“Really?” Lillian seemed surprised. She stared at the box a moment before opening it, as if she feared something might jump out, Sara thought.
“It isn’t much,” Sara said suddenly.
Lillian looked up at her. “Then why bother?”
Sara laughed at her. “I thought you might like it. Why don’t you open it and see.”
Lillian sighed and undid the ribbon, then lifted the lid on the box. She took out a white ceramic planter filled with potting soil and stared at it.
“A pot of dirt. You’re right, it isn’t much, is it?”
“It’s an amaryllis, or it will be once you water it for a while. The bulb is planted in there, and there’s a card in there somewhere with instructions on how to grow it.”
“I know how to grow an amaryllis,” Lillian assured her, looking at the planter again with interest. “They are lovely flowers, very dramatic. I haven’t had one for years. My husband would bring me one every year around this time, and it would bloom by Christmas. . . . Did I tell you that?” she asked suspiciously.
“Uh, no. I don’t believe you ever did,” Sara said honestly.
Lillian sat back and sighed, holding the pot on her lap with two hands. “Well, thank you. You need to start them in a dimly lit spot, as I recall.”
The entire house was so dimly lit that that shouldn’t be a problem, Sara thought. “How about that little table near the bookcase?” Sara suggested.
“Yes, that will be good to start,” Lillian agreed. She handed Sara the planter. “Put it there for me, please, and I’ll take care of the watering later.”
Sara carried the planter to the designated spot and then returned to the sofa. “Oh, I almost forgot, I have a book for you, too, from the library—the new Margaret Haywood. It just came in.”
Lillian took the book in two hands and blinked in surprise as she gazed down at the cover. “Well, well. If I had known you had this in your bag of tricks, I definitely would have opened the door sooner,” she admitted.
“I’ll remember that next time,” Sara said with a laugh.
“How did you get hold of this? I read it was just published.”
“You have connections at the library now. I started working there on Saturday.”
“Did you really?” Lillian put the book in her lap. She stared at Sara, looking genuinely pleased. “That’s news. It’s about time you quit that dreadful job at the Clam Box. I always thought that was very much below you.”
“Well, thanks, I think,” Sara replied, recognizing Lillian’s backhanded form of praise.
Lillian put on her glasses and examined the book. “Error Messages,” she read the title aloud. She peered over her glasses at Sara. “What do you suppose that means?”
“It’s a computer term. When the program has made a mistake, you get a little screen—”
Lillian held up her hand to signal a stop. “That’s quite enough, thank you. I know nothing about computers and prefer to pass on in ignorance.” She frowned at the book. “Have you read this yet?”
“No, I haven’t, so don’t take too long with it. I can only have it for two weeks.”
“All right. I shall put the book I’m reading aside and get to this one right away,” Lillian said eagerly. “She’s quite a good writer. This won’t take me very long.”
“Good, after I read it, we can talk about it,” Sara said.
“Argue about it, you mean,” Lillian corrected her. She cast Sara a half-scolding look and pursed her lips. “Gets the blood moving, I suppose.”
“Yes, it does,” Sara agreed, smothering a small laugh. Once they got into a debate about a book they had both read, neither could ever concede to the other. Maybe I’m more like Lillian than I want to admit.
“Well, thank you for the book, Sara. I could use the diversion. I haven’t had much company lately,” she complained, with a theatrical sigh.
“Have you tried opening the door when someone knocks on it?” Sara asked bluntly.
Lillian glared at her and gathered her sweater closer.
“No need to be snide, young lady. You don’t know what it’s like to be old and alone. You’ve no idea.”
You think you’ve been deserted by your daughters, but the truth is, you’ve driven them both away, Sara wanted to say. But she caught herself, knowing that would be too much. She had come to make peace today, not alienate her.
“Emily is very busy right now with the election coming up on Tuesday,” she said finally.
