt. She struggled to regain her composure. Her hands were still sweating, and now they were shaking too.

No problem. She smiled nervously and was about to walk around him and into the store when the enormous black mutt reached out and licked her hand and arm. Before she could react, it reared up and slathered her face with its long, dripping tongue. The man promptly yanked the beast down by the scruff of its neck, but the damage had been done. Melissa stood there, aghast, feeling the wet, disgusting drool drip down her skin.

Damn it, the man fumed. Lumpy! No! He pointed a long arm at a nearby truck; the dog moped away then jumped into the back. Sorry. I probably have a napkin in my truck if you need one.

She glared after the mutt, clenching her trembling fists at her sides. One?

Well, if you’d like, I could go inside and borrow a mop. He grinned, leaning closer to assess the damage. She could tell he’d just shaved, and that if he hadn’t, his cheeks would be shadowed by dark, terribly sexy whiskers.

No. Thank you. She bit off each word. I’ll handle it myself. She yanked a piece of tissue out of her purse and began wiping off her arm. She could feel his black eyes watching her and prayed for composure in the face of his good looks and the slime dripping down her arm.

You know... it’s only dog slobber, he chuckled. It’s not the end of the world.

Melissa glared up at him. Ever heard of a leash? she snapped as the tissue began to shred in her hand.

In Copperville? he scoffed. These are ranch dogs.

Yeah? Well we aren’t on a ranch now, are we?

He gaped at her, laughing out loud now. No, but we’re surrounded by a few hundred of them.

And all those other ranch owners have enough sense to keep their dogs at home, she snapped again. The tissue was rapidly disintegrating as she wiped with increased fury.

Look, are you sure I can’t get you a napkin? Two napkins? Although he’d quit laughing, he was obviously still enjoying this. She could just imagine him telling a bunch of good ol’ boy local yokels all about it in some dank redneck bar, describing her pathetic Kleenex and the look on her face when his dog attacked. Goddamn the man.

Yes. I’m quite sure. Her whole body was shaking by now, and she knew if she said another word she’d regret it, or start to cry, or both. She fixed her eyes on the clean-up job and the bits of tissue clinging to her skin.

Hmm. Well, suit yourself. Turning his attention to the brownish mutt who was still leaning against his leg, the man crouched down to rub the creature’s big, ugly head.

When it occurred to her that he might be using this new vantage point to enjoy her bare legs, Melissa jammed the tissue’s tattered remains into her purse and strode into the market, wiping what was left of the slobber onto her skirt and resisting a sudden urge to look back at him squatting there beside his dog.

Three

Home

Ten miles past the edge of Copperville’s diminutive downtown, about the time she finally managed to stop trembling from an unpleasant mixture of anger and attraction, Melissa spotted the Noviellos’ large white house, situated on a slight hill and surrounded by an eighty-acre sea of walnut trees. The Noviellos had been Gladys’s neighbors for decades. Their home, elegant and old, like an antebellum mansion that had somehow been uprooted from its cotton plantation and plunked down in California’s Central Valley, dominated all the land around it. She’d driven past the place dozens of times with Gladys over the years. Every trip to and from Corky’s market took them by it. Even though Melissa had never actually ventured onto the property, the stately place, with its wrap-around porch, had always held a special place in her heart. It served as a signpost, marking the way to her aunt’s home—her home now—which lay just beyond.

Melissa turned south then cruised by the Noviellos’ drive, which curved away and disappeared. She passed another quarter mile of orderly walnut forest, then saw the familiar gravel road leading back to Gladys’s.

She followed that road slowly through the shade of her aunt’s orchard until she reached the cleared area where a small, butter-yellow house stood. It looked just as she remembered, with its white trim and the two massive Black Walnut trees standing guard in front like sentries, always ready to protect the house from wind and weather.

Which reminded her of Lumpy and Peaches, flopped on either side of Corky’s door. Why had she lost her temper? Why hadn’t she just wiped the drool onto her skirt and laughed the whole episode off? Like the man said, it was only dog slobber.

Hopefully she wouldn’t run into him again during her stay.

She pulled the truck around behind the house, intending to park in the open garage. But that barn-like structure had developed a noticeable list since her last visit. The little guesthouse, which stood a few yards away, was also sagging. Its garden of hollyhocks and morning glory had turned to sticks in the summer sun, and the porch roof drooped sadly over its dutch door. White paint peeled on the shutters, one of which hung slightly askew.

Melissa was sorry to see the state of these outbuildings. Aunt Gladys had never spent much time or money keeping them looking good; the main house had always been her only love, and as long as the other, smaller structures could still keep out the rain the old woman had been satisfied.

But unless Melissa hired some workers to do both structural and cosmetic renovations very soon, both garage and guesthouse might soon collapse.

Resolving to line up some workmen the very next morning, Melissa backed the truck up again and parked alongside the main house. She smiled sadly at the back door and the three concrete steps leading up to it. It was hard to believe Gladys wasn’t about to come bustling down that stoop to mash her in a warm, welcoming hug.

