“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Rachel demanded brightly, but her scowl alerted Mrs. Risk that Rachel would put up with no conflicting opinions.
Tactfully hiding her amusement, Mrs. Risk scanned the shop-lined street around them, her eyes brimming with proprietary pleasure. The May sun, busy with its morning chore of gilding rooftops, toasted their chilled noses and hands. It was one of her favorite early morning occupations, walking the boardwalk that edged the bayfront village of Wyndham-by-the-Sea. The boards under their feet plonked in a cheerful rhythm, Rachel’s boots producing a deeper half-beat behind the clack of Mrs. Risk’s slippers. Both were fairly tall and their strides matched well.
Rachel was not only much younger, but also more buxom than the leaner-framed older woman. As usual, Rachel wore jeans and a cotton shirt, her mass of curls dangling darkly down her back in a ponytail. Mrs. Risk’s straight hair lifted and snapped like an unkempt black banner in the breezes coming off Wyndham Bay.
Finally she said, “If gold is what you want, I suggest you buy the metal itself. You’d have something you can physically hold or even wear, and it appreciates. But gold futures? Pure speculation, dear. Possible high yields, true, but the risk is even higher. In the commodities market, one can lose even more than one invests.”
Rachel snorted impatiently. “I can’t afford to invest in something to wear!”
Mrs. Risk tried to explain, but Rachel overrode her.
“Remember how St. Boniface Hospital hired me to supply the flowers for their Gala Fundraiser next week? Well, when I get that check, for the first time since I opened my shop, my rent and bills will be paid up to date, with a chunk left over. This is my chance to earn a little extra, using that chunk. Mel Arvin, the broker, he says—”
“Tchah! If that man told me fish lived in water I wouldn’t believe it.”
“Yes,” Rachel crowed in triumph. “But would you trust Harry Fitch?”
“Absolutely. But what does Harry know about gold futures, or any commodity, for that matter?” Mrs. Risk lifted her face to the sun and sniffed. The yuppie coffee craze had arrived at Wyndham-by-the-Sea and roasted bean aromas wafted seductively through the salty air.
Rachel said, “Harry sells gold all the time!”
“He sells antique gold coins. Entirely different. Lets skip our herbal tea and get coffee this morning, do you mind?”
“Not now. Harry said if I came over early, we could talk. And FYI, some of his gold thingabobs are new. He said he could explain about the world markets. A noble metal, he called gold. One of the three in the world.”
Mrs. Risk nodded. “Gold, platinum, and silver, but gold has the most ancient history.”
“How’d you know—oh, never mind. You know everything, I forgot.” Rachel giggled—being in those tender twenties when she could still do it attractively—and because of the giggle missed the sounds erupting from the Dallour Coin and Stamp Collector’s Shop. Mrs. Risk whirled Rachel backwards and around, choking her giggle into a squawk.
She mashed Rachel against the realtor’s window next to the open door of the coin shop. She pointed a finger at sun-faded photos of Hamptons summer rentals (probably already snatched up for the coming season) and commanded, “Hush!”
Rachel, ignoring the order, growled, “If you want me to invest in real estate, you’re going to have to be nicer about it.”
“Listen!”
Puzzled, Rachel huddled with her against the plate glass and listened. The she straightened up. “Oh, that’s Aunt Margeurite.”
Mrs. Risk snorted. “And they call me a witch!”
Because of Mrs. Risk’s eccentric spirit (which Rachel shared) and eerie ability to see what others often missed, the residents of Wyndham-by-the-Sea believed Mrs. Risk to be a ‘witch.’ Most were intimidated by her—an impression she shamelessly took advantage of—but some were intrigued, and some accepting. It was from this last small group that she selected her friends. After Mrs. Risk had rescued Rachel from nearly committing a fatal act of desperation, Rachel too had been ‘selected’ by Mrs. Risk—typically without consulting her.
Two years into the sometimes prickly friendship, Rachel had begun calling herself Mrs. Risk’s apprentice witch—and wasn’t always sure she was kidding.
