AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He nodded ruefully. “But that’s the beauty of laying hens—they make more. In fact, I’ll bet if you check again this evening, you’ll find more than enough for breakfast.” He peered at me, and I couldn’t imagine how bad I must look. “That was quite a fall—are you sure you’re okay?”
I nodded.
He leaned over to retrieve my empty basket, then handed it to me. “Hey, I saw you yesterday at the parade.”
“I know,” was the most non-committal thing I could think of to say.
He scratched his temple. “Okay… guess I’ll be going.” He began walking back to his black pickup. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Josephine.”
I balked. “How do you know my name?”
“Because,” he called, “you told Kelly Brown and Kelly told Dilbert Newberg and Dilbert told Shane Rhondell, and Shane told me.”
He climbed in his truck, then gave a wave and drove off.
I frowned after him until his truck was gone, then suddenly I frowned harder.
Why did he think he’d see me tomorrow?
July 6, Saturday
I WAS getting better at the egg-collecting. Sawyer was right—I’d found four fresh eggs when I’d checked again yesterday and three this morning. I’d used a broom to shoo Butterscotch from her nest before raiding it, and I managed not to crack them. And I was fascinated by the colors of the shells—some were light brown, some were more of a peach color and a couple were the most beautiful shade of pale green. I was on my way back to the house with my bounty when Sawyer’s black truck rambled by in the direction of the cemetery. I surmised he must have family plots in the graveyard to spend so much time there.
The idea of a graveyard intrigued me—spending time where loved ones were buried. My family members who had passed had been cremated and their ashes either interred at imposing and impersonal mausoleums or scattered someplace unknown to me. The idea of visiting a grave seemed so much more personal… but also an obligation.
I went inside and scrambled a couple of the fresh eggs, feeling absurdly proud. And I now knew the pastel colors of the shells came from eating grass and bugs, and the bright orange yolks came from a diet of marigolds.
After breakfast I went up to my bedroom with a big mug of coffee, intent on finally getting some pages written on my novel. But when I sat down at my desk, I spent an inordinate amount of time rearranging files on my laptop and avoiding reading the synopsis I’d written for the story that despite a contract and a deadline and countless emails from readers clamoring for the next book in my Skirts Regency romance series, I couldn’t seem to get motivated to write. After a couple of hours of mentally moving food around on my plate, I migrated to the window and picked up the binoculars I’d left on the sill. I gave the horizon a cursory glance, registering the incredible lushness of this place before sliding my gaze toward the Whisper Graveyard.
It was easy to spot Sawyer because he was the only living thing moving among the headstones. In fact, he seemed focused on one headstone in particular—a monolith of pale stone. While I wondered if he was cleaning the grave or maybe decorating it, he reached for something on the ground, then raised it overhead.
I gasped—a sledgehammer?
He swung the hammer down and made contact with the stone, then lifted it again for another blow. I panicked—was he some kind of maniac who destroyed headstones for kicks?
I dropped the binoculars and jogged downstairs and out of the house. My bicycle was parked on the porch. I jumped on it and rode to the cemetery, not sure what I’d do when I got there. I wasn’t equipped to deal with a hammer-wielding vandal. At the open gate, I hopped off my bike and leaned it against the gate post, then hurried over to where Sawyer was preparing to strike the headstone again.
“Hey!”
He stopped mid-swing and lowered the hammer to the ground. “Hey.”
“If you don’t stop what you’re doing, I’ll…” My mind raced, then I lifted my chin. “I’ll call the police.”
One of his eyebrows raised slightly. “Irving doesn’t have police. The city council decided years ago to contract law enforcement out to the Birmingham.” Then he smiled. “Besides, I don’t think the Birmingham police department cares about my little hobby.”
“Vandalizing?”
“Repairing old headstones.”
My mouth rounded. “Oh?”
“I’m a stone mason. On weekends I repair old headstones.” He gestured to the monolith marker he’d struck with the sledgehammer. “The base is broken on this one, so I have to remove the main stone to get to it, and some of these old beauties are hard to budge.”
I was nodding. “So you’re… not a vandal?”
“Nope. Kinda the opposite of that.”
I was still nodding. “Oh. Well… carry on.”
