Page 40 of In a Word, Yes

And apparently writing the occasional stanza of poetry.

Which actually makes sense. Wyatt is both strongandtender, possessing a calling to serve and protect—but not in some abstract, disconnected way. The man is relational.

Exhibit A: He keeps a photo of his dopey-eyed rescue pup in his office.

Exhibit B: When it comes to his deputies, he’s got a bleeding heart.

But also some kind of hurt in his past that I’m not privy to. I’ve got a growing hunch about this.

Warmth and gratitude dilate inside my chest. This is the man charged with overseeing law and order inmysweet town. What more could a community want?

Now, to convey this—the competence and upstanding nature of Lieutenant Hayes—without betraying his confidence.You know, Lucy, I’m not sure all of this should go in the article.

I am the girl entrusted with Nana’s 1940s typewriter. That solid, timeless symbol of communication employed by the admirable women who went before me. Issuing dispatches, one key,one letter, one word at a time. What was that quote Wyatt shared last night? If I hope neither to fail miserably nor to succeedmoremiserably, I’d do well to bring God into a situation like this, where discernment is everything. Holy discernment.

Let’s go, Lord.

I toss a cheese-coated almond into my mouth and begin to type.

***

Once I’ve emailed the article to Sam, it’s time to reward myself with a social call to Dot’s new desk. She’s bound to get a kick out of the ginormous Amazon Prime box I was confronted with yesterday—so big that my neighbors couldn’t access their mailboxes.

“The thing was six feet long and nearly as tall,” I tell her, spreading my arms one way and then the other.

“What in the world?”

“Whoever delivered it scrawled the wordWhy?in black Sharpie.”

“You’re killin’ me! Well, what was it?”

“A huge corduroy pouf beanbag chair thingy, the size of a small planet. For Chase.”

“Goodness! I bet he loves it.”

“Oh, he does. Even though it takes up half his room. He even typed my mother a thank-you letter on the old Smith Corona.”

When Dot grins, her dimples form deep pinpricks in the dough of her cheeks.

“Yep.” And then quietly and more to myself, I say, “Evidently beanbags never go out of style.” Maybe another time I’ll confess to Dot my altercation with the one at Sweet Reads and my awkward exit from the writers group.

The absurdity of it all brings an inner smile. Next time—that is, if there is a next time—I’ll know to arrive early. And carry tissues.

“And then this morning it wastwoboxes. Mom must be trackingour weather, because she sent an assortment of fuzzy socks for me and a Tennessee Titans beanie for Chase. What do you think it all means?”

“The holy grail! I love fuzzy socks!”

“Me too.”

“Gramazon strikes again! She’s firing love torpedoes, kiddo.”

“Meaning...?”

Dot gathers her things. “Is everything okay between you two?You’re on good terms?”

I follow her into her office, carrying her ten-key. “We’re always on good terms. We just ... avoid talking about certain things.”

Dot hesitates a nanosecond longer than needed. “Sounds to me like she’s reaching out. It’s sweet.”