The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(39)

At the general store, its massive front windows were papered with flyers for club meetings, recitals, the weekly farmers’ market, a school play. And inside, the building seemed cavernous, with row after row of well-stocked aisles.

Jessie led us to the shoe section, where we searched the shelves for rain boots in Laurel’s size. But we found few children’s boots at all, and none small enough for her.

Jessie called out for assistance, and a big man sorting boxes nearby left his pallet and joined us. I recognized him from the café—Faro LaGow was the customer I’d brought blueberry pancakes by mistake but who graciously took them anyway.

He was muscular and ruddy, with a short graying beard and close-cropped ginger hair. He put me in mind of an old ring fighter.

He grinned at Jessie. “What can I do you for today?”

“We’ll take a pair of rubber boots. For this child here. Something sturdy.”

Faro considered Laurel for a moment. “You’re seven if you’re a day.”

Laurel nodded.

“Not sure we got anything on the floor to fit,” Faro said. “But a shipment’s just come in. First, young lady, why don’t you tell me what sort of boots you had in mind.”

Laurel’s eyes widened. I could tell she was delighted to be consulted, but with an imagination like hers the possibilities were endless. So I answered for her: “Just rain boots. Anything her size.”

Laurel yanked her hand from mine and tossed her head at me. “No!” she said.

Faro leaned low till he was level with her. “I take it you got your own ideas.”

I didn’t like where this was going. Of course Laurel would have ideas, but they would likely be wildly unrealistic. Faro seemed to be needlessly stoking her hopes, inviting disappointment. Just the sort of game Jim liked to play.

Laurel took a moment to consider the options, biting her lip thoughtfully.

“Yellow boots,” she said finally. “With polka dots.”

“What color polka dots?”

This time she didn’t hesitate: “All colors.”

Faro straightened, rubbing his chin with a hand the size of a boy’s baseball mitt. His knuckles were stitched with faint scars. “Well, now, let me go poke through my stock.”

By now I was sure the man was toying with her. Whether he meant it unkindly or not didn’t matter.

“No,” I insisted. “Don’t bother.”

“Worth a look,” he said, and winked. Then he turned on his heel and headed toward the back, disappearing behind an unmarked door.

“Laurel, honey, he’s gone to check,” I said. “That doesn’t mean he has them.”

“If he doesn’t,” she said, “I don’t want any.”

Her young face was pure petulance now, and I only hoped she wouldn’t pitch a fit right there in the aisle when Faro LaGow showed up empty-handed.

While we waited, Jessie wandered off for boxes of salt crackers and roasted coffee beans. She collected a can of boiled linseed oil and a horsehair brush for Olin to refinish his gunstocks.

At last Laurel hissed with excitement. “Here he comes!”

Faro was approaching, his hands hidden behind him. “Well, now, young lady. Will these fit the bill?”

And from behind his back he drew a pair of rain boots: bright yellow, covered in polka dots of every color.

Laurel squealed, snatched the boots up and ran to me. I turned them over, checking for signs of fraud, however well intentioned. But there was no drying paint, no stickers. And they were just the right size: seven.

I stared at Faro in disbelief, and he grinned back.

“These are . . . perfect,” I managed. Then to Laurel, “What do you say, honey?”

“Thank you, Mr. Faro. Can I put ’em on now?”

He looked at me and I nodded. Laurel pulled on the boots and paraded back and forth for us to admire them properly.

I struggled with how to feel about this. The man had either dug up Laurel’s dream boots back in that stockroom through sheer serendipity or had somehow managed to conjure them out of thin air, made-to-order. I lacked the nerve to ask the obvious question: Where on earth had these come from?

Jessie linked her arm through mine. She was gazing at Laurel indulgently, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

We checked out and left with our parcels, returning the same way we’d come, Laurel bounding ahead.