“He’s never shown an interest in courting anyone,” Marguerite says archly. “Why do you ask?”
“Well... it’s just all sosad, isn’t it? He’s such ahandsomeyoung man. Thatface.”
“There isn’t a thing that’s sad about Beckett,” I interject, bristling at the implication behind her words. “He’s quite capable.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean toimply...”
That his handicap makes him pitiable and less desirable in your eyes?The words are there, on my tongue, which I hold only for Marguerite’s sake. I wonder at my own defensive reaction—at my sudden urge to champion him when he seems to hold me in low regard. But how many times haveIbeen talked about in rooms where I wasn’t present? I think of my time at Elm Ridge and how, after I came back home, my debut season fell by the wayside, and the women in Mama’s circle no longer offered up their sons and nephews as my escort. Was anyone ever my champion when they called me “Mad Sadie”? No. They merely laughed behind my back. No one deserves that.
Marguerite smiles at me, as if she can read my thoughts. “Sadie’s right. Beckett will be quite a catch, for the right sort of girl. He’ll marry. Someday.”
“Indeed.” I clear my throat. “I think so, too.”
Georgia looks at me for a long moment. “I have a nephew, just out of university. He’s seeing a girlnow. But she’s a bit of a flapper. Wears her skirtsmuchtoo short.”
There it is.
“I used to be a flapper,” I say, with a haughty lift of my chin. “I’ve aged out of the enterprise, but it was a great deal of fun while it lasted.”
Marguerite snorts, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Really?” Georgia asks, flabbergasted. “But you’re sogenteel.”
I hide my smirk behind my glass of tea. “Well. I’m twenty-eight, after all. I already have my burial plot paid for andeverything.”
“Oh.Oh.Are you ill, my dear?” Georgia’s eyes widen.
“Only in the head, I’m afraid.” I laugh, much too heartily. Being diagnosed with a nervous condition is beneficial in certain situations.
“I think I’d bettergo,” Georgia croons. “Must tend to the ... thetablelinens.” She pats her upswept hair and twitters goodbye to Marguerite, who rises to see her out.
I’m still laughing to myself when I bring our dishes to the kitchen. Beckett is there, scrubbing carrots and potatoes at the sink. He glances over his shoulder at me and smiles. “I see you’ve met Georgia.”
“She’s a hoot,” I say.
“And a gossip. By this time tomorrow, all of Eureka Springs will be talking about you.”
“It’s probably good, then, that we’re going to town in the morning. The villagers can see for themselves that I don’t have two heads and sixteen legs. I’m certain Georgia thinks I’m a lunatic. I won’t be able to disprovethatvery easily. At least I won’t have to worry about her pawning me off on her nephew.”
He chuckles. “Just as well, for your sake.”
“Yes ...” I look at him, there at the sink, his strong, angled chin tilted down. Thunder crackles in the distance. I clear my throat. “Sounds like you were right, about the rain. Did you get your mowing done?”
He nods. “And more firewood cut for the stove.”
“I wish I’d been as industrious. So far, the only thing I’ve accomplished is losing at mah-jongg. I had fun, though. Marguerite is having a good day, I think.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
An awkward silence descends as the first patters of rain hit the kitchen’s metal roof. Melva comes in from outside, a basket of laundry in her arms. Beckett takes it from her, setting it on the trestle table. “Fixing to come a gully washer,” she says. “I should have sent you to the market this morning, Beck. Hopefully the road won’t wash out overnight.”
“This is the sort that blows over quick,” he says, drying his hands on a towel. “It’ll be done by morning.”
“Lord, let’s hope,” Melva says. “We’re out of everything. When you go, I need two heads of cabbage, white beans, and rye bread, the darkest you can find. Oh, and if you get the chance, swing by the butcher and ask Frank for some soupbones. I mean to make broth. Don’t forget the coffee. This is the last of it.” Melva fills the coffeepot with water, then slams it down on the stove.
“Yes, ma’am.” Beckett glances over at me, a smile creasing the skin around his eyes.
“I hope ham and eggs are to your liking for breakfast tomorrow, miss,” Melva calls to me. “About all I’ve got left. Nothing to be done for it now.”