From inside the coin shop came a high pitched, derisive warble, rising in volume and pitch with each breath: “Don’t you dare say it’s unnecessary, you undersized slug. After all I’ve done for you, you owe me a little sweat. I gave you your so-called career. Bought this shop for you, didn’t I? Without me you would’ve ended up—if I hadn’t—Harry! Where are you going? Don’t turn your back on me! You’d still be sleeping in doorways, that’s where! So! Like I said before, for every stamp and coin in this shop I want a detailed description, with value, commentary, and provenance notes. And forget fudging with your usual good-for-nothing quick scribbles. I can’t understand those. Just remember. Nobody else’d hire a lifeless lump like you. Just me. With my soft heart.
“Hmmph. I’ll be checking on you, too. If you’ve been playing fancy with the books, I’ll soon know it. At any rate, another thing. Start keeping the shop open nights. We need more business to make you worth the expense of keeping you. Great expense, with that apartment I let you use upstairs! I could be collecting rent on that.”
“Yeah,” whispered Rachel to Mrs. Risk. “At great expense, she lets him live in a that rat-trap efficiency, making him a built-in watchdog twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. No expense spared to keep him from drawing a real salary somewhere better. The guy can’t afford three solid meals a day! And no health insurance. Remember last year’s flu? If Dr. Giammo hadn’t taken care of him for free, he’d be dead now!”
The voice droned on: “And keep those neighborhood brats out of here, I’m warning you, Harry! And while you’re at it, scrub this place down. It’s getting frayed around the edges. Like you!” She hooted with amusement. “Reminds me. Get that tux cleaned that I bought you last fall. You’re going to escort me to—NOW where’re you going! Stay put! St. Boniface’s Gala’s coming up. Everybody will be there. That old bat, Velma, I heard she’s bringing her sister, isn’t that priceless? Big comedy star, can’t get a date.” She tittered.
Then her tone changed to a coaxing croon. “Now don’t be difficult. Mommie will make sure you won’t be sorry. Mommie loves you. Would I leave you everything I own in my will if I didn’t? Nowwww, give a kiss.” A juicy sound followed.
Mrs. Risk plunged through the coin shop doorway, banging the door back against the wall hard enough to rattle the entire building’s windows. Inside, a corpulent woman in a violently-flowered jersey dress sprang back from the slight figure with greying brown hair who she seemed to have been swallowing. “Gah! What the—OH!” Margeurite Dallour’s scowling bulldog features rearranged themselves into a simper when she identified the intruders. Lifting an arm, she patted her tightly pincurled coiffure, exposing a dark sweat-stained circle on her dress. Crusts of face powder drifted to her gelatinous billow of bosom. “Mrs. Risk! How lovely, but startling, to see you so early in the day.” Having swiftly assessed the social insignificance of Rachel, Ms. Dallour ignored her. “I’m surprised you don’t sleep in, mornings, instead of running about like us poor working girls. Naps are so preserving for women your age.” She dug deep in her handbag, then lit a cigarette. “And how do you manage to make black look so, uh, airy on a hot day?” She fanned at her damp, numerous chins. (Mrs. Risk, who was not quite two decades younger than Ms. Dallour, habitually wore long black gauze dresses in hot weather, wool in winter.)
Behind her, Harry, with sickened eyes, turned away and pretended to straighten pennies in a dish on the glass countertop. Rachel winked at him, which brought a healthier color to his cheeks.
Mrs. Risk considered the woman. “Regarding your comment about the Gala. Velma Schrafft is a dear friend of mine and a worthy human being. She is not so insecure as to need an escort to go anywhere she wishes to go.
Purple mottled Ms. Dallour’s cheeks. She warbled, exhaling smoke, “Oooh, getting late. Must rush. We should lunch some time. I’ll call you.” She billowed away like a soiled battleship, the odor of unwashed flesh lingering in her wake. Rachel shuddered.
The rest of the hour passed in a discussion between Rachel and a subdued Harry Fitch about gold and its relative stability in world markets.
