A Stranger's Wish by Gayle Roper Page B

cooperated. I shrugged. “Todd is a nice guy and all that, but we’re…I’m…not committed.”
    “The proverbial ‘good friend’?”
    “And what’s wrong with that?”
    “Nothing. I’ve had a few good friends of my own.”
    “Any special girl now?”
    Jake’s mouth twisted. “Are you kidding?”
    Great. Back to square one. But I no longer had the strength to deal with my indiscretions and Jake’s touchiness. Excusing myself, I collected my supplies and painting and prepared to visit Mr. Geohagan. Tomorrow he was having bypass surgery, and I wanted to see him before his ordeal.

     
    “You’ll be fine,” I told Mr. Geohagan a couple of hours later. “Bypass surgery is a common thing these days.”
    “Not on me, it’s not.” His jaw was clenched and his forehead furrowed. “I’ve got stuff to do. Important stuff. I can’t stay sick!”
    “Isn’t that why you’re having this surgery? So you won’t stay sick?”
    “I’m having it because some doctor wants to earn more money.”
    “Mr. Geohagan!” I stifled a giggle, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate it. “What a terrible thing to say.”
    He glared at me for a few minutes, but I didn’t blink. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Cathleen.”
    “Kristie.” But I smiled.
    He pointed in the direction of his bedside table. “In case I don’t make it, I wrote you a long letter about what to do with some of my belongings. The instructions are in the drawer. I need someone I can trust to see that the right things happen, things I’ve never mentioned to anyone.”
    “Then you shouldn’t mention them to me.” I already had the key, and that was more than enough.
    He stared at me though narrowed eyes. “Only read it if I die.”
    “Mr. Geohagan!”
    “And don’t lose that key.”
    “A lot of good it’ll do me if I don’t know what it opens.”
    “It’s written in my letter what you’re to do with it if I die. Just don’t lose it in the meantime! And mail this letter for me.” He reached toward his table.
    I felt like saying, “A bit bossy tonight, aren’t we?” but I didn’t. I knew the grumpiness was preoperative stress. I took the envelope he indicated and glanced at the address.
    “Another letter for Adam Hurlbert. Are you a big contributor or something?”
    “Right. I’m a big contributor.” He gave that little snort that passed for a laugh.
    “Okay, so it’s not money. It’s a letter of endorsement. It’s questions about his platform. It’s—”
    “None of your business,” he cut in, smiling to take away any sting.
    I made a face at him, but he was right. I backed off.
    “Now promise me you’ll come see me as soon as they let you, okay?” he said. “I told them you were like family and they should let you in whenever they decide I’m not going to kick the bucket.”
    “You’re not going to die. You’re too ornery.”
    He liked that and smiled at me.
    I smiled warmly back, but my heart was chilled by the thought that he had written all those instructions for me. Me, for heaven’s sake. How tragic to have lived sixty-five years and have no one closer than a friend of a few days’ acquaintance.

8
     
     
    S ummer still filled the air when school began, but new notebooks, new teachers, and a surfeit of summer boredom made the transition easier for the kids. I was surprised at how glad I was to be back, though I struggled with learning the names of all my students. To cover my ignorance, I smiled a lot. My jaws ached each afternoon when I unglued my fingers and scrubbed paint from under my nails.
    Teaching elementary school art might be draining, but it was also fun. The kids didn’t yet feel it uncool to enjoy the class, and most of them were willing to try anything I asked. Much as I wished I could make a living from my painting, I enjoyed helping little hands create something original, even if only a mother could call it lovely.
    A few students, though, drove me to distraction. Nelson Carmody Hurlbert