I’ll stop by, that is, if that blasted bull hasn’t gored me to death. Ring me if Kelly has any problems before that.”
Gary firmly closed the back door and opened the front for Nelda.
“I’m expecting to be fed well tomorrow at teatime, Lute. Crumpets, biscuits, scones. Oh, yes, and don’t forget the cucumber sandwiches.”
“It costs darn near as much to feed you, you hollow-legged cow-quack, as it does to pay your bills,” Lute retorted, hiding a grin.
“He always says that.” Gary put his head close to Nelda’s and whispered confidentially.
“Flirting again, Gary? I’ll tell Rhetta.”
“You would, you . . . Judas. See you tomorrow.”
Nelda didn’t speak until they were on the highway.
“Will he know where to find me?”
Lute looked at her then. It was cozy and intimate inside the car.
“I like the way this car handles,” he said, instead of answering her question. “Is it a ’54?”
“Yes. It’s my first car. I paid down on it with my very first paycheck.”
His reply was a noncommittal, “Yeah?” He didn’t trust himself to say more. Memories of his teaching her to drive—his hand over hers on the shift,
his arm brushing her breast, the scent of her hair—flooded back.
“I like your hair short that way,” he managed to say after a few minutes of silence. “It suits you better than long.”
He turned his head to look at her, then quickly tore his eyes from her to focus on the road, allowing her a view of his profile. His hair tumbled in disarray, his nose, seen from the side, was straight and finely chiseled, his mouth firm.
The thought seeped into her mind that it would be wonderful to kiss him again. A longing to touch him started in her lips and slowly enveloped her. She sucked in her stomach against the aching sensation and, trying for a distraction, turned to look over the back of the seat at Kelly.
“Everyone in five townships knows that Eli Hansen’s granddaughter is back living in the home place,” Lute said abruptly, reverting to her question as if nothing else had been said in the meanwhile. “Not much happens around here, you know. You being here is big news.”
“How strange. I’ve only had one visitor. Ervin Olsen. What a nice man. He pulled into the yard the other morning and stopped to talk for a few minutes. I thought he’d appointed himself a welcome wagon of one—or else was a square-dance recruiter.”
Nelda went on to say that the snowy-haired widower had asked if she’d like to join him and his “lady friend” at their square-dance group that met in the Ventura Community Hall. He explained, as if she didn’t know, that Ventura was a village at the head
of the lake. He was so formal in his speech and so “down-home” in striped overalls, that he had reminded her of her grandfather.
Lute chuckled. “Ervin’s the best newspaper we have, once he gets his crops in. He makes his rounds every day or two. Usually drives up to the house and honks for someone to come out.”
“That’s what he did. He drove in and honked. I went out to see what he wanted. We talked for a while. I enjoyed our visit.”
They rode along in a silence filled with unspoken and unanswered questions. Nelda didn’t dare steer the conversation into the personal channel she longed to explore.
Lute, tell me about yourself. Tell me every little detail of what you’ve been doing. Tell me you grieved just a little for me and our baby
.
“How long will you be . . . here?” His voice was quiet, hesitant, as he turned onto the gravel road leading to the farm.
“I had planned to spend the winter, but now . . . I don’t know.”
“Tired of country life already?” The edge in his voice hurt.
“Oh, no. I love it here. I always loved being at Gran’s. You know that.”
He glanced at her, and her eyes followed his down to the cleavage revealed by her partially unbuttoned shirt. Her hand moved to fasten the wayward button. It was an automatic gesture to fend
Gary firmly closed the back door and opened the front for Nelda.
“I’m expecting to be fed well tomorrow at teatime, Lute. Crumpets, biscuits, scones. Oh, yes, and don’t forget the cucumber sandwiches.”
“It costs darn near as much to feed you, you hollow-legged cow-quack, as it does to pay your bills,” Lute retorted, hiding a grin.
“He always says that.” Gary put his head close to Nelda’s and whispered confidentially.
“Flirting again, Gary? I’ll tell Rhetta.”
“You would, you . . . Judas. See you tomorrow.”
Nelda didn’t speak until they were on the highway.
“Will he know where to find me?”
Lute looked at her then. It was cozy and intimate inside the car.
“I like the way this car handles,” he said, instead of answering her question. “Is it a ’54?”
“Yes. It’s my first car. I paid down on it with my very first paycheck.”
His reply was a noncommittal, “Yeah?” He didn’t trust himself to say more. Memories of his teaching her to drive—his hand over hers on the shift,
his arm brushing her breast, the scent of her hair—flooded back.
“I like your hair short that way,” he managed to say after a few minutes of silence. “It suits you better than long.”
He turned his head to look at her, then quickly tore his eyes from her to focus on the road, allowing her a view of his profile. His hair tumbled in disarray, his nose, seen from the side, was straight and finely chiseled, his mouth firm.
The thought seeped into her mind that it would be wonderful to kiss him again. A longing to touch him started in her lips and slowly enveloped her. She sucked in her stomach against the aching sensation and, trying for a distraction, turned to look over the back of the seat at Kelly.
“Everyone in five townships knows that Eli Hansen’s granddaughter is back living in the home place,” Lute said abruptly, reverting to her question as if nothing else had been said in the meanwhile. “Not much happens around here, you know. You being here is big news.”
“How strange. I’ve only had one visitor. Ervin Olsen. What a nice man. He pulled into the yard the other morning and stopped to talk for a few minutes. I thought he’d appointed himself a welcome wagon of one—or else was a square-dance recruiter.”
Nelda went on to say that the snowy-haired widower had asked if she’d like to join him and his “lady friend” at their square-dance group that met in the Ventura Community Hall. He explained, as if she didn’t know, that Ventura was a village at the head
of the lake. He was so formal in his speech and so “down-home” in striped overalls, that he had reminded her of her grandfather.
Lute chuckled. “Ervin’s the best newspaper we have, once he gets his crops in. He makes his rounds every day or two. Usually drives up to the house and honks for someone to come out.”
“That’s what he did. He drove in and honked. I went out to see what he wanted. We talked for a while. I enjoyed our visit.”
They rode along in a silence filled with unspoken and unanswered questions. Nelda didn’t dare steer the conversation into the personal channel she longed to explore.
Lute, tell me about yourself. Tell me every little detail of what you’ve been doing. Tell me you grieved just a little for me and our baby
.
“How long will you be . . . here?” His voice was quiet, hesitant, as he turned onto the gravel road leading to the farm.
“I had planned to spend the winter, but now . . . I don’t know.”
“Tired of country life already?” The edge in his voice hurt.
“Oh, no. I love it here. I always loved being at Gran’s. You know that.”
He glanced at her, and her eyes followed his down to the cleavage revealed by her partially unbuttoned shirt. Her hand moved to fasten the wayward button. It was an automatic gesture to fend
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