As they left, Rachel announced, “Somebody should boil Aunt Margeurite in all that oil on her unwashed face.”
Mrs. Risk asked, “Why in heaven’s name do people call that woman ‘Aunt?’ Even though this is our first meeting, I’d heard of her, but never understood the appellation.”
“Because everybody calls him Uncle Harry. I think calling her ‘aunt’ is a sarcastic thing, because of how opposite they are, but still connected. Nobody can stand her, but everyone adores Uncle Harry. He draws kids to him like a magnet. They’re in the shop every afternoon, listening to his stories about the coins and stamps. That’s where his nickname came from-the kids.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that quite a few teachers and parents are grateful for his influence.”
They walked on in silence. Then Rachel said, “Harry joined my pottery class a few weeks ago, at Randy Blume’s. That’s how I got to know him.”
Mrs. Risk asked, “Why does he put up with that—that Marguerite?”
“Well. Only what I’ve heard, mind you. Every time he wants to leave, she dangles that inheritance in his face. She’s over twenty years older than he is, so he has a good chance of collecting. It’s true, though, about him living in the street. He told me. He was a Viet Nam veteran, and never re-adjusted to normal life until she put him in that shop. Stamps and coins were his hobby, before the war. He said the quiet life in Wyndham and his love for those stamps and coins slowly turned him around. He says he can’t forget what she did for him.”
“That explains a lot,” said Mrs. Risk thoughtfully.
“Well, I think he’s earned his inheritance by now. He should murder the old gargoyle!”
Mrs. Risk gazed at Rachel with narrowed eyes. “Is that your past repeating itself? Be careful what tragedy you wish on your fellow man.”
“Hmmph. The real tragedy is, there’s the greatest woman in our class. Named Christa. He and she—”
Mrs. Risk held up a hand. “Please. Enough.”
Rachel heaved a deep sigh. “Gotta open my own shop now, anyway. See you later. Mel Arvin promised to get me more information about gold futures today. You’ll see, I’m doing a smart thing.”
“I’m sure you’re right, dear,” said Mrs. Risk, looking distracted. “Isn’t your pottery class tonight?”
“At seven. Why?”
Without answering, Mrs. Risk drifted away down the boardwalk like a dark shadow in the sunlight.
That night at seven, Mrs. Risk entered Randy’s pottery studio to delighted greetings of ‘Take some clay!’ Mrs. Risk declined the honor, but perched on a stool to observe. The wide room was full of busy men and women straddling whirling wheels, digging hands into wet clay, spattering each other with muddy water, poring over glaze samples, and most of all…laughing. Randy, a tall talented woman overflowing with her own infectious laughter, sprang from student to student. Soft classical jazz filled the background, and the odor of glazes, clay, and fresh coffee perfumed the air.
Mrs. Risk marveled at Harry. This charming man she watched talk with animation to everyone in the room was far from the pale, despairing figure she’d seen this morning.
She soon picked out Christa. Harry was a small man of frail build, but Christa was even smaller. She had ivory skin, masses of fine ash blonde curls, and hazel-green eyes. Her figure was softly rounded and appealing, like a puppy transformed into womanhood. When she spoke to Harry, he seemed to sprout confidence in that instant. And like Geiger counters nearing uranium, each one’s flesh betrayed the approach of the other by flushing rosier and rosier, the color receding as the other moved away.
When all had left except Randy, Rachel, and Mrs. Risk, Randy laughed. “Isn’t it cute? And everybody loves them so much they don’t even tease, which is amazing. This is a pretty frank bunch.”
“What do you know about Christa?” Mrs. Risk asked.
Randy said, “Oh, she works in a doctor’s office in the next village. She has two little girls, ages four and six. Her husband ran off while she was in labor with the second one. Bob helped with her divorce. She once told me she was young and foolish when she married. But now she’s old and smart, she says. Too tough to fall for anyone else.” Randy laughed delightedly. “As tough as a butterfly wing.”
