Chapter 7: Finding Sherwin
The walk down to the water took all of ten minutes and wasn't nearly as hazardous as Abby had feared, thanks to a trail of slatted boards that ran from the main street down to the docks. Aside from the occasional loose plank, it was a more-than-adequate footpath, and Abby had no trouble following its bends and curves, even in the relatively dim lighting.
Above her, the sky had darkened to an inky blue with billows of fog rolling in off of the sound. It might have felt ominous under other circumstances, but with the music drifting down from the town square and the lights of the dock beckoning up ahead, the undulant gray seemed soft and benign, like a herd of sheep lumbering its way home.
As Abby drew near the waterfront, she saw that it looked clean and well-maintained. The dock was lit by small lamps that ran along the railings, and she followed them, squinting in the darkness for any sign of Sherwin. All she had to go off of was Samantha's remark that he lived in a little shack nearby, and she had no idea if such a descriptor would be sufficient for determining his whereabouts (for there could be several shacks in the vicinity, and even if there was only one, there was no guarantee that he'd even be at home).
If she'd been at home in Manhattan, she never would have ventured such an investigation alone, but something about Cherin Cove felt safe and secluded, blissfully removed from the real-life dangers of New York at night. Perhaps it was the picturesque setting, or the quaintness of the little town's inhabitants, or something else altogether, but whatever the case, Abby found herself continuing on quite unhampered by fear, still imagining herself the protagonist in an adventure tale simply for the slightly-ridiculous thrill of it.
As the minutes wore on, however, she began to wonder if her search was going to conclude in a rather un-storybook-like fashion. She passed by a few different structures that looked like they could have been dwellings, but none of them fit the shack description, and the only living creatures she encountered were the seagulls winging their way through the fog or perched on the dock railings. One of them squawked loudly at her, and Abby gave it a withering look as she passed by, the sound of her heeled boots drowned out by the obnoxious bird's cacophony.
Eventually, the end of the dock came into sight.
Well, that's that, Abby thought, preparing herself to concede defeat. It had been a long shot from the start, but at least she'd gotten a bit of exercise.
She was just about to turn around when the hand of fate that ruled Cherin Cove decided to step in.
A slight cough sounded off in the darkness to her right, followed by the sound of someone clearing their throat, and as Abby peered into the shadows, past the glow of the closest lamp, she saw that Sherwin was seated on a blanket only a few yards away, partially hidden by a stack of large crates.
His legs were hanging over the edge of the dock, his eyes fixed on some distant point out in the water, and beside him was a cup of steaming liquid and a book. If Abby hadn't been looking closely, she almost wouldn't have recognized him, for his head was bare, and instead of his usual red sweater, he was wearing a coat in a dreary shade of gray and had a worn-looking scarf wrapped around his neck.
Before she could decide how to announce her presence without startling him, a seagull swooped down out of the fog, alighting on one of the crates nearby, and when Sherwin turned to look at it, he saw her standing there. It was too dark to read his expression easily, but she could tell by the way his shoulders drooped that something was wrong.
Before she could say anything, he got to his feet.
"Hello, Miss Abby." His voice was weary. "You're lookin' pretty as a picture this evening."
"I just came from the Countdown," she said, brushing past his compliment with some difficulty. "The square is packed, and it seems like everyone in town is already there…except for you." Glancing at the book on his blanket, she added, "I thought you were planning to go, too."
"So you came all the way down here just to find out why I didn't show?"
Abby nodded, meeting his eye again. "It's none of my business, I suppose, but I would like to know the answer."
Sherwin didn't say anything for a moment. Perhaps he was surprised - or put off - by her frankness, or perhaps he was simply trying to come up with a response, but something in his expression changed, and Abby found herself waiting intently for his answer.
After a moment, he finally broke the silence.
"I was plannin' on goin' the Countdown…but somethin' got a hold of me tonight, and I guess you could say I came to my senses." Dropping his gaze, he looked out towards the water. "Yesterday was the anniversary of June's death, and I didn't think it was gonna hit me so hard, but it did. I figured I'd just hole up here tonight, maybe read a little more of her novel and try to think about the memories we made."
