Key of Light (Key 1)

Stones didn’t just disappear.

Or maybe they did. When they’d served their purpose. She’d slept and slept well, hadn’t she? Just as promised. In fact, she felt wonderful. As if she’d had a nice, relaxing vacation.

“Okay, thanks, Rowena.”

She stretched out her arms, took a deep breath. And drew in the unmistakable scent of coffee.

Unless the gift included morning coffee, someone else was up.

She walked into the kitchen and found a pleasant surprise.

Z

oe’s coffee cake was on the counter, set on a pretty plate and protected with Saran Wrap. The coffeepot was on warm and was three-quarters full, and the morning paper was neatly folded and placed between.

Malory picked up the note tucked under the cake plate and read Zoe’s somewhat exotic mix of cursive and printing.

Good morning! Had to get going—have a teacher’s conference at ten.

Ten, Malory thought with an absent glance at the kitchen clock. Her mouth fell open when she saw that it was nearly eleven.

“That can’t be right. Can it?”

Didn’t want to wake either of you, tried to be quiet.

“You must move like a ghost,” Malory said aloud.

Dana’s got to be at work at two. Just in case, I set the alarm clock in your room for her. Set it for noon so she wouldn’t have to rush and would have time for breakfast.

I had the best time. Just wanted to tell you, both of you, that whatever happens I’m so glad I found you. Or we found each other. However it worked, I’m just really grateful you’re my friends.

Maybe next time we can get together at my place.

Love, Zoe.

“Looks like it’s a day for gifts.” Smiling, Malory set the note down where Dana would find it, too. Hoping to extend her good mood, she cut a sliver of cake, poured the coffee. She arranged them on a tray, added the paper and a small glass of juice, then carried it all out to her patio.

Fall was teasing the air. She’d always enjoyed the faint, smoky scent that autumn brought with it when the leaves began to take on hints of the vibrant colors to come.

She needed to pick up some potted mums, she noted as she broke off a piece of coffee cake. She was behind schedule on that. And some pumpkins and gourds for festive arrangements. She would gather some leaves, the maple ones once they’d turned scarlet.

She could pick up some extra things and do something fun for Flynn’s front porch.

She sipped coffee while she skimmed the front page. Reading the morning paper was a different experience now that she’d met Flynn. She liked wondering how he decided what went where and how he juggled it all—stories, ads, pictures, typeface, tone—and made it one cohesive whole.

She nibbled and sipped her way through, then felt her heart give a quick jolt when she came to his column.

Odd, wasn’t it, that she’d seen it before. Week after week. What had she thought? she wondered. Cute guy, nice eyes, or something just that casual and forgettable. She’d read his column, had either agreed or disagreed. She hadn’t taken any notice of the work and effort he put into it, what turned his mind to whatever subject he wrote about that week.

It was different now that she knew him, now that she could hear his voice speaking the words she read. She could envision his face, its expressions. And have some insight into the workings of his very flexible mind.

What defines the artist? she read.

By the time she’d finished the column and was going back to read it through a second time, she’d fallen in love with him all over again.

FLYNN sat on the corner of a desk and listened while one of his reporters pitched him an idea for an article about a local man who collected clowns.

Stuffed clown dolls, clown statues, clown pictures. Porcelain clowns, plastic clowns, clowns with dogs. Clowns that danced or sang or drove little clown cars.