“And as beautiful,” added Mrs. Risk, smiling. “By the way, what is Harry making? He seems skillful for a beginner.”
“He’s good,” agreed Randy.
“Harry’s making flower pots,” said Rachel. “Harry has a whopping green thumb. He’s filled that ugly apartment with plants you wouldn’t believe. He’s really creative.”
“Isn’t that what you’re making, too, dear? Flower pots?” Mrs. Risk asked, glancing from the misshapen lump on Rachel’s wheel to the delicate symmetry of Harry’s piece.
“Yes. I thought I’d sell them in my shop—if I get good enough at this. It’s harder than it looks.”
“I can see that.”
Rachel sniffed. “Want to try it?”
Mrs. Risk arched an eyebrow. “Thank you, dear, but then I might want lessons, and Randy’s waiting list is long enough already.”
“Ummhmm. Right.”
Mrs. Risk drifted to the door. “Is Bob at home now, Randy? If you don’t mind, I’ll drop in on him. I have a rather odd legal problem. See you in the morning as usual, dear,” she said to Rachel.
“Lucky me,” said Rachel.
The next morning after tea, a curious Rachel trailed Mrs. Risk to the coin shop. They found Harry laboring over stacks of paper, as pale and depressed as yesterday morning. He’d begun the intricate inventory demanded by Aunt Margeurite, Mrs. Risk guessed.
“Um, about the commodities market,” Rachel began, but was cut off by Mrs. Risk.
“Harry,” she gushed, “I found the oddest coin. Of course, for all I know it could be a subway token!” Mrs. Risk laughed merrily.
Rachel snorted.
“But it could be very old. The markings are…” She broke off, glancing annoyed at Rachel, from whom again had erupted a muffled snort.
“But you’re so busy now. I have it!” she exclaimed. “Do you ever visit Harrington’s Dock to watch the sunset? It’s so lovely, overlooking the water. Even you will need a break by then. I’ll bring us a lovely wine, and you can look at my find!”
“Is 6:30 too late?” asked Harry, suddenly cheerier.
“Just what I was about to suggest myself. See you then.” And abruptly, Mrs. Risk grabbed Rachel’s arm and hurried her outside.
Mrs. Risk said crossly, “In future, refrain from crude noises, dear. I worried that you were about to blurt out something embarrassing.”
“Like how expert you really are about coins? Gee, why would I say that?”
“Tchah! Compared to Harry I know very little!”
“Oh, I see. You told a relative truth, then. Not a flat lie.”
Mrs. Risk gazed fondly at the young woman, then sniffed the air. “I have the oddest craving for a mocha latte. Join me?”
Rachel laughed. “Watch out. You might lose your taste for herbal tea! Can I come too, tonight?”
Mrs. Risk looked suddenly disturbed. “I don’t think so, dear. Your friend Harry would probably rather not have any friends nearby.”
Rachel paused, surprised. After a moment, she nodded gravely. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
At 6:30 that evening, Harry arrived at Harrington’s Dock. Over the clustered tables, umbrellas fluttered gaily in the breeze. The last rays of the blushing sun stained the water red as it drooped towards Wyndham Bay and seagulls swooped low, scouting for possible treats. Nearly the whole village had collected there to salute the day’s end.
Mrs. Risk detached herself from a table occupied by two men in conservative suits and beckoned to Harry to join her at the next table over. A bottle of wine and glasses stood waiting.
“What a gorgeous time of day to share with friends,” she exclaimed, and insisted he relax before looking at her coin. They discussed her wine—a Simi Private Reserve Alexander Valley Cabernet that he declared outstanding—ordered a snack, and pondered the weather. Soon he was laughing, and as she watched, the lively man from Randy’s class reappeared. They’d begun their second glass, when a voice from the table behind them became loud and easily overheard. She paused, and so did Harry.
“I’ve drawn up the wills of most of the villagers around, but I’m glad I had nothing to do with that one.” The voice was Bob Blume’s, Mrs. Risk’s friend and attorney. Mrs. Risk wondered if Harry had ever met Bob, who was as popular in the village as his wife, Randy, but Harry gave no sign of recognition. He seemed content to wait until the speakers quieted again so that he and Mrs. Risk could continue their own conversation.