“Emily has lost her mind lately, if you ask me.” Lillian nearly spat out the words. “She’s going to lose this election to Charlie Bates, I’m certain of it. I’m not even sure I’m voting for her and I’m her mother. It will be her own fault, too. She won’t be mayor much longer, and she won’t be so infernally busy all the time. Then we’ll see.”
Lillian sounded as if she wanted Emily to lose the election, Sara thought, just to prove a point.
“What will we see?” Sara asked quietly. “Whether or not Emily is mayor again, everyone respects and admires her. I respect and admire her. She’s a very unusual person.”
Lillian fixed her with a cold stare. “I’m glad you’re both so pleased with each other. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to go. Visitors can be tiring when one is accustomed to being alone.”
“Sure, I understand,” Sara said lightly as she got up from the couch. “Let me know when you’re done with the book. I’ll come and pick it up.”
Lillian nodded. She shifted uneasily in her chair, avoiding Sara’s gaze. “All right, I will. Maybe you can have some tea next time.”
“Yes, maybe I will,” Sara replied. “Don’t bother to get up, I can let myself out. Good-bye now.”
“Good-bye, Sara,” Lillian said evenly. “And thank you for the presents.”
Sara smiled. “Okay, see you,” she called back to her grandmother. She let herself out and closed the heavy door behind her. It had been a good idea to visit Lillian on her own, Sara thought. No matter what her grandmother said, Sara believed that deep down inside, Lillian really did like her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ANY NEWS?” BETTY SWOOPED INTO EMILY’S OFFICE, carrying two pizza boxes and a large paper bag.
“Not a word since the last report. The suspense is killing me.” Harriet sat at the meeting table, her head in her hands. Emily could not remember seeing the older woman so dispirited.
Election night was always pure torture, but this one seemed even worse than the one before, Emily thought. Perhaps because the outcome was so uncertain. It was nearly ten at night; the polls had been closed for two hours. Huddled in Emily’s office, her loyal supporters looked wrung out and exhausted.
“This is a squeaker, all right,” Frank agreed. He had been unable to sit still and had just about worn a hole through the rug, pacing back and forth in front of the desk. “I keep feeling like I want a cigarette. Then I remember I quit five years ago,” he offered with a faint laugh.
“Good for you. I’m about to start,” Harriet said with a sigh.
“Here, have some pizza,” Betty offered, flipping open one of the boxes. “I have some paper plates and napkins here, too,” she added, opening the bag.
“That actually smells good.” Frank finally stopped pacing and walked over to the table. “Care for a slice, Emily?”
“Uh . . . no, thanks.” Emily stood up. Even though she hadn’t eaten any dinner tonight, the smell of the pizza was not appetizing. “I think I’ll get some air,” she said, grabbing her coat from the back of her door. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Her stalwart companions cast her looks of concern. For a moment she thought Betty might offer to come with her, but finally her friend just smiled. “Take a break. That’s a good idea. If anything exciting happens, I’ll send Harriet out to find you.”
“Thanks a lot,” Harriet said with a grunt. “Just don’t disappear on us. It won’t be long now,” she warned.
“I know.” Emily nodded and lef
t. That was just what she was afraid of suddenly—that it wouldn’t be very long before she heard she had lost.
She walked quickly down the dark corridor and left the Village Hall. She turned and started walking down Main Street. It had been a long night of waiting. Too long.
Jessica and Sam had stopped by earlier to give her a reassuring hug, and Sara and Luke had come by to cheer her on, which Emily had truly appreciated. Even Reverend Ben had called from the hospital, where he was visiting his daughter. Her mother, of course, had not called all day, but Emily had expected that. There had been other calls and visitors, too, friends from around town and supporters in Village Hall.
Still, the hours had gone so slowly, especially these last two. She had sat in her office, picturing the men and women of the board of elections, tallying up the votes. They would be done soon—and that was worse somehow.
Now that she was nearly at the end, she wished she could stop time. And maybe never know. The last report from the vote counters had said that the race was too close to call, a dead heat. Suddenly her heart was filled with a frigid certainty that she had lost the election.
