Light from a Distant Star by Mary Mcgarry Morris Page A

that Bucky had such a miserable life, and yet her own life had taken a dangerous turn. One word from Bucky, and she and Henry would be dragged down to the police station. Interrogated, arrested;
oh my God
, she prayed as she ran the last block,
please, please help me
.
    “Well, look who’s here!” her father declared, warning with false heartiness as she raced inside. “The great Nellie Peck!”
    Stepping into the store from the sun’s glare had blinded her. She couldn’t see his face and couldn’t tell who else was there. Her arresting officer?
    “Come here,” the stout woman said. “And give your auntie B a big hug.” She smelled fruity. Her huge breasts smushed against Nellie’s flat chest. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw her father’s concern. She’d obviously interrupted an important conversation. Well put together, her father had said once of Aunt Betsy, and today was no exception, in her bright pink pantsuit and chunky white necklace, matching earrings, even pink-and-white open-toed heels, as she peppered Nellie with the usual adult questions. Was she glad school was over? Yes. What was she doing with all her free time? Not a whole lot. Mostly reading, she added quickly, to please her aunt. Right after college Aunt Betsy had been a schoolteacher for a few years until she married Uncle Phil and didn’t have to work ever again, though she’d kept her hand in town affairs through the years. Aunt Betsy was one of those people who expect their importance to be acknowledged, and Nellie wasn’t doing a very good job of it, especially under the circumstances, her brain so riddled with the shame and guilt of being a thief. Her aunt was some kind of local official. Library trustee, that was it. Yes, because now she was telling Nellie that if there was ever a book the library didn’t have, she should tell her and she’d have them order it for her. Or any overdue fines—just bring the book to Auntie B and she’d take care of it.
    “Thank you, that’s very nice of you. I’ll remember that, but thelibrary’s really good. They have just about everything.” She tried to think of something else that might please her and make her father at least smile. “Movies. And all kinds of books on tape. Well, CDs, really. Not that I’ve listened to any. Not yet, anyway. But I’d like to.”
    They both stared at her.
    “Nellie,” her father said, “can you wait out back for a minute? We’ll be—”
    “No. No need for that, Ben. I understand. And I want to help, I do. It’s just, well …” She glanced in her niece’s direction. “Phil.”
    “Of course,” her father agreed, shaking his head, almost wincing. “Of course. And I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to cause you any problems.”
    Her great poufed head drew back. “Generosity is not a problem, Ben. Have I ever once questioned your inheriting the house? And the business, have I ever put an ounce of pressure on you? But you still owe us from the last loan.”
    “I know, and it tears me apart, but this one wouldn’t be for long. I’m almost finished with the book. Just a couple more decades, and those’re the easiest, the more modern ones. So many people to talk to. Last week I ran into Salvie. Remember Salvie? He gold-leafed the weathervane on town hall, and you know what he told me?”
    Her father began telling the same story that last week at dinner had held them spellbound. It was about the significance of the streaming-haired woman on the hundred-fifty-year-old weathervane made by the itinerant artist who had fallen in love with the daughter of one of the wealthiest families around, only to be run out of town by the young woman’s brothers, who had locked her in her room. That night she opened her window and dropped a bundle of clothes onto the brick courtyard below. And then she leaned out the window and grabbed hold of a tree branch, but it broke and when she fell—
    “She broke her back and was an invalid for the rest of