The second man, who was elderly, answered, wheezing loudly, “I just do my job.”
“If you handle her affairs, though,” pressed Bob, “you must know how she underpays this guy, dangling that damned will over his head to keep him in line. It’s abuse, no less. He’s like her slave.” He refilled the older man’s glass.
“If I could tell him, I would. You know that. But it’s not done. Where are the ethics?”
Bob leaned forward and exclaimed, “It’s not ethical to reveal what’s IN a will, but what’s wrong with saying what’s NOT in it, Leon!”
At the word, ‘Leon,’ Harry’s eyes suddenly widened. He listened openly now, his expression uncertain. Mrs. Risk stayed quiet.
“Whattaya mean, what’s not in it?”
“What’s not in it. You could, out of decency and respect for a really fine guy, go to this employee and say, fella, you’re not in the will. I mean, I could say the same thing to every single person for miles around without revealing that the dishonest bitch left every dime she owns to that foul, shriveled up nephew of hers. Right?”
Harry’s wineglass snapped off at the stem in his hand. Without seeming to notice the bright liquid that splashed like spilled blood across the white table, he pulled himself to his feet. His plastic chair tumbled over behind him. A few people glanced up, startled.
The older man considered Bob thoughtfully. “You know, I’m gonna think it over. I am. Might be worth it, givin’ the poor guy a break. I’ll consider it.”
Harry rushed, stiff-legged, from the pier. He didn’t say good-bye to Mrs. Risk, and in his reeling flight seemed to see nothing around him. His eyes burned with a painful light turned inward.
Mrs. Risk sighed. Bob turned to her, his eyes worried. Mrs. Risk patted the back of his hand. “Thank you, darling. I know it was difficult.”
Bob glanced at his colleague, whose nose was buried in his fifth glass of wine and shrugged. “Leon won’t remember a thing tomorrow.” He tossed his napkin on the table. “I’d better drive him home.”
Mrs. Risk nodded. She stayed to see the sun safely tucked away for the night before she walked to her own home.
Throughout the next few weeks, Mrs. Risk kept track of Harry. To her amazement, he didn’t quit his job.
Nothing seemed to have changed except that he suddenly began showing up twice a week at Randy’s instead of just once.
One morning, Rachel called Mrs. Risk. “You won’t believe this! Uncle Harry proposed to Christa at Randy’s last night! You should’ve seen Christa’s face! What’s happened to him in the last month? When Aunt Margeurite finds out, she’ll pop!”
“Which would break your heart, obviously,” said Mrs. Risk dryly. But when she hung up, her expression was grim.
Then came the fire.
Mrs. Risk watched with the others as the Volunteer Fire Brigade tramped through the soggy, still sizzling, blackened site. Uncle Harry had been helped to safety across the street, where he was breathing from an oxygen tank, surrounded with worried friends.
Margeurite, after a bellow of rage at the damage to her property, had theatrically clutched a mammoth breast with both hands. She weaved about drunkenly, stumbling into the paths of the feverishly working firemen. The medics politely took her pulse, then moved her out of the way. Rachel said, frowning, “There hasn’t been a fire here since Uncle Harry came. That has to be…ten years ago?”
Margeurite, miffed that her distress had been unappreciated, began uttering threats against the ‘simp who let this happen,’ meaning Harry. That brought the attention she sought, but not quite the sympathy she desired. Her audience, most of which were Harry’s friends, glowered menacingly.
The fire chief asked Harry how he thought the fire had started.
“Could be somebody dropped a smoldering cigarette into a wastebasket without me noticing, I guess. After all, stamps are dry pieces of paper, and in an old building, it wouldn’t take long—”
“In that gloomy dump, the fire probably caught before you could see the smoke,” consoled Jesus, who ran the nearby shoe and leather repair shop. He was avidly conscientious about flammable materials.
