Free Whiskers & Smoke by Marian Babson

right now. I sent Pixie a helpless glance.
    â€œErrol’s fine,” she said. “Just move him into the shade—” She suited the action to the words; he gave one final purr and went silent again. “Now why don’t we have some of this delicious cream soda? We’ll need glasses and lots of ice—”
    â€œI’ll get it!” both children shouted at once. They dived for the kitchen.
    I looked after Tessa anxiously. Her reaction had betrayed fears lurking deep in her mind. I could understand, but how could I teach her that people—or pets—could not be shut up in little boxes and stored away in a safe
place until their presence was required? That they must be allowed to live their own lives—even though they might encounter danger? Had I learned the lesson yet myself? Why was I fighting the idea of enrolling the children as day campers at Camp Mohigonquin? Hadn’t we all learned that there was no real safety anywhere? In the midst of life …
    â€œYou’re right,” Pixie said shrewdly, diagnosing—correctly—that I needed distraction myself. “It’s time we got all this frozen stuff into the freezer.” She stooped and began gathering it up. “This is no weather to leave it lying around.”
    I picked up the remaining items when her arms were full and led the way into the kitchen. The children had already filled four tumblers to the brim with ice and pounced on the bottle of cream soda, although the glasses seemed too full of ice to allow room for much liquid to be added.
    â€œI like Welcome Wagons—” Timothy wrestled with the bottle cap. “Why don’t we have them in England?”
    â€œEnglish shopkeepers hate to give anything away,” Pixie answered for me. “I’ve heard Celia say so often enough. They either figure they’ve got a captive clientele or they just don’t care. Patrick says they’ve never heard of merchandising or salesmanship.”
    â€œThey may have heard of them—they just don’t believe in them.” Now that I was getting a demonstration of American methods, I could understand Patrick’s point of view.
    â€œThank you, honey.” Pixie accepted the glass Tessa held out to her. “That will sure hit the spot. I must admit
I’m beginning to feel the heat.” She sighed wearily. “It’s been going on for weeks—and the nights aren’t cooling down the way they used to. Even when we had a couple of thunderstorms, they didn’t clear the air.”
    â€œI’m hot, too,” Tessa said.
    â€œEverybody is.” Pixie held the icy glass up against one temple and rolled it slowly across her forehead, then back again.
    Tessa watched with fascination and, a moment later, casually copied the gesture. Her fringe was in the way, though, and the water beads on the outside of the glass combined with her perspiration to leave damp tendrils straggling down into her eyes.
    â€œYou ought to be wearing your hair off your face in this weather,” Pixie advised. “It’s too hot for bangs.”
    I kept silent; it was something I had not dared suggest to Tessa. However, she was willing to accept it from a stranger. She nodded agreement and swept her fringe to one side; it still covered half her forehead.
    â€œHere, this is what you need—” Pixie removed her headband. “It may not be quite your style, but it will hold your hair back until you can get something you like better.” She tucked Tessa’s fringe under the headband and adjusted it. Mercifully she didn’t comment on the unveiled widow’s peak.
    â€œWe can snap off the thingamabobs, if you want—” she offered.
    â€œNo, thank you, I like them.” Tessa turned to me, eyes shining. “May I wear it tonight, Mummy? Please?”
    â€œOf course,” I said and, to Pixie, “Thank you.”
    â€œTonight …” Pixie