That warm May evening, the sky was a clear, star-filled indigo, and even downtown Covington smelled like springtime. Whittier Street ran parallel to Washington, the main drag along the Merrimack River, which was lined with restaurants and boutiques. But if Washington Avenue presented the tight facelift of the old factory town’s gentrification, Whittier’s cafés and art galleries were the Bohemian, liberal heart of the place. Mike Shaughnessy had dropped his wife, Cori, at the door of the Papillon Gallery and parked halfway down the block. Cori had balked, insisting that at six months’ pregnant she was perfectly capable of walking a hundred yards, but Mike wouldn’t hear of it. He liked taking care of her, indulging her. Until she’d gotten pregnant, he’d sort of forgotten just how much. A trio of well-dressed women approached the gallery from the opposite direction, coming toward him along the sidewalk, and Mike slowed down to allow them to reach the door first.
What do You think about Tell My Sorrows To The Stones?
