Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three Read Free Page B

the evil spirit club. Why not paint the guest room the same color as your front door? That’s a neat color, that bright red. It’s very peppy and sparkly. You can’t ignore that color even if you try.”
    â€œWell, it’s one thing to have a front door that color and quite another to paint a guest room bright red. It might give your guests jangly nerves, and that would never do.” Mrs. Stern gave Isabelle’s shoulder a friendly pat. Already Isabelle felt better. Mrs. Stern was a cheerer upper, and Isabelle felt in need of cheering up. It had been a bad day.
    â€œAre you having guests?” Isabelle asked.
    Mrs. Stern bustled about, getting down the marshmallows and the Oreos. Oreos always cheered her up, Isabelle thought, getting her teeth ready for that first bite.
    â€œYes, I am,” Mrs. Stern said. “An old friend is coming to stay. I want the room to look nice. He’ll stay for a week, maybe longer.”
    â€œOh, it’s a boy, then,” Isabelle said.
    â€œA man, yes,” Mrs. Stern said, blushing. Isabelle almost fell over in surprise. She didn’t know old people knew how to blush. She thought only kids blushed, mostly when they did something embarrassing.
    â€œI told you about him, Isabelle. His sister was my dear old friend, and she left me a ring when she died, and he brought it to me.”
    â€œDo you like him?”
    â€œOne marshmallow or two?” Mrs. Stern dropped two marshmallows into Isabelle’s cup without waiting for an answer. “Yes, of course I like him.”
    â€œHow much?” Isabelle narrowed her eyes, waiting for Mrs. Stern’s answer.
    â€œIsabelle!” Mrs. Stern laughed. “What a question. He’s a fine man, someone I’ve known since I was a girl. I knew his first wife too. He’s been very lonely since she died. We enjoy many of the same things. He and my husband were friends. We’re both over seventy, you see,” Mrs. Stern said, as if that explained it all. “My heavens”—and she put her paint-spattered hands up to her pink cheeks—“but that sounds old.”
    â€œIt is, kinda.” Isabelle liked to call a spade a spade. “You’re like Guy’s grandmother. He says she’s young at heart, and so are you.”
    â€œWhy, Isabelle, what a nice thing to say. I’m touched. How is Guy? Such a nice little fellow, so kind.”
    â€œOh, he’s a regular hotshot now,” Isabelle said. “Him and Bernie are raising worms. Money back if you don’t catch anything.”
    Isabelle bit off a chunk of cuticle and chewed on it vigorously. “I helped Guy get out of being a goody-goody, you see,” she explained. “I helped him change his image. That’s what you call it, image. Nobody teases him anymore.”
    â€œOf course, dear,” said Mrs. Stern absentmindedly. “That was nice of you to help Guy. I see I’m out of cocoa. Perhaps you’d like a nice glass of milk.”
    â€œNo, thanks.” Isabelle scooped the two marshmallows out of the cup. “I’ll just eat ’em plain if it’s all right with you.”
    â€œOh, I have so much to do,” said Mrs. Stern happily. “I don’t know where to begin. Yes, of course, dear.”
    Isabelle saw that Mrs. Stern was too busy to talk. But before she split, Isabelle told Mrs. Stern about Sally Smith’s postcard.
    â€œSally Smith wrote to everybody but me.” Isabelle did a slow soft shoe, arms dangling loosely at her sides, to show she didn’t really care. “She promised she’d write me. Maybe she lost my address. Or she forgot the zip. If she forgot the zip, that’s fatal. I’ll never get it. Too bad. Sally was my friend.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll have a party,” said Mrs. Stern, counting her knives and forks. “We could have my chicken pie. It’s been so long since I’ve had people