Late Bloomer by Fern Michaels

Author:Fern Michaels
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2003-02-11T00:00:00+00:00

Cady walked into Devine’s Pharmacy and blinked. It looked like a Dollar Store, with its shelves of toys, kitchenware, plumbing supplies, and general bric-a-brac. She looked for the pharmacy section and the notions, and finally found them tucked away in a corner in back of the store, where there was a small soda fountain with tables and chairs that were full of elderly men and women reading the morning’s paper. Everything smelled like Johnson’s Baby Powder.

Cady sauntered over to the counter, aware that the men and women were staring at her. What was she supposed to do? Be seen, Lola said. She sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. She could hear the buzz of conversation behind her. When she felt a poke to her arm, she looked up at a little white-haired lady.

“Is it true, they’re going to make a picture show right here in Indigo Valley? I saw your picture in the morning paper.” She waved her arm to indicate the oldsters behind her. “We were wondering if we could be extras.”

“I’ll ask my grandmother,” Cady said.

“That would be nice. We don’t have much to do but sit around and read or gossip. That’s what happens when you get old. You don’t look like that old picture of you from that accident. I never for one minute believed you had anything to do with that boy’s death. None of us believed it.” She waved her arms again to indicate her friends behind her.

“Thank you for telling me that. I can’t remember the accident, but I don’t think I would have done anything like that.”

“The boy was a bad seed. He used to uproot my prize geraniums just to be nasty. He put frogs in buckets with lids on so they couldn’t breathe, and he was forever smashing pop bottles on the roads so people would get flat tires. He chased cats, and the Lord alone knew what he did to them when he did catch them. Anyone who is mean to animals is someone not to be trusted. I called his father, Cyrus, and the man said the boy was just being a boy. It was nice talking to you. My name is Millie Donovan.” She offered up a gnarled, blue veined hand. Cady shook it gently.

“You tell your grandmother we all watch her old pictures. Now, she was an actress. Not like these flibbertigibbets today.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Donovan.”

“You’re just as pretty as a picture, young woman.”

Cady smiled. “Thank you.” She went back to her coffee, finished it, paid for it, and left the store. She looked at her watch. Nine-thirty. Time to hit the hardware store.

Lattimer’s Hardware Store was just like every other hardware store in a small town. Six rocking chairs lined the sidewalk next to the bags of fertilizer and peat moss. A dozen or so brooms were stacked, ends up, in a wooden barrel. Next to the barrel of brooms were dozens of bright green Weed Eaters.

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