“Storm tonight,” were the first words out of Harry’s mouth as he turned off my hose, rolled it into a coil, and stored it under the faucet. “Still, we’re going fishing in the morning, Emily. ’Less it’s raining hard.”

I stood in among my canna lilies, surrounded by phlox and hostas. Jackson stood beside me, hands crossed at his crotch, one finger impatiently tapping the other hand as he waited for Harry to leave.

“Probably not tomorrow,” he said to Harry. “I’ve got a job lined up for Emily. The appointment with the gentleman is for tomorrow afternoon.”

Harry shook his head and leaned back stretching his neck to look up at the darkening sky, as if for patience. “Tomorrow’s when I’m going, if she wants to come along. Guess you’ll just have to choose, Emily.” Harry smiled one of his rare, tight smiles.

Jackson leaned back on the heels of his very expensive deck shoes and laughed. “I’m afraid she really has no choice. The man who wants to employ her isn’t the patient sort. I don’t think …”

I looked from one to the other of my bristling bantam roosters and put up a hand.

“I’m going fishing with you, Harry. That’s just what I need. This other thing might not come through, but a jar of fish is a jar of fish.”

“You’re kidding.” Jackson gave me a disbelieving look.

I shook my head. “Please set it up for the day after tomorrow. Just explain that I had a previous engagement.”

“Maybe I should tell him you’re too busy and don’t need the money …”

“Don’t be a jerk. I promised Harry I’d go fishing with him. He’s going to teach me to can fish for next winter. I’m not turning my back on him just ’cause something else came along.”

“Well … well …”

“If your man needs my help, I’m sure he can wait.”

Jack shrugged and gave up. “I left a few of my chapters inside.” He motioned toward the house. “On the counter. Whenever you can get to them … maybe this weekend?”

I made a face at him. “I’ll call. And I’ll get you a bill.”

He closed his eyes and threw his head back as if pleading for patience from some place outside of him. He turned and walked to his car.

“You seem out of sorts,” Harry commented after Jack was gone. “Heard about that dead woman over to Old Farm Road. And a dog too, eh? I got an idea about that. Don’t like to say too much.”

He gave me a smile—this one with a bit of a gleam to his eye—and walked off the other way, around my fading vegetable garden and toward the drive and his home. He stopped once to call back at me, “See you at six-thirty a.m. You be ready. Take your car, if that’s all right. Otherwise that friend of yours’ll be chasing me ’cause I got no license on mine. And we got no fishing licenses either, so I’ll pick the spot where we go in. That all right with you?” He frowned and added, “Unless it rains. I ain’t standing in water with water coming down on my head.”

I nodded—if it rained I was not going to get my fish and I wouldn’t get the job either. I hadn’t thought about licenses—cars or fishing. If we got caught I could be fined. My name would be in the newspaper.

I sighed. That’s the chance you take when you’ve got a friend like Harry Mockerman. The rest—well—like Scarlett, I’d think about that tomorrow.

For the next few hours I picked tent worm cocoons off my house, my tool bench, my work gloves, and the statue of a little girl holding a rose behind her back that I’d brought with me from Ann Arbor. The cocoons were everywhere—this next stage of the awful creatures’ life cycle. I poked them, peeled them from where they had been stuck on, and dropped them into the can of gasoline I carried around the garden with me. I thought about Dolly and this situation she’d gotten herself into and had now dropped in my lap. Then I thought about Jackson. When the can was filled with cocoons, I threw a match in, lighting the gas. I watched them burn with deep and evil pleasure.

_____

When it was almost dark I called Sorrow from a foxhole he had his nose stuck into and went inside to find my message light blinking. Couldn’t be Dolly—I didn’t expect to hear from her for a while. Maybe Bill, with an assignment. Maybe one of the magazine editors. I could use the money in case this book editing thing didn’t come through. I needed some new jeans without holes at the knees and back pockets. If I didn’t cut back on the mashed potatoes at EATS I was going to move up to a bigger size. That’s what I was thinking about as I pushed the play button: a bigger behind.

A woman’s voice said, “Emily, this is Madeleine Clark. I finished going over your material and love your changes. The novel works beautifully now—those poor elderly women. Awful thing that they couldn’t be left alone to enjoy their small pleasures out in the woods. Could you please call me? We’ve got to talk before I begin sending the book out …”

There was a slight hesitation as if she waited for me to pick up, then a sigh and the phone went dead.

I took a deep breath, holding on to the edge of the desk, gulping a couple of times. Madeleine Clark wanted to represent me. I had an agent. What did she want to talk about? Probably if I had any thoughts about publishers. Maybe if I had any thoughts of a second book. I’d heard that always got a publisher’s attention.

I dialed the number she’d left. A woman, who must have been Madeleine Clark’s assistant, said Ms. Clark was gone for the day. I left my name and promised to call in the morning. I hung up and took a deep breath.

Tomorrow then. Early. What time did agents get into their offices? No earlier than ten, I was certain.

Okay. So ten o’clock.

Oh, no! I’m fishing in the morning.

Okay, okay, okay—when we get back.

Well, after we can the fish. Then. Shouldn’t be too late.

She’ll think I’m not excited, that I’m not a professional writer.

Oh no, she’ll probably want to scrap the whole thing.

Okay. Right after fishing, before we start canning.

I’ll call her then.

Maybe we won’t catch any fish and I won’t have to worry about canning.

I’ll starve next winter.

Yuck. I probably wouldn’t eat canned fish anyway.

I heard the roll of thunder off to the west. From the sound of it, the storm was close. I smiled. It was like someone clapping for me, or a cheer from heaven, or fireworks to celebrate.

All I had was my no-longer-frozen turkey dinner to microwave. A glass of wine. A couple of extra Milk Bones for Sorrow.

A grand celebration for my dog and me.

Until the electricity went off, thunder shook the house, lightning scored the sky like crazy strobe lights, and Sorrow and I went off to sit in the bathtub until it was over.