Page 112 of In a Word, Yes

My son doesn’t even flinch. Arms stiff at his sides, he turns to face his classmates wearing a super-cheesy grin.

Mrs. De Los Santos explains to her students that it’s because Chase knows Lieutenant Hayes that she was able to arrange this special visit.

And for one delicious moment amid utter pandemonium, my son isn’t the special-needs child. He’s not the kid on the spectrum. If my son wears a label at all today, it’s this.

Hero.

With all the colorful bodies and the excitement and the candy-grabbing, only now do I recognize that one of the parent volunteers lingering at the back of the pack is Jen Moncado. And from across the room and over the children’s heads, Jen Number Two is smiling at me.

Her eyes glistening.

Mine too.

Forty-Three

homage(n.): something that attests to the worth or influence of another

First thing Monday, I linger at Samuel PeabodyIII’s open door. After a moment, he stops pecking at his keyboard and looks up.

“Mornin’, Montgomery. What’s the good word?”

“Peace lily,” I say, approaching with the small glossy houseplant. My full, thriving one at home was ready to be divided.

Our editor in chief holds up a palm. “Halt right there. Said it before. Can’t abide anything so needy in here. I’ll just usher it to a slow, torturous death. And before you offer, your time is too valuable to be spent in here fussing over it.”

“That puts us on the same page, Sam. Because this one’s not for you. It’s for Noleen.”

Sam’s shoulders collapse, and his eyes go tender. “Well, that’s different then.” He removes his readers, swipes at a corner of one eye. “You’re a gem, Montgomery, if I haven’t mentioned it lately.”

“And ifIhaven’t mentioned it lately, thank you. For giving me a break. Or rather, a shove. Or three.”

He chuckles softly.

“How’s she doing?” I ask.

“Still sleeps a lot. But she’s also had some really good days lately. Rode along with me to the farm supply store yesterday.”

“That’s so good to hear.” I relocate a wonky stack of papers to make space for the plant. “I’ll have you know, this isn’t just any old plant. Peace lilies are super easygoing, and they’re amazing at filtering toxins from the air. Perfect for a bedroom.”

He smiles softly.

“Alright. I’ll let you get back to it, Sam. Oh, hey, if the two of you happen to feel adventurous on Thursday night, you should join us. Trivia night at the food carts. I’ll be there with my writing group.”

Sam’s unruly eyebrows shoot up. “Well, look at you, Lucy. A regular social gadabout. And a fine writer. They’re lucky to have you.Weare lucky to have you.”

No, I think, a lump filling my throat as I take my usual seat in the dark-paneled lobby, once again ready to skipper my little ship here.I’m the lucky one.

***

The morning hums along like a kettle on the boil, with the kind of deadline pressure newspeople whine about but truthfully thrive on. Not only are we tasked with getting the paper out to the people, but making it excellent, truthful, and necessary.

It looks likely that my piece about the blanket-making partnership between the Heartwarmers and the sheriff’s office will make page one. All I know is, I’m obsessed with the accompanying photo, the one I took of Billie, Wyatt, and two deputies showing off their colorful fringed blankets.

I update the events calendar with details about this weekend’s Harvest Faire street festival. Handcrafted goods and local artisanal foods will abound. Last year I scored a pair of macramé plant hangers and a set of adorable crocheted coasters.

In my mind’s eye, I’m strolling the open-air market, skirtingclumps of tourists, with an eye out for Wyatt on wheels. Weather permitting, he plans to resurrect the bike brigade just for this event.

I don’t notice Dot sneaking up on me.