Free Alma by William Bell Page A

of sun to burst through and illuminate the water, turning it instantly from slate grey to a warm, deep blue. That was what happened to Miss Lily’s face when she lifted the quilted pillow from the box. Her scowl fled and her features softened. She said nothing, tracing the delicate stitching of the lady’s slipper with her fingers.
    Then she looked at Alma, and Alma realized there were tears slipping from Miss Lily’s eyes, following the deep lines on her face.
    “Thank you, Alma,” she said, and her voice caught. She began to sob.
    “Let’s leave Miss Lily alone for a moment,” Miss Olivia said, taking Alma’s hand and tugging sharply. Alma followed her out, her mind churning, unsure how she should feel.
    “I’m sorry,” she began, “I didn’t—”
    “Oh, don’t be sorry,” Miss Olivia said, her usual businesslike tone absent. “Miss Lily’s justa bit overcome. Why don’t you get your work done and you can talk to her before you leave.”
    Alma sat at the desk, straight pen in hand, and copied the first letter, her ear cocked for any sound from the study. She worked through the correspondence, writing carefully, setting each letter aside to let the ink dry fully before clipping it to its envelope, shaping her letters while, as usual, her mind wandered. Why had Miss Lily been overcome with tears? she asked herself for the tenth or twelfth time. Didn’t she like the pillow? Maybe it was an unwise choice. Alma felt a hot flush of embarrassment creep up her neck and she glanced up to see if Miss Olivia was by any chance standing in the doorway. What use would a little pillow be to someone like Miss Lily?
    Alma hardly noticed the words of the next letter in the file. She had copied the opening salutation and begun the first paragraph before her breath caught in her throat and all thoughts of pillows fled from her mind. She stared at the line she had copied.
    “Dear Hattie Scrivener,”

CHAPTER
Thirteen
    A lma swallowed deeply, her heart whumping in her chest, her mouth dry and scratchy. She was sure she would be unable to form a word, never mind a sentence. She stood just inside the door of the study. Olivia Chenoweth had closed the door softly and now Alma was alone with Miss Lily.
    But it wasn’t the Miss Lily Alma thought she knew—an unknown, scowly lady who lived in an old house by the harbour. Alma was in the same room as her very most favourite author!
    That stupid pillow. A mistake. A bad present, too late for the birthday. What would RR Hawkins want with a little pillow made by an unknown quilter in a small, unimportant place like Charlotte’s Bight?
    Miss Lily sat with her gnarled hands resting like claws on the same pillow, one curled finger on the lighthouse, another seeming to point to the plovers on a sandy shore.
    “Do forgive me, Alma,” she began. “I don’t know what came over me. I was overwhelmed by your kindness.”
    Alma opened her mouth but nothing came out.
    “It’s a lovely gift,” Miss Lily went on. “I … it’s especially precious to me because I used to quilt myself. I made my own designs and … well, that was some time ago. Now …”
    She looked down at her hands, then at Alma’s face, and Alma understood.
    “I’m glad you like it, Miss Lily,” she said.
    The old strength returned to the woman’s voice. “Why are you fidgeting so, Alma? Are you quite all right? You look pale. I apologize for upsetting you a while ago.”
    “I’m … I’m fine,” Alma croaked. “Fine.”
    “Well, have you completed your work for this morning?” the writer asked, her tone businesslike once more.
    “Yes, Miss Lily.”
    “Good. Hand me a cigarette and my holder, if you will, before you go.”
    Alma left the house, and as soon as she reached the sidewalk, she tore up the street, her feet squelching through the slush. Should I tell Mom? she asked herself. No, Mom won’t understand. The truth was that Alma wanted to keep the delicious secret to herself, at least for a