surgeon operate on someone's face with a rusty butter
knife?'
knife?'
'I sure hope not.' I grimaced.
Miriam smiled indulgently. 'Would an artist try to paint a
masterpiece with a box of watercolors from the dolar
store?'
'If that's al the artist had, why not?'
'My point is, my dear, that in order to create real, true
things of beauty, a person needs the right tools.' She
waved a hand over the Mont Blanc.
My soul strained toward it. 'I'm not an artist.'
'No?' Her perfectly plucked brows lifted in unison. 'That paper says otherwise. Tel me you intend to use it for a
grocery list, and I'l cal you a liar. What's more, I won't
sel it to you. It would be a sin not to use that paper for
something special.'
'I plan to use it for something special.' My mouth curved
into a smile on the words.
'Good. But what about the instrument? Don't tel me you
plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser.'
plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser.'
I tore my gaze away from the Mont Blanc to look at her.
'I have a nice fountain pen my dad bought for me for my
colege graduation.'
I didn't tel her it tended to stain my fingers in addition to
blotting the paper with ink. Miriam sniffed. Her fingernails
ticktocked on the counter, timing the seconds before her
response.
'It's not a Mont Blanc. Or even a Cross. Is it?'
'No. But it's what I have.'
Miriam sighed and shook her head. 'Paige, Paige, Paige.
Pick up that pen and hold it.'
I didn't want to—putting it down would be so much
harder. But when Miriam puled a piece of cream-colored
paper from beneath the counter and slid it toward me, I
did what she'd said. If you've never held a realy good pen,
you don't understand how the weight distributes itself so
evenly in your palm. Or how the fit of it in your fingers
makes writing even the longest documents easy. How the
ink slides from the tip without effort.
I wrote my name.
'Oh…' I breathed and with reluctance, set down the pen.
'It's so nice.'
I'd put it down at once so I wouldn't be tempted to run
away with it, but Miriam lifted it and held it toward me.
'Buy it.'
'I can't afford it.' I hadn't even looked at the tiny, hand-lettered price tag attached to the pen's box stil in the
display case. I didn't have to see the numbers to know I