She put her hand to her temple and shook her head, as if trying to shake the thought loose. “Oh, I hope not,” she murmured out loud.
“Emily, are you all right?”
She looked up and realized she had nearly walked right into Dan Forbes. Talking to herself out loud, no less. He stood staring down at her, his curious, concerned expression shadowed by the streetlight.
“Dan, I’m sorry. I didn’t even see you there,” she said, taking a quick step back.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “I said hello. I guess you didn’t hear me. You have other things on your mind tonight, understandably.”
She nodded, forcing a halfhearted smile. “No word yet. They say it’s neck and neck.”
His sympathetic look was nearly her undoing. “What is that Emily Dickinson poem . . . something about Hope being the thing with feathers—”
“ ‘That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all . . .’ ” Emily quoted from memory.
“I should have known you would be a Dickinson fan,” Dan said.
“Are you kidding? I was a teenage girl with literary leanings, growing up in New England, and I happened to be named Emily. Believe me, it was unavoidable.”
Dan laughed. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take a walk. It will do you good.”
He took her arm and fit it comfortably through his, and Emily had no choice but to fall into step with him. His gesture probably didn’t mean anything, she told herself, just a friend offering support. Still, it felt very nice to walk along with him like this, his strong body leaning protectively toward her, their steps evenly matched. Even nice enough to distract her for a moment from the election returns.
“I was just coming by to see how your group was doing,” Dan told her. “When will you hear, do you know?”
“It won’t be long now,” she said. She’d tried hard to hide the anxious note in her tone, but knew it had sounded all the same.
She noticed they were coming up to the Clam Box and slowed her steps. “I’ll bet Charlie is in there with his whole gang right now.”
“Yes, he is,” Dan reported. “Doing the same thing you are.”
“Well, we have that in common, at least,” she replied. She glanced up at him. “I’ve already faced the fact that I might lose this.” She paused and took a breath. “It won’t be the end of the world.”
“No, not at all,” Dan assured her. He stepped aside and faced her. “Not at all,” he repeated. “This was a tough campaign. You made some hard calls.”
“Yes,” she said. “I don’t regret anything, either. It’s not that. . . . It’s just that I really love this job,” she confessed. “I like being mayor. I think I’m really good at it, too. It will be hard to give that up.”
Dan stared down at her, looking thoughtful, admiring, and guarded, all at once. He took her hands and held them in both of his own. “You are good at it,” he agreed. “Confidentially, I hope you pull it out. But whatever happens—win or lose—I know you’ll accept it gracefully. Because that’s who you are.”
Emily felt warmed by his words and honored by his compliment. “Thanks . . . off the record, of course,” she added with a small smile.
For the briefest moment, as Dan stared down at her, she thought he might lean forward and kiss her. But then he seemed to change his mind and stepped back abruptly, dropping her hands.
“Emily! . . . Emily! Come back . . .”
Emily heard someone down the street shouting her name and turned to see who it was.
Frank Hellinger was half-running, half-walking down the sidewalk toward them, his hands cupped around his mouth, like some reluctant town crier, she thought.
“Returns are in . . . they just called . . . you won!” he shouted. “You won!”
She felt a wave of shock and happiness so strong her knees nearly caved in. “I—I don’t believe it,” she whispered under her breath.
“Emily, you won!” She felt Dan’s hand on her shoulder and turned to face him. “Congratulations!”
She swallowed hard, feeling she might cry.
“Thanks . . . I can’t quite believe it.”
Then they moved toward each other, automatically it seemed. She felt Dan’s strong arms go around her and nearly lift her off her feet, and she felt free for a moment, pressing her face against his shoulder and hugging him back.
Finally they parted and she stared up at him, feeling practically dizzy. “Come and celebrate with us,” she offered.
“Love to, but I have to write the story.” He glanced quickly at his watch. “I’ll call you later for a quote.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said with a smile.
