Free The Summer of Good Intentions by Wendy Francis Page A

family station wagon, wedged between her sisters in the back, had she imagined her grown-up self traveling along the same route? Being able to do this one delicious thing was a bold check mark off her bucket list. As the plane began its descent, she felt her stomach plunge and she gripped the armrests, digging her fingers in for support. Soon the whoosh of air and the sound of luggage tumbling overhead made her squeeze her eyes shut, as it did every time.
    â€œOuch!” cried the young woman sitting next to her. Virgie opened her eyes as the plane came to a halt. When she glanced down, she saw that she was clutching the poor girl’s hand in a vise, her knuckles a bright pink. As with so many things in Virgie’s life lately, she’d had no idea.

Arthur
    On Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons, Arthur set out for the local library, a tan building that sat on a craggy ledge overlooking the water. He could walk to it, a fact that appealed to him immensely. Aside from his house, the library was, perhaps, his favorite place on earth. Unlike his house, it was orderly, books meticulously arranged by category and then alphabetically by author’s last name. Theoretically, he was here to man the front desk. He checked out patrons’ selections, answered the rare question, and shelved the returns. But, in reality, there was little for him to do in the afternoons, at least until the rush of schoolchildren broke through the doors at three-thirty. Then they would race through the main entrance, pulling off their backpacks, and fling themselves onto the beanbags in the children’s section. As much as Arthur loved to see a youngster pick up a book, the children’s section with its noise and bustle was not for him. He found it unnerving.
    But now, in the summer months, not even the schoolchildren broke the quiet. He had lived in this small coastal town most of his married life, and so the majority of patrons were, at the very least, acquaintances. It pleased him that he could greet people by their first names before they handed him their cards. He made a point of it. Lately, though, some of the names escaped him, people’s faces that he’d known for twenty years. He blamed it on the fact that he was occupied with the new book he was writing and that all he could think of were its main characters—Inspector Larson, Claire Dooley, and Rita Wigglesworth.
    Sometimes when he peered into a patron’s face, Arthur would see flashes of his characters. His old pal, Eleanor, for instance, had a hawk-like, pointed face, not unlike that of Rita Wigglesworth. And the bulbous nose of Hank Sellers, a regular who checked out every Agatha Christie novel and penciled editorial suggestions in the margins (Arthur knew this because he checked the books before and after Hank borrowed them), reminded him of Claire Dooley’s nose. Arthur wondered if his patrons influenced the physical attributes and mannerisms of his characters or was it the other way around?
    Often he would scribble notes on the little sheets of paper meant for writing down call numbers. He detailed things he wished to include in his new book. Sometimes he would become so immersed in his note-taking that he forgot where he was, and a patron would have to clear his throat a few times before getting Arthur’s attention. He was always quick to apologize. But everyone knew that he volunteered at this job. He couldn’t be expected to take it too seriously. For that, they would need to ply him with free whiskey.
    On this Wednesday before the Fourth, the library was particularly quiet. Arthur felt as if he was working in a velvet-lined jewelry box, the very kind that housed the diamond ring he’d presented to Gloria on bended knee forty-six years ago. It was three-carat, and he’d saved diligently until he could afford it. It was exactly what Gloria wanted. They’d gone window-shopping in the diamond district in Boston, a street of stores now