Alma (8 page)

After the lending of the calligraphy book, the pen and ink, Alma had softened toward her employer, but was still a little shaken each time she was summoned to the room with the
fireplace. One afternoon, when the weak winter light washed the sitting room where Alma worked, Miss Olivia told Alma, “When you’re through today, Miss Lily would like to see you, dear.”

Miss Lily was at her usual place, in the chair by the fire, a large book open on her lap, with a lit cigarette in the ivory holder. Alma was conscious of a tingling sensation in her stomach as she thought of the elaborate trick she was playing on her employer. Miss Lily put the cigarette holder in her mouth and closed the book, placing it on the table on top of two others. Alma read the titles on the spines.
Chess Problems from Ancient Persia. Philodor’s Conundrum and Other Chess Challenges
. It was then that Alma noticed the chess set on the desk nearest the fire, elaborately carved pieces at rest on the board, as if waiting for something to happen.

“Hello, Miss Lily,” she said when Miss Olivia closed the door behind her.

“How is your calligraphy coming along?” Miss Lily asked, her throaty voice intimidating Alma as it usually did.

“Fine, I think.”

“Well, is it or isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

“I … I love it!” Alma gushed, in spite of herself. “My mother bought me a pen.”

“I’m a little disappointed that you haven’t shown any of your work to me,” Miss Lily said, her stony voice a bit less stony, Alma thought. Or perhaps it was Miss Lily’s habit of speaking as she exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Oh, um, I could. If you wish.”

“Bring some with you next time you come,” Miss Lily commanded.

“Yes, Miss Lily.”

“In the meantime, you say you like books by this Hawkins person.”

“Yes! She’s my favourite.”

“Well, be that as it may, you may like that book there,” she said, pointing to the bookshelf, “second shelf from the bottom, third section.”

In a moment, Alma found it.
The Secret Orchard
.

“I’ve read it,” Alma said.

“Fourth shelf from the top, fourth section. Clive Loomis.”

“The
Rianna Chronicles
books? I’ve read them all,” Alma said, a little worried she might be disappointing Miss Lily, who was clearly
trying to be kind. “Three times,” she added without knowing why.

“Hmm.” The old woman’s brow creased, but the thin lips seemed to fight off a smile. “
The Elvenland Trilogy?”
she asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Alma said.

“So, finally a book that has escaped your clutches. Geoffrey Reese. Top shelf, sixth column. Take volume one. You’ll have to use the stool.”

As she was directed, Alma stepped up onto the stool and stretched to the top shelf and removed the book.

“If you like the trilogy, he has more,” Miss Lily said, adjusting her shawl. “Next time you come, bring some of your calligraphy.”

“Yes, Miss Lily,” Alma said, opening the door. “Goodbye.”

As the days passed, Alma’s story, which she had decided to call “The Dreamary,” took shape. Sammy borrowed his first dream card from Clio and put it under his pillow and was astounded by what happened. But the narrative, Alma realized, was already far too long.

Alma and Miss Lily talked together every time Alma came to do her copying. They discussed
books and stories and history and myths and fables. Miss Lily gave pointers to Alma to improve her calligraphy, and Alma found that uncial was Miss Lily’s favourite hand also.

“Do you know, Alma,” Miss Lily mused on one of these occasions, “I think that in a former life you must have been a scribe. I can imagine you scraping vellum, mixing inks, shaping quills. You have books in your soul.”

Alma didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t quite as frightened by Miss Lily as she used to be. Still, she decided not to ask what vellum was. She’d look it up when she got home.

Then one day Alma was copying a short note. “Dear Mr. Tyler,” it said. “Many thanks for your kind wishes on my seventieth birthday. It was so kind of you to send me the lovely crystal ashtray.”

Oh, no, Alma thought. I missed her birthday! When her duties were completed, she ran home, and as soon as her mother stepped into the apartment, she bubbled, “I missed Miss Lily’s birthday! It was her seventieth. That’s a special one, isn’t it?”

