That’s forty-seven ninety-six, sweetie. What’s wrong, darlin’?”
Everything. Small towns, for openers. And three hours of failing to communicate, of being misunderstood, and of giving old acquaintances the wrong impression—an impression that she’d suddenly become standoffish. She felt as if her head was about to come off.
Bree counted out the money, looked at Claire and abruptly swung her purse onto the old wooden counter. Claire, she scribbled, I have laryngitis. I’m not being unfriendly. I can’t talk.
She shoved the note across the counter along with her money. Claire read the note aloud, flicked her eyebrows up and beamed at Bree. “You poor thing. I told Barker you hadn’t turned into no snob.” She leaned on the counter, ignoring the two people behind Bree who were expecting to get waited on. “I tell you what my pa used to do for a case of throat trouble. Don’t go to Doc Felders, now—he don’t know nothin’. You take a spoonful of common tar, three spoonfuls of honey, the yolk of three eggs and a half pint of brew. Beat it good with a knife, not a spoon, bottle it up and dose yourself good a few times a day. You’ll have that throat fixed up in no time.”
Bree nodded her thanks. If she’d had a voice, she wasn’t sure she would have been capable of a verbal thank-you for that particular advice.
“If you want me to, I’ll make some up for you and bring it over…”
Bree, grabbing her grocery bags, quickly shook her head.
“Wouldn’t be no trouble at all…”
The real problem with lying was the endless trouble the little fibs could get her into. It took twenty more minutes before Bree was free to sidle through the door with her arms aching from the weight of her grocery bags.
The car had been preheated under a South Carolina midafternoon sun. There was barely room for Bree—the backseat, the floor and the passenger seat were crammed with parcels. She’d known after the first fifteen minutes in town that this was going to be her one and only trip for a while—unless those temperamental vocal chords of hers decided to function again.
The main street of Mapleville was dusty and quiet. The post office was brick, but the old flour mill and general store and pharmacy were frame buildings that hadn’t seen fresh paint in a decade or two. Bree had always loved the sleepy, lazy town, and the people in it as well, but heading home was a relief. Patience, Dr. Willming had counseled her.
She was fresh out of the commodity. She’d hurt several people’s feelings that morning by not responding to their friendly questions. She’d earned a good headache simply by traveling a few miles and being unable to communicate. And a man she thoroughly detested had walked all over her while she just kept taking it like some helpless ninny. Bree was not helpless, and she was damned tired of feeling helpless.
Hot and miserable, she carried sack after sack into the cabin. Gradually, as she unpacked her purchases, she began to feel better. If the three hours of shopping had been grueling emotionally, she had found everything she needed to keep her busy for the next few weeks. Buying groceries had been a nuisance, but the rest of her purchases were sheer luxuries, memories of things she’d once loved to do. Gram had taught her to use the old spinning wheel, and she’d bought two sacks of wool from the old mountain man up the rise who raised sheep. She’d also purchased dye to color the wool once it was spun. And baking—on the immediate agenda was fussing with Gram’s old recipe for rich bride cake, and for days after that she had equally delectable plans. Her sacks were full of wheat flour and rye flour and yeast, ground rice, mace and nutmeg and currants; ginger and molasses and hops—things that few cooks used anymore.
And the old witch from the north of town—well, she claimed she was a witch—had yielded bergamot and vitriolic acid and citronella, some of the old-fashioned ingredients
Everything. Small towns, for openers. And three hours of failing to communicate, of being misunderstood, and of giving old acquaintances the wrong impression—an impression that she’d suddenly become standoffish. She felt as if her head was about to come off.
Bree counted out the money, looked at Claire and abruptly swung her purse onto the old wooden counter. Claire, she scribbled, I have laryngitis. I’m not being unfriendly. I can’t talk.
She shoved the note across the counter along with her money. Claire read the note aloud, flicked her eyebrows up and beamed at Bree. “You poor thing. I told Barker you hadn’t turned into no snob.” She leaned on the counter, ignoring the two people behind Bree who were expecting to get waited on. “I tell you what my pa used to do for a case of throat trouble. Don’t go to Doc Felders, now—he don’t know nothin’. You take a spoonful of common tar, three spoonfuls of honey, the yolk of three eggs and a half pint of brew. Beat it good with a knife, not a spoon, bottle it up and dose yourself good a few times a day. You’ll have that throat fixed up in no time.”
Bree nodded her thanks. If she’d had a voice, she wasn’t sure she would have been capable of a verbal thank-you for that particular advice.
“If you want me to, I’ll make some up for you and bring it over…”
Bree, grabbing her grocery bags, quickly shook her head.
“Wouldn’t be no trouble at all…”
The real problem with lying was the endless trouble the little fibs could get her into. It took twenty more minutes before Bree was free to sidle through the door with her arms aching from the weight of her grocery bags.
The car had been preheated under a South Carolina midafternoon sun. There was barely room for Bree—the backseat, the floor and the passenger seat were crammed with parcels. She’d known after the first fifteen minutes in town that this was going to be her one and only trip for a while—unless those temperamental vocal chords of hers decided to function again.
The main street of Mapleville was dusty and quiet. The post office was brick, but the old flour mill and general store and pharmacy were frame buildings that hadn’t seen fresh paint in a decade or two. Bree had always loved the sleepy, lazy town, and the people in it as well, but heading home was a relief. Patience, Dr. Willming had counseled her.
She was fresh out of the commodity. She’d hurt several people’s feelings that morning by not responding to their friendly questions. She’d earned a good headache simply by traveling a few miles and being unable to communicate. And a man she thoroughly detested had walked all over her while she just kept taking it like some helpless ninny. Bree was not helpless, and she was damned tired of feeling helpless.
Hot and miserable, she carried sack after sack into the cabin. Gradually, as she unpacked her purchases, she began to feel better. If the three hours of shopping had been grueling emotionally, she had found everything she needed to keep her busy for the next few weeks. Buying groceries had been a nuisance, but the rest of her purchases were sheer luxuries, memories of things she’d once loved to do. Gram had taught her to use the old spinning wheel, and she’d bought two sacks of wool from the old mountain man up the rise who raised sheep. She’d also purchased dye to color the wool once it was spun. And baking—on the immediate agenda was fussing with Gram’s old recipe for rich bride cake, and for days after that she had equally delectable plans. Her sacks were full of wheat flour and rye flour and yeast, ground rice, mace and nutmeg and currants; ginger and molasses and hops—things that few cooks used anymore.
And the old witch from the north of town—well, she claimed she was a witch—had yielded bergamot and vitriolic acid and citronella, some of the old-fashioned ingredients
Similar Books
