“And I suppose you have your own superior experience?” Flossie retorted.
“No, and I’m not going to try for one. Especially since there likely isn’t a man willing to take me on with my family’s trouble.”
“You just haven’t met the right man.” Flossie’s momentarily sympathetic tone returned to teasing. “I know there’s one out there crazy enough to put up with your family.”
Lydia winced at Flossie’s choice of the wordcrazy. There was a reason none of them joked about Longview Insane Asylum around Nora. It wasn’t some abstract place. It was her mother’s residence.
But Nora seemed unbothered by the slip. She shook a piece of frayed wood at Flossie as Harold’s head and eyes followed the stick’s movement. “That’s certainly more likely than one who’d be willing to put up with yours.”
Harold leaped from Lydia’s arms, snagged the stick, and darted beneath the couch, where he must have thought no one could reach him.
“Let him have it.” Flossie waved off his behavior. “He’ll stay out of trouble that way. I’ll sweep up the mess later.”
Theresa sat back on her heels and pulled the box of matchsticks from a nearby drawer. “Do you want to light the fire?”
Lydia shook her head and reclaimed the manuscript box. The only part she wanted in this was laying her career to rest. Building the pyre to cremate it was not something she was ready to take part in.
Flossie wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “If this is what you really want to do, we’re with you every step.”
“I want to do this. It’s the only way to protect this man’s life.”
“All right then. We all know I love a good fire.” Flossie grabbed the matchbox from Theresa, struck a stick, and held it to the kindling.
Slowly, the splinters of wood smoked, curled, and then caught. Flossie fed the fledgling flames some discarded newspaper while Theresa arranged two larger pieces of wood over the top.
“Whenever you’re ready, the fire is.” Theresa rose and stepped to the side.
Flossie followed suit.
Lydia ran her hand over the varnished wooden box she’d spent a portion of her first advance on. The dark sheen had contrasted perfectly with her name, engraved by Theresa with fanciful swirls, and a feather pen beneath. At some point or another, each of her books had been nestled inside. This box had been filled with love and hate, and even now contained the harsh judgments of a woman who no longer believed them hers to make.
“You’re saving a life. Remember that.” Nora’s soft voice soothed the growing ache in Lydia’s chest.
With a deep breath, Lydia stepped forward. It was time to relinquish this part of her life. May God make beauty out of ashes.
She arranged the box so that it stood upright with her name facing forward, then she stepped back.
Her friends gathered alongside her, holding her hands and touching her arms as they watched what had once been a treasured career go up in flames.
The varnish caught quickly, and flames licked across the surface. The crackling of the fire grew louder, indicating the wood itself, and not just the kindling and varnish, had succumbed to the flames. It was a thick box and would take some time to fully disappear, but she’d stay until every last word smoldered.
“Fire!” Detective Lawson’s voice cut through the door into the room.
Of course there was a fire. That’s how one burned a manuscript.
Pounding shook the door. “The carriage house is on fire! Everyone to the water pump, or there’ll be no saving it.”
“Tipsy!” Theresa broke from the group and ran for the door.
Flossie and Nora looked at each other, then at Lydia, before rushing after Theresa.
Lydia stayed, watching the flames. Until the manuscript was completely burned, she couldn’t leave.
“Come on, Lydia.” Detective Lawson remained at the door, waiting for her. “We need everyone’s help if we’re to keep the fire from reaching the hay. Once it finds that, the carriage house and the animals inside will be lost.”
Still Lydia hesitated. Flossie and Nora were probably even now trying to drag Theresa back from rushing inside to save every living creature. Staying here meant abandoning her dearest friend, but neglecting the manuscript left a man’s life vulnerable.
The kindling shifted, and the flame-engulfed box dropped deeper. The lid separated from the bottom and leaned toward the grate. A few pages fell with it. The white edges curled and ignited. It wouldn’t be long before the fire ate up the pages whether the box burned quickly or not. The manuscript was safe to leave unattended. Unlike the carriage house.
