Assumptions Read Online Free PDF

into the
courtyard. Maybe they can tidy up.”
    Jordyn Quig was no longer a nobody standing
outside on a clear fall day.

     
    CHAPTER SIX: LEAVING
     
    Timothy Stillman savored one last bite of
apple pecan pie. He scraped a stray crumb off his thick white
plate, laid the fork on top, and pushed the empty dish toward the
business side of the lunch counter. He took a long, slow sip from
his oversized cup of black coffee. The mid-day rush had waned and
only he, a waitress named Sadie, and the cook remained in Twila’s
Diner, Provident's best and only sit-down restaurant.
    “That be all, Mr. Stillman?” asked Sadie.
    “Top off my coffee, would you, please?” The
waitress re-filled the heavy mug. “Thanks, Sadie.”
    “We’ve gotten used to having you around. Too
bad you have to leave us.”
    “It’s time. My work’s done.”
    “You know she thought the world of you."
    “Not sure why,” Stillman wondered aloud.
    “She had good reason,” Sadie replied
confidently with a half-wink. “Did you see the paper this morning?”
She tilted her head toward the disheveled pile of newsprint at the
far end of the counter.
    Stillman shook his head.
    Sadie frowned. “Ran her obit.”
    “Guess it’s finally official then.”
    “Wrote it herself . . . as a column.”
    “I didn’t know her very long, but that sounds
about right.”
    Sadie gathered up the paper and shuffled
through until she found the right page. “Paper staff put together a
photo essay, too.” She folded it in half and then in half again and
handed it to Stillman. “Here.” She pointed to a column in the upper
left corner entitled 101 Things You Can Do With Hairspray by
Dorothea Whitford, who, based on her headshot, used plenty of the
stuff. Her stout black beehive evoked more helmet than hair.
    The column filled only a few inches.
     
    My Dear Friends,
    If you are reading this, I most certainly
have met my untimely demise. No hard feelings. Though, I must
confess, I will truly miss Twila’s apple pecan pie.
     
    Stillman glanced at his empty plate. The
corner of his lip curled into a knowing smirk.
     
    Not for long-winded goodbyes, I will do my
best to keep this short. No laughing, now.
    On January 15th, I rolled into this town in a
rust bucket hatchback. It would not have been memorable to me or
anyone else except for the fact that it was the coldest day on
record. I stopped at Twila's for a bite on my way to the
dilapidated farmhouse I would soon call home. I returned to my car
to find every door frozen stiff. Not sure who noticed first, but
within minutes, half a dozen of you were standing out in that cold
with me, cans of deicer and hairdryers on extension cords in
hand.
    We are rarely surprised when those close to
us rise above our expectations and lay themselves down for us
without hesitation. But, it's the mundane, like opening a door for
a stranger, that reveals the divine in each of us.
    I must say, earthly life was magnificent.
But, with God's grace, I've landed somewhere nice. Wherever I am, I
hope there are friends like you and, of course, a big slice of
apple pecan with my name on it.
     
    Stillman unfolded the paper, lingering on
each of the photos filling the rest of the page.
    Dorothea Whitford was not an exceptionally
large woman, but because of the way she wore her clothes she looked
as if she were made of bubbles, one stacked slightly askew on the
next. Time had faded the freshness of her youth, but she struck
everyone she met as an unusually handsome woman, though they could
never put their finger on just why.
    "Did you see this one, Sadie?" Stillman
pointed to a picture of a sixty-ish woman, Santa hat squeezed onto
her hairdo, handing out overstuffed Christmas stockings to grinning
and wide-eyed children.
    "Those kids were thrilled. Oh, look at this
one.” Sadie pointed to a picture of the woman, shovel in hand, dirt
smudged across her forehead. “That was two summers ago at the
groundbreaking for the library addition." Sadie