Love on the Line

by Deeanne Gist

  Weaving around Turk’s cap and coneflower, images of the night before replayed themselves in her mind. The man at the fireplace rumbling orders. The skinny man crashing into the boxes and scattering them to all corners. Mr. Comer tearing lids from boxes and tossing hat after hat into the blaze.

  She clenched her teeth and stopped at the back of the wagon, glancing toward Mrs. Patrick.

  The woman nodded her encouragement. “Go ahead.”

  Georgie reached for a round white box with thin golden stripes, her hand trembling. A ropey handle lay across its gold-colored lid. Tucking the handle to the side, she removed the top.

  A high, curved hat decorated with lush mauve silk and velvet roses sat amidst tissues. She looked at Mrs. Patrick. “They missed some?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Those boxes were empty when I carted them out here. Look in another one.”

  Sliding the gold-striped box aside, she reached for an octagonal one the color of robins’ eggs. A sapphire blue hat with a dipping brim, net veil, and frothy bows filled its interior. Picking up speed, she threw open box after box like a child on Christmas morning. Each contained a hat, some extravagant, some wonderfully simple.

  After the seventh or eighth box, she stopped. “I don’t understand. Where did these come from?”

  Mrs. Patrick joined her and began to replace the lids. “Some are from members of the Plumage League. But the majority are from the women of Washington County.”

  Georgie restacked each box, trying to assimilate what Mrs. Patrick was saying.

  “But how?” she asked. “When would they have had time to make these, much less deliver them?”

  “I made a general call.”

  “A general call?” She looked toward the window where her switchboard sat. “To everyone?”

  “To everyone.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you fell asleep.”

  “I didn’t fall asleep until almost three in the morning.”

  Mrs. Patrick said nothing.

  Georgie surveyed the turrets of boxes. “But I still don’t . . .”

  “They signed our pledge, too. Counting the signatures we had before, we now have a hundred six women who have vowed not to wear or purchase hats with bird parts.”

  “One hundred six,” Georgie breathed, unable to fathom such a number.

  Mrs. Patrick gestured toward the boxes. “Many of these are hats the ladies already had. They just removed the bird parts and rearranged the trim.”

  Her lips parted. “They donated hats from their personal collections?”

  “They did.” Pausing, Mrs. Patrick smoothed a hand across the top of a box. “For some, I’d say it was the only hat they owned.”

  She touched the brooch at her collar. “Why? Why would they do that?”

  Capturing Georgie’s gaze, Mrs. Patrick tilted her head. “Because there isn’t a woman in this county who doesn’t admire and respect you for supporting yourself and having your own place.” A soft breeze picked up a dark red curl, fanning it along her neck. “We may not be able to vote. We may not be able to hold office. We may not be able to wear trousers. But make no mistake, we’re not powerless.”

  Emotion clogged Georgie’s throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

  She sighed. “Well, it won’t all be smooth going. There’ll be some who’ll whisper behind their fans. But don’t you give them a thought. You just hold your head high and meet every gaze square on. Remember: you’re only a victim if you choose to be a victim.”

  Such simple words, yet it had never occurred to her she had a choice. The more she thought about it, the more emboldened she felt.

  Those men might have overpowered her and burned up all the hats, but it didn’t mean she had to cower or be ashamed or cry defeat. Quite the contrary.

  A huge weight lifted. She surveyed her garden. The starch box housing precious new chicks. Bumblebees sipping nectar from pink columbine. Chickadees rejoicing over the buds on her Virginia creeper.

  It was May first. A day set aside to celebrate a new season. New life. New beginnings.

  Stretching onto tiptoes, she wrapped her arms about Mrs. Patrick’s neck and hugged her. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  Mrs. Patrick returned the embrace. “No need to thank me, dear. Now look smart. I think your man’s coming up the street.”

  Letting go, she whirled around and bit her cheeks. He was wearing overalls, but they were starched and shiny, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders underneath.