Melissa turned off the engine and finally let herself cry. She’d neglected her aunt for the past ten years, ever since moving to New York to work for Alive! She’d hoped and assumed the old woman was well, but she’d rarely bothered to call and find out. She’d taken Gladys’s health, life, and love for granted, and now her aunt was gone. Nothing was left of the dear old lady except this house and the things it contained, all of which now belonged to Melissa.

After one last look at the dilapidated outbuildings, she dashed away her tears and climbed out of the cab. She grabbed her bag of groceries and headed for the steps where she very nearly tripped over a huge rawhide chew—the largest kind, with fist-sized knots at each end—and two equally huge bowls, both empty.

Things for a dog. And a very big one at that. Mr. Humbertson hadn’t said anything about a dog being left behind when Gladys died, although Melissa knew her aunt almost always kept one around for company. So where might the animal be now? Hopefully it hadn’t just run away, starving and unloved. Someone must have taken it in, a neighbor or friend of her aunt’s. Somebody nearby. Melissa would figure out who tomorrow and see if that kind soul would be willing to keep the creature. Because even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t, there was no way she could take any animal home to her Manhattan apartment.

Melissa mounted the steps and let herself in, then walked through the tiny laundry room with its twin Kenmores, past an even tinier guest bathroom, and into the kitchen. Nothing had changed there. Avocado seeds floated in glass jars in the greenhouse window. Handmade potholders and matching dishtowels in shades of yellow and blue looked cheery and charming in the simple, spotless kitchen. Humbertson must have hired a cleaning lady to tidy up in anticipation of Melissa’s arrival; there wasn’t so much as a coffee mug sitting unwashed in the sink.

She set down her groceries then wandered through the rest of the house, fingering some of the knickknacks and hand-crocheted doilies that adorned every surface, cherishing the memories each brought back to her. There were little porcelain angels Gladys had collected every Christmas for nearly eighty years. There was a miniature brass Space Needle from the World’s Fair years ago; the old woman had told Melissa many stories about the fair and about the view from atop the real Space Needle.

And Melissa recognized a ceramic bowl she’d painted herself in Brownies; Gladys had used it to store bobby pins.

Melissa wondered again how her aunt had kept the little place dusted without going insane.

The spare bedroom, which Gladys had used as an office and sewing room, was even more cluttered than the rest of the place. There were no clear surfaces; bolts of fabric, boxes of embroidery floss, stacks of crafting magazines, and dozens of skeins of brightly colored yarn covered the tops of every stick of furniture. A quilting table, bearing a mostly completed quilt, was set up in the middle of the room.

Blinding herself to the rest of the mess, Melissa reverently approached the table and touched the quilt, trying in vain to remember the name of the pattern with its interlocking calico rings. The small stitches holding the top, batting, and bottom together were so precise they looked machine-done. It would be a shame to leave such a beautiful quilt unfinished. Perhaps she could find some local woman to do the last few inches.

Her aunt had taught her how to quilt long, long ago, but Melissa had never done more than piece together a couple of squares on a lark. She wished now that she’d taken the craft more seriously. It hardly seemed right to hire a stranger to finish the quilt, but she knew she could never do the thing justice.

Melissa pulled a small pad and pencil out of her pocket and made a note to ask in town about somebody who might like to take on the job. She’d be going there tomorrow anyway, to track down some construction workers. Maybe she’d get lucky on both accounts.

In the dining nook, which connected the kitchen and bric-a-brac-strewn living room, Melissa was delighted to see that Gladys had proudly hung a collection of Melissa’s own photographs, each one mounted and framed. She’d sent these to Gladys over the years, choosing the ones with subjects she knew her aunt would especially enjoy, as well as those that had won prestigious awards.

While storing her groceries in the pantry, Melissa noticed a shelf lined with homemade preserves, each lovingly labeled and dated. She had helped her aunt make hundreds of jars of apple and pomegranate jelly just like these over the years and had always been enchanted by both the process and the finished product, although she’d never done any canning on her own. After pushing the jars back as far as they would go, she set her oatmeal carton and cans of Chef Boy-Ardee pasta protectively in front of them.

Once her truck was unloaded, her belly filled with ravioli, and her body showered and scrubbed to remove all traces of dog slobber, Melissa went back into the sewing room and unearthed a small desk. She set up her laptop and peripherals but decided against contacting her boss, Gerard. She didn’t want to think about Alive! or New York. Not tonight.

Instead, she knelt to examine the quilt more closely. Her already considerable admiration for her aunt’s needlework grew as she studied the intricate pattern that held the layers together.

A needle was stuck through the fabric as if Gladys would be back any minute to sew some more. Melissa pulled the needle out and, being very careful to make a tiny stitch, pushed it through the top layer and the batting, then bent to watch it come out the bottom. Pleased that her stitch looked more or less the same as the stitches that preceded it, she relaxed a little, only watching the top, enjoying the repetitive task. She was surprised to find that her sense of touch guided her fairly well. In the morning—when the light was better—if her sewing looked too awful, she could easily remove it. That way whoever she found to finish the project would be able to go back to where Gladys had left off and do the job properly.

