My Name is Nell. Laura Abbot

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СКАЧАТЬ thick ceramic mug he cradled between his hands, oblivious to the early morning chatter around him. These Main Street cafés were running together in his mind—each whirling, grease-layered ceiling fan, red leatherette counter stool and kitchen pass-through indistinguishable from the next. Though the spur-and-antler décor in Wyoming differed from this Arkansas country calico, the smell of bacon frying and the cloying cheerfulness of the morning-shift waitress were unsettlingly predictable.

      “Decided?” The middle-aged redhead swiped a damp rag across the counter, then extracted a pad and pencil from her apron and eyed him speculatively.

      “The special and a large o.j., please.”

      “Got it,” she said and, with economy of motion, refilled his coffee.

      Fortunately the adjacent stool was empty. He couldn’t have tolerated another desultory conversation highlighted by comments on the weather and the market—cattle, wheat or stock, depending on where he was. Two months. He mentally ticked off the states he’d passed through—Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Nebraska, Missouri and now Arkansas—always avoiding the cities. He needed no reminders of the pressures of suburban affluence, rampant consumerism or commercial success. His frequent phone calls from Carl Sutton took care of that. Regardless of the artifice his business partner employed, underneath, his basic question was always the same: when would Brady get hold of himself and resume his work at L&S TechWare?

      Brady didn’t have the heart to tell Carl that he rarely thought of the business and gave little consideration even to the next day, much less the interminable future yawning before him. On the other hand, he knew he couldn’t continue in his current mode, aimlessly wandering across the country, barely taking in the changing scenery, restlessly moving on after a few days in any one place.

      The waitress plunked down a plate laden with eggs, bacon and the biggest biscuit Brady had encountered so far in his travels. “Haven’t seen you around. You here for the fishing?”

      Mildly curious, Brady looked up. “Fishing?”

      “White River trout. We’re famous for it.”

      Why not? “Uh, yeah. Know any good places to stay?”

      “Well, there’s the resort—”

      The mere word resort reminded him of California and all that he was fleeing.

      “Then there’s a B-and-B, if you’re into that. Quiet place with all the comforts of home. The Edgewater Inn.”

      All the comforts of home. Brady doubted it, but the word home resonated in a way nothing else had in weeks. “Can you give me directions to the B-and-B?”

      “Sure.” She pulled a paper napkin from the holder and drew him a rudimentary map.

      Later, crossing the bridge over the White River, Brady felt a stirring of interest. He’d done a lot of fly-fishing in Colorado as a kid. Maybe he’d hole up in the Edgewater Inn for a few days, outfit himself and spend time on the river fishing—and making some decisions.

      Carl had been right. He couldn’t run forever.

      “YOU LOOK BEAT,” Reggie Pettigrew, the sixty-year-old head librarian, said when Nell reported for work Saturday after taking Abby to the airport.

      Setting down the stack of books she’d collected from the outdoor depository, she shot him an I-don’t-need-much-of-this look. “Full of compliments this morning, aren’t you?”

      “Even beat you look good. Big weekend?”

      “Reggie, are you trying to get my goat or does it just come naturally? You know I haven’t had a big weekend in years. And that’s not all bad. They can be highly overrated.” She cringed, remembering some of the “big weekends” of her past. “It’s Abby. I can’t help worrying when she flies to visit her dad.”

      “Did she give you a hard time again about going?”

      “As usual. This time, it’s for a week.” She began sorting the returned books. “I don’t know how I ended up being the bad guy in this arrangement, but she blames me for making her go.”

      Reggie eyed her over the top of his thick bifocals. “While Prince Charming and his lady love live happily ever after?”

      Reggie had a way of seeing straight through her. “Exactly.” She glanced at the wall clock registering 9:59. “But enough about me. The hordes are undoubtedly lined up at the door racing to get to Balzac, Dickens, Faulkner, et al.”

      “I wish. At least we can count on Clarence Fury and his daily two hours with The New York Times.”

      Nell filled a book cart and made the rounds reshelving. When she’d hit bottom after Rick left her, Reggie had been a godsend hiring her as his assistant. Gradually her role had grown until she was now the children’s librarian and coordinator of special adult programs. With the limited library budget, she wasn’t able to do as much as she would’ve liked, but the pre-school story hour was booming and she was having sporadic success with the adult forums she’d initiated in the past year. That reminded her to prepare the flyers for the September forum. A minister from the county hospice board was speaking on death and dying. Not exactly an upper of a topic, but several patrons had expressed an interest.

      Automatically reshelving two misplaced volumes, Nell fought the familiar ache in her chest. She bowed her head. It had been nearly seven years. Even so, it was hard for her to believe her father was dead. In the snap of a finger. One day, here. Robust, laughing, vital. The next, gone. Without so much as a fare-you-well.

      She straightened and slowly made her way to the main desk. Maybe that was why for so long she’d resisted the death topic for the forum. What if she went to pieces during the discussion? Seemingly her mother and Lily had moved on better than she had after her father’s massive heart attack, but there wasn’t a day when Nell didn’t think of him and miss him.

      Like now, with Abby protesting vehemently about her upcoming week with Rick. Her dad would’ve reassured her that she wasn’t the worst mother in the world, that adolescence, too, would pass, that Abby appreciated her more than she was able to let on. Although Nell could spout that kind of self-talk all day, it did nothing to ease the cramping loneliness that fused to her like a second skin.

      “Has Hazel Underwood returned that new Patricia Cornwell yet?”

      Nell looked up into the scowling face of Minnie Foltz, whose boundless knowledge of murder and mayhem was acquired from the numerous mysteries she devoured.

      Nell searched the books lined up on the reserved shelf. “Looks like you’re in luck, Minnie.”

      “Hmphh. I should hope so. I can’t figure what takes Hazel so long. That’s the real mystery.”

      Nell processed the checkout, acknowledging that at least she’d made one person happy today.

      MORNING SUN SILVERED the ripples on the surface of the slow-moving river. Swallows soared and dipped above their mud nests built into the crevices of the facing cliff. Standing thigh-deep in the clear, cold water, Brady pumped his arm, flicking the fly several times before letting it settle upstream from a deep hole. He’d discovered this spot yesterday, pulling in two browns nice enough to keep. Sally, the proprietress and cook at the Edgewater Inn, had been pampering him all week, and last night she’d prepared his fish, which СКАЧАТЬ