"Is it helping you feel better?" Abby asked.
He let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "I can't say that it is! I keep hearin' the music up the hill and thinkin' about everyone gettin' ready to ring in the new year, and half of me wants to be up there with them, while the other half is angry I'd even think of such a thing. June did so much for me, and here I am, wishin' I was at a party instead of takin' the time to remember her like I should. I ain't stoic enough to just brush off the guilt and go, but I ain't content stayin' here either, and I feel like a first-rate rat."
Abby was silent. The conversation had quickly devolved into something more serious than she'd planned for, and she knew that she was ill-equipped to counsel or comfort another caught in the waves of grief (especially when she'd so stubbornly avoided those troubling waters herself). The impulse to brush past Sherwin's upsetting disclosures with logical reassurance (sitting in guilt won't bring your sister back; I'm sure she would want you to be happy; you won't accomplish anything by letting your feelings get the better of you like this) was tempting, but she knew that such responses would hardly be helpful.
After remaining silent for another moment, she found herself saying aloud, "Do you want company?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"While you reflect, I mean," she added. "You were the one who told me it's better to be with other people when you're sad sometimes."
"You're right," he cracked a smile, "though I never said anything about bein' sad, did I?"
The cheeky rejoinder left Abby in no doubt that he was good-naturedly throwing her words back at her from their lunch date, and she felt both embarrassed and relieved that he'd brought it up.
"While we're on the subject…" she began, "I ought to apologize to you for that remark. I was more curt than I should have been, and I'm sorry for that. It's still difficult for me to talk about anything pertaining to my father."
"That's all right," Sherwin said kindly. "I never had the sort of relationship with my pa where his passin' would've made much of a mark on me, but I can respect situations where it ain't that simple."
"You said that your parents weren't really around when you were young," Abby recalled, thinking back to an offhanded remark he'd made during their conversation at the Book Nook. "Do you have any memories of them?"
"None that I can speak of." Sherwin stuck his hands in his pockets. "My ma left me and June at an orphanage in Manhattan soon after we were born. I guess she was from some well-to-do family who'd gotten exiled from the colonies, and no one knew how she got mixed up with my pa, but her folks didn't approve. Havin' kids wasn't a part of anyone's plan, and I guess givin' us up was the only way they could move on with their lives."
"So you grew up at the orphanage?"
"Yep." Sherwin pulled one his pockets inside out, brushing a piece of lint from the inside before continuing. "Lived there for almost eight years with Ms. Wilson, the superintendent. She was a real nice lady - she named me and June and tried to make us feel at home. We lived with a bunch of other kids who didn't have parents either, so it never seemed too strange, and we had good food and a place to sleep. We even picked up some book learnin', though a lot of it faded for me pretty fast once I became a newsie."
"Had you left the orphanage by then?" Abby asked.
Sherwin nodded. "Ms. Wilson had a real bad fall and ended up havin' to retire 'cause she couldn't take care of the place anymore. The new superintendent was nothin' like her - real nasty behind closed doors with a quick temper and a foul mouth. He'd slap us around for the smallest mistakes, and always made it a point to tell us we were just a bunch of worthless burdens who didn't deserve the roof over our heads."
He paused for a moment, inspecting his other pocket, then continued. "Things went downhill from there. One night, he found a hair in his dinner and accused June of plantin' it. She stood up for herself and said she'd done no such thing, and he got real mad and smashed the plate on the table, then started hittin' her. When I jumped in to try to stop him, he pulled a knife on me, so June grabbed my hand and we ran - just left all our things behind and high-tailed it into the night without lookin' back. We didn't know where to go, but we knew we had to get as far away as possible, so we headed for the Brooklyn Bridge and ended up crossin' over and just wanderin' around the Navy Yard lookin' at the ships. That's where the birds found us."
"The birds?"
"Sorry," Sherwin backtracked. "The birds are a group of Brooklyn newsies who collect information. They're all over New York, keeping an eye out for anything unusual and reporting back to their leader to make sure he has all the inside information he needs to make the best decisions for the lodgin' house."
