The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (adventure books to read .txt) 📗

hamburger. Stella has some salad and a brown-bread bun. She hates barbequed food. A stout man comes over to their picnic table. He takes off his hat and Stella sees the evening sun shining on his head. It’s the man who almost hit her with his car. The man who knew her name. Stella waits for him to tell her father how she’d ridden her bike straight into the road, how careless she is, that she can’t be trusted. She’ll never be like her mother, or her dead aunt, or her maddeningly perfect new friend, Cynthia.

“I’m Tommy Jessome. Originally from Kennebunkport, Maine, but I’ve lived in New York for years. Love coming to Seabury. People mind their own business. No one even knows my name.”

Tommy’s watery pale blue eyes remind Stella of a polluted sky. He’s thick and dense all over, stocky, reminding Stella of something born out of a life-sized cookie mould, generic and primitive. His clothes look expensive. Another man walks over — thin, a baggy suit hanging on his body, thick hair standing straight up in wiry bristles. He whispers in Tommy’s ear. Tommy slaps him on the back and roars with laughter. “No can do, buddy. Have a hamburger and we’ll talk later.”

That is how Tommy talks: No can do. Yes can do. Will do. Could do. Might do. Would do. How do. But it doesn’t sound natural, more like he’s trying to be country. He sits at their picnic table and eats his hot dog, slathered in ketchup and mustard and relish. He doesn’t get a drop on his smooth yellow shirt or his pressed black pants.

“Don’t you eat hot dogs, Stella? I thought all children loved hot dogs. Get some of the fruit punch. What kind of girl doesn’t love a glass of fruit punch? Cynthia will take care of you. Pity her mother just abandoned her. That Sally. She was calling up Frank in New York in the middle of the day complaining. Frank’s soft-hearted when it comes to family and friends.” Tommy shoves the last piece of meat-stuffed bun in his mouth. He slaps Stella’s dad on his shoulder and walks into the crowd.

It’s very loud, with all the talking, fiddle music, and accordion and guitar. Children scream and laugh, holding blue balloons, Seabury in black letters. Tired young women push strollers and elderly people walk with canes. It’s easy to spot the tourists with their visors and cameras and sensible footwear. Her father has crumbs in his scraggly beard and on his shirt but he doesn’t notice.

A chill creeps under the warm evening air. A foghorn booms out near the river — it startles Stella’s father and he spits out a mouthful of hamburger, smearing mustard on his white shirt. “Dammit,” he says just as Frank calls to them from the picnic table across the path. He’s standing by a group of police officers eating burgers. Crows fly overhead, on their way to roost. Seagulls squall, circling, screaming, hoping for discarded hot dogs and buns in the grass.

Frank is now at their table. It’s too noisy. Overpowering. A sensory overload — the smells and sights and sounds swirling around her. Stella feels trapped in a kaleidoscope. Stella closes her eyes. Frank could talk all night. He and her father discuss Lord Bishop University, real estate in Bigelow Bay, having dinner at the Seabury house on the Mountain.

“Hey.”

Stella opens her eyes. Cynthia sits beside her. They watch the sunset deepen over the river. Cynthia moves closer and speaks quietly by Stella’s ear, her breath soft puffs on Stella’s jaw. “My dad says you came to the library. Sorry I missed you. I’ll come over tomorrow morning and we can go biking. Granny wants to go to the beach. She wants to give you the salt water cure. She thinks it will help you heal from the car accident.”

Stella has no idea what Cynthia is talking about. She craves quiet. A short stick of a young man with a drooping mud-brown mustache appears with a black camera. He says he’s from the local newspaper and asks Frank and Stella’s father to pose for a picture. Then the reporter poses Cynthia and Stella with their arms around each other.

Tommy appears out of nowhere and Stella feels Cynthia stiffen as Tommy flicks his hand at the man with the camera, an insect to be shooed away. Frank walks off with the disgruntled reporter, his arm around his shoulder, as Tommy burps and points his finger at Cynthia. “Your father is proud of you for making old family friends feel so welcome, Cinder.” He winks at Cynthia. Just then someone from the crowd calls: Jessome. Tommy Jessome. “I’m a wanted man, girls,” Tommy says, almost run over by four young boys shooting toy pistols. BangBangBangBang. He thinks this is funny, and makes his hand into a gun. He points it at Cynthia. “Pow-pow, Cinder.” He laughs, then turns and disappears into the crowd.

It’s now well into the evening and the fading sun gilds Cynthia’s dark hair. The twilight gleams in her eyes and, as strange as it is, Stella thinks Cynthia gets taller. A slant of wind comes into the park. Cynthia doesn’t mention another word about the salt water or a cure. Stella isn’t sure she heard correctly. Perhaps it is the tide turning, the wind sweeping in from the ocean — perhaps it is the arrival of the purple hour.

The Girl in the Yellow Dress.

Now

A butterfly flitted by. The grass was dry, a strange deep green and brown. “We’re needing some rain, Stella. Clouds letting loose. But it sure don’t seem they’re coming, not today anyway.”

The sky was a dark blue. The sun was pulled around in the horizon though, a sign that August was soon leaving. They looked to the west and it was then they saw the woman walking across the grass. There was a compact silver car parked on the side of the County Home Road. No one