Love on the Line (24 page)

She swallowed, trying to remember if she’d made her bed or cleaned up after Mrs. Patrick did her hair, but she couldn’t remember. Had she even put her nightdress away?

Her cheeks heated. The light moved back into the living area, then to the kitchen. Finally, he returned to the front and opened the door, stepping onto the porch.

“It’s fine. You can come in.” His voice was soft, low.

She tried to approach with as much composure as she could, but found herself lifting her skirts and scuttling to him.

He widened the screen. Memories of the passionate moments they’d shared on her couch flashed through her mind. “I think we’d best say our good-nights out here.”

The lantern cast shadows on his face, making it impossible to read his expression. Finally, he stepped away from the door and closed the screen.

They stood several feet apart, the streamers on the Mai tree whispering in the breeze. Lowering the wick, he doused the flame, making the darkness deeper after being in the light. “Come here.”

She didn’t hesitate, but stepped into him, wrapping her arms about his neck, stretching up to meet his descending mouth. His kisses were fierce, possessive, and full of all the things they wanted to say aloud but had not.

He slanted his head the opposite way, kissing her again, cinching her to him, his hands reaching clear around to her sides. She went further up on her tiptoes, tightening her hold, giving back as much as she received.

I love you.
But she couldn’t say the words first. Must wait until they came from him.

He wrenched his mouth from hers, dragging it across her jaw, nibbling at her ear, nuzzling her neck. Fire sang through her veins.

Say it, Luke. Say it.

But he did not and finally, she loosened her hold, running her hands from his neck to his shoulders to his chest. “We must stop,” she whispered.

He hesitated, then rested his forehead against her shoulder, his breaths deep. He moved his hands to her sides, squeezing her waist.

Say it.

Nothing.

Bracketing his cheeks, she lifted him from her, placed a heartfelt kiss upon his forehead, and stepped back. His fingers lingered at her waist, as if he couldn’t quite let her go.

“Good night, Luke. Thank you for today. Thank you for everything.” She retrieved the lantern, breaking the connection between them, then opened the screen.

“Georgie?”

She paused inside the threshold, hope filling her.

“Lock your doors.”

Swallowing, she nodded, pushed the door closed, and, for the first time in her life, locked it.

“Hello, Central.”

“Good morning, Georgie. I have to say I still can’t get over what Mr. Ottfried did to you and your hats.”

Giving Luke a sidelong glance, Georgie traced the outline of a lever with her finger. “We don’t know who exactly burned the hats, Mrs. Kleberg.”

“Well, who else could it be? In any event, refusing to frequent his millinery isn’t enough. I’ve decided I want to plant a bird garden, too. But I haven’t the slightest idea where to start.”

Georgie pictured Mr. Ottfried’s Maifest booth with hardly a customer all day while the Plumage League’s booth was never without a line. “Signing a pledge doesn’t mean you can’t frequent his shop. It just means you won’t buy or wear hats with bird parts.”

“Yes, yes. But with Mistrot Brothers right there on Douglas Street, I don’t see any reason to go to Ottfried’s shop. Now, about that bird garden?”

Georgie hesitated. She still couldn’t imagine what anyone other than Mr. Ottfried would gain from burning the hats and in her heart of hearts, she believed he was the one responsible. She just found it strange Frank Comer would do his bidding.

“Hello? Georgie? Are you there?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kleberg.” She cleared her throat. “As for your garden, if you would but put a fresh pan of water out daily, why, you’d be surprised at the number of birds you’ll attract.”

“Oh, splendid!”

“Just be sure it’s in the shade and up off the ground. Birds can’t fly far with wet feathers, and you don’t want them to be caught by a cat or something.”

“Goodness. I’ll make sure it’s elevated, then. Thank you, dear.”

Ding.

“Hello, Central.”

“Hello, Georgie. It’s me.”

“How’s the baby, Mrs. Bargus?”

“Still keeping me up at all hours, I’m afraid. But listen, Mart said he’d build me a birdhouse. I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened to you. Imagine Mr. Ottfried doing such a thing. But don’t you worry, Georgie. Us women are banding together. We want to send a clear message to anyone who thinks they can take advantage of a woman simply because she lives on her own. Now, I heard you have baby bluebirds in your yard. Is it true they’re in a starch box?”