“And if that same person had been smoking in your shop, at first you might think it was leftover smoke you were smelling,” added Rachel.
The fire chief asked, “But who’d smoke in there? You got ‘No Smoking’ signs all over.”
A sheepish expression came over Harry’s face. He didn’t answer.
The thought occurred to Mrs. Risk a half beat before the others. Following her lead, everyone turned to stare at Aunt Margeurite. She paused in the act of lighting a cigarette. “What!” She turned her back on them.
The Fire Chief left to consult with his men. In passing Aunt Margeurite, he snarled a few words about criminal disrepair, fire hazard, reckless endangerment, and an inspection. Aunt Marguerite’s face paled beneath her scabs of face powder.
In the next few weeks, the shop received the attention it should have gotten decades ago and soon it and Harry were both restored to a brighter, fitter ability to conduct business. The damage had been mostly smoke. Insurance covered the inventory loss—a series of rare stamps—and Harry lost his cough.
Mrs. Risk, on hearing that only one group of stamps had perished out of the entire inventory, spent the rest of the afternoon in the coffee shop, musing over an iced cappuccino. At about six p.m., she decided to visit Randy’s studio. Students wouldn’t be arriving for another hour and Randy would be free to talk.
Once there, she asked Randy to show her Harry’s latest group of pots. She examined them closely, then questioned Randy. “Oh, dear,” she muttered as she listened to Randy’s information with dawning awareness.
Immediately Mrs. Risk hurried to Uncle Harry’s apartment. At his door, she answered his surprised look, “Harry, the time has arrived for us to get to know each other better. May I come in?”
Harry gazed at her thoughtfully, then invited her to enter. “Will you join me for coffee? I’m sorry I forgot all about your coin. Did you bring it?”
“Thank you, I’ve had enough coffee for a while. No, I didn’t bring my coin. Frankly, I forgot about the silly thing. I actually came to congratulate you on your recent engagement, rather belatedly, I know.” She entered, then paused, taken aback by the riot of color in Harry’s apartment. “Rachel told me about your green thumb, but I expected nothing like this! You’ve made your home a garden!”
He nodded morosely. “In pots, though.”
“Mostly made by yourself, too, I see. I recognize your style. Beautiful work, dear. Do you have any empty ones I may examine closer?”
“Sure. Here.” He handed three to her, one by one.
“You’ve been productive in these last few weeks.”
He shrugged, then turned to tend the bubbling coffee pot on his hotplate.
She watched while he stirred cream into his cup. His shoulders sagged, and his expression seemed duller than she’d ever seen before. A man engaged to a woman like Christa ought to look happier, she mused.
She put down the three pots he’d handed her, selected one from a nearby table, held it up and said, with a playful note in her voice, “I would very much like to own one of your pots, Harry. This one is exquisite. Could I buy it from you?”
Without looking up he replied, “Don’t be silly. Take it as a gift. You—” he looked up, spotted which pot she held, and paled. “No, not that one. It’s poorly done. I couldn’t let you—”
“Oh, but I insist that I want this one. Although,” she lifted up another from the floor, “this larger one is also lovely. Oh, look. You’ve inserted small decorative plugs where the bottom drainage holes should be. How clever. I suppose I just pop it out if I need the hole to be open?”
“That’s right.” He leaned to seize the pots from her hands, but she withdrew them just out of his reach. Then, with a sigh, she put them down.
He stared at her, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
“You’re right,” she said. “How inappropriate for me to choose my own gift. I’ve forgotten my manners. Which pot would you pick for me?” But before he could answer, she continued, “Are you free tomorrow evening? Rachel and I want you to come to my house for dinner, a small celebration of your coming marriage. I’ve already mentioned it to your delightful Christa, and she’s coming. Bring along whichever pot you choose for me, a memento of our growing friendship, Harry. You see, I think so very much of you, dear. Our village has been richer in all the qualities that matter since you came to live among us.”
Harry sat down suddenly, looking depressed.
