Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [95]
Whisking Georgie around the floor to “Hannah Go Hide Your Bloomers,” Luke led her with a confident hand and steady step. After the last note, the assembly applauded. Luke and some of the others let out loud whistles.
Stifling a yawn, she swayed.
“You all right?” he asked, leading her from the floor.
“I’m having a marvelous time, Luke, but last night’s beginning to catch up with me.”
His expression softened. “You tired?”
“I am.”
“Well, come on, then. I’ll walk you home.”
“Can we rest a minute first?”
“Of course.” But there wasn’t an empty bench or chair to be found. “How about a piggyback ride?”
She gave a small huff of laughter.
Pulling her hand further into his arm, he tightened his hold. “Let’s head on home. We can always stop along the way for a rest.”
She nodded her response and they meandered through the park, finally reaching North Street. A jam of buckboards with heavy-eyed children and content parents crawled along the road. Crickets competed with the faint strains of “In the Good Ol’ Summer Time” coming from the now distant pavilion.
A cart full of Texas A&M baseball players pulled alongside them, waiting in line behind the other wagons. The young men lounged against its sides, talking softly and swaying in time to the music.
At the chorus, one of them began to sing along in a clear tenor voice.
In the good ol’ summer time,
In the good ol’ summer time,
Strolling thro’ the shady lanes,
With your baby mine;
Luke slid Georgie’s hand down to his, then intertwined their fingers. One by one, the other baseball players added their voices to the tenor’s. Not in a boisterous manner, but in harmony as pleasing as any barbershop quartet she’d ever heard.
You hold her hand and she holds yours,
And that’s a very good sign,
That she’s your tootsey wootsey, in
The good ol’ summer time.
A soft breeze lifted a tendril from her neck, some of her curls loosening after the long day’s activities. Ahead of them, a couple in a spring-top buggy lent their voices as well.
To swim in the pool, you’d play hooky from school,
Good old summer time;
You’d play ring-a-rosie with Jim, Kate and Josie,
Good old summer time.
She smiled, thinking of the days when she, her brother, and her little sister thought nothing of running barefoot, climbing trees, and gigging frogs. More and more voices from surrounding wagons joined in.
Those days full of pleasure we now fondly treasure,
When we never thought it a crime,
To go stealing cherries, with face brown as berries,
Good old summer time.
Luke slid his arm around her waist, tucking her against him and keeping his strides slow and small to match hers. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on his shoulder, trusting him to steer her.
In the good ol’ summer time,
In the good ol’ summer time,
Strolling thro’ the shady lanes,
With your baby mine;
You hold her hand and she holds yours,
And that’s a very good sign,
That she’s your tootsey wootsey, in
The good ol’ summer time.
The silence at the end of the song was full of kinship and belonging. The Bible might say faith, hope, and love, with the greatest being love. But Georgie had discovered in a German community like Brenham, it was cards, dominoes, and singing, with the greatest being singing.
Luke turned a corner. She fluttered her eyes open but left her head against him. He was cutting down Academy Street instead of staying on North the whole way.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asked.
Cicadas kept up a thrum as steady as her heartbeat.
“I had a brother growing up.”
“Me too. And a sister.”
He said nothing.
“Did the two of you steal cherries?” she asked, referring to the song.
“Not cherries. But we got into plenty of trouble.”
She smiled. “I miss those days.”
“I miss my brother.”
“You don’t see him much?”
“He’s dead.”
A distant dog barked. She lifted her head a bit to look up at him. “When did he die?”
“In ninety-six.”
Sighing, she closed her eyes again. 1896. Her brother had