The Listener: Prologue / Chapters 1 & 2

Prologue – The First Meeting

Downtown Peterborough, NH

The late October wind whipped oak leaves into swirling eddies along Pine Street, chasing Catherine Primrose out her door. She tugged the brim of her Peterborough Food Pantry cap low, wisps of blonde hair escaping at her ears, and checked the quiet sidewalks, searching for an answer in the stillness. Noon bells rang from somewhere up the street.

She crossed Pine to Main, keeping her pace brisk over the bridge, the river’s muted roar underfoot. Outside the Toadstool Bookshop, a lunch crowd spilled from the diner. Catherine’s gaze flicked across faces, checking for unwarranted glances, signs of unusual attention. She ducked inside and let the warm smell of paper and coffee wrap around her.

A man was waiting at a corner table in Aesop’s coffee shop—two cups, two forks, one slice of coffee cake. Phil. Sixties, horn-rimmed tortoise shell glasses, navy windbreaker with a faint stain on the collar. His smile was easy; Catherine’s, a bit too quick and forced.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she murmured, leaning in. “Did you think you were followed?”

Phil took a slow sip of his coffee. “Can’t say,” he replied evenly. “Why the cloak and dagger, Catherine?”

She pulled a book from her satchel—Good Dirt, its cover showing a vivid orange cracked antique jar. “I can’t make the next book club meeting,” she said, her voice lightening. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d lead the discussion. We’re expecting a dozen or more, and I hate to cancel. Everyone’s looking forward to it.” She laid a printed discussion sheet on the table, her hand clearly visible.

Below the table, their knees brushed. As her hand pointed to a line on the sheet, her fingers trembled, pressing a folded paper into his palm. Quick, but not quite steady. His hand, resting on his thigh, moved with practiced ease. He accepted the note and, in the same motion, passed something back—a small object that had been pressed to the chair beneath his leg. A subtle exchange, a quiet, practiced dance.

Above the table, Catherine threw her head back and laughed, the sound a shade too loud for the bookshop. Phil smiled along, his expression composed but slightly stiff. They discussed the weather, skimmed the talking points, and traded casual pleasantries. He didn’t press her for details. She didn’t offer any.

They shared the coffee cake and lingered for twenty minutes. When she stood to leave, Catherine offered a warm, grateful smile. “Thank you again, Phil.”

He nodded, watching her exit. Then he picked up the copy of Good Dirt she’d left behind and began to flip through the pages, expression unreadable.

Small‑town eyes had indeed been watching. Neighborly eyes she never thought twice about took notes and did not like what they saw.

 

Chapter 1 – The Listener

Tuesday, late October – Peterborough Town Library

The wind from the bridge still rattled the streetlamps when Arnie Price settled into his corner chair at the library. He came here for the quiet. For the neat rows of books that reminded him of order. For a seat where the afternoon sun could warm his knees and his aging dog, Digby, could nap without judgment.

Listening was something he’d fallen into, not planned. Sit still in a public space long enough, and people decide you’re the one who ought to hear their troubles.

Today’s 3:40 p.m. slot was Ronnie, halfway through a rant before the sand in the hourglass was even turned.“The Patriots don’t deserve to be in the NFL next year,” Ronnie said.

Arnie didn’t argue. Arms folded, he stared past the man to the far wall of reference books. Ronnie was a regular. Arnie tolerated him. His posted job here—the one he’d invented—was simple: not to talk, not to fix. Just to listen.

Before Ronnie arrived, Arnie had been reading the Monadnock Ledger’s Tuesday police log, scanning for anything that didn’t fit. Mostly it was barking dogs, dented bumpers, the occasional “suspicious activity.” A far cry from the Boston underworld he’d once combed through for stories at the Globe. But the old instincts lingered—to read between the lines, to parse what wasn’t being said.

On the table sat a small sign:

Arnie Price – Listener – You’ve Got 20 Minutes – Appointments Only

Beside it: a clipboard with sign‑ups, a legal pad, half‑finished crossword, a pitcher of water, and the sand‑filled hourglass—twenty minutes exactly.

Ronnie kept talking. “The coaching staff’s useless, management’s cheap, and the players? Don’t give a crap — uh, crap’s okay, right?”

Arnie gave him a nod. Rule #7 violation averted. The laminated list of the 10 Rules of Arnie and Digby’s Listening Service rested in the corner for all to see—Arnie needed boundaries, but had acquiesced at the insistence of Connie, who believed people needed permission to connect with something.

Three minutes to go. Ronnie leaned forward as if sharing state secrets. “It’s all about the money now. Doesn’t matter—pro, college—you can’t afford a ticket without taking out a loan.”

Arnie glanced at his Timex. Worn brown leather band, reliable as an atomic clock. Claire had given it to him when they were dating — back when her father called him unreliable. He’d worn the watch for fifty years. Kept the watch; not the vow.

Final minute.

“We need relegation. Like Europe. Send the Patriots down to the minors—make ’em earn it.”

The last grain of sand dropped. “That concludes our session,” Arnie said, standing.

He packed his things into the brown box, clipped Digby’s leash, and carried it to the desk. Flipping open the clipboard, he scanned the day’s list. Ronnie, predictably early. Two canceled slots. One woman who cried silently the entire time.

