Summer of the Redeemers by Carolyn Haines Page A

be at home. There were four Welfords in all, but Buck, the oldest, was long gone, working the oil fields in Texas and making a fortune. Mama Betts said he was the handsomest young man she’d ever seen, but I hardly remembered him at all. The middle girl, Cora, was pretty too, but she wasn’t as much fun as Libby, or as tall. And Jamey was no fun at all and the runt of the litter. It was like the juices had all been spent on Libby. She had all the best of the looks and a happy way. The others just sort of dribbled along after her, even though Jamey Louise was thought byall the schoolboys to be a real dish and it looked like she was going to take after her mother’s chest. I didn’t bother to go in the house when I got there. I got the shovel from the shed and found a pail and headed toward the long rows of potatoes.
    I liked the way Gus’s shovel felt. The handle was worn smooth, as finely worked as if someone had rubbed it down with sandpaper. Arly’s gloves weren’t in his top dresser drawer, so I was working bare-handed. Gus had taught me the art of “tater diggin’ “ and said I had a natural feel for it. The tip of the shovel was placed about eight inches from the plant and then pushed down with a smooth thrust of the foot. When the dirt was turned, the potatoes were clumped up in it. The smell of the earth was rich, warm and somehow comforting. Even the feel of the sun on my shoulders and back was pleasant. Over toward the house I caught sight of Picket trying to ambush one of Emily’s guineas. Good luck, Picket. Those mean old guineas would turn on her in a second and send her scooting for the safety of the potato patch. As I watched the hen spun around and launched herself at my dog, old leathery chicken claws extended. Picket was in it more for the sport than the kill, and she didn’t have the heart to pursue the game. Tail tucked, she came back out to my side and laid down in the row where I’d just turned the earth up.
    “Mama says to tell you there’s fresh lemonade.”
    Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I looked up to see Jamey Louise standing at the end of the row. She had on a dress and lipstick. A big straw bonnet protected her face.
    “You’d better get you a hat or those freckles are going to get thicker and thicker until you look like a monkey, or one of those Waltman girls.”
    “I like freckles.” I liked Alice’s freckles, but I hated the ones that were across my nose and were slowly growing on my shoulders and arms.
    “Freckles are ugly, and none of the magazines recommend them.”
    “That’s too bad, Jamey Louise.” I stepped down on the shovel and realized too late I was too close to the potato mound. I could feel the blade as it sliced several taters in half. “Why don’t you give me a hand with this, and we can dig some for Emily while we’re at it?”
    “I hate potatoes. They’re nothing but dirt.”
    “What’s wrong with dirt?” I was goading her and we both knew it.
    “One day I’m gonna live in a big house with white columns and a marble dance floor imported from Italy. We’ll never serve potatoes, or butter beans, or peas at my house.”
    Jamey Louise considered herself a tap dancer of great talent. The boys loved to watch her because it looked like some wild animal was loose in her sweater. “What are you going to eat, hamburgers and ice cream?”
    “French qui-sine.” She dared me to comment. “Libby says that President Kennedy and the First Lady have a cook who prepares French qui-sine. Mrs. Kennedy also has a French designer who makes her special clothes. They come all the way from France.”
    “Why would an American president’s wife want clothes that came from France? Seems like she’d want to wear American clothes.” I had a mental picture of a very neat dark-haired woman with this dorky little round hat on top of her puffed-out hair.
    “You have no couth, Rebekah Rich. You’ll never get a boyfriend.” Jamey linked her hands behind her back.