Ding.

With the switchboard alive as it was, she simply answered the question. “Yes, but a short log sawed in two will work just as well. Have Mr. Bargus hollow out the halves and nail them together again. He’ll need to include an entrance, of course, on one side of the cavity.”

“Yes. I’m writing this down. Excellent.”

Ding.

“Did you have anyone you wanted me to connect you with?”

“No, no. I did have another question, though.”

Ding.

“One moment, please.” She placed the toggle key to neutral, then plugged in number thirty. “Hello, Central.”

“I’m lookin’ fer Luke. He there?”

She glanced again at the desk. With it being the first of the month, Luke had been preparing invoices all morning.

“He is, Mr. Ragston. Can I give him a message?”

At Mr. Ragston’s name, Luke whipped his head up.

“I’m havin’ trouble with my telly-phone,” the farmer said. “I need him to come out.”

She lifted her brows. “But you’re on your telephone right now and you’re coming through loud and clear. What seems to be the problem?”

Putting down his pen, Luke slowly straightened. The wavy curls on his head scattered in every direction. The bib on his overalls flattened against him.

“How’s I supposed to know? Just tell him to get out here.”

“That’s an awfully long way for him to go if everything is working properly, which it certainly sounds as if it is.”

Luke rose. “Let me talk to him.”

She lifted a finger.

“Is he there or not?” Mr. Ragston barked.

Ding.

“He is, but the switchboard is—”

“What’s the use o’ this thing if’n I can’t talk to the fella I’m callin’? Now, put him on.”

“One moment, please.” Tightening her lips, she flipped the key and looked at Luke. “He wants to talk to you, but the switchboard is going crazy.”

Ding.

“Sounds as if they’re all calling you, though. This should only take a minute.”

“Let me at least answer this, then. It’s the doc’s house.” She plugged in number twelve. “Hello, Central.”

“Georgie, it’s Julia. Do birds prefer big airy yards or dense, tree-filled yards?”

She drew a deep breath. “They like plenty of open sky for flying and chasing.”

“Thanks.”

Flipping the switch to neutral, she pulled off her earpiece, handed it to Luke, then rolled out of his way.

He pushed number thirty’s key forward, then bent down to talk into the mouthpiece. “Hey, Clem. Georgie said you wanted to talk to me?” He looked at her and winked.

They’d not had a minute to do more than wave across the room at each other. He’d arrived just as the phones began to ring. But instead of coming in, he’d chopped her Mai tree into firewood and stacked it neatly beneath her side windows. Time and again, her attention had strayed to the sight he made sawing the tree into sections, then splitting each log into manageable pieces.

She’d barely had time to thank him, though. With the overwhelming success of the Plumage League’s booth yesterday, it seemed every woman who’d signed a pledge now wanted a bird garden.

Her gaze moved to the vase of roses atop her switchboard, their blooms full open, their sweet fragrance perfuming the air. Her pleasure with them and him swept through her again.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Luke unplugged the cable, allowing it to retract into the table.

“What’s wrong with his phone?” she asked. “It sounded fine to me.”

Instead of answering, he leaned over and kissed her flush on the lips, making her chair roll backward. He still smelled of the outdoors and tasted of salt.

Ding.

He blindly set the earpiece down, grabbed the arms of her chair, and gave her his full attention. She tunneled her fingers into those thick brown curls, holding him steady.

Ding.

She tugged on his hair. He pulled back slightly.

“I have two people holding—”

He cut off her words with a peck to her lips.

“—and three drops down,” she finished between pecks.

He rested his lips against hers. “They can wait two seconds. I’ve been waiting all day.”

Though she knew she should protest, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the kiss. By the time he finished, she’d lost all train of thought and sense of time.

He touched his forehead to hers. “I could do that all day long.”

She smiled, eyes still closed. “Me too.”

“What are you doing after work?”

“Tinkering in my garden. With Maifest, I let it slide some. I have some making up to do.”

“Need any help?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you after supper, then.” He kissed her again, then straightened.

She opened her eyes.

“I’m going to deliver these,” he said, scooping up a stack of bills. “While I’m out, I’ll swing by Ragston’s. He’s only had his phone for a couple of weeks. I think I ought to go by, even though nothing’s wrong with it.”

