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floated away into his brother’s arms.

When I came downstairs the next day, Derek’s face was bright, like a fire in a fireplace, and yet hidden at the same time, like a fire in a closed-up stove. There was no one about. The Bathburn house was empty except for the two of us sitting at the card table in the parlor.
    “This is to be a secret, Fliss,” said Derek, looking over at me, “but I am going to write to my father. I’m going to invite him over when everyone’s out next week.”
    “But, Derek,” I said, “I don’t think Gideon will like that. Nor will The Gram. They don’t like people coming to the house. And they’re so upset about this. They don’t want to lose you, Derek, because you were not adopted officially.”
    “Never mind about all that,” said Derek. “My father will be coming over. Let’s write a letter to him now.”
    I do love writing letters and straight off I suggested he say, “Dearest Papa, how long it has been since we’ve strolled down the avenue of life.”
    But Derek said, “No, I’d rather just say, Hello, would you like to come for lunch on the point in Bottlebay? Thursday at noon? ”
    “For lunch?” I said.

    “Yes,” said Derek. “We don’t drink tea like you do over there. He’d probably rather have that swell new instant coffee called Nescafé. Everybody loves it.”
    Derek looked pleased as he signed the letter and handed it to me. I stuffed it in an envelope and addressed it, though I did not want to. Still, I bent towards Derek and his wishes.
    We gave the letter to Mr. Henley when he popped round with his mail pouch slung over his shoulder. We were standing on the little porch outside the kitchen. Mr. Henley smiled and looked up at the house, hoping to see Auntie at the window.
    Then Derek said to him, “Are you driving into Portland later today and could we possibly go along?”
    I loved being we with Derek. I suddenly felt like the cat’s pajamas again. Like fancy silk pajamas, pajamas with pizzazz, as they say here.
    “Yes, we should very much like to go along,” I said, jumping up a step and then down a step and back up a step again.
    As soon as I could, I whispered to Derek, “Why are we going to Portland?”
    I didn’t really get an answer from Derek until later when we were in Mr. Henley’s car, riding along in the rain. More gray, gloomy autumn rain. We drove along the rocky coast with the ocean below us cloaked in mist and drifting fog.

    Mr. Henley was breezy at the wheel. He loved his car. And so did Aunt Miami. They were always putting on fancy “duds,” as Derek would say, and driving to Portland to the Rotary Club dances just for the fun of it.
    “I shouldn’t be driving at all now because rubber tires wear out and you can’t get new ones these days. The rubber is all being used by the government for the war. And you know gas is going to be rationed soon but because I am a mailman, I’ll have a C sticker and I will get more ration tickets for gas than some,” said Mr. Henley, smiling. Then he began to recite some of his poems. He was a poet and getting better and better with every poem, Auntie said. But no publishers ever liked them. He could never even get his poems accepted by a magazine.
    Mr. Henley was coming into his third verse of his third poem when I whispered again to Derek, “Why are we going to Portland?”
    “Because I want to see my father before he sees me,” Derek said.
    “Oh,” I whispered. But my heart dropped and sank, like a small pebble tossed into the sea.
    “Have you heard the poem about Portland and the harbor there, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?” said Mr. Henley. “He grew up in Portland, you know.”
    I remember the black wharves and the slips,
    And the sea-tides tossing free;

    And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
    And the beauty and the mystery of the ships,
    And the magic of the sea.
    “Oh, that’s lovely,” I said and then I whispered to Derek, “You mean we are going to the Eastland Park