The Wingthorn Rose. Melvyn Chase

a refrigerator. A separate bathroom. It’s not bad.”

      “Sounds promising. I’d like to take a look at it.” He slowed the pace of the conversation by sipping his coffee for a moment. “Of course, I don’t expect you to trust me, just like that. I’ll give you the name of the company that handles my pension. They can tell you I’m on the level. You can get their number from the phone company, so you’re sure it’s not a set-up. I’ll call them first and tell them to give you whatever information you need.”

      “I’ll take care of that, Joey.”

      “Okay, Ernie. But first, we’ve got to talk to Fay.”

      “Why don’t you take . . . What’s your name, Mister?”

      “Lucas Murdoch.”

      “Why don’t you take Mr. Murdoch over to see Fay?” Ernie suggested. “While you’re doing that, I’ll check him out.”

      “Okay,” Joey replied.

      Henry commented to no one in particular, “He’s been here for half an hour and he’s ready to settle down. He’s got all the answers. ‘Here’s the name of my banker. Give him a call. Rent me a room. And I’ll unpack my bags.’ He’s a salesman, all right.”

      “I’m not rushing things,” Lucas said. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time—a couple of years. I guess I’ve been looking for Pennington, and I didn’t know it. I found it today, and I want to stay.”

      “Henry gave me a hard time, too,” Sarge said. “He gives everyone a hard time.”

      “Is there a phone I can use?” Lucas asked.

      Sarge pointed to a door at the far end of the counter. “Yeah. There’s an extension in the office in back of the kitchen. It’s private. Go ahead. Dial nine to get an outside line, and one for long distance.”

      “What’s your last name, Ernie? So I can tell them who’s going to call.”

      “Hynes.”

      “Thanks.”

      The office was small, windowless. Several photographs hung on the wall opposite the cluttered desk. One showed Sarge in a policeman’s uniform, posing with another policeman in front of a patrol car on a New York City street. There were family shots of him, his wife (the cashier in the diner) and his daughter, Lucille, all looking much younger. On the desk was a more recent photo of Lucille and a five- or six-year-old boy.

      Lucas called his financial advisor, gave him detailed instructions, and returned to the dining room.

      Henry stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

      Joey seemed uncomfortable, but he said, “Let’s go see Fay.”

      “Ernie, you’ll want to get in touch with Archer and Fitzgerald in Manhattan,” Lucas said. “They’re on East Fifty-Eighth Street. Tell them you want to speak to my financial advisor.”

      “I’ll do that right now.”

      Joey walked toward the door and waved his hand. “Come on, Mr. Murdoch. We’re going to the library.”

      In the parking lot, Joey said, “We’ll take my car,” and pointed to a shiny, spotless, new station wagon with simulated wood panels and a Dealer’s license plate.

      “If you’re in the market for a car, let me know. I work for the Ford dealer in Fulton—that’s a few miles east of here. I’ll make it worth your while.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.”

      Joey handed Lucas a business card:

      Fulton Ford

      For the Deal of A Lifetime!

      Joey Geneen, Sales Manager

      As they drove east on Route Forty-Six, Lucas was organizing what he had seen and heard. The hard work would begin later. The patterns were still only dimly outlined, but he was already energized, enjoying every new moment, every new fragment of information.

      “Your sister, Fay. She owns the house?”

      Joey nodded.

      “Yeah. I left town when I was eighteen. Joined the navy. I was in Nam for a while. On a carrier. I was a mechanic. It was toward the end of the war, and I didn’t really see much action. But it was more than enough for me. After the war, I figured I would stay in the service. It wasn’t a bad life. I traveled a lot. I retired a few years ago. Fay went to UConn. She came back home right after college and became a librarian. She never got married. And when our Mom got sick—Dad died a long time ago—she moved into Mom’s house, set up the apartment there on the ground floor, so Mom wouldn’t have to walk up stairs. She took care of Mom for years.”

      And loved every minute of it?

      Joey made a right turn off the road and followed a tree-lined street to the village green, parking in a lot behind the Pennington Free Library.

      Lucas followed him inside.

      The walls were paneled with dark wood. Bookshelves and massive tables and chairs were carved from a lighter shade of wood. A thick, deeply worn maroon carpet covered the floor.

      Lucas sniffed the warm, silent, sluggish air.

      Old leather bindings, old wood, old times.

      They walked through the virtually empty reading room to the reference desk in the rear. A wooden name-plate was centered on the desk: F. Geneen.

      The woman behind the desk was thumbing through a book, making occasional notes on a yellow legal pad. Probably in her early forties, her dark hair was short and thick and streaked with gray, and she was wearing a brown shirtwaist dress that made her blend into the background.

      Lucas thought, It’s as if she’s saying, “I’m not really here. I’m not anywhere.”

      She looked up, ready to be helpful, and saw Joey. Helpfulness melted away. Frown lines in the corners of her mouth deepened.

      Joey smiled at her. No smile in return.

      Her eyes drifted to Lucas. A rimless pair of glasses framed her dark brown eyes and long, thick lashes.

      “Can we talk to you for a minute?” Joey asked.

      “Let’s go to the lounge.”

      She stood up. She was tall—taller than Joey—narrow-hipped and long-legged, and she moved easily and economically.

      An athlete. A runner, maybe.

      She turned, leading them to a door marked Employees Only. Opening it, she motioned them inside.

      The librarians’ lounge was a smaller version of the reading room, somber and dark. Two huge, leather-covered couches stood catty-corner on one side of the room. On the other side, three bulky leather chairs surrounded a small, round table. No one was there.

      Fay sat in one of the chairs. Joey and Lucas sat opposite her.

      She wears very little makeup. Her skin is clear, the color of outdoors.

      “What do we want to talk about?” Fay asked.

      She’s watching Joey like a frog watching a dragonfly.

      “First, Fay, this is Lucas Murdoch.”

      Lucas smiled and nodded, but Fay took no notice.

      “Mr. Murdoch is retired. He used to live in New York City. He’s thinking of settling down here. He’s looking for a place to stay.”

      No response.

      Lucas studied her features. Her nose was a little too long, her mouth too full, her chin too strong—but the sum of the imperfect parts was attractive.

      “He’s got money,” Joey said. “A pension. Ernie’s checking that out.”

      She