  She touched a hand to the back of her hair, thankful she wasn’t wearing a hat after all. Next to his overalls, it would have been out of place.

  The closer he came, the more handsome he looked. His tenderness and his proposal of the night before filled her, tugging at her heart. Thinking of his touches made her body respond as if they had just occurred. Still, his defense of last night’s kissing had been imprudent.

  She lifted her chin. In the future, she’d be extremely careful not to betray the trust the women had placed in her. Mrs. Patrick was right. Her position was unique and with it came a responsibility. A responsibility to prove a woman could be independent without falling victim to questionable behavior.

  He reached the corner of her property and looked up. It was then she saw the fistful of red roses he carried at his side.

  She took an involuntary step forward. Every bone in her body wanted to run to him and pitch herself into his arms, drown herself in his kisses. She took a tumultuous breath.

  Lord, help me. For though her intentions were good, she’d need His very strength if she were to stick to them.

  He stepped inside the gate, absorbing the sight of Georgie lifting her skirts and rushing toward him in a skip-hop-scurry combination. She’d piled her hair in a mess of curls atop her head, her spectacular smile giving no indication of the trauma she’d suffered just a few hours earlier.

  She skidded to a halt in front of him, her eyes lit from within. She pressed her hands against her waist. “Good morning.”

  A wealth of feelings for this woman assaulted him, leaving him tongue-tied and off-balance.

  Her gaze moved to the flowers he held at his side. “Are those for me?”

  He looked at them as if he couldn’t quite remember where they’d come from, then handed them to her. She scooped them up, gently hugging them to her breast, and buried her nose against the soft red petals.

  Closing her eyes, she inhaled their potent perfume. He marveled at the extraordinary length of her lashes as they rested against flawless white cheeks. How could something so simple cause such a ruckus within his chest?

  “They’re lovely, Luke. Thank you.” Opening her eyes, she tilted her head. “Everything all right?”

  “Can I kiss you?”

  A spark of fire touched her eyes before she immediately squelched it. “I think it’s a little early for kissing, Mr. Palmer.” But her whisper was more flirty than admonishing.

  He zeroed in on the mole beneath her lips. “When, then?”

  Pink touched her cheeks. “I’d best go put these in some water.” She turned around, then froze. “Oh. Oh my. Would you look at that?”

  He followed her gaze to the Mai tree he’d left her. In the light of day it looked even more pitiful than he’d imagined it would. Mrs. Sealsfield had left a large bowl of crepe decorations in the boardinghouse parlor. By the time he got to them, though, only the dregs were left.

  After walking through town this morning and seeing the trees other fellows had left their lady-loves, embarrassment crept up his neck. His birch was shorter than most and had but a handful of limp yellow streamers.

  “You’re just now seeing it for the first time?” he asked.

  With slow, tentative steps she moved toward it as if she were approaching the Holy Grail. “I fell asleep. Mrs. Patrick just woke me.”

  She didn’t look as if she’d just woken. She looked fresh and pretty as a basket of daises.

  “It’s
not as grand as most of the others,” he said.

  “I love it.” She studied its branches, her chin raised, her jaw exposed. “Thank you.”

  At his lack of response, she peeked at him over her shoulder. “Flowers, Mai tree, rescuing me in my hour of need. You certainly know how to sweep a lady off her feet, don’t you?”

  Guilt pressed against his conscience. He shoved it away. He’d been doing his job. Had he not been there to intervene, no telling what Duane would have done.

  Her gaze lowered to his lips. She unconsciously brushed hers against the soft petals of the blooms in her arms.

  “Good morning, Luke.” Mrs. Patrick rounded the corner, causing them both to jump.

  With gloves and fan in hand, she looked as pretty as one of Georgie’s songbirds in her golden gown, striking red hair, and elaborate hat.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Patrick. I didn’t realize you were still here.”

  “I’m just finishing up.” Clipping the fan in her hand to Georgie’s chatelaine, she exuded an aura of pride. “Isn’t our girl just about the sweetest thing you ever did see?”

