“Ice cream in a cup,” the old woman said.

“Yes ma’am,” Eleanor told her. “In a cup.”

EIGHT

The bargain to paint Taylor Bowers’s store was struck by the answer of a question cheerfully asked before Noah could speak of it: “You ready to start painting, Fish Seller?”

Noah paused, glanced around the shadows of the store, thinking that Taylor’s question had some tease to it for the pleasure of someone listening. He did not see anyone and realized the question was merely a greeting. “If the offer’s still made,” he replied.

“Well, it is. It’s still on the table,” Taylor said with a hint of surprise in his voice. “Fact is, knowing you like coffee, I’ll throw in all the coffee you can drink. I keep it perking all day. Let’s get us a cup right now and work things out.”

The bargain was simple: Noah could paint at his leisure. If an order for a string of fish was given, he could take the time to catch it. “I’m not in any particular hurry about the store, and I don’t believe in keeping a man away from what he wants to be doing,” Taylor said easily. He smiled with satisfaction and added, “Littleberry Davis stopped by my home yesterday afternoon. He’s already got the word about you being here. Looked a little worried.”

“Hope it won’t cause trouble,” Noah said.

“Trouble? What it’ll do is to put people to talking and there’ll be a crowd to watch you and Littleberry go at it,” Taylor countered. “By the way, Littleberry said he’d run into Howard Reynolds at church and Howard was bragging on the fish you got him, said he couldn’t hardly believe you’d got them so quick, especially as many as you did. Nobody’s caught a string like that in a month of Sundays. Talk gets around. You’ll be getting some more orders unless I miss my guess.”

There was one such order, Noah told him, without giving names. Still, he could get started on the paint job, could work until mid-afternoon.

“Fine with me,” Taylor said. “Like I told you, I’m not in a rush. Rather have it done right than done fast. I don’t guess it’s over two or three days’ work, anyhow.” He paused, looked at Noah, and Noah knew he was weighing a question. “How about if we make you a little place in the back of the store?” Taylor added. “I got a cot at the house I can bring up later.”

“That’s all right,” Noah told him. “I found me a place.”

“Where’s it at?” Taylor asked.

“A little shack up on a lake.”

“Which lake?”

“Up the road a couple of miles,” Noah answered.

“Not the big lake?”

“No,” Noah said. “A few acres, I’d guess.”

Taylor bobbed his head in acknowledgment. “I know the place,” he said. “Some people call it the Lake of Grief.” From the look in his eyes, he wanted to say something else, but did not, and Noah, guessing the unsaid thing was about Eleanor Cunningham’s husband and about the ghost of Arch Wheeler, looked away, letting the pause linger between them.