The Soul of the Rose by Ruth Trippy Page A

aren’t you?”
    “Yes. My mother lives on Beacon Hill.” How could he get the conversation back to Miss Thatcher?
    “She does? Well, then, won’t you be going home for Christmas?”
    “Well, I hadn’t thought—”
    “You know if Miss Thatcher had lived a little closer to Boston, I would have asked her to return the prints. She’s right on the way, but I thought that would be too much to ask.”
    “She is? Ah, well . . . what town is that?”
    “Mansfield. A pretty little town.”
    “I do recall that on the line. Of course, it’s been some time since I’ve seen Mother. Maybe I should return—for Christmas.” Edward hesitated once again. “If I do decide to go, would you like me to bring back the prints for you?”
    Mr. Chestley’s eyes had a hopeful gleam. “Would that be too much to ask?”
    “No, no. I’d be glad to. It would give me something to do in the city.”
    Mr. Chestley rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Why, Mr. Lyons, that would be nice, very nice of you—if you do decide to go.” His eye had an uncertain look.
    “Why, I think I will. In fact, I’ll go to the train station now and telegraph my mother.”
    “If that’s the case, I could wrap up the prints and you can pick them up whenever you’re ready.”
    A plan began to form in Edward’s mind. “Just give me the address of the establishment and I’ll be glad to do the errand for you. By the way, which print did you decide on for the bookstore?”
    “Let me show you. And Mr. Ellis at the jewelry store bought one, too. They’re both to be framed.”
    Edward accompanied Mr. Chestley back to his office.
    “You see, these two.” Mr. Chestley held up first one print, then the other. “Mr. Ellis will want his frame in gold leaf. I’ll have something less expensive. And look here, this is the unusual one Miss Thatcher liked so well.”
    “Ah, yes, the one with the heavily pruned trees. That shows a decidedly sophisticated taste in art. She would enjoy a city like Boston, I dare say. But living right on the way, she’s probably already been there.”
    “Possibly. But surely not often. Her family doesn’t travel much. Not for want of desiring to, but financial constraints, you know.”
    “Ah. When did you say she’d be returning?” There, he had finally asked .
    “The Thursday after New Year’s. In the afternoon.”
    “That’d be the 4:40.”
    “That’s when the missus and I are scheduled to pick her up. We’ll be glad to see her.”
    “I can imagine. I best be off to telegraph my message.” Edward exited the office to pick up his hat and gloves from the side table where he’d left them. He clamped his lips together to keep from smiling like the proverbial cat from Cheshire.

10
    E dward Lyons snapped his book shut. He was uncharacteristically—eager—wary, he wasn’t sure. The conductor had called Mansfield. The train would be arriving in the station within a minute or two.
    He purposely put his mind back on his visit to Boston. It had been good, but uneventful. Mother was in good health, glad to see him, of course. Had commented on his improved appearance. She had come to visit him once after Marguerite’s death, but that one visit she’d cut short. He’d been hard-pressed to entertain her in a town so small, and in his frame of mind, with the suspicion of so many townsfolk at its height. He twisted on the seat.
    The fact of the matter was that this visit with his mother was a vast improvement over the last one. Boston had provided much to do, and he was more like his old self, his mother said. He had to admit, he was feeling better.
    The train’s brakes screeched. He braced himself from falling forward, gripping the wooden bench. Ordinarily, he would be sitting in first class, but he didn’t want to miss . . . the station came into view, neatly painted gray and green. Of course, he’d noticed it particularly on the way to Boston. A warm feeling had permeated him seeing the station and town, why