agreed that you should continue to attend ‘Who’s Who in Cherico?’ at the library; that you should do everything you could to support that sweet young librarian, Maura Beth Mayhew—she’s just as darling as she can be, and she’ll need all the help she can get with the powers-that-be, believe me—”
“Stop right there. You can’t tell me that that doesn’t give you goose bumps, knowing how long ago it was written.”
Miss Voncille looked up from the letter, staring over at Pamela’s mesmerizing portrait. “I have to agree. It’s definitely uncanny the way everything has converged to make her words seem as if they were written this morning. Hats off to you and your foresight, Miz Pamela.”
“My sentiments exactly. And it’s my further opinion that this is a sign we’ll succeed with this petition and that this is the right thing to do.”
“I’d certainly like to think so.”
“I believe there’s more to this world than we could ever imagine.”
Miss Voncille considered for a moment and then raised an eyebrow. “I know this much. You just can’t give up on your life because it gets hard and bad things happen to you. Eventually, something good that you’ve earned from hanging in there comes along. Like a sweet, chivalrous Southern gentleman fresh from his morning shave.”
“I’m happy to resemble that.”
They both leaned together in laughter, but she let go of the moment quickly. “I’m still wondering if this petition will sway Durden Sparks in the end, though. I’ve known him most of his conceited life, and I’ve never seen him not get his way.”
Locke nestled his shoulder against hers again and then shot her a dismissive look. “There’s always a first time, and this may very well be it.”
Then Miss Voncille sighed dramatically. “Do you think I should call up Morbid Mamie and make sure she’s put her John Hancock on our petition yet?”
Locke gave her a thumbs-up. “Not only that, but invite her and her sister over here for what will be our revenge game of bridge. I still have a bad taste in my mouth from last time.”
Jeremy McShay’s daily phone calls and e-mails from Nashville had kept Maura Beth energized during the two-week petition countdown. Their conversations hadn’t lasted all that long but had served to keep their burgeoning emotional connection alive and well, while their e-mails had contained the ordinary details of his life at the school and hers at the library. It particularly pleased Maura Beth that he was always the one to initiate the contact in the old-fashioned manner she had always projected both in her dreams and in her journal. She couldn’t get enough of his thoughtful pursuit and made a habit of concluding each and every communication with her very own signature phrase: Keep those cards and letters comin’, folks!
Finally, though, all the long-distance flirting gave way to the day before the budget approval. Just past three o’clock that afternoon, Maura Beth had set out from the library on what she considered to be the most important journey of her life. The butterflies in her stomach felt more like a swarm of bees as she reached Commerce Street on foot, but she did her best to disguise her anxiety with an unwavering smile as she entered Audra Neely’s Antiques to pick up her first petition.
“Here you go,” Audra said, smiling brightly while handing it over from behind a counter crowded with everything from music boxes to ceramic figurines. “I talked you up every time someone came in.”
“Thank you so much,” Maura Beth replied, not particularly surprised by the revelation. She had conjectured that the women who fancied the stylish Audra’s cutesy boutique approach to antiquing were among the more sophisticated in Cherico and likely to be sympathetic to the cause.
Then came the surprising downer. “I only wish I could have collected more for you, Miz Mayhew. Business has been a little slow lately. It’s the economy, you know.”
Maura Beth glanced at the sheet and counted the signatures. “Well, you got fifteen for me, Audra, including your own. That’s fifteen I didn’t have before I came in. And we’d love to have you make an appearance at City Hall when the final decision on the library is made.”
Once she was out on the sidewalk again, Maura Beth drew her overcoat closer to her body against the brisk November breeze. Those fifteen signatures were now registering as a nasty chill at the bone. What if all the petitions turned out to be so disappointing?
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