A Matter of Mercy by Lynne Hugo Page A

coldness. That was something else entirely.
    She turned back and faced into the wind, forcing one foot in front of the other, infuriated by the sting of the air, how it made her eyes water so.
    And she’d had no business leaving the house. Eleanor was awake when Caroline came in, though she’d eased the door open as silently as possible, shrugging out the sweatshirt off, then the layer beneath it before she even went over to the bed. She’d been that certain her mother wouldn’t rouse until the hospice aide showed up to bathe her and do catheter care. But when she tiptoed bedside, Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open.
    “Where were you?”
    “Oh Mom, I’m so sorry. I just took a short walk. Are you all right?”
    “My baby.” Eleanor’s eyes closed and for a moment Caroline thought perhaps she’d only awakened momentarily. But then she moved her hand, feeling for Caroline. “My baby. How can I leave you like this, with no one of your own?”
    Caroline sank into the chair that was always at the head of her mother’s bed. She kissed the hand she held, and set her head down in the hollow between her mother’s shoulder and breast wanting nothing more than to climb in and have both her mother’s arms close around her. Caroline was, at first, just trying to hide the tears of frustration with Rid, and what lay ahead. Then her mother’s hand was on her head without the strength to stroke her hair, but there. How many times had this soft place been her shelter? Then she was crying, really crying, for the first time, over the looming unchosen death.
    “Don’t leave me, Mom. Please, please don’t leave me.”

Chapter 8

    Her name tag said Teresa DiPaulo but no one had ever called her that. “It’s just Terry,” she’d say. The head librarian at the Truro branch where she worked didn’t think nicknames were professional, especially now that they were in their big new building which was airy and beautiful with computers, open stacks, plants and separate children’s room. Rhonda didn’t seem to notice that this same staff talked quite loudly among themselves and wore jeans to work. As long as they didn’t use nicknames, she seemed to think she’d dramatically elevated the standard from the old library, the size of the average walk-in closet, from which they’d recently moved. Rhonda herself, in fact, wasn’t all that quiet in the library, though she wore skirts, kept her hair in a neat pageboy and her bright red mouth in a librarian-worthy serious line.
    Being called Teresa by her boss was a small price to pay as long as Rhonda didn’t make her work in the children’s section. When she’d applied for the job, she’d forced herself to ask if she’d have to.
    “My assistant and I generally work in all areas of the library. After all, the rest of the staff each works part-time, and, of course, the community volunteers really set their own schedules. You see, the structure of the library is such that….” Rhonda had rambled on before skidding to a halt on, “Why do you ask?”
    And Terry had intended to just tell the truth, except that she’d felt the underground river start to rise to the surface and decided that tears in an interview were worse than no answer. “Ah, no reason.” She felt Rhonda’s eyes light on the gold angel pin on her sweater, and involuntarily, Terry’s hand went up to protect it. Well, so she’d blown this interview. All right. She shouldn’t have asked. She should have sucked it up and tried to work in that room—with its little tables and chairs, bright colors, high border of sweet, fanciful animals. She plain needed a job now.
    But maybe no one else had even applied and Rhonda had been desperate, because the next day, she called and offered Terry the job. There’d been no mention of working in the children’s room or not working there, but so far, she hadn’t been assigned there. Part-timers had shelved those books, or ordered the new ones, or catalogued the incoming