Free Fall from Grace by L. R. Wright Page A

impatient.
    â€œ ‘You’re in my will,’ ” he read. He glanced at her, and she nodded vigorously. “ ‘The house,’ ” he read. “ ‘And money.’ ”
    Bobby folded the paper, slowly, in half, then folded it again. He held it loosely in his right hand, head down. Hetty patted his arm, making soothing sounds. He put both arms around her and held her for a while.
    Hetty walked with him to the door and watched through the window as he made his way down the long, crumbling flight of steps that led to the highway. So many wasted years, she thought.
    And he’d deserved that, too; she admitted it.
    Bobby had done wrong.

Chapter 9
    â€œI ’M GOING INTO town, Ma,” said Rose-Iris the following day. “To the library.”
    â€œOkay,” said Annabelle, stirring a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup.
    â€œCan I come? Can I?” said Camellia.
    â€œNo,” said Rose-Iris, hurrying out the door.
    Camellia pelted after her, and Annabelle went to the door to watch, through the screen, as Camellia danced around Rose-Iris and then ran, backward, in front of her, pleading and pleading, until finally, as Annabelle had known she would, Rose-Iris, with a furious, jerky motion of her arm, granted Camellia permission to accompany her.
    Annabelle went back to the stove.
    Pretty soon Herman and Arnold came home, and Annabelle dished up the chicken noodle soup, along with some cheese sandwiches and bowls of raspberries for dessert.
    After lunch Arnold was allowed to go and play with his friend who lived down the highway; work was over for the day, because the paper was finally sending a reporter over to interview Herman about the mini-zoo.
    â€œI’m at loose ends,” said Herman, watching Annabelle do up the dishes. He was straddling his chair, and his chin was resting on his arms, which were folded along the back of the chair.
    â€œI can think of a few things for you to do,” said Annabelle.
    â€œLike what?” said Herman, dismayed.
    But Annabelle knew he wasn’t dismayed at the prospect of being asked to do a chore or two; it was the idea that there were any left that he hadn’t already taken care of that bothered him.
    She laughed. “Nothing. I’m teasing you. Why don’t you relax? Watch some TV, or something.”
    She let the water out of the sink, wiped the countertops, and wrung out the dishcloth.
    â€œAnnabelle,” said Herman.
    His voice was so quiet that Annabelle turned around swiftly, thinking something was wrong. She could tell from the look on his face that nothing was wrong—but she didn’t know what it did mean, either, that look.
    â€œWhat?” she said.
    He shook his head. “Nothing. I just felt like saying your name.”
    She felt a great tenderness for him, sometimes. And always, always, there was the gratitude. She went to him and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m going to work in my garden,” she said.
    Annabelle set to work weeding the perennial bed; the dirt felt silky under her bare feet. She looked into the thick breathing forest as she worked, smelling the greenness of it. The dirt of her flower bed, the forest, the heat—it brought to her mind a book she’d read as a child, called Girl of the Limberlost . She remembered it as being about summer, and the healing power of the sea, and sun-hot tomatoes eaten right off the vine.
    Eventually she heard a car, and she knew the reporter had arrived. She weeded for another few minutes, and then curiosity got the better of her, and she went through the brush onto the path that led to the house.
    And there was Herman, his arms going around like a pair of windmills, gabbing at a young woman holding a notebook. She looked so thoroughly out of her element that she reminded Annabelle of the reporter in that movie about Nashville; the one who wandered around in a parking lot full of school buses making things up for her tape