The Master of Happy Endings Read Online Free PDF Page B

once witnessed the surprised laughter of a woman realizing the pink silk dress she’d just decided to take home was the one she’d deposited here herself. Another young woman recognized a turtleneck sweater she’d given as a present to a friend. “It’s the last gift she’ll ever get from me! I’ll just give it to myself.”
    The volunteers who supervised the place occasionally viewed him with suspicion. Since the concept of shoplifting was irrelevant here, this could only mean that Lisa Svetic had told them about his letters—perhaps even that he’d advertised for a mail-order bride. If so, they saved their laughter until he was no longer there to hear it.
    It was probably one of these volunteers who’d mentioned an “old-folks home” within the maestro’s hearing—possibly Gwendolyn Something. He’d been told this attractive mother of six young daughters took turns with another woman, living in a motel across the strait so their offspring could get the education they could not get here. Gwendolyn Something was, according to Lisa Svetic, a calming influence in that motel life. “As placid as Elsie the Cow. You couldn’t stir her into a panic if you set a hive of wasps loose under her skirt.”
    The easygoing nature of this woman in full skirts might explain the fact that all six of her daughters had different fathers. All were named after local flora: Ladyslipper, Rosy Pussytoes, Spring-gold, Fireweed, Solomon’s-seal (which of course should have been “False Solomon’s-seal”). The sixth was, Lisa Svetic had told him, Hooker’s Willow. What could the future hold for a girl named Hooker’s Willow? You had to hope the woman didn’t intend to exhaust the catalogue of local flowers. Skunk cabbage bloomed in swampy ditches every spring! And hairy arnica could be found beside his trail through the woods. Of course, if you had to be named for a flower there could be some pleasure in answering to Hairy Arnica.
    He was aware that she and her girls were in the habit of moving now and then into one or another of the island’s abandoned houses or trailers, a form of expropriation that was not uncommon here. Someone else’s roof could be sturdier than your own, a wallpaper pattern more attractive, a wood stove in better shape. He supposed that for Gwendolyn Something, changing houses was not too different from changing partners, allowing each of her girls to have both a roof and an unidentified father to call her own.
    One morning while he was examining a pair of cast-off gaucho boots with elaborate patterns tooled into the leather, Gwendolyn snapped out of her reverie when Bo Hammond came in carrying a heavy cardboard carton against his chest. He nodded and crouched to place the carton against the nearest wall.
    Then, noticing Thorstad amongst the second-hand boots, he sat on the box and rested his elbows on his knees. “So, Axelmy-man. You planning to donate your stubborn cello to this tidy pavilion of junk?”
    Startled, Thorstad was quick to reject the notion. “You think I’d give up so easily? I’ve a little patience left and even a bit of hope.”
    Hammond’s grin was a white gash in his dark whiskers. “I’ll take ’er off your hands if you want—haul ’er out in the strait and give ’er a proper burial. If I fill ’er with rocks she’ll sink to the bottom and stay there.” He opened his eyes too wide and rubbed a palm over his jaw as though seriously awaiting permission.
    â€œYou’d probably do the same with annoying old men! My cello may be stubborn and forgetful but it isn’t dead.”
    Hammond laughed and stood up, and nodded to Gwendolyn Something. Then, before leaving, he cupped a hand beneath Axel Thorstad’s elbow. “Help yourself if there’s anything you want in that box.”
    The box, Thorstad saw, was filled with books. He