Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [9]
Ping.
Stepping up to the window, Luke took a deep breath and asked for directions to Cottonwood Lane.
Chapter Three
“Hello, Central.” Georgie scooted her chair closer to a switchboard which resembled a very skinny upright piano, but where the sheet music would go was a black-bordered grid of jacks and round metal plates. In place of piano keys was a forest of plugs and toggle switches.
Speaking into a mouthpiece hanging from a pulley, she adjusted its height and grabbed a pencil. Number twelve was the doctor’s residence.
“Von Hardenberg here, Georgie. I’m going to check on Mrs. Blesinger, then’ll swing by the Shultes and Zientiks. Should be back around three.”
She scribbled down his schedule. “I’ve got it. Would you tell Mr. Shulte the post office called and he has a package?”
Ding.
“Sure will. Talk to you later.”
She removed the cable from line twelve and plugged it into line twenty-two. “Hello, Central.”
Ding. She glanced at her board. Number fifteen had also dropped.
“Don’t ring me, Georgie. The baby’s finally gone down for a nap.”
“Oh, good. Maybe you should rest, too, Mrs. Bargus. Either way, I’ll hold your calls. Don’t forget to let me know when Martie Jr. wakes up.”
She unplugged Mrs. Bargus and plugged into line fifteen. “Hello, Central.”
“Can you get Agnes on the line for me, Georgie? I want to find out what she puts in her tomato aspic. It’s divine—”
Ding. Number eight.
“—and mine never comes out right. She brought it to the Ladies’ Reading Circle Tuesday morning. We read Last of the Mohicans, you know, and were just beginning to discuss the part where the girls were captured by Indians when I placed a bite of Agnes’s aspic in my mouth. Oh, heaven on earth. I didn’t hear another—”
Ding. Georgie placed one hand on a toggle key and the other on a plug, then eyed the rows of jacks on her board. Each had a tiny hinged plate above it, no bigger than a nickel. And each plate had a number engraved on it. Whenever anyone called, the plate, or drop-line, would fall open, alerting Georgie as to who was calling. Right now, it was number eight.
“—word. I’m telling you, you haven’t lived until—”
“Mrs. Oodson, I’m sorry to interrupt, but—”
“—you’ve had Agnes’s aspic. Of course, her hushpuppies don’t hold a candle to mine. Mine are crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. The secret, I don’t mind telling you, is—”
Ding.
Georgie took a firm breath. “One moment, Mrs. Oodson.”
She flipped the toggle key to neutral, then lifted a plug, unrolling its cable, and inserting it into number eight.
“Please hold. I’ll be right with you.”
She positioned number eight’s key to the middle, then grasped a cable on the same circuit as Mrs. Oodson. She plugged it into line twenty-five, pulled its rear key backward, and turned the crank for one long and two short rings.
“Hello?”
Georgie pushed the key forward, allowing her and the two women she’d connected to all hear one another. Mrs. Oodson had never quit talking.
“—was wearing the most awful shade of red. I don’t know why women with orange hair insist on wearing red. Do they not have a mirror, for heaven’s sake? It simply—”
“Hello?” Agnes repeated.
“Go ahead, please.” Georgie flicked the key to neutral, retaining the connection between the women but disconnecting herself.
Returning to number eight, she pressed that circuit’s key forward. “I’m so sorry for the wait. This is Central.”
“Vat time to do you have, Georgie?” Burch Leatherman barked. “My timepiece stop again.”
She looked at her watch pin. “I have eleven fifty-three, sir.”
“Gut. Danke.”
She removed the cable, deactivated the key, leaned back in her chair, and rubbed her ear beneath the earpiece. It had been busy for a Thursday. The ladies usually didn’t start visiting until ten, but they’d gotten a jump on things today and had never slowed down. Lunch would be on their tables soon, though, so she should have a lull over the next hour.
She swiped a dust cloth around the ten sets of plugs on her switchboard. Each pair made up a line—one cable connected