With her cat Serenity, Flora continued to travel back and forth between the two houses she now called home, making life “a bit floaty,” as she once described it. But everyone was managing, and there seemed still to be much good will among everyone. Flora’s father said that this arrangement was a chance for him and Flora’s mother to adjust their perspectives.
“What is ‘adjusting perspective’?” Flora asked.
“Looking at something from a new angle,” her father answered.
“Like the way you move from one side of the street to the other when you’re taking a photograph of a fender bender?” asked Flora.
“Exactly,” said her father. “And ‘fender bender’ is a very apt comparison, by the way.”
So the Smallwoods were all adjusting their perspectives, and so far it was going well. Forster had taken up oil painting, Emma Jean was learning to knit, and Flora was passing fourth-grade arithmetic.
What Flora always most enjoyed, everyone knew, was sitting after school in the purple velveteen chair. She loved Miss Meriwether’s extra-vintage books, especially the writing in so many of them.
She often shared some of her favorite passages with her mother when they had sandwiches at the Windy Day Diner.
On this day, Flora opened up a slender old book called Stories for Children that had been inscribed, To Christopher, Christmas 1929.
“Nineteen twenty-nine,” Flora said to her mother. “Not even you were born then.”
Flora’s mother smiled. “I was not yet even a possibility,” she said.
“It’s 1972 now,” said Flora, “so Christopher is maybe . . .”
Flora took a few moments to calculate. “He is maybe a grandfather today,” she concluded.
“That would be nice,” said her mother.
Flora turned a page carefully. The book felt delicate in her hands, like a slender blade of grass.
“This is a good opening to a story,” said Flora.
She read:
“Near the road is a snug little farmhouse called Home. In this cozy little house with its white window-frames, snug front porch, and well-kept walks, there lives a thrifty and happy family.”
Flora’s mother smiled. “I love ‘thrifty,’ ” she said.
“So do I,” said Flora. She and her mother were alike that way: they both loved good words.
The two ate their food in contented silence for a while, watching people in the diner come and go.
Then Flora’s mother said, “What would you think about piano lessons?”
“No, sweetheart, for you,” her mother answered, smiling.
Flora took a deep breath, as she always did before making a major decision. Her eyes scanned the farthest corner of the room. (She always did this as well.)
Then she looked back at her mother.
“Can Nessy take them, too?” Flora asked.
“Let’s find out,” said Flora’s mother. “I’ll call her mother tonight.”
Flora nodded. She wanted to be careful not to feel too much happy anticipation, just in case she was disappointed if Nessy’s mother said no.
Still, Flora felt that just-off-the-ground lightness when something lovely might be about to happen.
She realized that she had always wanted to play the piano. She just had not known this about herself until now.