“You mean Oliver Younger?” asked Everett, as though he was trying to place the name.
“Don’t give me that,” said Allen, picking at the dirt under his thumbnail. “I seen the two of you in here, drinking tea like a pair of old ladies.”
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Everett knew that Oliver wasn’t dull or lacking in ambition. They had talked about his moving out of Dogtown and debated the various ways a fellow might earn a living in Gloucester. He asked, “What makes you think he’s stupid?”
“What’s he doing her bidding for then? That land belongs to him, not her,” Allen said.
“Well, I expect he’ll come into it when Tammy dies.”
“Nah. It’s been his for a while now. I witnessed that will myself. Poked a hole in the paper when I signed.”
“Oliver’s got a legal claim now?” Everett asked.
“So what?” Allen shrugged. “The place is useless.”
“You ever tell him about this?”
“That was for Tammy to do.”
“You figured Tammy would tell him?” exclaimed
Everett, and deciding he could afford to forgo Allen’s trade, added, “And who was it you just called stupid?”
While Oliver licked the last of the marmalade from his fingers, Everett cleared his throat and said, as lightly as he could, “William Allen was in the other day and said he had something for you. Said you should stop by his place.”
“Allen? He’s never given me the time of day.”
“Well, he wants to talk to you now,” Everett said, relieved at the arrival of a customer, who put an end to the conversation.
Oliver pocketed his commission and, with Tammy’s supplies in hand, headed for the Stiles house on High Street.
He wondered what on earth Allen would want him for:
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perhaps he needed an extra pair of hands to pull out a stump or move a boulder.
As he passed the great houses of the city, Oliver’s attention wandered. The bright blue of the harbor blinked in and out of view between clapboards and blossoming bushes. A man on a ladder applied a fresh coat of green paint to some shutters and Oliver was overwhelmed with the desire to give Polly a home as big and elegant as one of these.
Hurrying past the Stiles’s imposing front door, he entered through the kitchen gate and found Polly on a shaded bench, frowning over a snowy napkin. She hated hemming linens, feeling it was beneath her skills. Any ten-year-old child could do it, but if someone was willing to pay top dollar for straight-stitch, she wouldn’t turn it down.
The sight of Oliver’s adoring face lifted her spirits so quickly, she almost felt dizzy. But her happiness was quickly eclipsed by fear when the Stiles’ little dog started yapping.
“Oliver. You shouldn’t have come.”
“I was nearby,” he said. “When should I come back for you?”
“I’m staying the night,” Polly said. “And tomorrow, too, most likely. There is so much to do.” She lowered her voice.