She stopped sewing around midnight and parked the needle just as her aunt had left it. Then Melissa tried to sleep but found herself fretting about the various things she needed to do over the next few days. Switching the light back on, she rooted through the pocket of her discarded dress for her note pad and pencil then sat cross-legged on the bed and added dog/accessories and Amestoy Realty below her quilt entry.

She also wrote Mark N. She would introduce herself to her neighbor, deliver the baby quilt, and discuss the custom farming arrangement he and Gladys had set up, all in one fell swoop.

Satisfied with her list, Melissa set the pad on the nightstand, turned off the light, lay back on top of the covers and fell into a deep, contented sleep.

Four

A Formal Introduction

After a quiet oatmeal breakfast with an old Reader’s Digest for company, Melissa took the keys and went outside to inspect the slumping outbuildings.

To her dismay, light streamed onto the garage’s cracked concrete floor through fist-sized holes in the roof, and one wall looked ready to buckle. The guesthouse, with its sagging porch roof, had lost an alarming amount of stucco all around the base of the exterior wall.

Years ago, on visits north from her home in Los Angeles, Melissa and her dolls had claimed this cottage for their own, playing for hours in its miniature kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom—avoiding only the bathroom which had always hosted a variety of delicate, long-legged spiders. She’d let her mother give those dolls away when the time came for college, but now found herself longing to hold and rock one like she used to as a girl.

Although the cottage had once housed some of her ancestors, it had been unoccupied and neglected for as long as she could remember. Gladys had no other relatives, just Melissa and her parents, and they had always slept in the main house when they came to Copperville on holidays.

The little dead hollyhock garden was like all the other flower beds surrounding the buildings on Gladys’s property. Seeds appeared to have been dropped at random into the fertile soil so that, in the spring, mad patches of brilliant orange poppies played host to the odd tulip, and pumpkin vines wound around bird-of-paradise stalks.

Melissa crumbled one of the dry hollyhock blossoms in her hand, then blew the seeds into the wind. She located the key on the ring Humbertson had given her and inserted it into the guesthouse lock. It turned easily enough, but try as she might she couldn’t get the door to open; it was stuck fast, as if the whole structure had sagged around it wedging it shut. She tried ramming it with her shoulder and even kicked it a few times, neither of which had any effect. Forced to give up, for the moment anyway, she looked inside through the filthy windows. Cardboard boxes, no doubt the same ones she’d played among as a girl, were mounded up in all three rooms, draped with cobwebs, and blanketed by soft gray dust. She, and whoever she hired to keep the buildings upright, clearly had their work cut out for them.

Melissa wandered back across the dead grass and gravel expanse, past a tall silk tree that had already dropped a few leaves into the back of the truck. In the front of the house, she was delighted to see her old tire swing still hanging from one of the sentinel Black Walnuts. She gave it a friendly push with her foot as she passed by.

Satisfied with her self-tour, Melissa loaded the dog chew and bowls into the back of the truck and set her camera and notepad on the passenger seat with the baby blanket. She’d added a few items to her list—hose off the truck, sort through Gladys’s things, find out which of Copperville’s handful of churches would accept rummage, and hire someone to repair the garage and guesthouse—but her first stop would be the Noviello house on the adjacent property.

As she wound along their unpaved entry road, a cloud of dust rose in her wake and followed her, then settled over every inch of the truck the minute she parked.

Once the engine was off, the peaceful droning of a tractor could be heard somewhere in the distance. In contrast, just a few yards away behind a nearby shed, muffled yelps of pain and pummeling thuds rang out.

Jesus. All she wanted to do was introduce herself, drop off the blanket, and discuss a little business with her neighbors—not get involved in a brawl. She was considering the proper protocol for the situation when suddenly a small, dark-haired boy dashed around the corner. Hot on his heels was another boy, also dark, slightly smaller, hurling fistfuls of horse manure as he ran. The first child was laughing until one of the clumps hit him in the back of the head. A split second after impact, he picked up his own handful of the stuff and rounded on the smaller boy who had stopped in his tracks and turned to run back into the shelter of the shed.

The little one noticed her first. He froze and pointed. The big one stopped too, then grinned shyly as he attempted to brush the manure out of his hair.

Hi. Who are you? he asked.

I’m Melissa Lagomarsino. My aunt Gladys lives—used to live—in the little yellow house next door.

Oh! Aunt Gladys? the small one chirped. She made the best cookies. We sure do miss her. Do you make cookies too?

Well, I—

Shut up. Don’t be asking her for cookies, interrupted the older boy. You only just barely met her. He turned to Melissa and said, in what she assumed to be his most grown-up tone, What can we do for you, ma’am?

I found something in my aunt’s truck yesterday that belongs to someone in your family, and I’m here to deliver it.

Who’s it for? asked the little one, advancing on her while wiping manure onto his tee shirt. "What’d