Mr. Rush winked, but shook his head and grumbled.
“What? You’re denying you’re a prince among men? Baloney, I say!” she cried out, laughing when Mr. Rush shook his finger at her. “Don’t try to deny it. You know how awesome you are. We all do. Speaking of ‘we’, are you really okay with selling the building?”
At first she hadn’t planned to broach the subject at all, thinking maybe it was better to let Mr. Rush alone, but this niggle she had wouldn’t let her be. This twist in her stomach, this strange foreboding all still bugged the hell out of her when she recollected her conversation with Arnie Banks.
But upon her question, Mr. Rush sat up in his wheelchair, rigid and tense. His papery-thin skin went pale but for the two bright spots of crimson on his cheeks.
That swell of nausea assaulted her again, making her grip her stomach just as Rick came out of the building with two cups of steaming tea in his hand.
But now, seeing the faraway look in Mr. Rush’s eye, she couldn’t just let this go, and she had to make it fast before Rick was within hearing distance. “Mr. Rush? Nod if you’re really okay with selling the building. If Rick pressured you or harassed you at all, tell me. Please. I can’t help but find it so curious everyone just agreed to this. So give me a sign, any sign, and I’ll see to it they stop the demolition.”
Mr. Rush looked right through her, but he didn’t budge, frightening her.
Her heart began a steady thrum of panic as she stared back at him, considering going to get a nurse. “Mr. Rush? Can you nod yes or no? Are you okay with the sale of the building? Once for yes, twice for no.”
His nod happened with a slow downward descent of his head, but what Poppy couldn’t get past was the dead look in his eyes. It was as though someone had come along and literally erased all emotion from them.
“I have tea, milady,” Rick said as he approached, a smile on his face. He held up the cup before passing one to Mr. Rush, helping him wrap his fingers around the Styrofoam before passing hers over.
She watched Mr. Rush over the rim of her cup. Watched how he watched Rick with admiration. So she let go of her crazy notion Rick had anything to do with pressuring the man to sell Littleton.
Holding up her cup, she clinked it with Mr. Rush’s. “Here’s to Littleton. Long may she live in our hearts and memories!”
The moment the words fell from her mouth was the moment Mr. Rush appeared to return to their conversation, as though someone had beamed him back up. His shaky hand pressed his cup against hers in return, the amber liquid of the tea sloshing along the side.
As Rick helped him steady the cup and sip his tea, Poppy’s anxiety grew in leaps and bounds. That ugly feeling that something was so wrong plagued her.
As Rick chatted amicably with Mr. Rush, Poppy observed, hoping to find something, any little hint, anything of any substance to lend this crazy, unexplainable fear.
She was on to something. It burrowed in her bones. She felt it. Knew it. She just didn’t know what that something was.
By hell, she’d find it though.
She’d find it.
A fire blazed in the shed’s fireplace, crackling and warm, the blue and purple embers spiking and spitting.
Calamity sat on the white stone hearth, curled up, her eyes closed, purring her contentment. After another phenomenal dinner, Carl, Arch and the girls all sat around the tiny kitchen island playing cards.
During dinner, she’d thought long and hard about Mr. Rush and the bizarre way he’d reacted to her questions about selling Littleton, and she’d continued to come up dry. But the worry for him and her neighbors remained, and she couldn’t shake the feeling.
To take her mind off things, Poppy decided to dig into the Big Book of Rick, dropped ceremoniously in the pile of trash the first night they’d met.
“Mind if I sit with you?” Rick asked as she tucked her legs under her on the couch.
“Sure,” she said absently, sliding to the other side of the cushions so he wouldn’t end up too close.
His nearness made her giddy, maybe even downright swoony, and it would only take a toll on their relationship. She only had a little time left to prove to him she could work in his life, and she was determined to do such without muddying the waters with romantic notions.
But he leaned in and tapped the wad of papers she was reading, strung together with, of all things, punched holes and twine. “What’s this, Miss McGuillicuddy?” he asked, his lips much too close to her ear.
Poppy kept her eyes on the stack of papers. “Homework.”
“For?”
Tapping the papers, she looked up to find him studying her intently. “It’s the big book of you.”
“Me?” he gasped in mock outrage.
“Uh-huh. From Familiar Central. Calamity says they send one for every new familiar. Sort of a getting-to-know-you manual. I’m only just now getting a chance to read it. It’s supposed to unlock all your secrets,” she teased.