"That sounds like an important job," Abby observed. "I didn't realize there was so much infrastructure."
Sherwin nodded. "That's why Brooklyn's always been the strongest newsie contingent out there."
His tone was matter-of-fact, but she didn't miss the proud smile that briefly crossed his face.
"Anyway," Sherwin resumed, "the birds found me and June and took us back to the lodgin' house to meet their leader, Spot. He asked us some questions about where we'd come from, and when he realized we had nowhere to go, he let us stay with him and the rest of the newsies. He even fixed up a little room for June to stay in so she didn't have to sleep in the same bunk room as the rest of the boys."
"And you ended up deciding to stay for good?" Abby guessed.
"That's right. I knew I needed to figure out a way to support myself, so when Spot asked if I wanted to learn how to hawk headlines, I took him up on the offer lickety-split. June was able to find a lodgin' house for girls not too far away, and soon after that she got her job at the paint factory."
"No one ever tried to come looking for you?"
Sherwin shook his head. "Not a soul. I don't think the orphanage superintendent wanted us back, and our folks had never came to visit, even when we were livin' there. Me and June would talk about them sometimes, wonderin' if they ever thought of us, but I'm pretty sure we were more of an inconvenience to them than anything else. It was probably relievin' for them to see the last of us."
Something twisted in Abby's stomach at the emptiness in his voice.
"I ain't tryin' to speak ill of my folks," Sherwin clarified. "From what Ms. Wilson told us, it sounds like they were young and scared, especially my ma. I dunno if she was married to my pa or not, but either way, I don't think they were ready to raise a family. Considerin' how society looks down on that kind of interminglin', it would've been a real hard road for them.* At least they tried to make sure we were taken care of."
He was clearly trying to look on the bright side, but the attempt at optimism only made Abby feel more sad. She wanted to say something sympathetic, but at the same time, it felt almost wrong to do so when her childhood experience had been so different from what Sherwin had described. Her own parents hadn't been without their rough edges, of course, but she'd never once doubted that they loved and wanted her.
For a moment, the only sound was that of the water lapping against the docks as she shifted uncomfortably, trying to come up with the words to say.
"You really oughta go back to the Countdown," Sherwin said quietly, staring out towards the water again. "I've already kept you too long, and there ain't no good reason for you to be lingerin' here when you could be up there celebratin' with the rest of Cherin Cove."
"Keeping you company qualifies as a good reason," Abby contended, something in her determined not to let the sadness in his voice go unanswered. "You haven't told me to leave yet."
He rubbed the back of his neck, still staring out to sea. "If I did…wouldja?"
"If you could convince me that you were being honest."
He laughed softly. "That's right. You've got a former newsie in the family, so you know all about our knack for pullin' the wool over peoples' eyes, and can probably see right through it in a second."
"Our newsie actually isn't any good at dissembling," Abby admitted, smiling a little as she thought of David. "We always skunk him at cards because he can't bluff to save his life."
The humorous disclosure broke the tension, and Sherwin seemed to relax, his chuckle a little more robust as he finally met her gaze.
"Well, all right," he acquiesced. "You got me, Miss Abby. I wouldn't mind a little company if you're not opposed to idlin' for a spell with a fella who's down in the dumps. But if you're gonna stay, it's gonna be on two conditions: first, that you let me get you somethin' warm to throw over that coat of yours, and second, that we take turns talkin' about our families. I learned my lesson that day we had lunch at the Rudder and Relish, and I ain't gonna let you trick me into doin' all the yammerin' this time."
His smile was affable, but his tone left no room for contradiction, and Abby found herself agreeing to his proposal.
"All right," she nodded. "I accept your terms, with one counter-condition."
"And what's that?"
Now it was her turn to smile. "You drop the formality and simply call me 'Abby,' - or 'Abigail,' if you prefer."
"I always thought that formality was kind of a charmin' thing," he mused.
"Is that what all of the ladies tell you?"
"Can't say I've ever asked 'em." He grinned. "You think I should?"
