The Memory of Lemon by Judith Fertig Read Free Book Online Page A

dressed improbably in a fine linen shirt and buckskin trousers, loading a cart with thick coils of hemp rope.
    â€œHe used to have fancier clothes when he arrived in New York, Sean told me,” recounted Abigail. “The clothes of a gentleman. But the bottle green coat didn’t hold up well tramping through the woods.”
    â€œThe fine muslin dress from my courting days fared much the same,” Lucy said.
    â€œHe has a letter of introduction, does Sean O’Neil,” Abigail continued. “He’s a gardener by trade, but not much call for that here, where the big woods are still so close. A good worker, should you ever need someone to tote and fetch. Most days, youcan find ’im here, somewhere in the market. I hope he settles,” she said, and they both gazed in his direction.
    Lucy thanked the herb woman and put the bundle of sticks in her market basket. She was saying good-bye when a man hurried past carrying two withy cages, woven from willow branches. One cage held redbirds. The other, glittering green parroquets.
    â€œI can’t abide a free thing caged,” the herb woman said with a sigh.
    Lucy’s own heart sank at the sight. And then she knew.
    She would have to let him go. She would help him pack his gun and tackle, his violin and flute, his much-loved copy of La Fontaine’s
Fables
. Sheets of art paper, two feet wide and three feet long, rolled into a long tin case. His watercolors, brushes, chalks, and pencils. His wire for mounting specimens. His portfolios. The ledger with the marbled blue endpapers he had just bought at W. Pounsford, the bookbinder, three doors north of the Presbyterian church. Paper for letter writing.
    John James Audubon would travel down the Ohio, then the Mississippi on a cargo flatboat, drawing birds from here to New Orleans. In seven months, he promised, he would have his collection of American birds.
    And they would be together again.
    But not here.
    â€œMrs. Newcomb.” Lucy turned and touched her arm. “You have been very kind to me. In return, my husband could render your likeness before he goes downriver. He’s very good with sketching and then coloring with chalk pastels. What they call a portrait, but on paper.”
    Lucy knew it was an odd offer, and Abigail Newcomb lookedappropriately puzzled. Only the rich had pictures of themselves hanging on a wall.
    â€œIf not of you, maybe your daughter and her baby?”
    Abigail’s eyes lit up. “Then I can see them whenever I want. Like they were withme.”

5

    Neely
    I peered out of Rainbow Cake’s front window on Saturday morning. The empty sidewalks reflected the bleak day. Where were the brides, their mothers, their friends? Anyone?
    Maybe the cold drizzle and overcast skies had kept everyone snug in their beds.
    In the empty bakery, I penned the last lines to a short letter to my dad. Although I was of two minds about renewing our relationship, I’d decided to risk it. Who knew how long he’d stay in Missouri before he moved on again? I had to take the chance while I could.
    I wrote in longhand on printer paper:
    My problem might seem a little silly—the bride who wants a hillbilly wedding and her snobby mother who is hidingsomething. But what really bothers me is that I’m not getting any kind of a flavor feedback from them. Maybe I just need to be patient.
    Did that ever happen to you when it was something important?
    Write back when you get the chance, and hope everything is going better for you, Dad.
    Claire
    I had wanted to sign off
Love, Claire,
but I just couldn’t. I folded the letter and put it in the envelope. Maybe Dad would have some advice. Maybe not. Maybe he’d move on and never even get this letter. Dear old Dad.
    I wondered if I should include anything else. A photo? A business card? A brochure from the bakery? Yes, the brochure. Just information, not anything too personal. If I enclosed a photo, he might send one