He waved and rushed off in the opposite direction. Emily dug her hands in her pockets and turned toward the Village Hall. She saw that Frank had walked back to the building, where Betty and Harriet waited. They were outside without coats, standing in the clear chilly night, and each one held an “Emily Warwick for Mayor” sign and waved it in the air.
“Yay, Emily! Hurray for Emily!” Their shouts of joy echoed down the empty street, shattering the night’s stillness.
Emily waved to them and quickened her pace, glancing for a moment over her shoulder at the Clam Box, where she was sure a very different scene was unfolding.
As she reached the Village Hall, her supporters ran down the steps and embraced her in a group hug. “We did it! We did it!” Harriet chanted. She broke away from the group and waved her hands wildly in the air.
“Oh, Emily. I’m so happy!” Betty cried. “I knew you’d win.”
“I didn’t,” Harriet admitted. “But you did, my girl, fair and square!” Harriet clapped her hands together gleefully. “Bates will demand a recount, I’m sure. But he won’t get anywhere with that.”
“Won it by a nose,” Frank chimed in. He shook his head and hitched up his pants. “By a nose,” he repeated.
More by the grace of God, Emily added silently as she smiled with relief at her companions.
Thank you, Lord. Thank you for giving me another chance at this. I’ll really do a good job, I promise.
“Gosh, I wish I had a big fat cigar,” Frank said wistfully. He grinned at Emily again and shook his head.
LUCY WATCHED CHARLIE AS HE PACED UP AND DOWN THE DARK LIVING room. She sat with her hands clenched in her lap, not daring to speak or barely breathe, as if waiting for a terrific storm to blow past their little house.
“There’s going to be a recount, I’ll tell you that much,” Charlie insisted harshly.
“Of course, you ought to ask for a recount. It was a close race. There might have been—some mistake,” Lucy said, though she secretly felt sure that there had not been a mistake and that Charlie had indeed lost. Still, if it helped him tonight to hold out some slim hope, then so be it. It seemed the kind, if not the to
tally honest, thing to do.
“You can bet there’s been some mistake. Emily Warwick’s got friends on the board of elections, you know. Good friends, friends who would add a few in her favor, or lose a few of mine.”
Lucy felt herself losing patience. “Oh, come on now, Charlie. It’s the board of elections. They’re not going to do something like that—”
“There you go again!” Charlie said, turning angrily toward her. “How do you know what the board of elections is likely to do, Lucy? How would you know that?”
She swallowed hard, alarmed by his angry expression. “I’m just saying that I think you can trust them.”
He shook his head, his mouth turned up in a bitter smile. “You can never just take my part, can you? You always have to question and argue and go against me.”
Lucy felt her stomach drop, as if she’d been standing in an elevator that had missed a few floors. “That’s not true. That’s not true at all,” she insisted.
“Of course it is, Lucy,” he countered. “Ever since you started talking about college, ever since I starting running in this election. I talked about this for years—how I was going to run for mayor—and you knew how much it meant to me. But you had no interest in my campaign and helping me win this election.”
“How can you say that to me?” Lucy came to her feet, feeling winded, as if she’d run a long race. “I worked night and day on that campaign. I did whatever you asked me to do—running errands for you, sticking flyers in mailboxes, calling people until my finger got sore from punching the numbers. I covered for you in the diner whenever you asked me to—”
“Sure, you did some here and there, but not like a wife who was really going all out to see her husband win. You stood right up in a town meeting and spoke against me. When people see that a candidate’s own wife doesn’t care if he gets elected, well . . . why would they even vote for him?”
“Charlie, please. I know you’re disappointed but—”
“But nothing,” he cut in. “Can’t you even hear yourself talking? Why, just five seconds ago, you were sticking up for Emily Warwick, telling me she and her buddies down in the Village Hall wouldn’t rig an election. Well, I’m saying they would and they did. But you just can’t take my side, can you? You’re so independent now, you can’t stick up for your own husband.”
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