Caught Read-Handed Read Free Page B

Staircase
? It’s one of my all-time faves.”
    Maggie pointed to me.
    â€œSassy is the book-meister for the book clubs that meet at the Read ’Em and Eat. Lots of different topics. At the Potluck Book Club we read foodie books; the Tea and Mystery Afternoons—Golden Age women mystery authors; Books Before Breakfast, well, I’m teaching a meditation class at that hour but that’s more of a mix of all types of books, wouldn’t you say, Sassy?”
    â€œYes, but all the clubs are open to suggestion. Sometimes I recommend a book, sometimes the members choose among themselves. It’s all very casual.”
    â€œSounds like fun.”
    â€œOh, it is,” Maggie assured her sister. “Come with me tomorrow afternoon. You already know the book. You can refresh with my copy.”
    When Maggie paid the check, I gave a book club calendar to Karen, who thanked me and then commented on how unusual but fitting she found my name to be.
    â€œMary Sassafras Cabot, that’s my whole moniker, but my mother is a flower-power, earth-child type and called me Sassy from day one. It stuck.”
    The sisters left, promising to come back tomorrow afternoon.
    Two sunburned surfer types lingered over a second round of orange juice at the Ernest Hemingway table while a young mother at Dr. Seuss was watching her preschooler dawdle as he played with his grilled chicken strips and apple sauce. I asked Bridgy to keep an eye on them all while I went outside to make a phone call.
    I sat on a bench in front of the café and whipped out my cell phone. This was one of those times I was super glad that I’d always been neurotic about keeping any and all phone numbers in my phone. If I met someone three years ago, and we exchanged phone numbers so that the first one to hear about the next major sale on Celebrity Pink clothes in Belk’s Department Store could call the other, believe me, that number is still in my phone.
    So it was no surprise that even though I hadn’t spoken toGeorge Mersky in a couple of years, his number was right there, waiting for me to push a button and connect.
    He answered on the second ring and sounded harried as always.
    â€œMersky.”
    â€œHi, George, this is Sassy Cabot.”
    â€œSassy! What a pleasant surprise. How is life along the Gulf of Mexico?”
    I could almost see his eyes move to the clock while his brain calculated how many minutes he could spare for social nice-nice before he cut me loose and went back to the stacks of papers filled with numbers that were his accountant heart’s true love.
    â€œEverything here is fine. I was wondering . . . it’s none of my business . . . but do you happen to know someone named Alan? Someone who looks like you.”
    The silence was palpable for more than a minute.
    â€œYou’ve seen my brother Alan? Oh my God. Is he okay? Is he hurt?”
    I hesitated. How could I explain the agitation I’d witnessed?
    â€œHe seems fine physically, but . . .”
    Again I was at a loss for words.
    â€œSassy, Alan served three tours in Iraq. He suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. Is he living on the streets? Does he need help?”
    I was sure George was tugging on his ear as he always did when something upset him.
    â€œNo. No, he’s fine. Nothing like that. I saw him at the library—”
    â€œThen he’s back to his old self, reading those adventure books he always loved?”
    The hope in George’s voice was distressing. How could I explain? Clearly, Alan still had problems. I gave it my best shot and George understood instantly. I ended by saying that when I called Alan “George” and he turned around, I felt compelled to get in touch with George on the off chance they were related.
    â€œI’m so glad you did. And you say the librarian knows him? Wonderful. Perhaps she could ask him to call me. When we don’t hear from Alan for