  “Breathtaking,” he answered.

  The woman’s smile widened, her attention still on Georgie. “Here, let me have those flowers, dear. I’ll take care of them and the hats while you two run on.”

  “Are you sure?” But even as Georgie asked, she relinquished the bouquet to Mrs. Patrick in exchange for her gloves.

  “Of course. Go on, now. You’re going to have to hurry if you want a good spot for the parade.”

  Georgie shook out a glove, but Luke stalled her. “Wait. Not yet.” Capturing her fingers, he tucked them into the crook of his elbow. “Thank you, Mrs. Patrick. We’ll see you there.”

  He took a step toward the gate, but Georgie gently broke free, retracing her steps to give the woman a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Pshaw. It was nothing. Now, quit your dallying. A man doesn’t like to be kept waiting, you know.”

  Smiling, Georgie extended her naked hand toward him. His heart swelled and this time, instead of placing it on his arm, he entwined his fingers with hers and they headed to Main Street hand-in-hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Georgie loved Maifest. It wasn’t a holiday her hometown had celebrated, nor had Dallas when she’d worked the switchboard in SWT&T’s large exchange. But here in Brenham it was the biggest festival of the year.

  Farmers ignored their crops. Men ignored their businesses. Women ignored their chores. And for one blessed day everyone devoted themselves to renewing old friendships, forming new ones, and breathing the air of heaven.

  At the moment, however, heaven’s air was riddled with dust from a multitude of wagons. They entered the county seat from every direction. A freckle-faced boy hung off the edge of a green one, pointing to red, white, and blue bunting draped across residences and businesses. A tiny dog barked, weaving between horses’ hooves and nipping at the wheels of a buckboard.

  Georgie smiled. “Wonder what he’d do if he actually caught the thing.”

  Before Luke could respond, an automobile squawked its horn like a loud, angry goose.

  The horse pulling the green wagon whinnied and bucked, tossing the freckled boy inside its bed into the oncoming traffic.

  Georgie screamed, her shriek underscored by a dozen more. Luke dove into the street like a baseball player reaching for a low flying ball. Scooping the boy into his arms, he adroitly rolled out of harm’s way, barely missing the hooves of an oncoming team.

  It happened so fast, Georgie hadn’t time to react. But realization quickly crashed down upon her. Her heart jumped to her throat. Both the boy and Luke could have been killed.

  Traffic came to a standstill. The farmer guiding the boy’s wagon surged to his feet, his face florid. Shaking his fist, he cursed the driver of the automobile.

  Men from every wagon in the vicinity jumped to the ground like corn popping from a pan. The automobile driver swung open his door, accidentally cutting off an approaching couple on a bicycle-built-for-two.

  They swerved, their bike teetering. Wrestling the handlebars, the rider at the back put out one trousered leg and then the other, kicking up dirt. In front of him, the woman rider screeched, slapping a hand onto her hat while desperately hanging on with the other.

  Georgie held her breath. The man somehow righted the bicycle and continued on his way. Releasing a whoosh of air, she turned her attention back to Luke. A large press of bodies blocked her view.

  She tried to push through, but they were too compressed. Standing on tiptoes, she hopped. It was no use. She couldn’t see a thing.

  When the crowd finally broke, the boy had been returned to his mother, his eyes bright with excitement. Men shook Luke’s hand, pounded his back, and offered to buy him a beer when they reached the pavilion.

  He made light of his actions, as if they were nothing out of the ordinary. His freshly laundered and ironed overalls were caked with dirt. His hair mussed. His hat crushed.

  In that moment, as she stood on the periphery watching him slap the dust from his pant leg, punch his hat back into shape, and chuckle at something someone said, it hit her. She was falling in love with him. And it had nothing to do with his devastating good looks and intoxicating kisses.

  It had to do with his uncanny ability to always be there when she needed him. With his willingness to serve others and repair their phone lines no matter what the hour. With his willingness to respect her views, yet not be manipulated by them. With his tenderness toward Bettina, Fritz, and the other children in her Junior Audubon Society. With his capacity for acting quickly and decisively in times of danger.