“For heaven’s sake, Alma, can’t you for once let me get into the room before you bowl me
over with words?” Clara complained, pulling off her waitress apron. She wore a uniform to work now, a green dress with a frilly white apron.

“Can I use some of the money I earn to buy her a present?” Alma went on. “I know her birthday’s gone by, but still, Miss Lily has lent me a lot of books and she—”

“Slow down, girl,” Clara begged. “Of course you can buy her a present. That’s sweet of you.”

“Can I go to the gift shop on Grafton Street? Can I go now?”

“That place charges too much, Alma.”

“Well, could I go and look?”

“Don’t be late for supper.”

Alma spent ages in the gift shop, perusing the crystal, pottery, blankets woven from mohair and wool, bowls fashioned from exotic woods, jewellery and candlesticks of softly glowing pewter. It was the quilts she liked best, hand-stitched and vibrating with colour, but the prices were far, far beyond what she could pay. And then, as she turned to go, she spied a small pillow propped on an antique wooden chair by the door. The pillow, too, was quilted, and the quilter must have lived in Charlotte’s Bight, because the little scenes depicted in the
design made up of small squares were familiar to Alma: the lighthouse on East Point, the shells you could find on Little Harbour Beach on any summer’s day, a dory cresting a wave, gulls and ships and more. And in the background the quilter had stitched the outline of a lady’s slipper. Alma bought it with shaking hands, and raced home.

On Saturday morning, Alma surprised Miss Olivia by asking her, “Before I start work, may I speak to Miss Lily?”

Miss Olivia’s thick eyebrows rose as she touched her beads and eyed the package Alma carried. “I’ll see,” she said, and she went down the hall and tapped lightly on the study door.

A few minutes later, Alma stood in the study, with Miss Olivia behind her, watching as Miss Lily struggled with the pink ribbon around the box. Miss Olivia moved toward the chair.

“Let me help you, Mother.”

“I can manage,” Miss Lily snapped, dropping the ribbon and, using her stiff red fingers like spades, sliding them under the tape holding the sea-blue wrapping paper, creating a ragged tear. Alma waited as Miss Lily then struggled with the box, a scowl on her face, her lips pressed
together in frustration. With a snap, the tape parted and Miss Lily raised the lid.

“I’m sorry it’s late, Miss Lily,” Alma said. “Happy birthday. It’s from my mother and me.”

Sometimes, in the sky over the harbour, Alma would watch as the west wind pushed the heavy grey rain clouds away, allowing a bar of sun to burst through and illuminate the water, turning it instantly from slate grey to a warm, deep blue. That was what happened to Miss Lily’s face when she lifted the quilted pillow from the box. Her scowl fled and her features softened. She said nothing, tracing the delicate stitching of the lady’s slipper with her fingers.

Then she looked at Alma, and Alma realized there were tears slipping from Miss Lily’s eyes, following the deep lines on her face.

“Thank you, Alma,” she said, and her voice caught. She began to sob.

“Let’s leave Miss Lily alone for a moment,” Miss Olivia said, taking Alma’s hand and tugging sharply. Alma followed her out, her mind churning, unsure how she should feel.

“I’m sorry,” she began, “I didn’t—”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” Miss Olivia said, her usual businesslike tone absent. “Miss Lily’s just
a bit overcome. Why don’t you get your work done and you can talk to her before you leave.”

Alma sat at the desk, straight pen in hand, and copied the first letter, her ear cocked for any sound from the study. She worked through the correspondence, writing carefully, setting each letter aside to let the ink dry fully before clipping it to its envelope, shaping her letters while, as usual, her mind wandered. Why had Miss Lily been overcome with tears? she asked herself for the tenth or twelfth time. Didn’t she like the pillow? Maybe it was an unwise choice. Alma felt a hot flush of embarrassment creep up her neck and she glanced up to see if Miss Olivia was by any chance standing in the doorway. What use would a little pillow be to someone like Miss Lily?

