Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [20]
Mrs. Ottfried slipped her arm around Georgie’s waist. “My dear, you look ready to faint. Quick, come inside Ernst’s shop and catch your breath.”
A swallow’s wing brushed against Georgie’s arm. Yelping, she jumped out of reach, bile quickly rising. Pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, she looked for an alley or someplace she could go, but there was nothing.
Instead, she ran. Back down Market Street, right on Sycamore, and left on Cottonwood, no longer able to hold her tears or distress at bay.
Adjusting the earpiece, Luke stretched his legs in front of him and crossed his feet. “Well, thank you for asking, Miss Honnkernamp. I reckon my favorite is pork belly. I don’t suppose there’s any place in town you might recommend, is there?”
“Oh my. It takes a person who knows what she’s doing to rub, brine, and braise a belly, Mr. Palmer.”
He allowed himself a smile. “That so?”
“Yes, indeed. And I can’t think of anyone in town who does it up right.”
“That’s some mighty sorry news you’re giving me, ma’am.” Picking up the pencil he’d been keeping notes with, he scribbled fast or naïve? beside Mattieleene Honnkernamp’s name. “Just how do the fellas round here survive without pork belly?”
She made him wait a few seconds before answering. “I guess they get themselves invited to dinner by someone who has experience.”
He stilled. Her voice was low and full of suggestion. He crossed out naïve. “I reckon you’re right about that.” Sitting up, he tucked his legs beneath the chair. “Well, I better—”
The gate out front slammed, rapid footfalls in its wake.
Frowning, he looked over his shoulder. “I better let you go, Miss Honnkernamp, and free up some of these other lines. It was a pleasure—”
Miss Gail yanked open the screen door and charged straight into her room, immediately to the left of the front entrance. He jumped to his feet, the cord of the earpiece pulling him up short like a dog on a leash.
She slapped the door shut behind her. In the brief seconds he had, he catalogued mussed hair, pale face, red nose, and fresh tears.
“Would you like to join my family for supper, Mr. Palmer?” Miss Honnkernamp asked. “Now that we know what your favorite is, I’m sure—”
Throwing off the earpiece, he yanked the cable from the jack and rushed to her bedroom door. “Miss Gail? Are you all right? Are you hurt? What’s happened?”
No answer. He cocked his ear and held himself still. The sound of suppressed sobs came from the direction of the veranda. Pushing open the screen, he stuck his head out.
The crying was louder. He looked toward the swing, then remembered. Her window. It was open. Easing onto the porch, he stood and listened.
Whatever happened had been catastrophic. She took deep, broken breaths, followed by a long series of quiet, staccato sobs. He rubbed his mouth. What in tarnation?
Ding.
He pictured her prone on the bed, face cradled in the crook of her arm. Closing his eyes, he called to mind as much of her room as he could. The bed had been shoved against the window. Its quilt reminded him of a little girl’s, all pinks, yellows, and blues with large squares patched together. A washstand had been on the opposite wall, a wardrobe against the right, a fireplace in the mix. That was all he could remember.
Ding.
His mother had spent a good portion of her life crying, but she never troubled to hide it. It had been so much a part of his childhood, he was buying his first shaving mug before he realized all women weren’t like that.
Still, it had been a long time. And it was the last thing he’d expected from Miss Gail.
Ding.
She started to wind down, taking deep breaths, then releasing them in exhausted exhales. After a moment, all was still and quiet.
Ding.
He scowled, wishing he knew how to disconnect the stupid bell, but that hadn’t been covered in his manual. As hushed as it was, he knew she was waiting for him to answer it. If he went in there now, she’d hear the screen door and realize he was eavesdropping. He rubbed his eyes. What was he doing out here?
Ding.
Her bed creaked;