  He glanced her way, his eyes stalling. Though vehicles still rolled by and men still shouted and horses still whinnied, for her all sounds receded. All movement ceased. All of time stood still.

  Glancing neither left nor right, he walked toward her. Men parted like a curtain on opening night. And then he was there. Something about his eyes unsettled her, but a curl slipped down against his forehead, distracting her.

  She reached up, pushing the curl back into place. “You could have been killed.”

  “I’m fine. I was never in any danger. I saw the other team coming. I knew I had time to get the boy out of the way.”

  “You saw all that in the split second before you hurled yourself into the middle of this mess?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know how.” She bit her cheeks. “You scared me, Luke.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A wave of vulnerability swept over her. The what-ifs, the what-could-have-beens, the what-could-bes. “You may kiss me now.”

  He swept his gaze across the panorama just above and behind her. A mixture of chagrin and amusement touched his lips. “Much as I hate to pass up such a sweet offer, I think I’d better take a rain check. I’m not sure now’s a good time, exactly.”

  She blinked. The sounds slowly returned. Creaking wheels. Jingling harnesses. Merry voices. She looked around.

  The crowd had dispersed and she was no longer standing in the middle of the street, but on the edge of the boardwalk. She had no recollection of getting there.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  No. “Just a little too much excitement, I think.”

  “You want me to take you home?”

  Shaking herself, she took a deep breath. “No, no. I’ll be fine. I’m just . . .”

  What? she thought. In love with you?

  She swallowed. “The parade should be starting soon. I don’t want to miss the Patricks in our float.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes.” She gave him a small smile. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re awfully pale.”

  “Am I?” Touching her cheeks, she realized she still wasn’t wearing gloves. She removed them from the hidden pocket of her skirt and quickly pulled them on. “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing a walk downtown won’t cure.”

  If h
e wasn’t completely convinced, he at least didn’t argue. Placing a hand beneath her elbow, he fell in step with others on the sidewalk and guided her toward Main.

  In his line of work, Luke didn’t have much opportunity for play and absolutely none for festivals. He’d attended a boxing match a couple of years ago, but for crowd control, not pleasure.

  Today, however, he had full license to enjoy Brenham’s Maifest. He’d still do some work. He’d keep an eye out for his primary suspects—Necker, Duane, Blesinger, and the two farmers Finkel and Ragston. He’d see whom they interacted with. See if they were bold enough to join one other. See if he could discover a connection between them and the milliner—if there even was one. He’d also be interested to see if the betting man from the shooting tournament—Hurless Swanning—made an appearance.

  For the most part, though, he could enjoy examining the stock exhibits, listening to orations, watching the Maypole dance, attending a Texas A&M College baseball game, and best of all, taking Georgie to tonight’s dance. He glanced at her, his eyes drawn for the umpteenth time to her animated expression, her wide smile, and the tiny mole beneath her lips.

  Her color had much improved since his rescue of the boy. He’d tried to play it down, hoping word would not get around with so much else going on. But already several townsfolk had approached him, saying they’d been told of his efforts and wanted to thank him.

  He sighed. Being undercover was not one of his strong suits. He often acted first and thought later. But what else could he have done? He couldn’t exactly leave the boy to his own devices.

  Still, his actions could undermine the impression he was trying to give. An ordinary telephone repairman wouldn’t be expected to jump in front of an oncoming team. He hoped word of his swift reaction wouldn’t get back to Necker.

  Georgie pointed to the Maifest Queen’s float pulled by high-stepping iron-grays with white tasseled trappings draped across their backs. Luke admired the driver as he kept his horses in perfect time to the music of the marching band.

  This year’s theme was the lily, the violet, and the rose. The milliner’s daughter, Lillie Ottfried, had been elected reigning queen and sat in white splendor, clutching a lily in one hand and waving with the other.