To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 32

Sam looked at him in silence for a moment, an expression of begrudging amazement betrayed by the height of his eyebrows. "I misjudged you," he said at last. "You're a prickly fall-from-grace, but you've come by it honestly."

Timothy snorted. "Save your admiration for my father. He's got more strength of character than I have. Anyway—and I hope it doesn't sound callous—but isn't it sometimes death that brings about the greatest change?"

Sam squinted at him and was just about to reply, when Lyman started the meeting. It was only then that it occurred to Timothy that he'd come to work without an article idea, trusting fully to the fertile imagination his companion apparently had so little faith in. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists. Trusting was so much harder when his livelihood rested in someone else's hands.

Predictably, Mr. Graham was the first one to rise and declare his intentions. "Mrs. Armstrong was murdered last night at the restaurant La Fantaisie. A note bearing the inscription 'dare' was also found at the scene of the crime. I intend to begin my interviews with Mr. Joseph Webb, who the police have arrested as the main suspect."

Sam kicked Timothy's wooden leg beneath the table, but he was too shocked to be annoyed or even to pretend it had hurt. Another dare murder! He gaped at Sam, and Sam rose as soon as Mr. Graham left, begging permission to write an atmospheric story on the scene of the crime. The very next moment Sam was dragging him out the door at such a rate Timothy almost lost his footing on the stairs.

Sam winced, standing a step or two below him. "I'm sorry, I forgot—father was never fond of stairs either. We're going to outdo Mr. Graham yet!"

Timothy made it to the bottom of the stairs and caught his breath, following Sam as he flagged down a cab. As excited—was that the word?—that he was about the potential of the article in front of them, Sam's earlier behavior had not completely left his mind. "Is your father the reason you're determined to be a doctor?" he asked.

Sam looked at him, and something flickered in his expression. "A part of it."

Timothy watched an approaching cab. "Right, well—as long as you don't put the cart before the horse, I've no doubt you'll be top of the class."

Sam made an odd choked sound, and then pointed at the sky as if the sole purpose of his existence was to alert passersby of a change in the weather. "Clouds are coming. Did you bring an umbrella by any chance?"

Timothy groaned. "No—does it really look like rain? Rain and I have a mutual distaste for each other."

The cab stopped, and after Sam gave the driver his instructions, he climbed inside waxing poetic about the benefits of a good summer rain. Timothy was perfectly aware of them, but was not to be persuaded to change his opinion.

He shut the door, sealing them both inside the stuffy box. "You don't have a foot that grows two shoe sizes after you step in a puddle."

Sam looked at him, tried to discern whether he was joking, turned red, and bent over his knees as if taken by an internal complaint. "That must be difficult," he gasped.

Timothy watched him with amusement, but wasn't about to put him out of his misery yet. "What did your father do about that?"

"He wore boots," Sam's voice was oddly high. "Big, thick, boots."

Timothy snorted, examining the worn-out shoe on his left foot. "I wish that fashion would catch on here. Do you really think it's going to rain?"

"Buckets," Sam said solemnly, then straightened and finally saw that the corner of Timothy's mouth was turned up. He leaned back, hands thrown wide. "You're joking! You were joking. Ah! You do have a sense of humor. Darn it, Timothy, I thought I was being insensitive, and you—"

"Why do you have such a mania for stockings?" Timothy interrupted.

"Why do I—?" Sam repeated, mystified—and then he began to laugh. He laughed so hard his face turned red again and he had to lay down on the seat of the cab to steady himself. And Timothy laughed too. Sam's laugh wasn't rich so much as infectious, and he really couldn't help himself even though he didn't know what Sam found so funny.

Suddenly the cab stopped, and Sam rolled off on the floor. He sat up with a groan, picking straw off of his sleeves. "It's not socks," he said.

–––––––––

"Darn" used the way Sam uses it (not to describe the act of mending stockings) is an American invention dating from the late 1700s.

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