like Hugh’s, too, but his attitude more carefree.
“I wouldn’t kill her inside the house.”
“Fair enough.” He stepped back to let me pass.
Stripping off my gloves, I entered the kitchen, which smelled seductively of roasting poultry. “Friendly” was my first impression of the room, though I couldn’t say why. With windows on both side walls, it might be a bright place on a sunny day, but today extra illumination was needed, provided by an overhead brass chandelier (in need of a good polish), and a plug-in fluorescent light that hung over the stove. The stove itself looked to be the first electric one of its kind ever made—chipped white porcelain with black dials above thin-coiled burners that were all the same size. The double sink was about the same era, but the refrigerator was 1960s avocado green. The floor was covered with vinyl red brick squares, nicked and scarred. Mismatched cupboards and hutches filled the spaces between the windows. Beside the stove, a long wooden table served as counter space. On it was the newest thing in the kitchen—a small white microwave.
To my right was a bricked-in hearth, smaller than the one in the dining room but still larger than normal. A cast-iron stove protruded from the bricks. On one side was a picnic table with separate benches. On the other side, what appeared to be a closet jutted into the larger room.
Beth Ann stood by the closet door. “I couldn’t unload the car because you had the keys.” Her attitude was half-defensive, half-accusing.
Too tired to argue, I took my keys from my pocket and dangled them at arm’s length. “Here.”
She shifted her gaze from me to her uncle. He turned toward her, so I couldn’t see his face, but her lips quivered, trying to hold back a smile, as she came forward to take the keys.
“I’ll crack the whip,” he said when I started to follow her out. “Go warm yourself by the stove.”
He apparently meant the cooking stove, because the other was cold to the touch. Since I wanted to sit more than anything, I set the map on the table and made use of a bench, propping my left leg along its length so I could massage my knee.
Beth Ann and her uncle unloaded the car in one trip, with him lugging two suitcases, a large tote, and a carryall bag stuffed with gifts. He made it look effortless.
Pushing the door shut with one foot, he told Beth Ann to put her own things in her room. “And ask Ma which room she put Miss Maggie and Pat in.”
“Your mother’s here?” I asked, torn between thinking I should get my foot off the furniture and wanting to continue the massage.
“Upstairs, changing.” He set his load by the closet door, then handed me my keys. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Nothing. My knee hurts a little, that’s all. Which brother are you?”
“Lighthorse Harry Lee, at your service.”
I laughed, not only because his bow was outlandishly Antebellum, but because when I met Hugh, he’d introduced himself the same way.
“Call me Horse. Everyone else in the family does, except Ma, and Foot, who doesn’t do anything anyone else does.” He meant his brother, whose name was Francis Lightfoot. Horse took my coat, but merely set it atop the suitcases. “Want me to take a look at that knee?”
I felt my jaw drop. Was Hugh’s brother hitting on me? Or being a little too brotherly a little too soon? I quickly slid my leg from the bench, which made my knee spasm so that, wincing, my “Uh, no. I’m fine,” wasn’t very assuring.
“Come on, I promise I won’t charge for a house call.” Horse was eyeing my leg, but it wasn’t an ogle. In fact, he had the exact look Beth Ann gave Bell Run’s chestnut saplings as they succumbed to the blight—one third concern, two thirds scientific observation.
That and his comment made me ask, “Are you a doctor?”
His eyebrows rose. “Hugh didn’t tell you?”
Hugh hadn’t told me anything about his siblings, other than the fact that his mom had
“I wouldn’t kill her inside the house.”
“Fair enough.” He stepped back to let me pass.
Stripping off my gloves, I entered the kitchen, which smelled seductively of roasting poultry. “Friendly” was my first impression of the room, though I couldn’t say why. With windows on both side walls, it might be a bright place on a sunny day, but today extra illumination was needed, provided by an overhead brass chandelier (in need of a good polish), and a plug-in fluorescent light that hung over the stove. The stove itself looked to be the first electric one of its kind ever made—chipped white porcelain with black dials above thin-coiled burners that were all the same size. The double sink was about the same era, but the refrigerator was 1960s avocado green. The floor was covered with vinyl red brick squares, nicked and scarred. Mismatched cupboards and hutches filled the spaces between the windows. Beside the stove, a long wooden table served as counter space. On it was the newest thing in the kitchen—a small white microwave.
To my right was a bricked-in hearth, smaller than the one in the dining room but still larger than normal. A cast-iron stove protruded from the bricks. On one side was a picnic table with separate benches. On the other side, what appeared to be a closet jutted into the larger room.
Beth Ann stood by the closet door. “I couldn’t unload the car because you had the keys.” Her attitude was half-defensive, half-accusing.
Too tired to argue, I took my keys from my pocket and dangled them at arm’s length. “Here.”
She shifted her gaze from me to her uncle. He turned toward her, so I couldn’t see his face, but her lips quivered, trying to hold back a smile, as she came forward to take the keys.
“I’ll crack the whip,” he said when I started to follow her out. “Go warm yourself by the stove.”
He apparently meant the cooking stove, because the other was cold to the touch. Since I wanted to sit more than anything, I set the map on the table and made use of a bench, propping my left leg along its length so I could massage my knee.
Beth Ann and her uncle unloaded the car in one trip, with him lugging two suitcases, a large tote, and a carryall bag stuffed with gifts. He made it look effortless.
Pushing the door shut with one foot, he told Beth Ann to put her own things in her room. “And ask Ma which room she put Miss Maggie and Pat in.”
“Your mother’s here?” I asked, torn between thinking I should get my foot off the furniture and wanting to continue the massage.
“Upstairs, changing.” He set his load by the closet door, then handed me my keys. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Nothing. My knee hurts a little, that’s all. Which brother are you?”
“Lighthorse Harry Lee, at your service.”
I laughed, not only because his bow was outlandishly Antebellum, but because when I met Hugh, he’d introduced himself the same way.
“Call me Horse. Everyone else in the family does, except Ma, and Foot, who doesn’t do anything anyone else does.” He meant his brother, whose name was Francis Lightfoot. Horse took my coat, but merely set it atop the suitcases. “Want me to take a look at that knee?”
I felt my jaw drop. Was Hugh’s brother hitting on me? Or being a little too brotherly a little too soon? I quickly slid my leg from the bench, which made my knee spasm so that, wincing, my “Uh, no. I’m fine,” wasn’t very assuring.
“Come on, I promise I won’t charge for a house call.” Horse was eyeing my leg, but it wasn’t an ogle. In fact, he had the exact look Beth Ann gave Bell Run’s chestnut saplings as they succumbed to the blight—one third concern, two thirds scientific observation.
That and his comment made me ask, “Are you a doctor?”
His eyebrows rose. “Hugh didn’t tell you?”
Hugh hadn’t told me anything about his siblings, other than the fact that his mom had
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