A Summer of Sundays (22 page)

But I couldn’t let myself be forgotten again.

A screech came from outside and I glanced out. Jude was swinging Henry in the hammock while CJ stood over a big hole he’d dug. It was only one of a dozen others. Mom and Dad were going to love that.

My gaze rested on Ben Folger’s house. Ben knew more about Lee Wren than he was letting on. I just needed to find a way to get him to spill his information.

I was almost positive that I had her letters.

That meant I was one step closer to the front page of the newspaper. One step closer to making my mark. One step closer to never being invisible again.

Downstairs, I made toast, set the pieces on a paper towel, and walked outside.

“Sunday!” Bo squealed, dashing over to me. “You slept forever and ever this morning.” He collided with my toast, shoving the buttery pieces onto my reading-award T-shirt.

“Bo!” I yelled. Peeling him off me, I let the toast fall to the ground. “Look what you did! My shirt is probably ruined.”

“I’m sorry, Sunday,” he said.

Why couldn’t he be more careful? “This was my favorite shirt.”

Bo stepped back. “But you used to like it when I hugged you.”

“Bo—”

The screen door opened and Mom stepped outside. “What’s going on?”

I held out my shirt so she could see the greasy streaks. “Bo just completely ruined it.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Now, now, it’s probably not ruined, Sunday. Go upstairs and change. I’ll take care of your shirt.”

I scowled once more at Bo and then dashed back up to my room and tugged a different T-shirt over my head—one that I didn’t really like—and slumped back outside.

I scanned the scene for Bo and found him, shovel in hand, helping CJ with one of the holes. Feeling guilty, I walked over to him. “Hey, Bo. Sorry for getting mad. But you need to be more careful next time.”

He shrugged but didn’t look at me. “Okay.”

“Hi, Sunday.” Jude pushed the hammock forward.

“Hey.” I kept my eyes on Bo, who was attempting to stick his shovel in the ground. It barely sliced into the dirt. “Here, Bo. I’ll help.” I took the shovel and drove it deep into the dirt with my foot, then lifted up a thick clod and flung it off to the side.

“SUNDAY FOWLER!” Mom yelled from the porch. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I was—” I started.

“You know better. Now, fill that back in right now.”

“But—”

“Now!”

What was the use in even trying to explain myself? I sighed, tossed the dirt clod back in the small hole, and patted it down with the back of the shovel. Of course, she didn’t see the dozens of holes that CJ had already dug.

“Thanks, Sunday,” Bo said, flashing me his usual grin.

“Glad I could help.” I handed the shovel back to him and walked over to Jude. The day wasn’t starting off very well, and I just wanted to get going.

“So guess what I’m going to do this afternoon?” Jude said, heaving the hammock forward as Henry squealed.

“What?”

“Wally is going to take me into the city to meet one of his friends, who’s an architect.”

“Really?”

I could tell from the huge grin on Jude’s face that he was more than just a little excited. “He’d mentioned it to me before, but I just thought,
Yeah, right
. Then this morning at breakfast he called his friend and now we’re going to his office sometime after lunch. Cool, huh?”

I smiled. “Yeah, that is really cool. So before we go over to Ben’s, do you think we could stop by your house and look up something on your computer?”

“Sure.” Jude slowed down the hammock and let Henry jump off. Henry gave Jude a quick hug and then followed after CJ, who was most likely going to the backyard to dig holes where he wouldn’t be seen.

I hoped he got caught.

Jude sat down at his computer and clicked on the Internet. “Are we looking up something on Lee Wren?”

“Yeah.”

His fingers flew across the keyboard and he clicked on one of the sites that had appeared.

“ ‘Author Lee Wren (1944–1995) was born in Alma, Pennsylvania, the only child of Elizabeth and Edward Wren,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Her first and only published work,
The Life and Death of Birds
, won the National Book Prize in 1969, among numerous other awards. The book was named a modern-day classic by the National Library Guild. Despite the great fame and success of her book, Lee Wren remained very private, rarely making appearances and declining interviews. Though it was said that she continued to write, another novel has never been found, much to the regret of her fans. She died in 1995 at the age of fifty-one and was buried in Alma.’ ”

Jude stopped reading and turned to me. “It doesn’t say anything about letters.”

“Of course it doesn’t. Those were private letters.” I paced the room. “It says that she never published another book. That doesn’t mean that she didn’t write one. Maybe the—”

“You don’t think that the manuscript could be hers, too, do you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, there was the mention of Orion’s Belt in the letters and in the story, and the dancing in the rain, and remember how both of them were locked away in the library together?”

Jude clicked off the Internet and swiveled around to look at me. “I don’t want to be negative or anything, but the author of the manuscript could still be anyone.”

“I know. I know. Still, wouldn’t that be amazing? I’d have her private letters and a secret manuscript.” There would be no chance that anyone would forget me after that. “I think that if we can find out who the Librarian is, that person will be able to tell us for sure about the manuscript.”

“I think you’re right,” Jude said, standing. “Now what?”

“Well, maybe Muzzy and Papa Gil knew Lee Wren a little bit,” I said. “We could go ask them.”

“Good idea. And Papa Gil said yesterday that they just restocked their candy, so that’s a bonus.”

We walked into the thrift store, the gentle clanging bell above the door welcoming us inside.

Muzzy waved from the back, and Mr. Castor barreled toward us, his tail wagging, slobber dripping from his mouth, and tufts of hair flying through the air.

