Mission of Hope by Allie Pleiter Read Free Book Online

Longstreet. And for coming.”
    Nora shook Sam’s hand with grand formality. “You’re welcome, young master Sam. And thank you for the invitation. I do hope you’re feeling better soon.”
    Sam was evidently feeling better now, for he tumbled through the door as soon as Quinn’s hand released his shoulder. A limping tumble, but an energetic one just the same. Nora watched him go. “What else do you need? I have to think there is something I or my family can do.”
    Mrs. Freeman planted her hands on her hips. “What don’t folks need? We need everything. Bandages, iodine, wood, water, socks, pins, string…I could rattle on for days.”
    â€œWait a minute.” Nora fished into her pockets for the bits of paper and the stub of a pencil she’d begun keeping in there during her mail cart visits. “Let me write this down.” Mrs. Freeman rattled off the surprisingly long list of basic items needed in the makeshift camps. Many of these things showed up regularly in the official camps. How had things become so segregated?—everyone suffered. It made no sense. Two or three of the items she could provide from her own household. Surely in the name of Christian mercy Mama and Aunt Julia—with a little help from Mrs. Hastings, perhaps—might scour up the rest.
    â€œCould you make another copy of that list?” Quinn asked, holding out his hand. “Reverend Bauers could put one to good use, I’d guess.”
    â€œOf course.” Nora found another scrap of paper—this one a page torn out of a cookery book—and copied down the list.
    Quinn folded it carefully and tucked it into a pocket of his shirt. He had the most peculiar smile on his face, as if he’d just learned a great secret. “I should get you back, Miss Longstreet, before your father worries.”
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    Quinn stared at the list. Miss Longstreet did a funny, curvy thing with the dots on her i ’s. A delicate little backward slant. He ran his fingers across the writing again, careful not to smudge it.
    He had his first challenge. A list of basic supplies.
    It was in her handwriting. That shouldn’t have mattered much, but it did. There was a generosity about her that stuck in the back of his mind. She was kind to Sam, but not out of pity—the sort that he had seen far too much of lately. That version—a superior, ingratiating sort of assistance—bred the hopelessness that was already running rampant in the camp. Nora’s kind of help was respectful. She grasped the truth that made so many people uncomfortable in this disaster: fire was no respecter of privilege. Those now without homes had done nothing but live on the wrong street corner at the wrong time. The firestorm and the earthquake destroyed nice homes as eagerly as they consumed shanties. Bricks fell just as hard on good men as they did on criminals. Certain people had begun to sort victims into worthy and unworthy categories. Official camp refugees and squatters. Implying reasons why the refugees were in the positions they were. It was, Quinn supposed, a perfectly human reaction to death and destruction’s random natures. A desire to seek order amidst chaos.
    It was just very irritating to be on the receiving end. And Quinn, like most of Dolores Park’s residents, had come to see it a mile off.
    Nora wasn’t like that. And yes, he had come to think of her as Nora, even though he’d always address her as “Miss Longstreet,” of course. Quinn felt as if he could read all her thoughts in those violet eyes. It seemed such a cliché to say “there was something about her,” but he could get no more specific than that—something about her tugged at his imagination constantly. Little details, like the gentleness of how she bandaged Sam’s foot. The delicacy of her handwriting or the way her fingers fluttered over the locket when she was thinking.
    He could no