She removed the magazine from its spot and let it flop open in her hand. A brazen headline—“A Kiss at Midnight”—leapt off the page and made her stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way. After flicking a glance over her shoulder, she began reading.
The opening paragraphs left no question in Libby’s mind that this was one of the romance stories Mr. Houghton had referenced. By the end of the first column, she knew she could write something just as good. Or even better. Mrs. Rowley had often chided Libby for her overactive imagination, encouraging her to stay in the present rather than escaping to make-believe worlds in her head. But for the first time, Libby wondered if her imagination might be able to work for her instead of against her.
Mr. Houghton indicated she needed to build a writing résumé. Without question, she would be able to concoct stories such as this one. If a magazine purchased her stories, she could build a résumé quickly, proving her ability to meet deadlines, and then she could turn to more serious writing.
She flipped the magazine closed. The price stared up her, and she nearly laughed out loud. Five cents . Surely it was providential that she’d found the nickel immediately after her meeting with the newspaper editor. Magazine in hand, she hurried to the counter and held up her nickel.
The soda jerk bustled over and pocketed her nickel. He tipped his funny little paper hat and grinned. “Happy reading.”
Libby grinned back. “You mean, happy writing!”
C HAPTER S IX
B ennett glanced at his pocket watch—a special gift from the staff at the orphans’ home—and let out a little growl of aggravation. Five after twelve and still no Libby. He grabbed up his plate, sauntered to the serving line, and filled the white ceramic plate for the third time. Would he ever feel as if he got enough food? Those early days of hunger, although long past, still haunted him. He plopped two slices of bread on the plate and pocketed two more for later, then chose a seat facing the doors so he could watch for Libby.
He sprinkled salt and pepper over the meatloaf, boiled potatoes, and corn before stabbing the meat with his fork. Conversations buzzed around him, and he listened, always aware of his surroundings.
“Yes, well, I still say America can’t stay out of it,” a male voice barked from behind Bennett, “and it’s a fool who thinks otherwise. Too much commerce goes on between the different countries. If there’s money at stake, we can’t ignore what’s happening over there.”
The reply was buried under raucous laughter blasting from Bennett’s left. He scowled in the direction of the merrymakers, but he didn’t need to hear the answer. He agreed with whomever made the comment. Things had been cooking overseas for months, with Germany declaring war on nearly every European country. Bennett released a soft snort. Maybe the U.S. ought to declare war on Germany and see how they liked having the tables turned. His aggressive spirit rose to the fore with the thought. The minute the U.S. was ready, he’d be ready. Wasn’t he always up for a good brawl?
A flurry of activity at the dining hall doors captured his attention, and his fork paused between his plate and his mouth. But when he didn’t see Libby in the cluster of students entering the room, he jabbed the bite into his mouth and chewed with a vengeance. Where was she?
Two young men stopped across the table from Bennett and pointed at the empty chairs. “Taken?”
Bennett considered telling them to go away—they’d block his view of the door and he might miss seeing Libby. But what difference would it make? Obviously she wasn’t coming. He shrugged. “Have a seat.” They slid out the chairs, metal legs screeching in unison against the floor, and they sat.
One of them bowed his head to pray, reminding Bennett that he hadn’t offered thanks for his meal before eating. Guilt whispered at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away.
The opening paragraphs left no question in Libby’s mind that this was one of the romance stories Mr. Houghton had referenced. By the end of the first column, she knew she could write something just as good. Or even better. Mrs. Rowley had often chided Libby for her overactive imagination, encouraging her to stay in the present rather than escaping to make-believe worlds in her head. But for the first time, Libby wondered if her imagination might be able to work for her instead of against her.
Mr. Houghton indicated she needed to build a writing résumé. Without question, she would be able to concoct stories such as this one. If a magazine purchased her stories, she could build a résumé quickly, proving her ability to meet deadlines, and then she could turn to more serious writing.
She flipped the magazine closed. The price stared up her, and she nearly laughed out loud. Five cents . Surely it was providential that she’d found the nickel immediately after her meeting with the newspaper editor. Magazine in hand, she hurried to the counter and held up her nickel.
The soda jerk bustled over and pocketed her nickel. He tipped his funny little paper hat and grinned. “Happy reading.”
Libby grinned back. “You mean, happy writing!”
C HAPTER S IX
B ennett glanced at his pocket watch—a special gift from the staff at the orphans’ home—and let out a little growl of aggravation. Five after twelve and still no Libby. He grabbed up his plate, sauntered to the serving line, and filled the white ceramic plate for the third time. Would he ever feel as if he got enough food? Those early days of hunger, although long past, still haunted him. He plopped two slices of bread on the plate and pocketed two more for later, then chose a seat facing the doors so he could watch for Libby.
He sprinkled salt and pepper over the meatloaf, boiled potatoes, and corn before stabbing the meat with his fork. Conversations buzzed around him, and he listened, always aware of his surroundings.
“Yes, well, I still say America can’t stay out of it,” a male voice barked from behind Bennett, “and it’s a fool who thinks otherwise. Too much commerce goes on between the different countries. If there’s money at stake, we can’t ignore what’s happening over there.”
The reply was buried under raucous laughter blasting from Bennett’s left. He scowled in the direction of the merrymakers, but he didn’t need to hear the answer. He agreed with whomever made the comment. Things had been cooking overseas for months, with Germany declaring war on nearly every European country. Bennett released a soft snort. Maybe the U.S. ought to declare war on Germany and see how they liked having the tables turned. His aggressive spirit rose to the fore with the thought. The minute the U.S. was ready, he’d be ready. Wasn’t he always up for a good brawl?
A flurry of activity at the dining hall doors captured his attention, and his fork paused between his plate and his mouth. But when he didn’t see Libby in the cluster of students entering the room, he jabbed the bite into his mouth and chewed with a vengeance. Where was she?
Two young men stopped across the table from Bennett and pointed at the empty chairs. “Taken?”
Bennett considered telling them to go away—they’d block his view of the door and he might miss seeing Libby. But what difference would it make? Obviously she wasn’t coming. He shrugged. “Have a seat.” They slid out the chairs, metal legs screeching in unison against the floor, and they sat.
One of them bowed his head to pray, reminding Bennett that he hadn’t offered thanks for his meal before eating. Guilt whispered at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away.
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