“Down, Mr. Castor,” Muzzy said in a voice that sounded like she was trying to be stern even though it wasn’t really stern at all. Mr. Castor ignored her, grabbing a shoe from off the nearest rack, and dashed to the back of the store. “Mr. Castor! You bring that back.”

Jude and I could hear Mr. Castor’s nails clicking and sliding on the wood floor and see Muzzy’s curly white head barely skimming the top of the racks of clothing.

“I give up.” She sighed, appearing down one of the aisles. “Come on back, you two,” she beckoned, reaching for the bowl piled high with candy. The shoe still hung from Mr. Castor’s mouth. After he was sure Muzzy wasn’t going to chase him again, he settled down on the floor and started gnawing on it. “What can I help you two with?”

“Well,” I said, pulling out a strawberry lollipop. “Jude and I were wondering if you ever knew Lee Wren. You know, the famous author.”

“Oh, Lee, yes. At least, a very little bit. I think Ben Folger knew her fairly well. People said he moved away so that he could be closer to her. But I never believed it.”

Jude and I looked at each other. Ben Folger and Lee
Wren? I had seen the picture of them in the yearbook, but Ben Folger was no Prince Charming.

“She visited town every so often—doing small appearances at the library, things like that. She kept to herself mostly, but was always pleasant when you did see her. Sad when she died. She’s buried here, you know. The town did a big to-do, and there were all sorts of folks that came from all over to attend the service. You know, she had the prettiest little necklace. It was a small heart on a gold chain. I asked her where she got it once, when I met her in the grocery store. She was buying up all the cartons of blueberries, so I knew that her book must be doing well since blueberries are always ridiculously expensive. My sister, she lives in Washington State, she said that blueberries are—” Muzzy stopped and smiled. “Sorry, I get a little carried away sometimes. I asked Lee, ‘Where did you get your necklace?’ And she said, ‘I got it from a friend who went to India.’ It was so pretty.”

India.

The photograph of Ben Folger standing in front of the Taj Mahal snapped inside my head. He’d been to India.

I glanced over at Jude, but he was still too busy pawing through the candy to know what was going on. “Did she say who this friend was?”

Muzzy squinted her eyes, her brows crinkling in
concentration. “No, I don’t think so. But I liked to think it was from a secret love.”

“Anything else? Did she write more?”

Muzzy shook her head. “I wouldn’t know that.” She stopped suddenly like she’d remembered something. “And fresh flowers. She seemed to love fresh flowers.”

“Do you know what kind?”

Muzzy shrugged. “If she’s anything like me, then she probably liked just about any kind of flower.”

I smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Muzzy.”

“Is there anything else you two need?”

I nudged Jude’s arm. “No, that’s all, I think,” he said, deciding on a small Snickers bar. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Just then Mr. Castor bounded forward, the now-torn shoe dangling from his mouth.

“Oh, Mr. Castor!” Muzzy cried, trying to pry the wet leather away from him. “That was very naughty of you. Very, very naughty. What will Gil say?”

“I think he likes to be chased.” I said. “I know my dog does—she thinks it’s a game. So I don’t think you should chase him. And if he does grab something he isn’t supposed to, try a command like ‘leave it’ and offer him a treat, like a small bone, instead. Then he’ll know that if he does drop it, he’ll get a treat. It might take him a little while to learn, but he’ll get it eventually. Butters did.”

Muzzy ruffled Mr. Castor’s furry head. “I’m willing to try anything. Thank you, Sunday.”

I shrugged. “Sure.” After saying good-bye, Jude and I stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“I think we know where to go now,” I said.

“Where?”

“Were you really not paying attention to anything except the candy?”

“Just not as much as you were.”

“We need to go to Ben Folger’s house.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“We need to ask him more about Lee Wren. I think Ben Folger is the key.”

BEN
was sitting out on his porch swing, the metal chain creaking with each backward motion.

“Hello, you two!”

He walked down the porch stairs and pointed to two trays of flowers. “How would you like to help me plant these this morning?”

We both shrugged. “Sure.”

He handed us each a shovel, then showed us how deep to dig before placing a plant in the soil and covering it loosely—but not too loosely.

“Is your mother dating the mechanic Wally Treewell?” Ben asked Jude.

Jude reached for a bright purple flower. “Yeah. They’ve been dating for a while.”

“He’s a good man,” Ben said. “And I can’t say that about many people. That Wally has his head screwed on right, and he’s always done a good job on my car. Fair and honest.”

Jude smiled and shrugged. “He’s taking me to the city after lunch today to visit his friend who’s an architect.”

“Well, that’s nice of him.” He turned to me. “And you’re probably getting ready to go back to Pittsburgh soon, is that right, Sunday?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Have you liked Alma?”

“A lot.”

“Your father’s done a really good job at the library. I was thinking, I have some work around the house that needs doing. Maybe he could take a look?”

“He’d like that a lot, Ben,” I said. “Thanks.”

He nodded, then bent down again. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you and your brothers and sisters.”

“Yeah, most people do.”

“I always wished that I had siblings. I had a friend growing up who had a big family. I used to like all the chaos. But I suppose that might get old after a while.”

“A little.”

“It seems like you all get along well, though.”

Until recently, I’d never really gotten upset with Bo. And just the other night Emma and I had had so much fun together, and we usually fought the most. It was all so confusing. I shrugged. “For the most part, I guess.”