The fog began to clear. “There is no ‘swinging by’ the Ragstons’ place. It’s over an hour each way.”

“Doesn’t do us much good to string wire out there if we can’t service it when they call.” Picking his hat up off the rack, he propped it on his head. “See you tonight.”

No sooner had he stepped out than Bettina rushed in. “Mr. Prysborski done kicked up his heels. So you’d best be ready when the death bell starts tollin’.”

Ding.

Georgie gasped. “But I just met the Prysborski family at Maifest and the father looked to be in good health.”

“The undertaker said he was doin’ some night huntin’ and got shot.”

“Shot?”

“Yep. Probably by another hunter who thought he was a coyote or somethin’.”

“They don’t know who shot him?”

“Nope, but the sheriff says it were an accident.”

“Well, of course it was. That’s awful.”

Ding.

Fumbling for the cable, Georgie pictured Mr. Prysborski’s wife and ten children. They lived quite a ways away and she didn’t know them at all, but her heart ached for them nonetheless.

She’d no more answered the waiting calls than the church bell began to toll, one ring for every year of Mr. Prysborski’s life. Within seconds, every drop on her board fell, the entire town wanting to know who had died.

Luke never made it back to her house after supper. Instead, he’d had to clear Spanish moss off Ragston’s line. It, along with all the rest, had been busy with calls about Mr. Prysborski’s death. With every call initiated, Luke received a healthy jolt of magneto current.

After the third jolt, he decided to wait until after hours to finish the job. By the time he returned to town, it was well after dark and too late for a social call.

At church this morning, he told her he’d made previous plans with some members of the Gun Club. She squelched her disappointment and put on a bright face for him, but in truth, she was terribly let down.

Refusing to be one of those females who pined away at home while her suitor was otherwise occupied, she put on a serviceable brown dress, slipped her opera glasses over her neck, and gathered up her field notebook. It had been several weeks since she’d gone birding and today was the perfect weather for it.

Crisp breezes compensated for steady sunlight, culminating in the perfect temperature. She headed southwest of town, past the school, the ice factory, the cotton yard, and on toward Industry, the closest town with another switchboard. Of course, theirs was in a saloon and run by a man operator, but it was progress nonetheless.

It took over an hour to reach the spot she was looking for. An old pecan with arms as thick as Paul Bunyan’s stretched out over a hushed opening in the thicket. A brown thrasher had visited the tree the last three times she’d been out.

Standing near an oleander, she raised her opera glasses and scanned the pecan. No sign of him.

In a dead elm to her right, a collection of barn swallows decorated its leafless branches like beading on a woman’s bodice. She’d first become acquainted with the steel-blue species while playing hide-and-seek in her father’s barn and tumbling about the hay in its rafters. As a result, swallows always called to mind happy hours filled with warmth and laughter.

As she waited for her thrasher to appear, grackles, scissortails, blackbirds, and wrens stopped in to say hello. With each visit, she recorded the time, place, species, behavior, and song in her journal.

And then she saw him, dipping in and out of the pecan, circling his territory with a tilting, uneven flight, and singing an aria which captivated and inspired. The thrasher repeated each phrase, as if to make certain she understood him.

I missed you I missed you . . . how are you how are you . . . sing with me sing with me . . .

Tempted as she was to whistle back, she didn’t dare. With a flutter of wings, he landed in the very top of the tree, noticeably perched, long tail working like one end of a seesaw. Viewing him through her opera glasses, she couldn’t help but smile at the elevated opinion he had of himself, his speckled white breast and rusty back as handsome as any coat and tails seen in the opulent ballrooms of society.

He didn’t make her wait long for the opening of his performance. Dropping her glasses, she scribbled the names of the birds he mimicked, tried to tally the number of couplets he sang over a thirty-minute period, and reveled in her front-row seat.

As she began to sketch his foot-long silhouette and long, long tail, a series of gunshots shattered their oasis. The thrasher cut off mid-note and launched from the branches, darting across the grove and out of sight.

Rapid gunshots sounded again.

Pop-pop . . . poppoppoppoppoppop.

Fury drove her toward the sound. Stupid, stupid hunters. How dare they desecrate God’s beauty with their accursed weapons? If they were after her birds, so help her, she just might turn a gun onto them and see how they liked it.