She moved towards the door. “And 6:30 would be perfect. Such a lovely time of day in May.”
When Harry pulled his car into the witch’s glade the next evening, he was dismayed to discover that despite his early arrival, Christa, her two small daughters, Rachel, and an older man were there already, seated in old aluminum lawn chairs in the velvety grass fronting the witch’s cottage. The little girls rushed to seize his legs and propel him to a chair. Christa nestled contentedly in the grass close beside him. Although it was clear how much they loved him, he sunk into a deep gloom.
“You already know most of these present,” said Mrs. Risk with a smile, ignoring his misery. She handed him a glass of red wine and in return received from his trembling hands her gift—the pot she’d first selected yesterday evening, although missing the decorative bottom plug. The smaller girl climbed into his lap and nestled there.
“Thank you, Harry. How forgiving of you to give me the exact pot I selected. I shall treasure it.”
Tears welled in Harry’s eyes. “I took away the plug, the—the hole’s empty, but I want to explain…”
Mrs. Risk turned her back on him. “Who’s ready for more wine?” She busily passed around the bottle. “Harry, dear, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, a retired industrialist, Aisa Garrett. He owns, among other things, the North Shore Industries Corporation that occupies part of the bayfront in the village. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”
Harry nodded, but politely, not really interested.
Mrs. Risk patted the back of his hand and continued, “I hope you don’t mind, I don’t normally interfere in people’s lives—”
At this statement, Rachel and Aisa hooted in wild laughter. Christa smiled, but looked puzzled. Harry gazed about in bewilderment.
When they’d subsided, Aisa, still chortling, said, “What she means is, Harry, without interfering in the slightest in either my life or yours, she’s decided my corporation should go into a small sideline business, with a partner who knows what’s what—meaning you.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t follow—”
Christa said firmly, “Just listen to Aisa, Harry.”
Harry blinked at her in astonishment.
“Here’s the deal,” began Aisa, and then he outlined a partnership proposal in a coin and stamp store, with generous terms to Harry, resulting in Harry’s ultimate sole ownership of the store.
After a stunned pause, Harry gasped, “Why?”
“Blamed if I know,” admitted Aisa.
“Are you interested in coins and stamps? Are you a collector?”
“Absolutely not. I fish, as it so happens.”
Rachel beamed. “Which means you’ll be in complete control, Harry.” She picked up a platter of appetizers and began passing them around. “Dinner will be ready in a while. More lemonade, girls?”
Chatter picked up in the small glade. The oak trees towering over them, newly filled out in their spring leaves, rustled and shimmered in the breeze from the nearby Long Island Sound. The setting sun lit the cottage behind them in soft gold. Harry leaned back in his chair, cradled the child with one arm, and sipped his wine. He looked more tense and unhappy than any man had a right to look, surrounded by love and good fortune.
Finally, he put his glass on the polished stump being used as a table. Reaching behind the little girl into his pocket, he pulled out a soft bag that made muted jingling noises. The little girl laughed in delight at the sound.
Everyone looked up and stopped talking.
Harry began, anxiety choking his words, “I can’t go into business with anybody. I’ve made a huge—I’ve done something terrible. Later tonight I’m going to confess to Margeurite. Christa, you can’t marry—”
Mrs. Risk calmly interrupted and pointed over her shoulder at her cottage. “Girls, see the nice black cat sitting in the window? She’s waiting for you to play with her.” The adults paused while the two children rushed to see the cat.
Then Mrs. Risk turned briskly to Harry. “A man of your intelligence—certainly you could find some way to adjust Margeurite’s…inventory in a less self-destructive manner. By the way. How did you accomplish the theft? She’s totally oblivious to their disappearance.”
Harry reddened. “About a month ago—”
Mrs. Risk interrupted again. “After our drink on Harrington’s dock?”
Harry nodded. “The next day. A young man came into the shop. His uncle had died and left him a coin collection.” He jiggled the bag again. “This is that collection. It’s extremely valuable, but he was more interested in stamps, so we traded.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I didn’t record the transaction.”