Alma hardly noticed the words of the next letter in the file. She had copied the opening salutation and begun the first paragraph before her breath caught in her throat and all thoughts of pillows fled from her mind. She stared at the line she had copied.

“Dear Hattie Scrivener,”

A
lma swallowed deeply, her heart whumping in her chest, her mouth dry and scratchy. She was sure she would be unable to form a word, never mind a sentence. She stood just inside the door of the study. Olivia Chenoweth had closed the door softly and now Alma was alone with Miss Lily.

But it wasn’t the Miss Lily Alma thought she knew—an unknown, scowly lady who lived in an old house by the harbour. Alma was in the same room as her very most favourite author!

That stupid pillow. A mistake. A bad present, too late for the birthday. What would RR Hawkins want with a little pillow made by an unknown quilter in a small, unimportant place like Charlotte’s Bight?

Miss Lily sat with her gnarled hands resting like claws on the same pillow, one curled finger on the lighthouse, another seeming to point to the plovers on a sandy shore.

“Do forgive me, Alma,” she began. “I don’t know what came over me. I was overwhelmed by your kindness.”

Alma opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“It’s a lovely gift,” Miss Lily went on. “I … it’s especially precious to me because I used to quilt myself. I made my own designs and … well, that was some time ago. Now …”

She looked down at her hands, then at Alma’s face, and Alma understood.

“I’m glad you like it, Miss Lily,” she said.

The old strength returned to the woman’s voice. “Why are you fidgeting so, Alma? Are you quite all right? You look pale. I apologize for upsetting you a while ago.”

“I’m … I’m fine,” Alma croaked. “Fine.”

“Well, have you completed your work for this morning?” the writer asked, her tone businesslike once more.

“Yes, Miss Lily.”

“Good. Hand me a cigarette and my holder, if you will, before you go.”

Alma left the house, and as soon as she reached the sidewalk, she tore up the street, her feet squelching through the slush. Should I tell Mom? she asked herself. No, Mom won’t understand. The truth was that Alma wanted to keep the delicious secret to herself, at least for a while, like a piece of sponge toffee melting slowly in her mouth.

As soon as Alma got home, she began another letter to RR Hawkins. This time, she didn’t hold back. She wrote and wrote—about RR Hawkins’s books and how much she loved them, about the questions she had always wanted to ask, but mostly about two things. Why, she asked politely and insistently, did you stop writing stories? Did you run out of ideas? Did you get sick and tired of fame?

The second thing Alma stressed was, I want to be a writer too, and now I’m writing a story for school, but it’s much too long and I’m afraid I won’t get it done in time. Maybe I won’t be able to finish it at all. Do you have any suggestions?

“Dear Hattie Scrivener,” came the reply a few weeks later,

“And one more thing,” Alma added, repeating her second letter somewhat because RR Hawkins hadn’t really said anything about “The Dream-ary,”

On the day she posted her letter, Alma sat in the front parlour of the house on Little Wharf Road, copying. The morning breeze wafted through the window, carrying birdsong like a fragrance from the maples across the street. Miss Olivia had slipped out to do a little shopping, leaving Alma alone with Miss Lily, something she had been doing more and more frequently over the winter and spring. Alma felt a flush of pride when she reminded herself that Olivia Chenoweth was entrusting her mother’s safety to her.

“Alma!” she heard from the back of the house.

Alma jumped to her feet and dashed to the door of the study. She knocked softly. “Miss Lily?”

“Come.”

When Alma opened the door, she could hardly believe her eyes.

“You’re standing up!”

“Of course I’m standing up. I’ve dropped my walking stick,” the old woman complained, as if Alma had personally knocked it from her hands. “Well, don’t stand there gaping, Alma!”

Alma stooped and picked up the stick and handed it to Miss Lily.

“You’ve told me your favourite place in this town is the old harbour?”