Always Florence Read Free

“This is Dylan. He’s fascinated by everything. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.” He gave the boy a firm look. “But it isn’t polite to spy on people. Please apologize.”
    Dylan folded his arms. “She was chanting while she was stirring,” he said. “People who aren’t witches don’t usually do that, do they?”
    Chanting. Bobbie had to think about that a minute. Then she realized what he must have heard, and had to laugh. “Okay, I don’t have a great voice. But I was singing to ABBA.”
    “Who?”
    “ABBA,” the man repeated for her. “Remember when Stella made us watch Mamma Mia for her birthday? The movie about the wedding in Greece and all the singing?” When the boy winced and nodded, he explained, “That was music by a group called ABBA. They’re from Sweden.”
    “Weird name.”
    “Yeah. There are four members and I think it’s their first initials. About the apology...”
    Dylan complied. “I’m sorry.” Then he added to Bobbie, as though it was important, “I’m not his son. I’m his nephew.”
    “Oh.” She’d been watching them come and go for the past month and assumed they were father and sons. She hadn’t noticed a woman, except for the older housekeeper. “I just assumed...”
    The man extended his hand. “I’m Nate Raleigh,” he said.
    “Bobbie Molloy,” she replied.
    Seeing the handshake, the younger boy apparently felt it was safe to come closer. He hid behind his uncle’s arm and pointed to the garage. “What’s in there?”
    “This is Sheamus,” Nate said. “I’m sure he wants to apologize, too.”
    She smiled at the boy and made a conscious effort to be understanding. “Hi, Sheamus. That’s my studio. I’m an artist.”
    “You paint pictures?” Dylan asked.
    “Sometimes. Other times I use clay and sculpt things. Right now I’m making paper.” She pointed ruefully at the mess behind her. “I’d show you, but I think I’m going to have to start over.”
    Sheamus looked confused. “You’re supposed to buy paper in the store.”
    He had a pinched little face and the most beautiful light blue eyes. His brother was darker featured, like his uncle. And there was nothing pinched about him. He gave an impression of energy and attitude.
    She gestured to the boys to follow her to the pot, where she pulled out pieces of shelving that had fallen into her soaking pulp. They dripped with the mucky grayish mixture, and she put them aside on newspaper she’d spread earlier to protect the garage floor.
    She took the old oar she used for stirring and swept it through the contents. “This is paper pulp, and I stir it and sort of beat it with this to break it down. It’s made of linter and...” She saw that she was losing them and backed up. “It’s stuff we get from a cotton plant, and when I mix it with water and do a few things to it, it makes beautiful paper. That’s how they used to make it in the old days. When it’s ready, I dry it on a rack.” She moved over to show them a sheet that was already drying. Fortunately, the flying debris had missed it and the precious, specially made frame it was drying on.
    “But this isn’t the old days,” Dylan said. “Why do you do it this way?”
    “Because I have a commission,” she replied, her spirits buoyed a little as she talked about it. “I make this special paper and paint a saying on it, then put it in a frame.”
    Sheamus looked up at his uncle. “What’s a commission?”
    “When somebody hires an artist to make a special picture, that’s called a commission. And when the work is done, the artist is paid.”
    Dylan asked, “Artists don’t always get paid?”
    “Sometimes artists make things they think people will like and put them in a gallery—that’s a place where they sell artwork. The artist only gets paid if somebody buys it. And then he or she shares the money with the gallery.”
    “Who hired you?” Dylan asked Bobbie.
    “A law office in Astoria. A friend of mine from