Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [26]
Ding. “Hello, Central.”
“Clover didn’t come home for her milking, Georgie. Can you make a general call asking folks to look out for her?”
“I sure will, Mr. Kapp. And don’t you worry. She’ll show up.”
Plugging in all her lines, she whirled the crank for six long rings. Receiver after receiver lifted. When most everyone answered, she explained Mr. Kapp’s cow had gone missing and to give her a call if they found it. An hour hadn’t passed before Mr. Folschinski phoned in. Clover was grazing in the meadow behind his barn.
She spent the rest of the afternoon finishing her invitations in between phone calls. At five o’clock she took off her earpiece, stood and stretched. The bluebirds hadn’t come back, but she had high hopes they would. Still, she’d freshen her birdbath as an extra incentive.
Snitching a cookie from the tin, she opened the kitchen door and slid a stopper underneath. The smell of pea soup filled the room. Nibbling on the cookie, she lifted the soup lid. A puff of condensation billowed up, then parted to reveal a thick green soup ready for eating.
The birdbath would have to wait until she skinned the meat off the hambone. Shoving the rest of the cookie in her mouth, she tied a blue gingham apron around her waist, adjusted the damper, and fished out the bone—a gift from Mattieleene’s mother.
Because Georgie’s job kept her from traditional chores, subscribers were quick to thank her with hambones, eggs, and all sorts of items. She never knew from day to day what treat she’d receive, but they were always welcome.
Except for the time Mr. Scobey gave her a goat. She smiled at the memory. It had taken some delicate talking to refuse it without offending. Still, his gesture had meant an awful lot.
Skimming the last of the meat, she dumped it into the creamy mixture, gave it a stir, and replaced the lid. If she let it simmer for thirty more minutes, she’d have just enough time to clean the birdbath.
She stuffed one more cookie in her mouth, her cheeks puffing out, when someone knocked.
“Miss Gail?”
It was the troubleman. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she chewed as fast as she could.
“Miss Gail?” The screen squeaked open. “It’s Luke Palmer.”
Chew. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. But the cookie seemed to multiply in her mouth.
Heavy footfalls approached. He peered around the corner. Dirt streaked across his face, grime coated his overalls, and his eyes drooped in exhaustion . . . or was it pain?
Lifting the body of her apron, she covered her mouth and continued to chew.
He drew his brows together. “What are you doing?”
Swallowing the last of it, she wiped the corners of her lips and lowered the apron. “Nothing. Just . . . testing supper.” She twirled a hand toward the stove.
He glanced at the pot, then back at her. “Smells good.”
She smiled. “Pea soup.”
Nodding, he pointed to his teeth, making a circular motion. “You have something right . . .”
“Oh!” She lifted her apron again, scrubbing her teeth with her tongue and loosening a sliver of cookie. Heat rushed to her face.
“Lemme see,” he said.
“What?” She released her apron, allowing it to float down against her skirt.
He bared his teeth. “Let me see. I’ll tell you if you got it.”
She propped a fist against her waist. “Was there something you wanted?”
His gaze swept across her kitchen, touching briefly on the tiny basswood table shoved against one wall, the sink and drainboard with a window overlooking her garden, the worktable by the stove, and the apron tied about her waist. “Is it after five already?”
“Just.”
“I’m sorry to intrude, then.”
She softened a bit. “It’s all right. Did you need something?”
He shifted his weight. “I was wondering if you had any tweezers.”
The request was so unexpected, it took her a moment to comprehend it. What in the world would a strapping man like him need with tweezers? “Yes, I do. What do you need them for?”
“A splinter.”
Her gaze flew to his hands. “You have a splinter? Weren’t you wearing gloves?”
“I was wearing gloves.”
She took a step forward and held out her hand. “Show