A big step forward, and Lucie raised both puppets. “‘You rock-monsters don’t belong here. You need to leave.’ Oh, the rock-monsters were angry. They jumped on Feenee.”
The bookseller jumped and spun, her feet and skirt in a blur. “They ate Feenee’s toes! They ate Feenee’s knees! They ate Feenee’s legs!”
Paul couldn’t stop watching, even with rows of numbers before him.
Lucie came to a stop. While spinning and jumping, she’d detached the puppet’s legs. “Oh no! Poor Feenee.”
“Poor Feenee,” the children said.
“All seemed lost.” Lucie sank to her knees. “But then a funny thing happened. She felt a tickle in the middle of her back. Suddenly wings sprang out!” Lucie attached wings to the puppet.
“Feenee flapped her wings once, and she rose from the ground.” So did Lucie, revealing the rock puppet under her knees. “She flapped twice and rose above the rock-monsters. Then over and over, creating a wind.” Lucie waved her arms like wings and twirled around.
Paul couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She didn’t dance to callattention to herself but to the puppets and the story, to move the children’s hearts.
“She flapped and flapped, and she blew those big, clomping rock-monsters out of town.” Lucie swung her leg practically to the ceiling, and the rock puppet sailed over the children’s heads.
They cheered and clapped.
Lucie dropped to her knees again. “So, my dear boys and girls, never be sad that you’re different. Be glad. And be brave. And if you’re sad because you’ve lost something...” She fingered the puppet where the legs had hung. “Remember sometimes we have to lose what we most love before we can find what we most need.” And she stroked the puppet’s wings.
Paul’s throat clogged. He’d lost so much. Maybe that wasn’t the end of his story. Maybe it was only the beginning.
Lucie leaned toward the children. “Make sure you come back next week. I have another story for you about Feenee and Monsieur Meow. Josie wrote it for me.”
The children looked at Josie with admiration. At his little girl.
That was her story.
Paul thumped back in the chair, his mind spinning. Lucie had fleshed out the story and animated it. But Josie had created it. Even the moral. Hadn’t Josie said Feenee couldn’t possibly have both legs and wings? That had come from the mind of a four-year-old child. His child. His child whom he’d thought odd.
That four-year-old leaned around the other children, seeking his gaze and his approval.
“All right, boys and girls.” Lucie pulled over a box. “Would you like to play? I have blocks and wooden animals waiting for you and your imagination.”
Josie ran to the office, and Paul met her in the doorway. “Daddy, did you see? Did you see my Feenee story?” Her smile beamed, but her eyebrows drew together in apprehension.
Paul scooped her into a giant hug. “I saw. That was good. Such a good story.”
More words filled his throat, but she needed to see his face when he said them. Paul eased down to one knee, set his daughter’s feet on the ground, and grasped her by the shoulders. “I am so proud of you, lemon drop. You’re a very clever girl.”
The wonder of a father’s approval sank in, relaxed her countenance, and shone back at him threefold.
An older girl ran over. “Josie, come play with us.”
“Can I, Daddy?” She hopped, making the yellow bow on her head bounce.
“Yes, you may.”
She ran off with her new friend.
Lucie’s ribbon-wrapped ankles stood before him. Shapely ankles. “How bad is it?”
Bad? Nothing bad about the story, the puppet show, or those ankles. He lifted his gaze to her face, where it belonged. She frowned into the office.
Ah yes, the office.
Paul stood and joined her frowning. “I need another hour to go through the ledger, another for that pile. Then I’ll need about an hour to sit down with you and give my analysis.”
