But she wasn’t about to give him a chance. “If I catch that beast in my yard again I’m calling the police, the pound, and anybody else who might be able to keep him under control.” Then she turned on her heels and stomped out onto the sidewalk.
“Oh dear. What are we going to do, Gil? We can’t have the police take away our sweet Mr. Castor.”
Just then sweet Mr. Castor lunged at the front window, leaving drool dripping down the glass.
Papa Gil shook his head. “I don’t know, Joanne.”
Muzzy buried her head in his chest and began to cry.
“It’ll be all right, Muzzy. Maybe you could take him to obedience school.”
“We tried that already,” Papa Gil said. “He did well for a while. He knows how to sit and give you his paw, but then he takes off running the moment he gets loose and tears up anything he can get his mouth around.”
I remembered when Butters had run off a few times, her ears flapping and her little meatball legs carrying her faster than I ever thought possible. We had to pick her up at the pound twice. It was only when I started—
I thought about how I’d started taking her on two long walks a day after that. She came home and conked out for the rest of the night, barely opening up an eyelid she was so tired. “Maybe all he needs is more exercise?”
Muzzy lifted her head, sniffed, and tried to smile. “We take him on walks, really we do. But Gil and I can’t go as far or as fast anymore.”
“You could take him with you when you mow the library lawn, Papa Gil,” I said. “It’s fenced in. That’ll get him some exercise. Or ride your bike and hold on to his leash so he has to jog next to you. I’ve seen people do that.”
Papa Gil looked down at Muzzy, who snuffled again and swiped at a tear. “You think that could work?”
“It’s worth a try. I’ve heard that’s one of the main reasons why dogs misbehave. They just need more exercise.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “And I know how to teach him to leave something alone. I saw it on a show. It worked for Butters.”
“We’ll try just about anything.”
For the next half hour, I ran my own obedience school in between a rack of ugly Christmas sweaters and stacks of old, scuffed-up shoes. Mr. Castor wasn’t fully trained by the end, but he looked like he was getting the hang of it.
Muzzy and Papa Gil were thrilled.
“Oh, Sunday, thank you!” Muzzy said, kissing me on the cheek. “I’m just sure this’ll work. I know it will.”
“You’re an angel, Sunday Fowler,” Papa Gil said, and held out the basket of candy.
“No thanks. I should probably get going.” I started toward the door.
“But wait,” Papa Gil called. “Did you come in here looking for something?”
The tape recorder. I’d almost forgotten. I did an about-face. “Yes, actually. I’m looking for an old tape recorder. Do you have one?”
Muzzy went to a shelf against the back wall lined with video tapes, old cameras, phones, and cassettes identical to the two in my backpack. She scanned the shelves, then pulled a big silver box down. “Will this work?”
I looked at the big buttons and the large speakers. “It’s perfect. I’ve never actually used one, though. Does the tape go in here?”
Muzzy took the tape recorder from my hands. “Here, let me show you.” She taught me how to put the tape inside, then how to rewind, fast-forward, and stop.
“Thanks,” I said. “It seems easy enough.”
“Compared to the contraptions you young people use nowadays, I’d say it’s about as simple as you could get.”
I flipped over the recorder and noticed the white sticker on the bottom. Seven dollars. “Um … I don’t really—”
“That’s on us,” Papa Gil said. He held up his hand as I started to protest. “I won’t take no for an answer. You’ve saved us from having to bail our dog out of the pound. The least we can do is give you that old tape recorder.”
I hugged both of them. “Thank you so much,” I said.
They walked me to the door, Mr. Castor drooling on my heels. “Our pleasure, Sunday.”
I WAS convinced that the letters and the manuscript were Lee Wren’s, but I knew that it probably took a lot more than a few coincidences to prove it to reporters.
I didn’t have anything else.
“I bet there’s something on the tapes,” Jude said when we met up at the gate leading to Ben’s house.”
