Page 29

“It’s September.”

“I know what month it is, Doug.”

“Just noting.”

“Noted.”

Doug went back to the register. He picked up his pen. He looked at the inventory sheet.

He smiled at it for a moment, very slightly, in a way that he would have denied if asked.

Then he went back to work.

* * *

Helen Marsh stopped Allison in the hallway on Monday morning.

“I wanted to say something,” Helen said.

Allison waited.

“Sophia.” Helen paused. The name landed with the weight of a parent saying their child’s name to someone who had done something right by them. “She talked about your class at dinner on Friday. Three times.” Another pause. “She doesn’t usually talk about school at dinner.”

Allison thought about Sophie, quiet, watchful, at the back table, gradually moving to the front. The way she’d listened to the other kids’ ideas before she offered her own. The way her pencil moved when she thought nobody was looking.

“She’s paying attention to everything,” Allison said. “She’s going to surprise people.”

Helen looked at her for a moment with the complicated expression of a mother who had been told something she already knew but was glad to hear from someone else.

“Thank you,” she said. Simply. Like that was all.

It was enough.

* * *

Saturday morning at Juniper Park was forty people, three tables of produce, Margaret Finley in a barn jacket with opinions about everything, and Harold Finley standing six feet away from his wife with the expression of a man who was pretending not to be with her while clearly being entirely with her.

Allison introduced herself to twelve people in forty minutes. She remembered every name.

She was examining some late season tomatoes when Margaret appeared at her elbow.

“Harold,” Margaret said, to the man who had materialized behind her, “this is Allison Hayes. The new art teacher.”

Harold Finley was a tall man, broad-shouldered in the way of someone who had been working with his hands his whole life, with white hair and a face that had been weathered into something that was not exactly handsome but was absolutely trustworthy. He looked at Allison with the measured assessment of someone who reserved judgment and meant it.

“Ms. Hayes,” he said.

“Mr. Finley.” She offered her hand. He shook it, firm, brief, the handshake of a man who said what he meant with his hands as much as his words.

He looked at her for another moment.

“You fixed Vera Hutchins’ fence,” he said.

Allison blinked. “I didn’t...”

“No.” Something shifted in his expression, very slightly. “That was Shane.” He looked at the tomatoes. “I get them confused sometimes.”

He moved away to look at something three tables over.