Always Florence Read Free Page A

college works there. She showed them something I made for her birthday, and they hired me to do four pieces for their conference room.”
    Dylan looked around at the mess. “So, you won’t get paid until this is finished?”
    “Right.” She appreciated the distress on his face and felt herself begin to relax a little. “But I know this was an accident. I have one big piece in the house that’s already dry, and I’ve got one piece drying here that seems okay. I’ll do the calligraphy on those while I’m getting more pulp ready. It’ll work out all right.”
    “Calligraphy?”
    “It’s like painting words, only you do it with a pen with special tips instead of a brush.”
    “Well, we’re going to help you clean this up.” Nate pushed up the sleeves of his plain gray sweatshirt. “Come on, guys.” He pointed the dog to a spot on the lawn. “Stay, Arnold.” He turned to Bobbie, all business. “Where’s your garbage can?”
    “You don’t have to clean up. I...”
    He wasn’t listening. He went to the side of the garage, then peered inside and saw the can at the back. He stepped carefully over the rubble and carried the can out to the grass. “You separate what has to go from what can be fixed. We can replace that shelving for you.”
    She got down on her knees and began to sort through the broken earthenware pots and saucers, the rusty tools, the old army blankets she used for her paper press. “Thanks, but I can put up new shelves. Most artists worth the name are carpenters, too. Otherwise we spend a fortune on stretchers and frames.”
    “But you didn’t break it, so you shouldn’t have to fix it. And Dylan’s pretty good.”
    As his uncle began tossing into the can the things she put aside, Dylan looked surprised, then pleased by the compliment. But his pleasure showed for only a moment. He bent over the broken shelf. “We have boards left from a bookshelf we made for Uncle Nate’s room.” He turned to him. “Can we use those?”
    “Go ahead,” Nate said. He looked Dylan in the eye. “Nothing fancy, okay? No power tools. Those boards should be just the right size, but measure them against the old one. If anything needs cutting, call me.”
    Dylan picked up two pieces of a broken shelf and headed off to the basement entrance at the side of their house.
    Bobbie wondered if trusting the boy to do as he was told might be a stretch after what she’d experienced, but she was sure his uncle knew the risk. He watched Dylan head off, mild concern pleating the spot between his eyebrows.
    “You can go with him,” she suggested as she dropped a rag into the can. “Sheamus and I can take care of this.”
    Nate shook his head. “No. Dylan would hate that. I put the power saw away after he cut my workbench in two on his last unapproved project, so he’ll be okay.” He turned his attention to Sheamus and nudged him with his elbow. “I’m not finding any kid feet, are you?”
    Bobbie reached for the broom and turned, certain she’d misheard them. “What? Kid feet?”
    Sheamus looked into the pot of now brown, mucky pulp, then smiled up at her. “Dylan told me you were a witch and that you were making a... I forgot the word. It’s the stuff that a witch has in her big pot and it makes explosions and lightning and loud noises.”
    “A potion?” Bobbie guessed.
    “Yeah. And he said you put bats and bugs and parts of little kids in it.”
    Bobbie was aghast. She hadn’t spent that much time with children, except for the few she’d met when she had her treatments, and they were, sadly, very adult. She was startled by what went on in the minds of little boys.
    “I promise I’m not a witch,” she told Sheamus seriously. “That was probably pretty scary for you to think that.”
    He shrugged a small shoulder. “Dylan said you wouldn’t take me, because only brave kids would work.”
    She saw his uncle straighten up from the trash can and frown. “You ran to get help when you thought your