I sighed. “Yeah, maybe.”
We found another tray of flowers waiting for us by the porch steps along with Ben Folger, who was sitting out on his porch swing. He stood up and grabbed his gardening hat, meeting us on the walkway.
“Hi.”
“How was your trip with Wally?”
“It was so cool. His friend has this huge table where he draws the plans. That’s architect lingo for a drawing of a house. I got to see some of the plans and then a picture of what it looked like once the house was built. Then he let me draw something on my own with his rulers and protractors and tools, and he said that he thought I had natural talent and to call him when I got older.”
“Cool,” I said. “And you had fun with Wally?”
Jude nodded. “Yeah, he was awesome. He took me out to a burger place afterward, and they weren’t organic burgers, either. We’re going to play some more catch so that we’re ready for the fair tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a great time,” Ben said. He turned his gaze toward me. “And how is the library coming along? The reopening party is in a few days, right?”
“Yeah, on Saturday,” I said. “It looks really good.”
Ben Folger nodded. “I spoke to your dad this morning about coming over once the library’s finished to take a look at the work I’d like done. And at the grocery store yesterday, I mentioned your dad’s name to Mr. Simmons, who is looking to add a deck onto his house.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure if anything’ll come of it. You might not even be able to stay in Alma longer, but maybe.”
“Thanks, Ben.”
He nodded, his cheeks flushing red.
A half hour later we stopped and went inside to make lemonade and bring out a plate of brownies. Then we took our glasses onto the porch.
After a few quiet moments, Ben got up and went inside. He returned, holding a deck of cards. “Why don’t we quit for today and play some cards?”
Jude shrugged, and we each pulled up one of the porch chairs to the small table.
“Sure,” Jude said. “I don’t know too many games, though.”
I held out my hands for the deck. On a trip to visit my cousins, I had spent the entire car ride perfecting my ability to shuffle.
“Crazy eights?”
Both Ben and Jude stared at me with open mouths.
“When did you learn how to shuffle like that?” Jude asked. He took the remainder of the deck and attempted to splay the cards together and then form a fluttering bridge. I laughed when they thunked lifelessly in his hand.
“Last summer,” I said. “So do you want to play?”
Ben Folger picked up his eight cards. “I’m ready.”
We played three rounds of crazy eights (I won two and Jude won the other), and then Ben and I taught Jude how to play spades (Ben won all four games).
I took the deck and started shuffling again.
“Do you have a chessboard?” Jude asked.
Ben’s face lit up. “Sure do. I haven’t played chess in years.”
He went to get up, but I beat him to it, the empty brownie plate in my hand. “I can get it. Just tell me where it is.”
Ben sank back into the chair. “I think it’s in the right-hand drawer of the coffee table.”
Chess was not one of my favorite games. It moved along slower than dripping honey, and I didn’t have the patience for it. But maybe this was my chance to talk to Ben about Lee Wren.
I walked into the kitchen, set the plate in the sink, then pulled the wooden chess box o
ut of the drawer and carried it out to the porch.
Ben and Jude were talking about their favorite foods, so I lifted the lid and pulled out the small pouch filled with pieces, then the board. A photograph fluttered out and landed on the ground.
I picked it up.
Immediately I recognized the smiling face of Lee Wren beneath a wide-brimmed gardening hat. She wore green gloves dusted with dirt and held the delicate roots of a flower in her hands—a daisy.
My heart thumped. I pressed the photo to my chest.
“All right,” Ben said, emptying the contents of the pouch onto the board. He took a white pawn and set it in place. “You want to be black?”
My mouth went dry. “This is a picture of Lee Wren, isn’t it?”
His eyes drank in the picture. He took it from my hands. “Yes.” Ben set the picture down, glanced at it again, then continued setting up his pieces. “She was always beautiful.”
“You knew Lee Wren really well, didn’t you?” I whispered.
He dropped one of his pawns on the chessboard and reached again for the picture. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this.”
