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

Quincy-Newton were the same person. We were collecting the mail from our box out by the road, a novelty for Margaret, whose mail arrived at the drugstore and was brought home by her father. “Let me do it,” Margaret begged, inserting her arm into the back of the rusted metal box. “Who’s this for?” she asked as she read the name on one of the envelopes.
    â€œFor Alex,” I said, looking over her shoulder. “That’s her pseudonym.”
    â€œAlex’s what?” Margaret demanded.
    â€œHer nom-de-plume. Her pen name. It’s part of her contract. She has to call herself something other than her real name when she writes the novels. Those adventure stories she writes for girls?”
    â€œAlexandra Quincy-Newton is your
mother
? Your
mother
writes those Laura Hill books?” Margaret shrieked. “I adore those books! Does Miss Dempster know?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” I replied. “Probably not.” Why would anyone connect my mother to someone named Alexandra Quincy-Newton?
    â€œWow,” breathed Margaret. “You said she was a writer, and my mother said she just worked for the newspaper. But books, even!”
    I remember how Alex would complain that the adventure series kept her from any “real writing”. She said she had a bigger project in mind. But the series provided a cheque she could count on every time she completed one of them; and by that time, the outline for the next would have arrived in the mail.
    I shrugged off Margaret’s excitement. Alex was, after all, just my mother

    â€œAdmit it,” I told myself as I left the Pacey home on that first day back in Pinkney Corners, promising Margaret’s mother “not to be a stranger”. “Weren’t you really hoping to see Michael while you were there?” Forget that I had planned to unburden my soul to my oldest and dearest friend, it was the thought of seeing Michael that had made my pulse race a little more quickly.
    In the centre of town, Admiral’s Grocery had hamburger on sale, three pounds for a dollar. But it was to Dooley’s Delicatessen next door that I headed. Michael Pacey had been working there on weekends the last time I had seen him.
    I couldn’t afford to shop there, but they couldn’t stop me from looking. I picked up a wire basket from the stack inside the door and wandered up and down its two aisles, examining little boxes of fancy crackers, foil-wrapped cheese and chocolates. The man busy shaving ham at the meat-slicer was not Michael, and when another customer came in asking for half a pound of liver sausage, I left without buying a thing.
    Ernie, my truest friend, was glad to see me when I arrived home with my shopping bags. From the enthusiastic gnawing he gave the soup bone I’d gotten free from the butcher, I knew he agreed I’d shopped wisely. Seeing some fresh food in the fridge and some tins in the cupboard gave me a similar feeling of satisfaction.
    That afternoon Ernie and I walked up to the McIntyres’ to buy some milk. I had another reason for wanting to see them, a favour to ask. “If my Aunt Irene decides to phone, please don’t tell her about the break-in,” I suggested. “Do you mind? It would just worry her. I’ve been to see Mrs. Pacey, my friend’s mother, to let her know that I’ve arrived. You can tell Irene that much. I’ll write her tomorrow anyway, but she said she might phone you to check on me.”
    â€œJust as long as you aren’t feeling lonely down there,” Mrs. McIntyre agreed. “I want you to remember we’re always here. And you can put that money back in your pocket. A quart of milk and a few eggs aren’t going to break us.”
    To make them happy, I agreed to stay for supper. It was pleasant to sit around the cluttered table after the meal, helping to empty the teapot, telling the farm couple about my plans. “I was