Elaine smiled. "Point taken. Come have dinner at our place sometime, Nolan says you eat too much cafe food."
"I'll take you up on that. G'night, Elaine. Goodnight, Low Ferry," I added loudly, and several people turned back to their dinners without a hint of shame in their faces.
***
Jacob came to pick up his father's rebound copy of the Farmer's Guide four days later, when the glue was barely dry on the binding. He came at a decent hour this time, after his deliveries, and loitered for a while.
"Hear you had dinner with the new boy," he said, while I signed for a package delivery and set the small box aside.
"I invited myself," I replied. "I've since eaten lunch with Charles and made plans to have dinner tomorrow night with Elaine's brood."
"Grumpy," Jacob grinned. "Didn't mean anything by it, Christopher. Just curious like everyone."
"Yes, well – hey! Hey!" I said, as several children raced into the shop, bringing a breeze and a flurry of dead leaves with them. "Backpacks by the counter! I see you, Culligan, don't think I won't tell your father if you don't listen to me."
Jacob chuckled as the children trooped back to the counter and dropped their bags, digging in them for grubby notebooks and shucking their coats and hats on top. I went to the workbench to retrieve the Farmer's Guide and presented it to him while the children flocked around the comics rack. He smoothed a callused hand over the embossed leather admiringly.
"Looks brand new," he said, opening it. "Dad'll think I threw his old one out till he sees the family page. How'd you do it?"
"A lot of paste," I said. "Careful, the cover's still curing. Let me wrap it up for you."
"Sure all I owe you's some cheese?" he asked, as I carefully tied the book up in brown paper and twine.
"It's really really good cheese," I repeated.
"Got myself a bargain, then. Thanks," he said, holding up the paper-wrapped book. "See ya round, Christopher."
I turned around to watch the children, who were still arguing by the comic books, though most of them would probably settle down in a little while and start at least pretending to do their homework. Some were avoiding chores at home, and others had parents who worked late and wanted them under a watchful eye, so they spent plenty of afternoons in the store. I didn't mind – they amused themselves, worked, scuffled a little when they thought I couldn't see, and their parents were loyal customers. It got the kids in out of the cold and kept them out of trouble and that was what counted.
The boy was there that day too, though he wasn't always. I guessed he was from one of the far outlying farms where at twelve he would already be considered a paid farmhand, doing any odd jobs his parents couldn't, and probably wanted to put them off as long as possible. I hoped he had started his tutoring with Lucas, since it seemed like it would be good for both of them. Farmers are friendly but quiet, and I thought Lucas would fit comfortably with people who didn't see the need to talk much.
When most of the kids were finally ready to leave, he seemed to hang back – stood behind the others, paid last, and insisted on going over the "book" I'd been keeping of his credit, checking the deductions for comic books against the amount I would have been charged for the firewood. By the time he'd satisfied himself most of his friends were already in their coats, hopping up and down impatiently by the door.
"Come on, come on!" one of them ordered, as the boy placidly signed off on the new deduction and packed his new comic books away into his bag.
"Are you coming or not?" another yelled.
"Keep your pants on! This is business."
"He's waiting for his boyfriend," one girl announced.
"You want to go? Go," I said. "Go on, shoo, there's no teasing in my shop."
"Doesn't matter," the boy said. "They were only playing."
"So who are you waiting for?" I asked, leaning on the counter.
"Lucas, duh," he said. "They're just jealous. He's really cool. Have you seen him?"
"Not today, but he ought to be here soon if he's coming at all," I answered. The boy's face brightened. "Have you started your tutoring with him?"
"Twice a week. Done two already. He said he'd meet me here today."
"Enjoying it?"
He gave me an oddly mature look – one I've wondered about many times since – and said, "Well...some of it's confusing."
"Such as?"
"History." He set his bag down and leaned against my counter, hands shoved in his pockets. "See, Mr. Blake – he's my history teacher – "
"I know," I said. "He likes model trains. He buys books on electrical engineering sometimes."
"Yeah, him. He says you have to learn the dates and the names and things, and then you know History."
It wasn't an unusual sentiment in preadolescent history classes, especially out in the country. I didn't like Blake, but it wasn't good to meddle in the boy's opinion of him. He still had to learn from him, after all.
"And Lucas disagrees?" I asked.
"He says History is always happening," the boy complained. "And you can't really know anything about an Event until you know why it happened, which is a bunch of other Events. It makes my head hurt."
"Good," said a new voice. Lucas, who must have passed the rest of the boy's classmates on his way up the walk, was standing in the doorway. Now he stepped inside and shut the glass door behind him. "Shows you're using it."
"Hi," the boy said.
"Not giving away my secrets, are you?" Lucas asked. The boy shook his head. "Hi, Christopher."
"Hi, Lucas," I said. "We were just talking about your tutoring. How's the roof?"
"Sealed and holding," he replied, eyes straying over the displays before he moved to his favorite defensive position, behind the cookbooks. From there he could see the doorway and out through the window, but nobody in the shop could see him unless they sat in the chairs at the front. I resumed my conversation with the boy, who had settled in a chair and was watching Lucas while trying to pretend like he wasn't.