Afraid that if I made any noise everything would disappear, I held my breath.
“Lee was my best friend,” he said. He smiled up at us. “And she was my wife.”
I looked wide-eyed over at Jude, whose own eyes were the size of two York Peppermint Patties. Yes, I’d heard Ben right.
All the pieces started to fit together. The letters, the manuscript, maybe even the tapes.
“It sounds so strange to say that out loud, especially because we took such pains to keep it secret. But I know I can trust you two.”
“Why was it a secret?” The question came out before I could stop myself.
“When her book was finally published it was an instant success. She found the publicity unbearable. We had been friends since we were little and I loved her from the moment I laid eyes on her. But after high school, I left, traveled around the world. She stayed here for a bit and then eventually moved up to New York City. We kept in touch and occasionally she would come for a visit. After her book won the award, she became even more private than me, so reporters knew they’d only be asking in vain. But she never wanted to get married.” He smiled. “I guess I wore her out in the end. I moved up to New York, to show her that I’d do anything for her. We got married with just the two of us and the justice of the peace. We didn’t tell anyone, though I know people suspected. When she got sick …” He stopped and coughed into his hand. “When she got sick … she wanted to come back here, to Alma. But obviously with her health she didn’t want anyone to know she was back. ‘There’ll be visitors night and day, and our house will be filled with banana bread,’ she said. ‘And you know how much I hate banana bread.’ So I brought her back here, and because everyone knew me as the nonsocial type, no one even bothered the doorstep. We lived here for a little while before she died.” He swiped at his eyes and stared at his pieces on the board.
It was hard to believe what I was hearing.
“I think about her every moment of every day. But it’s been a long time since I’ve talked about her.” He cleared his throat. “I still miss her. She was almost like a fairy—a mythical little thing that you were afraid would vanish if you held on too tight. But she had a good right hook.” He rubbed his jaw as if he had just been punched.
“She punched you?”
He smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes. Hated my guts when we first met. She didn’t like being wrong. I didn’t care too much, not when it came to her, so most times I’d let her be right. But when she got sick it was a different story. ‘You’ll live a lot longer,’ I told her. She shook her head and smiled sadly. When she passed away a few weeks later, I was so mad at her for being right. Hated that she was right.” His voice had slipped to a barely-there whisper.
“And now you put a daisy by her grave?” Jude asked.
Ben Folger slipped the picture inside his shirt pocket and patted it gently. “Every morning.” He looked up at both of us. “Please, don’t speak a word of this to anyone. I would rather it remain just like it always has … unknown.”
“Why don’t you want anyone to know? I mean, you were married to a famous author!”
“I was married to a woman named Lee, and our love was big and real and that’s all that matters. People knowing about it doesn’t change a thing.”
I looked into his face but didn’t answer. Thankfully, the dinner triangle ringing from across the field saved me. I started down the steps, leaving Jude still sitting in front of the chessboard.
My chance had finally come.
CJ called to me as I walked up the driveway. “You can try out your grave after dinner, Sunday. I worked on it all afternoon and I think it’s deep enough now.”
“Gee, thanks.” I walked up the stairs, stored my backpack in my room, then went to the table. But knowing about Ben and Lee and the letters made it almost impossible to concentrate on anything anyone was saying. I did say yes to something that Dad had asked, and stop to CJ, who was flinging something across the table. But I didn’t know what Dad said or what CJ was flinging.
Oh well.
After I put the dishes away and wiped off the table, I avoided Bo’s calls for me and dashed up to my room. Carefully taking the tape recorder out of my backpack, I slipped one of the tapes inside and pressed PLAY.
“—and I was living with my aunt and uncle at the time.”
I pressed STOP, then I pressed REWIND and listened to the whirring sound as the tape zipped backward.