Abby shrugged. "All I know is that this lady doesn't find it particularly appealing. Would you like it if I started calling you something stuffy like 'Sir Skiparoo'?"
He laughed. "But that ain't even close to the same thing!"
"'Sir Skiparoo,' it is then," she declared. "Don't think that I won't use it."
"I fully believe that you would, Miss – er, Abby. Just Abby." He sounded almost bashful now. "I haf'ta admit, the name's got sort of a nice ring to it, comin' from you. But I think plain ol' 'Skip''ll be just fine for everyday use."
Grinning, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go get'cha a wrap before it gets any colder. Feel free to have a seat if you'd like, and I'll be back in a jiffy."
He hurried down the dock in the direction of the row of shacks that sat about a stone's throw away, and Abby took a seat on the blanket that he'd laid down. She'd thought that the space was clear save for his cup and The Locket and the Bridge, but as she adjusted her skirt, her hand brushed against something cool and supple, she saw that there was a pile of slender green stalks sitting near the book.
Dandelion stems?
Curious, she picked one of them up, turning the foliage in her fingers. The seeds of the flower had already been blown away, leaving only the stem and the head behind, and she wondered what purpose Sherwin - Skip - had had for keeping them.
Before she could come up with a satisfactory theory, the man himself reappeared with a blanket and another cup in his hands.
"Here you go," he said, setting down the cup before unfurling the wrap. "A little tea for you, and my thickest blanket, made by Lottie's own hand. It's merino wool, and I just washed it this week, so it's clean as a whistle."
He gently set it around her shoulders, and Abby felt her cheeks flush as his hands grazed her collar bone for a second before he stepped back and took a seat beside her.
"So, your turn now," Skip said, dangling his legs over the edge of the docks and leaning back on his hands. "You've told me about your sisters, but not much about your folks. What's the story on your pa?"
Abby tried to push aside her distractedness and inherent reticence to attend to the question. She'd agreed to Sherwin's terms, after all, and would uphold her end of the bargain, even if still felt uncomfortable to talk about her father.
How to even begin answering? she wondered as she took a sip of her tea. There were so many memories - memories that spanned decades of life and innumerable moments both large and small…
"Papa was a hard-working man," she began slowly. "He started shining shoes when he was six, and after that, I don't think he ever stopped working a day in his life unless he was sick…or celebrating."
Vibrant memories began to surface from the grayness of her mind, and she let them linger this time instead of shoving them away.
"Papa knew how to celebrate. He was always bringing us little treats from the confectionery for the most mundane occasions and making much of even the smallest accomplishment. When I took third place in my school's junior spelling bee, he took me out to get an ice cream sundae. It was covered in candied cherries and syrup and it came in this fancy glass dish. Papa let me eat it all, even though it was the middle of the afternoon, and I felt like a queen, even though I ended up completely spoiling my dinner."
She smiled a little at the memory. "He'd take us on outings too - to the harbor and the library and sometimes to Coney Island or the theater for special occasions. My sister Lilly used to love the ducks in Central Park, and he made sure we went there for a picnic every few weeks so she could see them. It wasn't until I got older that I realized how much of a sacrifice this was…and why he'd often work late into the night after we'd gone to bed. It was because he did things like that - let our lives and our concerns interrupt his."
Her fingers found the pearl pendant at her throat, and she paused for a moment before continuing.
"He wasn't perfect. I think sometimes he tried to do too much. And he never really opposed Mama, even when she was in the wrong. But he tried to keep the peace as best as he could, and he made sure that all of us were taken care of. I sometimes wonder if he was disappointed that he never had a son, but if he was, he never showed it. He always seemed so proud of us…"
She let the pendant drop and curled her fingers around her cup of tea instead, listening to the sound of the waves lapping against the dock below her feet. Her answer had been a fragmented mess, far from a fitting commemoration for a man who had meant so much to her, but they had been the first shards to surface from the wreckage of her grief, and she found herself handling them gently, even if she had no idea how to piece them all together.
"Sure sounds like your pa's job was a demandin' one," Skip said quietly. "What did he do for a livin'?"
