“I don’t really understand, Milo. Did I do something wrong … maybe?” The fidgeting boy nervously pushed his hair back, tucking it behind one ear, and Prissie’s eyes immediately bugged out. The tip of Koji’s revealed ear came to a pronounced point.
“Well, that’s done it,” Milo sighed. Propping his chin on his fist he chided, “My, what big ears you have.”
Koji started and guiltily pulled the hair back forward. “Sorry,” he mumbled before peeking at Prissie out of the corner of his eye. “Do not be afraid?” he asked, sounding more than a little uncertain.
“Are you supposed to be some kind of elf or something?” she demanded.
He quickly shook his head, then looked helplessly at Milo. “What should I do?” he asked in a small voice.
“That’s a very good question.” The mailman ran a hand over close-cropped blond curls. “Well, these things don’t happen without a reason,” he said with determined cheerfulness.
“That is so,” Koji agreed.
Prissie looked between them. “Do you know each other?”
“We do,” Milo said with a small smile.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she muttered, hopping down from the fence and approaching the mailman. “What’s going on?” she demanded, a spark of temper hiding her underlying nervousness.
Milo turned off the engine and unfolded his lean frame from the parked car. Gesturing reassuringly, he said, “I can explain, but I think it’s best if we have a little chat with Harken. He’ll know what to say.”
“Who’s Harken?”
“The gentleman who owns the used bookstore on Main Street,” Milo calmly replied.
“I know Mr. Mercer,” she acknowledged hesitantly. “He’s nice.”
For several moments, lines of concentration creased Milo’s forehead, and then he asked, “Miss Priscilla, is your mother home?”
“She’s in the garden,” Prissie said, nodding in the direction of the house.
“If I can arrange things, will you come with us into town?” Milo asked.
Prissie’s heart did a little flip. Yes, it would be nice to find out why Koji looked like he’d wandered away from a film crew, but what really mattered was the chance to go somewhere with Milo. “Sure!” she replied, smiling brightly.
Milo looked somewhat taken aback, but he nodded and said, “As it happens, I have a package to deliver. If you’ll lead the way, I’ll do so personally!”
“Perfect!” Prissie exclaimed.
“Providential,” the mailman corrected, leaning over to collect his final delivery of the day from inside the car. Pocketing his keys, he gestured for her to precede him, and once they were on their way up the long drive, he asked, “Will you do me a favor, Miss Priscilla?”
“Of course!”
“Stay with Koji, and let me do all the talking.”
“That’s fine,” she agreed, fairly bursting with excitement. Momma just had to say yes!
Naomi Pomeroy was on her knees in the vegetable garden that she and Grandma Nell fussed over every summer. At Milo’s friendly hail, she stood and dusted off her pants, but before she could return the greeting, two boys exploded from around the side of the house. “Milo!” hollered the eight-year-old, who veered in order to barrel into the mailman.
Milo taught the third and fourth grade boys at the same church the Pomeroys attended, and Prissie’s younger brother was one of the mischief-makers who kept him on his toes come Sundays. “Hey there, Zeke!” laughed Milo, roughing up the boy’s unruly blond mop. In a twinkling, Zeke clambered up onto the mailman’s back, while the youngest member of the Pomeroy family wrapped himself around his leg. “And it’s young master Jude!” A third boy ambled over much more slowly, but no less eagerly. A few years had passed since Beau had been in Milo’s class, but the brown-haired teen grinned self-consciously when the mailman mussed up his hair as well. “How’ve you been?”
“Good,” Beau replied with a shrug. “You?”
“Never a dull moment!”
“Boys,” Naomi chided. “Give Mr. Leggett some room to breathe.”
“It’s no problem, ma’am,” the mailman assured. “Though you may want to rescue this package.” He extended the day’s batch of mail, which he’d cradled protectively against his chest. “It’d be a shame for it to travel all the way from Portugal only to be thwarted on your very doorstep.”
Prissie’s mother accepted the small box and its accompanying stack of envelopes and flyers. “Oh! It’s from Ida!” she exclaimed, smiling with pleasure.
“Is it for all of us or just Prissie again?” asked six-year-old Jude.
“This one is for your grandpa and grandma,” Naomi announced. Her energetic young son was still draped over Milo’s shoulders, and she waved the box temptingly in front of Zeke’s nose. “Would you like to take