As I waited, I pulled out the manuscript and flipped to where I had left off the night before:
Waiting to hear from the editor was like torture. Of course, Lilly knew that the editor had authors—real authors—who were all competing for his time, but Lilly still woke each morning hoping to hear from the man. She now found herself lurking in the lobby of her apartment building, checking and rechecking her small mailbox on the off chance that she had missed something.
One evening, after her shift at the diner had ended, Lilly returned to her building and checked her box for the third time that day. Once more there was nothing from the editor. It had been two months since she handed over the brown package to the mail clerk, and every day a different scenario played in her mind.
Someone had found it and stolen it, putting his or her name at the top.
It had gotten lost in the post office and was languishing on a shelf.
The editor had received the package, but was so disgusted having wasted his time reading its contents that he had thrown it into the trash.
Lilly was so busy imagining the death of her manuscript and the pain of rejection that she did not see or hear him at first.
“Lilly?”
She jumped, startled. When she turned, it took her a moment to focus. It was Mark’s tousled hair, Mark’s blue eyes, Mark’s small smile, Mark’s nervous shuffle. Mark, standing in front of her—so far from home.
I jumped as the REWIND button popped up. Mark had gone to the city to visit her! Just like Ben had done with Lee Wren. Setting the manuscript down, I pressed PLAY and held my breath. Maybe this is where I would find the proof I needed. I turned up the volume and listened, straining to hear words over the gentle rustle of papers, the scraping of a chair, the clatter of the tape player being moved. A sigh.
“I can’t remember exactly where I left off the last time. Oh well. The manuscript is coming along. It’s completely terrible, but I hope I’ll be able to clean it up enough to give it to Ben. I just want this story to be perfect for him.”
Ben. Ben Folger! The manuscript!
Get ready, New York Times, Sunday Fowler has a story for you!
“All right,” the voice said. “Well, let’s see. He left after graduation and I didn’t see him for a while after that, though I did get letters from him every now and then.”
As I listened, I realized that the manuscript wasn’t a story at all. At least no
t a made-up one.
It was her life.
I grinned, clutched the manuscript to my chest, and flipped over onto my back, staring at the ceiling. This was even better than I had hoped!
I kissed the first page. Glancing at the clock, I realized that I couldn’t call the newspapers or TV stations until tomorrow. I pulled out the other cassette and slipped it into the player, too excited to wait till I had finished the first. I listened to Lee Wren as she described her time in New York, how Ben came to visit her more and more every year, how she decided to marry him, and how she felt when she knew she was returning to Alma for the last time.
It was somewhere around this point that, exhausted, I drifted off to sleep.
I WAS startled awake by Bo. “Wake up, Sunday,” he said through a yawn. “Come on, wake up.”
I blinked my eyes open, remembering my discovery the night before. “ ’Morning, Bo.” I pushed myself up, only then realizing that I wasn’t in my pajamas or under the covers, and that the lamp beside my bed was still on. I saw the tape recorder, tapes, and the manuscript spread around the bed. “What happened? What did you do, Bo?”
“Nothing. I came up last night and you were already sleeping with all this … stuff everywhere. I tried not to mess it up. I just got underneath the covers. You were snoring awful bad and I hardly had any room at all.”
“Are both the tapes still here, all the pages to the manuscript?” I quickly gathered everything.
“I told you I didn’t do anything,” Bo said. “You made the mess, not me.” He hopped down off the bed and stomped to the door. “You’re grouchy.”
I reached out for him. “No, Bo. I’m … I’m just tired, and well, I’m doing something really important.”
“Important?” he said, walking back over and sitting on my lap. “What is it?”
“I can’t tell you right now, but you’ll find out soon. It’s big, though. Something that’ll finally get me recognized.”
“What’s ‘recognized’?”
“Being noticed.”
“I notice you.”
I kissed him on his cheek, which smelled a little like toothpaste. “I know. Now, let me get dressed. I’ll be down in a minute. We’ll eat breakfast, then go find Jude. Okay?”
A Summer of Sundays Page 18