Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [30]
Her gaze dropped to the area above his bib. His chambray shirt hid the splinters from view, but they were certainly there. Allowing her to remove them was out of the question. And they both knew it.
“It’ll only take a minute to whip up another poultice,” she said. “You could take it with you.”
“No, ma’am. It’s all right. If I could just borrow the tweezers.”
“Yes. Certainly.” She flitted to the table, then held out the tweezers.
It was probably the only opportunity he’d have to touch her. Unable to resist, he enfolded her hand, allowing his thumb to outline hers, before exploring the base of her palm and finally claiming the tweezers.
The pupils which had been so tiny before now dilated.
He backed up. “Thank you. I’ll . . . I’ll see you tomorrow.” Turning, he went through the living room and out the front door. He completely forgot to grab a cookie.
Chapter Nine
The aroma of coffee soothed Georgie’s nerves. She’d expected a good turnout for her Plumage League, but not this good. She should have, though. If there was one thing she’d learned about Germans since moving here, it was they loved an excuse to gather—and they never did anything on a small scale.
Her tiny cottage could barely contain the standing-room-only crowd. She knew her walls and tabletops were bare and lacking the typical parlor accessories, but she spent every extra penny she earned on her garden and birds.
Women’s voices, some speaking English, some German, filled the room like heat in a teakettle. And no one had come empty-handed. There was coconut pie, Streusselkuchen, coffee cakes, potato cakes, Zwieback, cabbage loaves, and Kochkäse. If more guests arrived, she’d have to move everyone to her backyard.
She’d been very deliberate with the planning of the meeting, right down to what she wore. A sprig of hawthorn nestled in her hair, complementing her pearl-colored percale shirtwaist. Since Easter was in a few more weeks, she had no qualms about wearing her blue-and-white polka dot skirt. It reminded her of bluebirds and spring and never failed to draw admiration.
Checking her watch pin, she picked up her earpiece, plugged in all cables, and gave six long rings. When those still home picked up, she had to shout into the mouthpiece as she reminded them the switchboard would be unavailable for the next two hours.
Those nearest to her quieted, always curious to watch her at work. Taking advantage of their attention, she clapped her hands and called the meeting to order. “If those of you in the kitchen would tell the ladies on the back porch to come in, Miss Gladstone is going to start us off with a song.”
Jana Gladstone, a vision of loveliness in a ruffled peach lawn dress, stepped in front of the unlit fireplace. Georgie had chosen her for the recital not only because her voice was clear and true, but because she’d caught the eye of the preacher’s son and much speculation had been generated because of it.
The ladies shushed each other, anxious for the opportunity to scrutinize Miss Gladstone without being rude. Georgie wished she had a piano. Music was second only to beer in this town, but as soon as Jana began to sing, her concerns lifted. The girl really did have an extraordinary warm alto voice.
Softly on a summer’s eve the cuckoo calls its mate,
I linger list’ning to the sound until the hour grows late.
The women began to sway to the one-two-three beat, some tapping gloved hands to the rhythm, others keeping it with nods of their heads.
It has for me a magic charm, I love it best of all,
When weary at the close of day to hear the cuckoo’s call.
“The Cuckoo’s Call” was not a familiar tune, and Georgie had looked forward to her guests’ reactions when they heard the chorus.
Cuckoooooo, cuckooooo, I know you are calling,
Yoo-hoo-lee-i-hoo-lee, Yoo-hoo-lee-i,
You always sing when dew drops are falling,
Yoo-hoo-lee-i-hoo-lee-i.
As Georgie suspected, the yodel captivated every woman present. Their excitement as Jana sang the second verse was palpable. The moment she finished,