Noemi’s watering her vegetable garden with rinse water when I return to the house. On her apron strap, she’s tied a cluster of bluebells. “Nice of you to show up.”
“I overslept. Nice flowers.”
“I’m starting my own suffrage society. The Atlanta Bluebells, for the belles of a different color.”
“It’s a good name. Do you know where Mrs. Payne is?”
“Upstairs in her study, I think. Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
I hurry into the kitchen and hastily assemble Caroline’s tray. Both the cream and the coffee slosh over the sides of their vessels as I carry the tray upstairs.
Caroline is calculating some figures on her writing table when I set the tray beside her. “Good morning. Excuse me for a moment.”
“Excuse you? You just got here.”
I ignore her and slip down the hallway. The door to Mrs. Payne’s office is like a raised hand, warning me away. She will not like my impertinence. But she alone chose the contestants.
I knock. When no one answers, I knock again.
“Come in,” she says, and not in her usual pleasant voice.
Mrs. Payne sits at her desk, writing in her Lady’s Planner. I assume it’s where she records her deepest feelings, as she never leaves it in plain sight. Maybe she hides it in a boot the way we do our savings. You can tell a lot about what someone values by what they hide.
“Jo, I asked not to be disturbed. Whatever is the matter?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” My prepared words all fly out of my head. I blurt out, “Is Old Gin racing Sweet Potato in your horse race?”
“Well, yes.”
“But why?”
“Because he asked me.” She sets down her pen and gets to her feet. Her shawl lies across another chair, and she ties it over her wrinkled housedress.
“He’ll be ridiculed. And his sponsor will not be happy.They’ll complain, and you’ll probably have to refund their bid. It might cause a scandal. Not to mention, he’s sixty!”
“I have thought of those things, of course. There will be no gambling odds on him, as the odds are written for twelve players. The suffragists will be matched to Sweet Potato. They are fortunate to be in the race and won’t complain.”
So much for a random draw. “Actually, I have met their president, and she is not exactly a shrinking violet.”
“I don’t require advice on this matter. Old Gin is a grown man. You should respect his decision.” There’s a warning in her tone. Her black slippers peek out from her dress hem, two arrows pointing to the exit. She crosses her arms, drawing an X over her center.
My eyes fall to her planner, still open on the desk beside us. She seems to be writing a letter of some sort. At the bottom, she has signed it with a loop. A lowercasee.
Anefor Emma.
Mrs. Payne’s eyebrows clothespin together, and noticing my interest in her planner, she reaches over and closes the book.
But it is too late. I have already seen.
My mind churns like a loom, drawing threads, weaving connections, finding patterns. “You wrote the letter.”
Her face twists in confusion.
“You asked him to forgive you.”
She begins to say something but swallows it back down. “You—you’ve seen this letter?”