"He was a landlord," Abby answered, realizing that she'd left out that rather important detail. "He managed a tenement on Baxter Street in Lower Manhattan. That's where I grew up."
Briefly, she filled Skip in on her father's business history, beginning with the management of his first tenement on Orchard Street which had eventually led to the acquisition of the larger Baxter Street property.
"There were a few opportunities to expand over the years, but they didn't pan out, and Papa ended up investing the money instead," she continued. "It turned out to be a better choice; his investments did extremely well, and our family got to keep the community of friends and neighbors that we'd built at the tenement. Many of them have become dear to us over the years, and their presence has been a comfort, especially these last few months. It seems like every other day someone is bringing over a dish or stopping by to check on us. I think they all miss Papa, too."
"He sounds like he was an upstandin' sort of fella."
Abby nodded. "He was. We always had a long list of people waiting to move in because word got around that he was the best landlord in Lower Manhattan. He didn't make as much money as he could have because he tried to keep rent reasonable, but he always said that helping people was its own reward…and I think he was right…"
She trailed off, noticing that Skip was looking at her with a little grin on his face.
"What?" she asked, a little defensively.
"Oh, nothin'," he shrugged. "You were smilin', that's all. It kinda seems like talkin' about your pa makes you happy."
Abby was taken aback by the observation. Previously, thinking about her father had always brought about a feeling of melancholy, even the good memories tinged with bittersweetness and regret. There hadn't been a single moment since his death where she'd thought about him without feeling the terrible void of knowing that he was never coming back, and that she'd never had the chance to say goodbye…
So why had it been different tonight? Was it because conveying facts to a near-stranger felt less dismal than being alone with the dreary grayness of her thoughts? Was it because talking about happier times had made her momentarily forget how everything had ended? Or was it simply the magic of Cherin Cove at work again, the small town's quaintness rendering even the sharpest realities of life somehow lighter and softer?
"You're right," she acknowledged. "I did almost feel happy just now. It doesn't make any sense - I've been trying to avoid thinking about Papa as much as possible, especially going into the new year. It feels dreadful to think that this will be our first year without him, and for it all to be so final."
"I hear ya," Skip sympathized. "There's somethin' 'bout the changin' of the calendar that just makes it feel worse somehow. It makes sense why bein' home would be hard for you with your family throwin' that party and your pa not bein' there."
Abby nodded, feeling the familiar weight of guilt settle in. "I don't think I could bear it," she confessed. "Having to listen to all of the condolences from the tenants, hearing my sister give the welcoming toast in his place, knowing that none of us knew last year would be his final time hosting this party that he loved so much…"
Tears suddenly prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked the sensation away.
"Anyway, that's quite enough of that," she said abruptly. "I want to know what these dandelion stems are for."
She held out the bunch of slender green stalks, hoping they would be an adequate deflection, and Skip took them silently. He looked as though he wanted to question her, but Abby pointedly avoided his gaze, and after a moment, he, too, looked away.
"June used to call them 'puff weeds,'" he said quietly, turning one of the dandelion stems in his hand. "Whenever I was feelin' down, she'd pick some for me and tell me to blow my worries out. It used to help me a lot when I was younger, and I started grabbin' a bunch for myself whenever I felt sad or worried."
Setting the stem back with the rest, he placed the bundle on the blanket next to him. "Once I got a little older, though, I realized there were a whole lot of troubles in life that puff weeds couldn't solve, and I kinda stopped usin' 'em. I lost faith in things bein' that simple."
"What made you want to revisit the practice tonight?" Abby wondered.
Skip let out a soft laugh. "To be honest, it was the last thing on my mind, but as I was walkin' home from runnin' an errand, I saw a big bunch of 'em bloomin' by the footpath. I dunno how they managed to stick around with the weather bein' so cold, but maybe it's 'cause we ain't had our first snowfall yet. Anyway, it felt like a sign or somethin', so I picked the whole lot of 'em and brought 'em back here. After I read a couple chapters of June's book, I blew the seeds out over the water. Seems like somethin' she would've wanted me to do."
"It sounds like she really cared about you," Abby observed.
