A Will and a Wedding

“You cannot let that thing rage away. What if it got out of control? The city has bylaws, you know.”

The urchin before him drew herself to her full height, which Jefferson figured was maybe a hair over five feet, before deigning to speak. When she did, her resentment was clear.

“I am in charge here, Mr. Haddon. If I need help I can call on Bennet. But I won’t.” Her hands clasped her hips and he couldn’t help but notice the way her hair tossed itself into silky disarray around her face. “And for your information, I have a permit to burn.”

Jefferson shook his head. He refused to be deterred. Someone had to protect Judith’s wonderful old estate.

“Bennet’s nowhere to be seen. Fat lot of help he’d be.”

She refused to answer him, her full lips pursed tightly. Instead, one grubby fist pointed toward the shed in the corner of the garden. Jefferson saw a man leaning against the side, watching them.

“We’ll manage, Mr. Haddon. You’d better go before you ruin those designer duds completely.”

Jefferson almost choked. The stately old butler Aunt Judith had insisted wear a black pinstripe suit coat and spotless white shirt stood clad in a red flannel shirt and tattered overalls with a filthy felt hat on his silver hair.

Jefferson whirled around to speak to Cassie but she ignored him as she dealt with one of the children’s requests. When the little girl had toddled away, he tried a more conciliatory approach.

“My name is Jefferson,” he told her softly, intrigued by a woman who would don such unsightly clothes to stand in the center of a dirty garden with a pack of homeless kids for a wiener roast in late autumn.

She whirled to face him, having obviously forgotten his presence.

“What?” Her voice was far away, lost in some never land.

“My name is Jefferson.” He told her again, more clearly this time.

That sent her big green eyes searching his for something. He didn’t know exactly what, but evidently she was satisfied. Moments later she moved forward to help Mrs. Bennet set out the food. He thought he heard her clear tones whisper softly through the crisp air.

“Goodbye, Jeff.”

As he watched her walk away with that energetic bounce to her step he was coming to recognize, Jefferson tossed the sound through his mind several times.

Jeff. Jeff, he said to himself. He’d never had a nickname before, not with his father’s strict adherence to family traditions. At boarding school he’d always been Jefferson or Jefferson William.

Jeff.

He liked it. A smile flickered across his sober face. He had never been to a wiener roast, either. Perhaps it was time he broadened his horizons. So that he could teach Bobby, he told himself.

He strode back to Judith’s house with anticipation as his companion. The boy, David, was just coming out and looked suspiciously at him before moving aside at the door. He avoided Jeffs eyes, striding quickly past, obviously eager to join the group in the garden.

“David,” Jefferson called after him. The boy stopped, unsure. Finally he turned around, angling a questioning black eyebrow up at the older man.

“What?” His voice was sullen.

“I need to change clothes. Do you know where there are some old things I can borrow?” Jeff ignored his petulant expression.

They stood facing each other for long moments, searching brown eyes scrutinizing him steadily, before David nodded. Moving into the house, he stopped to let Jeff remove his dirty shoes.

“Mrs. Bennet will skin you ‘live if you track that dirt through the house,” he ordered, his tone smugly superior.

As they marched the length of the upstairs hallway, Jeff noticed that every room seemed to be occupied. It was odd. He’d been here hundreds of times before and no one had ever occupied the second floor.

Other than Judith.

They finally stopped at the linen closet at the far end of the hall. The boy tugged out a cardboard box and began pulling things out.

“Here, you can wear these,” the kid offered, measuring Jefferson’s body mentally before choosing his attire.

Jefferson winced at the ragged denim shirt and much patched jeans that were proffered from a box that had undoubtedly come from the Goodwill center. There was very little to commend the shabby articles except that they would save his own clothes from stains the black garden soil would inflict.

“You can change in my room if you want,” David suggested hesitantly.

“Thank you very much.” Jefferson kept his tone properly appreciative, considering this was half his house. David stood staring out the window while he slipped out of his pants and into the rags.

“Why do you have your own room?” Jefferson asked curiously, having already noticed two beds in each of the other bedrooms.

The boy’s head swung round, his grin wide.

“Cassie says a guy who’s sixteen should have some privacy. So I get to have my own room. I never had that before.” His serious brown eyes stared at Jefferson. “In most of the foster places we don’t have half the fun we have here.” His solemn face brightened.

“Cassie says this is a fun stop on the highway of life. While we’re here we get to do lots of neat things. Like the bonfire.” His eager eyes inspected Jefferson from head to stockinged feet. “There’s some old boots in the back porch,” he said softly. His dark head tipped to one side, anxiously waiting.

“Are you just about ready? They’re gonna be cooking the hot dogs soon an’ I’m starved.”

Jefferson nodded and they went down the stairs together. Well, sort of together. The boy bounded down happily in front, eager to rejoin the fray.

Jefferson slipped on the boots slowly, mulling over the child’s explanation. If he understood correctly, this boy was in limbo. Waiting. And while he was here, that woman, Cassie Newton, made the time seem like a holiday. It was a curious occupation; one he didn’t understand. What did she get out of it?

They walked toward the others, David half running until he stopped suddenly. Wheeling around, he asked, “Are you going to live here, too?”

Jefferson paused, head tilted, wondering how to answer.

“I’m not sure yet,” he hedged finally. “Why?”

“Just wondering what we’re s’posed to call you,” David mumbled, turning away.

Jefferson reached out impulsively, pulling at the boy’s sleeve.

“My name is Jeff.” The rest died away as the teenager bounded toward the others, yelling as he went.

“This is my friend Jeff,” he bellowed to the assembled throng. That settled, he got to the matters at hand. “I’m having four hot dogs.”

They crowded around Cassie eagerly as she handed out wieners and sticks to the younger ones first, then the older children. To his credit, David waited until the last for his portion, Jeff noticed. He took his own place behind the patient boy and only belatedly wondered if there would be enough of everything for the adults to share in the feast.

He would have backed away then, but Cassie thrust a stick and a wiener at him.

“Slumming, Jeff?” she asked, one eyebrow quirked upward expressively. There it was again, he mused, that shortened form of his name. To his amazement, he found that he enjoyed hearing it on her lips. He was even starting to think of himself as Jeff, he decided.

He ignored the hint of sarcasm and threaded the wiener on the stick crossways. It didn’t look very secure and he wondered how long it would stay on.