Free Brett McCarthy by Maria Padian Page B

the catapults, biting his lower lip. He didn’t seem at all like the usual juvenile delinquents Merrill associated with. Then a fourth person arrived on the scene and made everything clear.
    “Hey, honey, what do we have here?”
    A bird of paradise seated in an osprey’s nest would have looked less incongruous at the Super-Sized than the woman who asked this question.
    In Maine, where one is most likely to find a woman who can dismantle, clean, and reassemble a chain saw, this small, highly blond female person was clearly “from away.”
    Her “Hey, honey” placed her below the Mason-Dixon line. Her full-facial makeup glowed slightly orange, and her shiny, smooth coif was pulled back with a black velvet bow. She wore a fuzzy white sweater (
she
obviously had no intention of hauling rusty pipes back to her car), stretchy black slacks, and black leather boots with sharp heels that made little holes in the lawn. She placed one hand gently on the blond boy’s shoulder and slid a slim, fuzzy arm around Mr. Pelletier’s waist. It was not a sisterly embrace.
    Holy crow, I thought. Mr. Pelletier’s got a girlfriend.
    Before I could fully absorb this information, Nonna arrived and blew me away entirely.
    “Well, hello. We meet again,” Nonna said. She was talking to the girlfriend, whose enormous, heavily mascaraed eyes widened in surprise.
    “Mrs. McCarthy! Whatever are you doing here?”
    “Well, I live here. We do this sale every year. I see you’ve met my granddaughter, Brett.” Girlfriend locked her gaze on me.
    “We haven’t been properly introduced yet,” she said. “Hello, Brett. I’m Pamela Warren. And this here’s my son, Brock. And my friend, Larry Pelletier, and his little boy, Merrill.”
    “Actually, we know the Pelletiers,” Nonna said. “Brett and Diane are practically sisters. Where is she today, Larry? I can’t remember her ever missing a garage sale.”
    Mr. Pelletier grinned nervously and hesitated. I could see he wasn’t sure what to say.
    I could have answered for him. Diane wouldn’t have been caught dead walking around and smiling at neighbors who would stare at Pamela Warren and whisper, “Who’s that?”
    Merrill confirmed this.
    “She didn’t want to come with us,” he said softly. Un-Merrill-like.
    “Oh, that’s too bad,” said Nonna soothingly. She directed her comment to Merrill. “You tell her we missed her, okay? Tell her we saved a Super-Sized brownie just for her.”
    Merrill stared miserably back at Nonna. His lower lip quivered. His big brown eyes glazed over with tears.
    “I don’t think she’ll come,” he whispered. “Can I bring it to her?”
    This was blowing my mind. Merrill, the Dark Lord. The child most likely to have Damien’s 666 tattooed on his scalp. Trying to do something nice for his sister? Unbelievable.
    “Of course!” Nonna said. “And I’ll get some for you and Brock too. Be right back.” She hurried off to the bake-sale table, leaving me with Mr. Pelletier, the boys, and Southern Belle Barbie.
    “Oh, isn’t she just
precious
!” cooed Pamela Warren. “I tell you,” she said to me, “I’ve only recently met your grandmother, but I absolutely love her. Look at her. And you know she doesn’t feel well! But does she let that stop her? No, not her. I tell you, I
admire
her.”
    “How do you know my Nonna?” I asked, stupefied. How would you know she doesn’t feel well? I wanted to ask.
    “We met the other day at the hospital,” she said. “I’m a hospice volunteer. We wanted to let your grandmother know what we’re all about, what options are available to her. When she’s ready.” Pamela Warren smiled knowingly at me. My stomach did a one-eighty. Ready for what?
    Nonna came back with the treats. They really were huge. One brownie looked almost as big as Brock’s head.
    “Now, why don’t you take these around back and go see the bazooka blasting?” Nonna told them. “I think they’re firing off old sneakers stuffed