Finding My Own Way by Peggy Dymond Leavey Read Free Book Online

by the smell of him, had found a dead fish to roll in, and I put him back outside with the other sandwich while I readied myself to go to town.
    After securing the new lock on the back door I set off, sending Ernie back home when we got as far as the corner. Mr. Chips, the dog we had before Ernie, used tofollow us right into town and lie down on the sidewalk outside the shops to wait. But the streets in Pinkney Corners were busier now.
    A sprinkler was circulating a shower of water on the Paceys’ front lawn. Since my last visit they had installed green and white striped awnings on the upstairs windows. Fern Pacey, Margaret’s mother, was watering the geraniums in the boxes that hung from the porch railings. She watched me come up the walk. “Well, there you are, Libby!” she cried. “I was wondering what day you’d show up. Come right on up here and let me get a look at you.”
    â€œIs Margaret home?” I managed to ask before Mrs. Pacey released me from an unexpected embrace. You never knew what sort of a greeting you’d get from Margaret’s mother.
    Mrs. Pacey made a little face and stepped back, retrieving the watering can from the glass-topped table. “Unfortunately, no. She found herself a real job this summer, at an inn in Muskoka. Three girls from the school got hired. She was so proud of herself, no more working for peanuts at Savaway. But she did get your letter, dear, the day she was leaving. She knew you were returning, so I’m sure she’ll be writing to you.”
    â€œYou mean she’s gone for the whole summer?”
    â€œI’m afraid so. And did she tell you she’s going to Business College in Belleville in the fall?” She hadn’t, and it hurt a little to think that Margaret had made important decisions without me.
    Patting the seat beside her on the swing, Fern Pacey insisted she wanted to hear all about what I’d been doingin the city, but she kept glancing at her watch while I talked. “And your aunt, dear,” she asked politely. “How’s she keeping?”
    I had always had the impression that Mrs. Pacey disapproved of Irene. “Irene’s fine,” I said. “She works very hard. I had a hard time persuading her to let me come home. She’s got so many people checking on me that I feel like I’m a side-show, or something.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear that.” Mrs. Pacey wrinkled her delicate nose. “I have to tell you, dear, that I was a little nonplussed when I heard your aunt was letting you come back here by yourself. But it is only temporary, isn’t it? Irene was always so unconventional.”
    I didn’t stay for lemonade. Much as I loved Margaret, I always thought there was something forced about her mother, with her sudden, over-exuberant affection. I was always on the lookout for the veiled criticism that could follow.
    It was in Grade Two that Margaret stood up in class and announced that her mother had won the 1948 Pinkney Corners Citizen of the Year award. “That’s wonderful, dear,” Miss Dempster had smiled, fingering her pearls. “You have every right to feel proud of her.”
    â€œMy aunt’s a famous ballerina,” I informed Margaret at recess the same day.
    My friend frowned. “What’s her name, then?”
    â€œIrene Eaton.”
    â€œHow come I’ve never heard of her, if she’s so famous?”
    â€œOh, she dances in the city, with the Ballet Company. In Toronto. Gives lessons too.”
    â€œI think it would be wonderful to have someone
that
famous in the family,” Margaret admitted. “You’re very lucky, Libby.”
    I felt vindicated, and I lent Margaret my best cat’s eye for the rest of the afternoon.
    In spite of Irene’s so-called fame, it was my mother’s writing talent that most impressed my best friend. When we were ten, Margaret discovered that my mother and Alexandra