Skip nodded. "Even though we were only a few minutes apart age-wise, I always felt like she was years ahead of me. She found a way to make life fun, even when it should've been miserable." He shook his head. "I wish I could've done the same for her when she got sick. She always wanted me to live my life and be happy, but I guess she didn't realize that her happiness was part of the equation. I never told her that, 'cause I didn't want her to feel worse…but sometimes it was hard to keep up the act."
He fell silent, staring out towards the water, and Abby did the same, listening to the sound of the ocean waves rising and falling below. The seagulls continued to circle lazily nearby, but they refrained from their obnoxious chatter, as though honoring the somberness of the moment.
"If June was here now," Abby said, watching them drift through the dark, "what do you think she would have wanted you to do about the Countdown?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, earlier you seem torn about what to do. You mentioned that you wanted to celebrate tonight, but that you felt like you ought to stay here to honor June's memory. I'm just thinking that those things may not be as mutually exclusive as you think they are."
Pushing up her glasses, she continued, "Of course, I don't understand the situation the way you do, but from what you just told me, it sounds like your sister wanted you to be happy. Maybe she would have wanted you to go to the Countdown and enjoy yourself. If you feel like it would be better to talk some more, we can, of course…I'm not trying to push you into a decision you're not comfortable with."
Sherwin didn't say anything at first, and she let him think while she finished drinking the rest of her tea.
"You know what?" he finally broke the silence. "You're right. June wouldn't have wanted me to sit here mopin'. She would've told me to get myself up that hill."
When he still seemed reluctant to move, Abby found herself suggesting, "Why don't you just see how it goes? If it doesn't feel right, we can leave and talk some more, but if you feel at ease once you get there, then you'll know that it's all right to stay."
"That sounds like a mighty reasonable suggestion," Skip responded, "but if anyone leaves, it's gonna be me alone. You've already done enough tonight, and it ain't your responsibility to keep me company when I'm down in the dumps."
There he goes again, not following his own advice, Abby thought as she prepared to push back. It isn't right for him to tell me that I ought to be with others when he's the one distancing himself whenever he feels…
The words of her half-formed retort faded away as understanding suddenly dawned.
Samantha said that he regularly sails off alone without telling anyone where he's headed. She suspected it was due to some kind of melancholy, and if tonight's any indication of how Skip normally operates when he's sad…
The more Abby considered it, the more this seemingly-hypocritical behavior actually made sense. Skip had admitted to hiding his feelings from his sister in order to spare her pain, and he seemed to think that his parents had considered him an inconvenience as well. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that he'd made a habit of withdrawing, saving his moments of heartache for when he was alone and wouldn't burden anyone.
"You're gettin' ready to take exception, ain'tcha?" the man in question predicted.
"No," Abby fibbed. (It was only half untrue). "But I am going to offer you an excellent incentive for going to the Countdown."
"An excellent incentive, huh?" Skip smiled a little. "Consider me curious."
Abby began digging into her handbag. "I have two tickets for the book raffle. I'll give you one if you come back with me."
"Is that right?" Even without seeing him, she could tell his smile had grown. "You'd give up somethin' that precious just to get me to come along with you?"
"If it'll convince you and help you have a good time once you get there," she replied.
"Well, that sure is kind of you." He got to his feet. "And it worked. I'll head to the Countdown with you, but I'm gonna let you keep that extra ticket for yourself. No extra incentive necessary."
"Are you sure?" Abby finally located the voucher and got to her feet, holding out the paper stub. "An offer is an offer."
He nodded. "I'm sure. I know how much you love readin' - you'll make better use of it than me."
Reaching down to get the blanket they'd be sitting on, he rolled it up, stuck it under his arm, then grabbed the cups and The Locket and the Bridge. "I'm gonna take everything back home and change into somethin' more suitable," he said, "but I'll try to be quick. It don't sit right for me to keep you standin' out here in the cold, but my shack's a one-room deal – "
"It's fine," Abby said quickly. "I've got the blanket you gave me, and it's not really that cold."
He nodded. "All right, then. I'll be back in a flash."
