Софи Келли: Final Catcall

“And I could be a talking duck,” I countered, backing toward the door with my end of the table.

Susan wrinkled her nose at me. “I don’t think you’re a duck. Your feet aren’t big enough.”

We moved the folding table about an inch to the left and then forward and back until Hugh was happy with where it sat. Susan got him a cup of coffee—with cream and exactly half a packet of sweetener. I adjusted the blind at the window so there was no direct sunlight shining on his workspace. Then we left him alone.

Susan shook her head. “How do people work with him? He’s so picky.”

“He’s not that bad,” I said. “He’s just . . . creative.”

She slid her glasses down her nose with one finger, frowned at me over the top of them and then pushed them back up again. “Honestly, Kathleen, you’d try to find something nice to say about Attila the Hun.”

“All right, he might be a bit of a challenge.”

She gave a snort of derision and went back downstairs.

A group of kids from the after-school program came in around four to pick out some books and videos. By then I was so tired of being Hugh’s personal minion that I was entertaining the idea of taking my limited computer skills over to the Stratton and trying to fix the wi-fi myself.

He came down the stairs just as I was about to show the kids our newest DVDs. I sighed, a little louder than I’d intended to.

Susan smirked at me. “Remember, he’s creative.”

“What’s creative?” a little girl with brown pigtails and red-framed glasses asked me. She was probably about seven.

“‘Creative’ means you have a good imagination,” I said.

Hugh spotted us and walked over. The little girl looked at him, frowning. “Do you really have a good imagination?” She pointed at me. “ She said you did.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, his expression serious.

She twisted her mouth to one side. “You’re kind of old.”

Hugh smiled then. “Old people can have good imaginations.”

The child shook her head. “You’re older than my dad, and my mom says he has no imagination.”

I struggled to keep a straight face. Hugh suddenly dropped down onto all fours, arched his back and stretched.

The little girl grinned with delight. “You’re a cat!” she said.

Hugh nodded. “Very good. I was using my imagination. Now you try it.”

She got down on her hands and knees and meowed at us. With some gentle nudges, Hugh soon had her stretching just the way Owen and Hercules did.

“Great,” Susan said against my ear. “Kind of makes it hard to dislike the guy when he’s good with kids.”

Hugh stood up and brushed bits of lint off his pants. The little girl—whose name was Ivy—went back to the rest of her group.

“You were great with her,” I said.

He ran a hand over his beard. “I like kids. They’re more enjoyable to spend time with than most adults.” He held up the sheaf of papers in his hands. “These need to be stapled.”

I smiled at him. “Mary has a stapler at the circulation desk.”

He nodded. “Good.” He handed me the papers and went back upstairs.

Susan smirked at me. “I was wrong,” she said, shaking her head so her topknot, secured with a red plastic pitchfork, bobbed at me. “It’s really not that hard to dislike him after all.”

Hugh left for an early supper about half an hour later. I made sure that he knew what time we closed and I crossed my fingers that the wi-fi would be working at the theater in the morning.

Andrew came in about six thirty, just as I was going to warm up some chicken soup in the staff room. There was a day’s worth of stubble on his face, but he was one of those men who look good with a bit of scruff. “Hey, Kathleen,” he said, “you think I could borrow your truck for half an hour? I have to move a piece of staging. Oren’s gone somewhere with his truck and I have no idea where Abigail is. She’s not answering her cell.”

“Sure,” I said. “Where are you taking it?”

“The marina.” He looked around. “It’s that way, right?” he asked, pointing upriver.

“No. That way,” I said, indicating a hundred and eighty degrees in the opposite direction.

He sighed loudly. “Explain to me the difference between Main Street and Old Main Street. I can’t keep the two of them straight. I take it Old Main Street is the original street and Main Street is some kind of extension.”

I shook my head. “Nope. Main Street is the original.”

He frowned. “That makes no sense.”

“It does when you know the history of the names. Old Main Street used to be Olde Street, with an E at the end. It was the main route from the lumber camps to where the marina is now. Over time it turned into Old Main Street.”

“Okay, so how do I get there?”

“Just turn left and go straight until you see the sign for the marina.” I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “No, wait a minute,” I said. “You can’t do that. There was a water main break right in front of the hotel. The street’s dug up. You’ll have to go around.”

He groaned. “Kathleen, please don’t make me drive around town in circles.”

I held up a hand. “Hang on. Let me see if Mary can stay a little longer and I’ll just come with you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I can’t believe how easy it is to get turned around in such a small place.”

Mary was happy to stay later. I grabbed my sweater and purse and Andrew and I went out to the truck.

“I’ll drive,” he said, holding out his hand for the keys. “You can direct me.”

“Or, since I know where we’re going, I can just drive.” I made a shooing motion and reached around him to unlock the driver’s-side door.

We drove back to the Stratton and I helped Andrew get the extra section of staging into the back of the truck. Luckily it wasn’t that heavy. We drove across town to the marina, managing to avoid most of the detoured traffic.

“Where are you putting this thing?” I asked as I turned into the marina driveway.

“Right down there at the far end of the parking lot.” Andrew pointed to a grassy space just beyond the pavement. “Just by those stairs. You can’t see them, but the other pieces are already there.”

I backed the truck up to the edge of the grass so we didn’t have far to carry the load. The view over the river was beautiful as the sun sank in the evening sky. Three sailboats bobbed in the water, their masts bathed in amber light.

I knew that Burtis Chapman and two of his sons would be at the marina the next morning with the crane to lift the boats out of the water. Abigail had persuaded Burtis to do the job a week early so it wouldn’t interfere with any of the festival performances.

Andrew came to stand beside me. “It is a pretty spot. I’ll give you that,” he said.

“What? No speech about the sunsets over Boston Harbor?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. But they are pretty spectacular.”

I poked him in the ribs with my elbow, but he just laughed.

“Where do they go?” he asked, pointing at the stairs.

“They’ll take you up to the first lookout.”

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s climb up and watch the sunset.”

I shook my head. “I have to get back to the library.”

“Don’t be a stick in the mud, Kathleen,” he said. “Come with me. Watch the sunset. See the pretty colors.” He reached for my hand. “Please?”

He was extremely annoying, but I knew the sunset would be gorgeous from the lookout and there really was no big hurry to get back to the library. Friday was almost always our quietest night.

“Fine,” I said.

Andrew gave me a self-satisfied smile and pulled me toward the steps. It felt odd, holding his hand again, and I let go of it to grab the railing.