Simone Tully's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The OPEN sign hung in the window, but Simone's guest rooms were bare. She climbed the stairs and opened each door. Three rooms, three empty frames. The beds downstairs held her only fresh linens. Up here she found stripped mattresses, dusty sills, and no curtains. A traveler could arrive tonight and find nowhere soft to rest. Simone pressed her hand to the cold wall. She had six hours before dark. She counted her supplies at the hall closet. Two spare sheets. One thin blanket. No pillows for three beds. The shops in town had closed at noon. She could not buy her way out of this. Simone walked to the garden to think. She sat beside the stone tortoise and set her hand on its weathered shell. "Three beds," she told it. "And I have enough for one." The tortoise stared ahead, patient as always. Behind it, the climbing vine spilled purple blossoms over the fence. The heart-shaped leaves caught the light. Simone looked at them and remembered the quilts. She had seen quilts before. Rows of them, folded on tables at the community center down the lane. The neighborhood kept a lending shelf there for anyone in need. Blankets, linens, spare dishes. Simone had dropped jam jars on that same table all spring. She hurried down the lane. The community center doors stood open, its windows bright and friendly. Inside, folded quilts filled two long tables. Pillows sat stacked in a basket by the wall. Simone found the grocer's wife sorting them. The woman looked up and smiled. "You gave me plum jam last week," she said. "Take what you need." Simone loaded her arms. Six quilts. Four pillows. Two sets of curtains, clean and pressed. She signed the lending book and thanked the woman twice. Then she carried the pile home, half her face buried in soft cotton. She worked fast. She made each bed with a borrowed quilt and plumped two pillows at every headboard. She hung curtains and wiped the sills. She set a jam jar on each nightstand. By the time the sun dropped, three rooms glowed warm and ready. Simone stood in the hall and breathed the smell of clean linen. Headlights swept the window. A car slowed at her gate. Her first travelers had come, a tired couple with two suitcases. Simone opened the door with her warmest smile and showed them up to a soft, waiting bed. They sighed with relief and thanked her. The woman paused at the nightstand. She lifted the jam jar and read the label. "Tully," she said, turning it in her hand. "My cousin works at the county office. She mentioned that name just this week. Said they couldn't find a single record of you." She smiled, friendly and curious. "Isn't that strange?" Simone's smile held. But the storm she feared had just walked through her door.