Free Alma by William Bell Page B

while, like a piece of sponge toffee melting slowly in her mouth.
    As soon as Alma got home, she began another letter to RR Hawkins. This time, she didn’t hold back. She wrote and wrote—about RR Hawkins’s books and how much she loved them, about the questions she had always wanted to ask, but mostly about two things. Why, she asked politely and insistently, did you stop writing stories? Did you run out of ideas? Did you get sick and tired of fame?
    The second thing Alma stressed was, I want to be a writer too, and now I’m writing a story for school, but it’s much too long and I’m afraid I won’t get it done in time. Maybe I won’t be able to finish it at all. Do you have any suggestions?
    “Dear Hattie Scrivener,” came the reply a few weeks later,
    Thank you for your latest. Forgive me if I do not respond to some of your questions, as they are of a personal nature. I’m sure that you are aware that I am an extremely private person and prefer to let my books speak for themselves
.
    As to why I have stopped writing, that too is a personal matter and a story that would take too long to relate
.
    I do hope you finish your story successfully, and if you will allow me a small piece of advice, you would do well to remember that success is a sword with two edges
.
    Yours sincerely
,
    Dear RR Hawkins
,
    Thank you for writing back to me so soon
.
    I don’t blame you for not telling me why you stopped writing. It’s none of my business, really
.
    But, please! couldn’t you write just one more? Your books are so good! Nobody can write stories as good as yours
.
    “And one more thing,” Alma added, repeating her second letter somewhat because RR Hawkins hadn’t really said anything about “The Dream-ary,”
    Could you give me some advice? I have written a story, or part of one, and now I’m stuck. Do … Did you ever get stuck? And if you did, what did you do to get unstuck? Could I send you my story so you could give me some ideas?
    Yours sincerely
,
    Hattie Scrivener
    On the day she posted her letter, Alma sat in the front parlour of the house on Little Wharf Road, copying. The morning breeze wafted through the window, carrying birdsong like a fragrance from the maples across the street. Miss Olivia had slipped out to do a little shopping, leaving Alma alone with Miss Lily, something she had been doing more and more frequently over the winter and spring. Alma felt a flush of pride when she reminded herself that Olivia Chenoweth was entrusting her mother’s safety to her.
    “Alma!” she heard from the back of the house.
    Alma jumped to her feet and dashed to the door of the study. She knocked softly. “Miss Lily?”
    “Come.”
    When Alma opened the door, she could hardly believe her eyes.
    “You’re standing up!”
    “Of course I’m standing up. I’ve dropped my walking stick,” the old woman complained, as if Alma had personally knocked it from her hands. “Well, don’t stand there gaping, Alma!”
    Alma stooped and picked up the stick and handed it to Miss Lily.
    “You’ve told me your favourite place in this town is the old harbour?”
    “Yes, Miss Lily.”
    “Well, let’s go down there and see what the fuss is about. We should go now, before Olivia returns and refuses to allow it.”
    “But—”
    “You’ll find my coat in the hall closet. And I’ll need your help, Alma.”
    With Miss Lily using her walking stick in her right hand, her left on Alma’s shoulder, they made their laborious way down the front steps and out onto the street, turning toward the harbour. The breeze off the ocean was fresh andchill, infused with the odours of kelp and fish and salt. Along the wharf, lobster traps were piled high and deep, awaiting the season’s opening in a few weeks.
    Alma walked slowly, careful not to upset the old woman’s balance. I’m strolling along the shore with a famous author, she thought. She knows and I know, but she doesn’t know I know! Alma giggled to herself.
    “What’s