Ted tapped the mouse and scrolled through the story again.
“Look here. You’re sure you want to say that Bud Collier ‘roused himself from his usual afternoon nap’? Let’s cut out that phrase, okay?”
“Ted.” Lucy had set her teeth. “He sleeps through every meeting. Every one. People have a right to know.”
Ted shrugged. “He’s been on the board for twenty years or more and keeps getting reelected. He must be doing something right.”
“Ted! People vote for him because they don’t know he sleeps through the meetings. How are they going to know if we don’t tell them?”
Ted chewed his lip. “Okay. You have a point. I’m just going to cut ‘usual afternoon nap’ and put ‘brief nap.’ How’s that?”
“It’s waffling.”
“It’s using discretion, and that’s the name of the game in community news.”
“You sound just like my mother,” said Lucy with a shrug. “It’s your paper. I’m just the hired help.”
“That reminds me. I have a feature for you with a nice Thanksgiving tie-in. And since you’re so keen on Native Americans these days, you’ll love it. It’s about a woman who makes American Indian dolls and won a prize.” Ted scrambled through a pile of papers on his cluttered desk. “Here it is. Ellie Martin. Lives on Main Street Extension.”
“That’s the woman at the hearing last night. You know, whose chickens got killed.”
“I thought her name sounded familiar.”
“Some coincidence.” Lucy took the press release from the American Dollmakers’ Association and studied it. “She seemed real nice. I’ll give her a call. When do you want it?”
“To run on Thanksgiving. As soon as you can get it to me. Oh, and Pam asked me to remind you about the pie sale.”
Pam was Ted’s wife, and this year she was in charge of the pie sale that raised money for the Boot and Mitten Fund. Without the fund, a lot of children in Tinker’s Cove wouldn’t have warm winter clothing.
“Oh, gosh. I did forget,” said Lucy, remembering that in a moment of foolish optimism she’d agreed to bake six pumpkin pies for the sale. “Now, if you don’t have anything else, I’ve got to run. I promised I’d help Sue take the day care kids on a field trip, and I’m late!”
* * *
“I was getting nervous,” said Sue when Lucy pulled open the door to the recreation center basement where the day care center was housed. “I was afraid you’d forgotten about the field trip.”
Sue Finch, Lucy’s best friend, had convinced penny-pinching town meeting voters to fund the center several years ago, and it had been such a success that now there was hardly a murmer when the budget item came up every year.
“I got here as soon as I could,” said Lucy, smiling at the group of preschoolers who had gathered around her, eager for attention.
“Hi, guys. Who’s here?” She went around the group, pointing a finger as she named each child. Harry. Justin. Hillary. “Where’s Hunter? There he is, behind Emily. And who’s this?”
Lucy had spotted an unfamiliar face: a slight little girl with pale skin and huge black eyes.
“This is Tiffani,” said Sue. “Today’s her second day with us and I was hoping you’d be her special friend. How does that sound, Tiffani? Will you let Mrs. Stone hold your hand?”
Tiffani didn’t answer but studied her shoes. Lucy could see a fine little blue vein throbbing at her temple. She gave a questioning glance to Sue, then reached down and took the little girl’s hand. She was surprised when Tiffani didn’t snatch it away, but instead gave her a little squeeze.
“Okay, gang. Let’s put on those jackets,” urged Sue.
Lucy helped the kids zip and button their coats while Sue gave last-minute instructions to Frankie Flaherty, her assistant, who was staying at the center with the three infants. When it was Tiffani’s turn, Lucy couldn’t help noticing how thin and ragged her lavender hand-me-down jacket was; the quilted lining was worn through at the elbows and shoulders. It could hardly provide much warmth and was much too big, besides. Making a mental note to tell Pam that Tiffani was a prime candidate for the Boot and Mitten Fund’s largesse, she once again took the girl’s hand and they followed the others out to the minivan Sue had borrowed from the senior center for the trip.
“All aboard,” cried Sue, cheerfully. “We’re going to see the turkeys!”
“Is that where we’re going?” Lucy asked, doubtfully. “Andy Brown’s turkey farm?”
“Where else?” replied Sue, sitting down beside her. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“I know,” said Lucy. She glanced at the kids, who were so small that their legs stuck straight out on the adult-sized van seats. “Turkeys can be a little scary, especially when they’re bigger than you are.”
“Nonsense,” said Sue with a wave of her beautifully manicured hand. “We’ve been learning all about turkeys. When we get back, we’re going to make hand turkeys.”
“Hand turkeys?”
“You know. The kids trace their hands on a piece of paper. Then the thumb is the head and they color in the rest of the fingers for the turkey’s tail.”
“I remember when Toby made one in kindergarten,” said Lucy, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “He was so proud of it.”
“Do I detect a touch of empty-nest syndrome?” Sue peered at her. “ls Toby coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“He’s coming Tuesday, right after classes, and he’s bringing his roommate, Matthew. What about Sidra?”
Sue’s daughter had graduated from college a few years ago and was living in New York City, where she was the assistant producer of Norah Hemmings’s daytime talk show. Her engagement had just been announced.
“Not this year. She’s going to his folks,” Sue snorted, fidgeting with the silk scarf she’d tucked in the neck of her tailored tweed jacket. “They’re not even married and it’s starting