He hurried off, leaving Abby to return the raffle ticket to her handbag and then look out towards the water, listening to the sound of the waves lapping at the dock pilings beneath her feet.
Well, that didn't go how I'd expected.
The last half hour had brought about a welter of emotions, most of them far more affecting than she'd bargained for. She'd come in search of Skip intending to ask him a few questions, but she hadn't expected to hear such sobering answers or talk about her own grief - no matter how briefly - in the process.
So much for avoiding gloominess on New Year's Eve, she thought ruefully.
Despite the concession, she had to admit that the conversation hadn't gone as poorly as it could have. She'd succeeded in cheering Skip up at least, and now would have the satisfaction of returning with him to the Countdown - not that that had been the goal, per se, but she hoped that it would make him feel better once he was with the rest of his friends and neighbors.
Sally will pounce on him the moment we arrive, Abby thought wryly. I wonder if I should warn him so he can avoid her.
Before she could decide on a course of action, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and the man himself reappeared.
"Sorry to keep you waitin.'"
He sounded slightly out of breath, but his appearance showed no evidence of his rushed attiring efforts, and Abby found herself staring a little as he came to a stop in front of her. He'd changed out of his drab attire and was wearing a light gray cable-knit sweater accented by a hunter green scarf. His newsboy cap was back atop his head, and the lantern light gave his face and his dimpled smile a warm, inviting glow.
I may have been too miserly in my initial assessment of his appearance, Abby thought faintly. He certainly cleans up well, and if this is merely the result of a few minutes of preparation…
"No red this time," she observed, trying to keep her voice nonchalant.
"Not this time." Skip sounded pleased that she'd noticed. "You got dressed up all pretty for the Countdown, and I ain't gonna spoil the effect by wearin' my same ol' duds."
He grinned, and Abby smiled back, feeling a little twinge of something that was surprising, but not entirely unwelcome.
They were just two grieving souls standing there in the dark, getting ready to head up the hill to the light that awaited. Two grieving souls, dressed in their best, trying to wade through the murky waters of celebration and sadness and the rocky emotions submerged in between. There was no telling what the outcome of their respective journeys would be, or how long their paths would converge…but Abby had to admit that she was grateful to have a traveling partner, even if only for the night.
This isn't what I came to Cherin Cove for, she thought, but if that's what Cherin Cove wants to give me, I'm not about to say no.
She looked up the hill towards the lights of the town square.
"Wouldja like to take the blanket with you?" Skip asked, and Abby realized that the wrap was still around her shoulders. "If you don't need it, I can leave it here and pick it up on my way back, but I'd hate for you to get chilly."
"I think I'll be warm enough once we get there," Abby replied, folding up the blanket and setting it on one of the crates nearby. "That is, if you'll dance with me."
Skip laughed at the sudden turn. "Well, it wouldn't be right of me to refuse, now, would it? Of course I'll dance with you, Miss Abby!"
Holding out his arm to her, he asked, "Ready to head to the Countdown?"
Abby wrapped her fingers around his arm. "Lead on, Sir Skiparoo."
A/N: In our next installment, we'll rejoin the rest of Cherin Cove at the Confetti Countdown, so I hope you'll stick around for the fun. As always, thanks for following along, and thanks especially to the wonderful folks who have been reviewing this story! :) I appreciate you so much!
Finally, if you're the kind of reader who likes visual references, I recently posted a drawing of Skip on my Instagram account, so feel free to check it out if you're curious to know what our leading man looks like. I'm working on a portrait of Abby as well. :)
Chapter notes:
This chapter contained a briefly-mentioned clue regarding Sherwin/Skip's identity, so if you've been piecing that together, I hope the extra information helped. (Shout out to AetherlightGirl who correctly solved the puzzle back when Chapter 4 posted! :)). For an extra shot of bittersweetness, I invite you to read "Consolation for a King" (installment 25 in Interstices), which features young!Sherwin and his dandelions at a time when he still believed in their healing properties (it's actually a sweet story in and of itself).
*Interracial marriage was not legally prohibited in New York, but it was also not fully legalized in all fifty of the United States until 1967.