“Ah. And after a space of time for safety, the fire,” put in Mrs. Risk.
Harry nodded. “The fire. I burned some blank bits of paper. I told everybody they were the stamps which I’d really given the young man, to account for their disappearance. Then I kept—stole—the coins. When I made my flower pots, I made drainage holes in the bottoms slightly larger than the size of each coin. Then I bought some of that clay that air dries without firing. I pressed it on and around the coins in pretty designs, and fitted them into the holes. They just looked like decorative plugs.” He nodded, shamefaced, at Mrs. Risk. “To everybody except her.” He sneaked a look at Christa, who sat listening unperturbed. “I was desperate,” he finished miserably.
Rachel said firmly, “She’d been treating you like a slave all those years, and you were in love.”
“Yes. I—I didn’t think things through. Well, maybe I didn’t want to think. I guess I wanted a little revenge.”
Mrs. Risk examined the shattered man before her and smiled. “Your revenge certainly contained no sting for Margeurite. The insurance company reimbursed her for the stamps.”
He sunk even lower in his chair. “Yes. I didn’t think that through either. I cheated them most of all, and they didn’t even do anything to me.”
Christa rose, kissed him on top of the head, and sat down again. “If anyone can understand about anger and desperation, it’s me.”
Rachel shrugged. “Me, too.”
Aisa grinned. “It’s a common condition, young man. We’ve all been there. So how long will you need to straighten this all out?”
Harry gaped. “What?”
Mrs. Risk prodded. “How long will you need to manipulate things so that the stamps can reappear? The coins, too, of course. Will you need help with a plan?”
Christa leaned forward. “How about if he discovers a misplaced transaction invoice, or something like that? He could say that in the trauma of the fire, he forgot about making the deal. So he’ll ‘realize’ the stamps weren’t burned after all. He can reveal the young man’s name, who can confirm the trade. He can sneak the coins back into the shop easy, right? Then the insurance company can get their money back from Margeurite and she’ll have her coins back in inventory. That would work, wouldn’t it?”
“Christa!” Harry gasped. She laughed.
Mrs. Risk lifted her face to the breeze and sniffed. “Ah. I think our roast chicken beckons. Time to eat.”
When Harry and his new family finally left, Rachel studied Mrs. Risk and Aisa sitting half asleep in their chairs. The glade was lit by a three-quarter moon and all the greens and golds had turned to silver and grey.
“Look at you two sitting there,” she said crossly. “Like grandma and grandpa God.”
Aisa said, “He’s a good investment. Look how well he’s done for that woman over the years.”
“I don’t mean your money. I mean his crime.”
Mrs. Risk smiled, her eyes still shut. “Justice is fickle, seldom does it go where it ought. A little nudge here and there doesn’t hurt. Harry’s a good-hearted man. He needed a little straightening out, that’s all. His conscience would’ve torn him apart, ruining the rest of his life.” She opened her eyes and looked at Rachel. “Admit it. You’re as happy about this whole thing as we are.”
“Humph. Maybe. Well, seems to me real justice would be if Aunt Margeurite got some kind of payback for the way she treated him for so long.”
“Don’t be greedy, dear. Don’t forget the help she gave him when he needed it most.” Mrs. Risk again closed her eyes, but not before Rachel caught a certain gleam.
While Rachel washed dishes, she could be heard whistling. The next day, she asked Aisa what he meant by saying Harry was a good investment.
Soon after Harry and Christa’s June wedding in Mrs. Risk’s glade, Rachel called Mrs. Risk on the phone: “Remember what you said about justice being fickle? I just heard that Aunt Margeurite never told the insurance company about the stamps’ reappearance and the coin trade, can you beat that?”
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Risk. “Cheating is such a bad habit.”
“And she would’ve gotten away with it, too, if somebody hadn’t anonymously tipped off the insurance adjuster. Rumor is, she’s up on charges of fraud!” Rachel crowed with laughter. “Do you think it’s true?”
“Count on me, dear. It’s true.”