And Catherine Primrose—first appointment that morning—absent. No call. No note. Not like her.

Arnie’s brows knit before he could smooth them. He remembered seeing a flash of purple on Main Street when he came in earlier—an umbrella held low against the wind. Catherine’s? Maybe it had been hers. Maybe not.

Outside, the air had a bite to it, the wind carrying more leaves than it left behind. He crossed the stone bridge with Digby trotting beside him. Halfway over, the dog’s ears flicked toward something behind them.

Arnie glanced back. Just the sound of acorns skittering on the sidewalk. If anyone had been there, they were already gone. He pulled his coat a little tighter, and kept walking.

Chapter 2 – Bridge Night

Tuesday Night – Stonegate Rec Room

Stonegate’s rec room always smelled faintly of furniture polish and coffee, with Sinatra crooning overhead like he owned the lease. Four square tables filled the center, bidding boxes and score pads ready, snacks lined up on the counter.

At 6:30 sharp, Arnie Price walked in—not because bridge required punctuality, but because Evelyn March did. Digby padded in beside him, heading straight for his dog bed in the corner where a chewed rope toy lay in wait.

Evelyn was already at Table One, smoothing her custom blue corduroy cloth until not a ripple showed. The bidding boxes were in perfect alignment, the scorepad squared to the edge. No clutter, no deviation—the Evelyn way. Retired librarian, order in her blood, and an uncanny talent for recalling Dewey Decimal numbers for any subject you could name.

“Evening, Evelyn,” Arnie said, lowering himself into the North seat.

“Cards are shuffled. We’ll draw for who deals when the others arrive.”

Arnie had always liked her steady presence—and the fact she was the one who had helped Claire land her library job all those years ago.

Royce Bennett strolled in next, whistling off-key and smelling faintly of aftershave.

“Evening, Arnie. I’m feeling lucky tonight—thinking aggressive bidding, full attack mode.”

Arnie gave him a dry look. “Let’s not get reckless.”

Royce grinned, sliding into the South seat. Retired mail carrier, bachelor, human Rolodex of every back road and front porch in southern New Hampshire—plus every food joint worth knowing, especially those offering meals you could drive with.

Then Connie Clark arrived like a gust of color, dropping her oversized tote with a thud. “Did you all miss me terribly? I bring good luck and contraband cookies.”

“No snacks on the table,” Evelyn said without looking up.

“It’s not a snack, it’s an incentive,” Connie countered, placing a cookie beside Arnie’s bidding box. “If you win a hand.”

Connie, the queen of impromptu celebration—she could turn a Tuesday night bridge game into a birthday, anniversary, or bake sale at the drop of a hat.

Evelyn feathered out the cards in a rainbow arc across the table. Connie flipped the highest card—Queen of Hearts. “Perfect. I’ll take heart over reckless abandon any day.”

“You are feisty tonight,” Royce said. “We’ll see what the cards have to say.”

With the cards dealt, Evelyn reached for the bid box and opened with a bang up 2 Clubs, a wry smirk just barely visible at the corner of her mouth. A strong opening bid – Evelyn didn’t bluff.

“Already?” Royce groaned. “You know the odds of that are? Under 2%! These cards were shuffled, right?”

“With reckless abandon,” Connie quipped.

As play started, Arnie stared at his cards. Spades, hearts, diamonds – none of them registered. Catherine Primrose’s name kept swirling in his head like a leaf in a whirlpool.

“Arnie?” Connie prompted. “Your bid. Everything okay?”

He blinked. “Just thinking…” He tossed his hand face down. “Pass.”

The women pushed the bidding to six spades. Royce’s eyes flared—he was intent to bring it down. Evelyn played with clinical precision, Royce played his Ace, Evelyn was void and trumped him. Royce slumped back, defeated. The ladies had pulled off a small slam – rare, risky and perfectly executed.

“Please,” Connie said as she laid down dummy on the next hand. Evelyn was on a roll. “Tell us what’s on your mind.”

“You know Catherine Primrose, right?”

“Of course,” Evelyn said as she plotted her play. “Pine Street. Pantry volunteer. Choir. Book club. She’s everywhere—and she’s early for everything.”

“She was a no‑show for her slot today.”

“That’s not like her,” Evelyn said, frowning and in an unusual display of distraction lowered her cards. “If she’s involved, she’s already there before I am.”

“Probably nothing,” Arnie said, though he didn’t believe it.

“I don’t like it,” Connie said firmly. “I’m checking on her tomorrow.”

“I’ll come,” Royce added. “Know the building.”

Arnie nodded. “Let’s see what’s what.”

By 8:30, Evelyn called time. Chairs scraped, cards stacked, cookies vanished. Royce was muttering about missed finesses, and Evelyn tidied the table like it was a crime scene being preserved.

“You two go ahead,” she told Connie and Arnie. “Chair Yoga’s here tomorrow, and I’m not hearing about crumbs for a week.”

Connie hooked her tote over her shoulder. “Come on, Listener. Let’s walk the dog.”

Digby stretched, yawned, and trotted to the door, ears pricked as if he knew this walk had a destination.