Norah's Ark. Judy Baer
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The root of the matter. Lilly is one of the most competitive people I know. She is unwilling to lose anything she sees as competition. She can give the off-putting vibes but she can’t take them when they’re aimed her way.
“Why don’t you give it a chance, Lilly? Connor doesn’t know you and, frankly, you don’t know him. Allow yourselves a little time.”
Lilly fluttered her long French manicured nails in front of her face.
“Who knows?” I offered. “Maybe you won’t like him as well as you think you will—and he’ll like you even better.”
I studied her and was surprised to see a glaze of tears in her eyes.
“Sometimes I get sick of being a strong, independent woman, Norah. I want to be swept off my feet and carried into the sunset. Do you understand that at all?”
Do I? Me, who’s waiting for Cupid’s arrow and shimmery shivers and wedding bells? “Of course I do, Lilly. Just don’t panic. Desperation is not a scent you want to give off, you know.”
“It’s more clear-cut for you,” she said accusingly, wiping her eye with a stiff paper napkin. “You think God’s going to clunk you on the head with a guy some day. I don’t think I want to wait for that.”
It would certainly expedite matters if God just dropped my ideal husband into my lap. No wondering if or when Mr. Right comes along. No insecurity about myself because I’d know that this man is meant for me. No wearing makeup every day of the week just to make sure I don’t scare Mr. Right off with pale cheeks and no mascara on my lashes. The idea had merit, although I was wise enough to keep that idea to myself.
Still, Lilly was feeling better when she left sometime later. Pizza therapy is one of my favorite medical prescriptions.
On my way to the post office on Tuesday morning, my step slowed as I neared the new toy store. The door was open yet I was reluctant to stop in, considering the odd reception I’d had last time I was there. But fools venture where angels dare not tread, so I mounted the steps and went inside.
What a transformation! What had been dingy and drab had been changed into a scene from one of my favorite books as a child, The Secret Garden. The walls were freshly papered in muted pink Victorian cabbage roses that gave off an aura of a musty but elegant past. There were dolls everywhere—Madame Alexander dolls, Barbie dolls, fat baby dolls and collectibles with delicate porcelain faces and bemused expressions. A huge round crib hung with thick mauve ribbon and delicate rosebuds was piled high with teddy bears. Another crib was full of jungle creatures—fat, jolly monkeys, floppy-necked giraffes, lions with wild manes. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the jungle display that I realized the room had been divided in half. Behind the area filled with dolls was the “techno” room. PlayStation consoles, video games, cars on racetracks and everything that either plugged in, used batteries or made loud obnoxious noises was displayed here.
“What do you think?”
I was so engrossed that I gave a startled squeak and spun around to find Julie Morris standing behind me. Though she looked a little strained, today she had a smile on her face.
“You’re a phenomenon! I had no idea this place could look so good.” Meeting Julie and her husband the other day, I hadn’t believed there was a playful bone in either of their bodies. Heartened, I pressed on through the fantasyland they’d created.
“Would you like to see my favorite part?” Julie asked shyly.
I wonder how a person gets so timid—especially one who intends to be a business owner dealing with the public all day long.
Julie led me to a table filled with baskets. In the baskets were tiny toys and packets of candy. Diminutive dolls, race cars so small their wheels would make M&M’s look large, little coloring books and paper dolls. My particular favorite, for a dime apiece, was fake fingernails on green plastic fingertips with hair sprouting from the first knuckle.
“I had these when I was a kid! I played an ogre in a school play in third grade.” I picked one up, popped it on my index finger and quoted, “‘I’m sure you’ll be delicious, little girl, I’ll save you for dessert.’” Why is it, I wonder, that we allow kids to read fairy tales as violent as the evening news?
Without thinking, I picked up a Chinese finger puzzle. It was the kind I could never get my fingers out of when I was a child, poked a finger in each end and recalled the panicky feeling that I’d have to spend the rest of my life with my index fingers connected by a little straw tube.
“Uh-oh, I think I’ll be buying this. Do you have scissors?”
Julie laughed, pressed my index fingers toward each other and showed me the trick to getting my fingers free. “That’s why I love this table. It has things on it cheap enough for children to buy on their own, and gadgets old enough to appeal to their parents.”
Covertly I studied her. Julie is a pretty woman, if one can see through the premature frown lines and deeply carved grooves around her mouth. She doesn’t seem a likely candidate to own a toy store but she certainly knows how to devise a charming one.
“What made you come to Shoreside and start an old-fashioned toy store?”
I felt, rather than heard her hesitate.
“We needed a change of scenery and I wanted to do something fun.”
“Well, you got that part right, I…”
The back door opened and closed again with a slam and a teenage boy bolted into the room. He wore baggy jeans with more pockets than there were in my entire closet, a black T-shirt with some bizarre figure on the front with its mouth open to reveal fanged teeth and a hairdo that spiked into needle-sharp tips embellished in orange. All he needed were the fake monster fingertips to complete his ensemble. He opened his mouth to say something to Julie, saw me and snapped it closed again. Without a word he clomped on heavy black boots to the back and up a set of stairs to the second floor. Had I not known it was a fifteen-year-old boy on those stairs, I would have thought it was a team of Clydesdales making their way up the flight of steps.
“Your son?” I ventured. The stricken look on Julie’s face told me it could be none other.
“You’ll have to excuse Bryce. He can be…difficult.”
Bryce looked as if he were born to be “difficult.” The creases and worry lines on her face began to make sense. I’d have them, too, if I had to live with an attitude like the one I’d seen in the few seconds Bryce Morris and I had been in the same room together.
I didn’t speak, sensing that there was more that Julie wanted to say.
“We’re hoping that this move to Shoreside will be good for our family. A fresh start.”
She saw the question on my face.
“We…Bryce…needed to start over…another school district.” She looked pained. “He got in with a bad crowd. We felt it would be a good idea to move someplace farther out of the city. You understand, of course, that we don’t want this to be public knowledge. He’s a good boy, really. A kind heart.”
I squeezed Julie’s hand and silently determined to put the Morrises at the top of my prayer list.
Connor was sitting at a small table in front of the Java Jockey, sipping espresso from a small china cup and staring toward Lake Zachary. When he saw me, he waved me over, jumped to his feet and gestured toward a wrought-iron chair.
I hate the cliché “Curiosity killed the cat.” Violence of any kind toward animals is abhorrent to me. But I figure curiosity isn’t going to get me without a fight, so I pulled up the chair and sat down.
“Funny, but even now I can’t get enough of the lake—or any water for that matter,” he said. “Sitting here, looking across it is still a delight to me.”
“It couldn’t hurt that you have six luxury cruise boats moored