the effect of making him scour her with another of his probing once-overs.
Emboldened by the way he was looking at her, thinking that no doubt he was noticing how fresh and neat she was of a morning, Phoebe continued. “I reckon I’ll be back in time to fix you a tasty supper. Anybody asks me, I’m sure gonna tell ‘em how good and kind you been to Willie-Boy, allowin’ him to stay here and all.”
He plonked his mug down the sink drain, muttered an epithet beneath his breath and went out the back door in the early dawn, work boots thudding on the porch. On the path he stopped for a minute, shaking his head. He should’ve looked at it seven different ways. Phoebe Hawley had a tongue too clever for her head. In less than twenty-four hours she’d somehow talked herself into his everyday life, not to mention his house and larder. He was going to have to put a stop to it.
Standing the behind th e screened door, Phoebe watched him pause and shake his head. She divined G. G. Morgan was awed by his good fortune and was trying to absorb it. It wasn’t every day that a man wrecked a stranger’s truck in the morning and by nightfall found himself enjoying that same stranger’s talent as a cook.
Somewhere over the marshy landscape a gull squawked. In the canal a shrimp boat was thrumming its way into the bay, lights fore, aft and on the boom sparkling like a Christmas tree. A breeze freshened by the incoming tide swept across the yard and through the screened door. Phoebe breathed in the smell of salt air, dank seaweed and honeysuckle blooming at the first hint of dawn. She wished Gage Morgan could’ve been goaded into breakfast. Her buttermilk biscuits were so mouth-watering Pa said even his grandma couldn’t best ‘em. But she noted it was in G. G. Morgan’s favor that he was an early riser and did not have to be prodded to work. That said something about a man without having to speak a word.
~~~~
After breakfast Phoebe gave Maydean a thousand orders and left the kids watching cartoons on the color television. She tucked the letter upright in the old metal mailbox, raised the flag, and patted the old metal as if were a pup before turning onto the sandy, rutted road. Ma would sure be happy to learn she might’ve found them a place.
The sun was just giving the sky a good pink color by the time Phoebe approached the first of the seafood houses. A group of women were filing through the opened door. Phoebe got in line behind them. A man stopped her just as she entered the building.
“ Hey! Hold it. Who’re you?”
“ Phoebe Hawley. I’m lookin’ to pick or shuck.”
“ Where’d you come from?”
“ Gage Morgan sent me down here.” The man’s name was sewn on his shirt above his pocket. “Gage said for me to see Hank. You know Gage Morgan, don’t you?” Her nose was twitching. The smell of old sea and dead seafood filled the concrete building. Years of it. Phoebe resisted the urge to pinch closed her nose.
“ Everybody knows Gage.”
“ Well, then?”
“ You ever pick before?”
“ Sure have.” No sense being dicey with words, she thought, or pointing out it was cotton.
“ You’re not from around here.”
That was the trouble with small towns, thought Phoebe, everybody knew everybody. “Sure ain’t. We came down from Cottontown. To help Gage with Dorie and the house and all. What with his wife dying...”
Hank shook his head. “That was a tragedy, Velma drowning. Gage took it hard.”
“ He ain’t recovered yet,” said Phoebe, looking properly sad.
“ I pay ninety-five cents a pound white, sixty-five cents a pound for claw. That satisfy you?”
Why, picking crabs was just like picking cotton, thought Phoebe, feeling reassured. You got paid on what you picked. “Yessir, I’m used to pound work.”
“ Okay. Through there. Stout will show you where to sit.”
Stout was just that; she had a big square torso below a short neck that held up a round face that displayed a
Emboldened by the way he was looking at her, thinking that no doubt he was noticing how fresh and neat she was of a morning, Phoebe continued. “I reckon I’ll be back in time to fix you a tasty supper. Anybody asks me, I’m sure gonna tell ‘em how good and kind you been to Willie-Boy, allowin’ him to stay here and all.”
He plonked his mug down the sink drain, muttered an epithet beneath his breath and went out the back door in the early dawn, work boots thudding on the porch. On the path he stopped for a minute, shaking his head. He should’ve looked at it seven different ways. Phoebe Hawley had a tongue too clever for her head. In less than twenty-four hours she’d somehow talked herself into his everyday life, not to mention his house and larder. He was going to have to put a stop to it.
Standing the behind th e screened door, Phoebe watched him pause and shake his head. She divined G. G. Morgan was awed by his good fortune and was trying to absorb it. It wasn’t every day that a man wrecked a stranger’s truck in the morning and by nightfall found himself enjoying that same stranger’s talent as a cook.
Somewhere over the marshy landscape a gull squawked. In the canal a shrimp boat was thrumming its way into the bay, lights fore, aft and on the boom sparkling like a Christmas tree. A breeze freshened by the incoming tide swept across the yard and through the screened door. Phoebe breathed in the smell of salt air, dank seaweed and honeysuckle blooming at the first hint of dawn. She wished Gage Morgan could’ve been goaded into breakfast. Her buttermilk biscuits were so mouth-watering Pa said even his grandma couldn’t best ‘em. But she noted it was in G. G. Morgan’s favor that he was an early riser and did not have to be prodded to work. That said something about a man without having to speak a word.
~~~~
After breakfast Phoebe gave Maydean a thousand orders and left the kids watching cartoons on the color television. She tucked the letter upright in the old metal mailbox, raised the flag, and patted the old metal as if were a pup before turning onto the sandy, rutted road. Ma would sure be happy to learn she might’ve found them a place.
The sun was just giving the sky a good pink color by the time Phoebe approached the first of the seafood houses. A group of women were filing through the opened door. Phoebe got in line behind them. A man stopped her just as she entered the building.
“ Hey! Hold it. Who’re you?”
“ Phoebe Hawley. I’m lookin’ to pick or shuck.”
“ Where’d you come from?”
“ Gage Morgan sent me down here.” The man’s name was sewn on his shirt above his pocket. “Gage said for me to see Hank. You know Gage Morgan, don’t you?” Her nose was twitching. The smell of old sea and dead seafood filled the concrete building. Years of it. Phoebe resisted the urge to pinch closed her nose.
“ Everybody knows Gage.”
“ Well, then?”
“ You ever pick before?”
“ Sure have.” No sense being dicey with words, she thought, or pointing out it was cotton.
“ You’re not from around here.”
That was the trouble with small towns, thought Phoebe, everybody knew everybody. “Sure ain’t. We came down from Cottontown. To help Gage with Dorie and the house and all. What with his wife dying...”
Hank shook his head. “That was a tragedy, Velma drowning. Gage took it hard.”
“ He ain’t recovered yet,” said Phoebe, looking properly sad.
“ I pay ninety-five cents a pound white, sixty-five cents a pound for claw. That satisfy you?”
Why, picking crabs was just like picking cotton, thought Phoebe, feeling reassured. You got paid on what you picked. “Yessir, I’m used to pound work.”
“ Okay. Through there. Stout will show you where to sit.”
Stout was just that; she had a big square torso below a short neck that held up a round face that displayed a
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