Lightning That Lingers Read Online Free PDF Page B

group—saints, all of them—but I’ve got a two-hour slot on Saturday that—let me see …” The stack clutched in her arms teetered, threatening an avalanche as she excavated her clipboard and gazed myopically at the top page and then said, “My glasses! Don’t tell me I’ve mislaid—”
    “They’re on the top of your head, Eleanor.”
    “Oh yes”—retrieving them—“thank you. Are you busy on Saturday afternoon from one to three?”
    “No. That’ll be great,” Jennifer agreed, imagining a few pleasant hours spent painting posters or making telephone calls. She was more than a little unsettled ten minutes later when Annette stopped by her desk to hand her the latest
Publisher’s Weekly
, and said, “Be busy Saturday afternoon. Eleanor may try to con you into donating an hour toward the fund drive.”
    “I’ve already signed up for two hours. Why not?”
    “Oh, how they prey on the young and innocent,” Annette said dryly, gazing skyward. “Kid, make it a resolution never to volunteer for anything again until you’ve found out what it is.”
    • • •
    Saturday afternoon at two o’clock Jennifer stood, an icicle, in front of a small boutique on the corner of Emerald Lake’s busy shopping thoroughfare.
    A top hat teetered on her head, threatening to envelop her eyebrows, and over two layers of thermal underclothes, she wore a sober-hued frock coat, a high collar and starched cravat, a long waistcoat, and woolen trousers that were rolled up at the cuff to keep them from dragging on the icy street. The Lincoln motif.
    On one side of her was a rather optimistically large papier-mâché log cabin with a slot in the roof for contributions. When someone tossed in a donation, she was supposed to pull a string that was rigged to release a puff of dry ice smoke from the tin chimney. On her other side, on a stand, was an old schoolbell that Eleanor had painted with a crack and the words “Let Freedom Ring.” She was supposed to ring the bell to attract attention, which was not something she had any great desire to do despite her determination to be a good sport. The bell’s toll in the frigid sunlit air was sharp and loud and she hardly would have been surprised if they could hear it all the way to Philadelphia.
    She was squinting up into a cold bright sun when a snowball came spinning past her head and disintegrated against the brick wall behind her. She ducked, but a second missile carried off her top hat. Her short hair swirled in an icy gust of wind as she swung around looking for her attacker. A little crew of children peeked, giggling, around the corner of the bank three doors down, their eyes glowing above scarves, below stocking caps.
    “Darn it all!” Irritation warred with a strong desire to laugh. “So. Munchkins.” She bent to pick up her hat, dusting off the snow, and the small faces disappeared, probably manufacturing more ammo. A smile blossomed as she swept up a handful of snow and packed it good. She tossed it discreetly up and down behind her back until she saw the line-up of small faces peer cautiously out. She took three running steps toward them. The children scattered, shrieking excitedly as she let fly with her snowball.
    It never came within ten feet of them. Instead it whacked full force into the sleeve of an expensive suede jacket on one of two men who had chosen this particularly bad moment to emerge from the bank. Dismayed, she began to call out, “I beg your pardon!”
    The words perished in her throat. Beneath the suede jacket were the magnificent shoulders and narrow waist that she had last seen as Peter the Policeman. Dark snapping eyes behind leather-trimmed aviator glasses were glaring at her. At his side, not quite as tall, but infinitely more graceful in a light cream-colored cotton parka and heather gray wool pants that were cut more for comfort than to show off the exquisite contours underneath, was the man whose image could control the rhythm of her