by Deeanne Gist
“Who’re you?”
“Mr. Palmer. The new telephone man.” Forcing himself to relax his shoulders and temper his tone, he gave a friendly smile. “I’ll be working with Miss Gail. And if she says to hang up the phone, then I’m thinking you need to hang up the phone.”
“I don’t need yer help, mister,” Bettina said. “I can do my own job by my own self.”
He didn’t take his eyes off Kyle. The boy wavered, unsure of which way to make the scales tip.
Don’t do it, Luke thought. I’m supposed to be nice. I need to be nice.
The boy lifted his chin. “Hyena’s right, sir. This don’t concern you.”
Quicker than the first rattle out of the box, Luke snatched the receiver and handed it to the girl. “Thank you, Kyle. And I believe her name is Bettina. I suggest you use it.”
A murmur of awe rippled through the group of boys. Luke gave himself a mental shake. He hadn’t meant to be so fast. He’d been disarming men for so long, he didn’t even think. Just acted.
Thank goodness only kids and an old-timer saw. If they recounted the exchange, folks would assume they were exaggerating.
He ran his gaze across the group. “Party’s over, boys. You run on, now. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
The boys looked to their leader.
Kyle hitched up the waistband of his trousers. “Come on, fellas. The smell’s getting so thick in here the candles’ll be ashamed to burn afore long.”
Be nice. You need to be nice.
Luke let him walk out the door in one piece, then turned to Bettina.
“I coulda gotten it,” she said, scowling.
“I’m sure you could have, but a gentleman doesn’t stand by while a young lady’s being abused.”
She snorted. “I ain’t no lady. Ever’body knows that. I’m the town drunk’s whelp.”
He stifled his reaction, reminding himself she was only repeating what she’d no doubt been told countless times. “You’re a lady to me, miss.” He could also see she was too short to hang up the receiver. “Would you like me to hang that up for you?”
“I can do it.”
He sighed. “I’m sure you can, but I’d be honored if you’d let me assist you.”
She scrunched up her face. “You ain’t one of those grown-ups who’s a little shy on brains, is ya?”
He reached out to grasp her waist and lift her up, but stopped short when she jerked back and covered her head with her arms.
Not only a town drunk, but a mean town drunk.
He knit his fingers together instead, making a stirrup. “How about a boost?”
She slowly lowered her arms, then plopped a filthy boot, which had to be two sizes too big, into his hands.
He lifted and she dropped the receiver into the cradle. The minute he lowered her back down, she was off and out the door.
He glanced at the ticket clerk. The man rolled a wad of chew from one side of his mouth to the other, then turned his head and spit.
Ping.
Stepping up to the window, Luke took a deep breath and asked for directions to Cottonwood Lane.
Chapter Three
“Hello, Central.” Georgie scooted her chair closer to a switchboard which resembled a very skinny upright piano, but where the sheet music would go was a black-bordered grid of jacks and round metal plates. In place of piano keys was a forest of plugs and toggle switches.
Speaking into a mouthpiece hanging from a pulley, she adjusted its height and grabbed a pencil. Number twelve was the doctor’s residence.
“Von Hardenberg here, Georgie. I’m going to check on Mrs. Blesinger, then’ll swing by the Shultes and Zientiks. Should be back around three.”
She scribbled down his schedule. “I’ve got it. Would you tell Mr. Shulte the post office called and he has a package?”
Ding.
“Sure will. Talk to you later.”
She removed the cable from line twelve and plugged it into line twenty-two. “Hello, Central.”
Ding. She glanced at her board. Number fifteen had also dropped.
“Don’t ring me, Georgie. The baby’s finally gone down for a nap.”
“Oh, good. Maybe you should rest, too, Mrs. Bargus. Either way, I’ll hold your calls. Don’t forget to let me know when Martie Jr. wakes up.”
She unplugged Mrs. Bargus and plugged into line fifteen. “Hello, Central.”
“Can you get Agnes on the line for me, Georgie? I want to find out what she puts in her tomato aspic. It’s divine—”
Ding. Number eight.
“—and mine never comes out right. She brought it to the Ladies’ Reading Circle Tuesday morning. We read Last of the Mohicans, you know, and were just beginning to discuss the part where the girls were captured by Indians when I placed a bite of Agnes’s aspic in my mouth. Oh, heaven on earth. I didn’t hear another—”
Ding. Georgie placed one hand on a toggle key and the other on a plug, then eyed the rows of jacks on her board. Each had a tiny hinged plate above it, no bigger than a nickel. And each plate had a number engraved on it. Whenever anyone called, the plate, or drop-line, would fall open, alerting Georgie as to who was calling. Right now, it was number eight.
“—word. I’m telling you, you haven’t lived until—”
“Mrs. Oodson, I’m sorry to interrupt, but—”
“—you’ve had Agnes’s aspic. Of course, her hushpuppies don’t hold a candle to mine. Mine are crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. The secret, I don’t mind telling you, is—”
Ding.
Georgie took a firm breath. “One moment, Mrs. Oodson.”
She flipped the toggle key to neutral, then lifted a plug, unrolling its cable, and inserting it into number eight.
“Please hold. I’ll be right with you.”
She positioned number eight’s key to the middle, then grasped a cable on the same circuit as Mrs. Oodson. She plugged it into line twenty-five, pulled its rear key backward, and turned the crank for one long and two short rings.
“Hello?”
Georgie pushed the key forward, allowing her and the two women she’d connected to all hear one another. Mrs. Oodson had never quit talking.
“—was wearing the most awful shade of red. I don’t know why women with orange hair insist on wearing red. Do they not have a mirror, for heaven’s sake? It simply—”
“Hello?” Agnes repeated.
“Go ahead, please.” Georgie flicked the key to neutral, retaining the connection between the women but disconnecting herself.
Returning to number eight, she pressed that circuit’s key forward. “I’m so sorry for the wait. This is Central.”
“Vat time to do you have, Georgie?” Burch Leatherman barked. “My timepiece stop again.”
She looked at her watch pin. “I have eleven fifty-three, sir.”
“Gut. Danke.”
She removed the cable, deactivated the key, leaned back in her chair, and rubbed her ear beneath the earpiece. It had been busy for a Thursday. The ladies usually didn’t start visiting until ten, but they’d gotten a jump on things today and had never slowed down. Lunch would be on their tables soon, though, so she should have a lull over the next hour.
She swiped a dust cloth around the ten sets of plugs on her switchboard. Each pair made up a line—one cable connected the first person, the other cable connected the second. Of her ten lines, six were currently being used. The crisscrossed cables looked like giant red earthworms stretching from the table portion of her burnished oak switchboard to the jacks on its hutch.
If the rest of them rang, she’d have to break into Fred and Birdie’s conversation. The young sparking couple had been on the phone all morning and had provided no small amount of entertainment for the boys down at the depot.
She wondered if Bettina had been successful in chasing them off. She pulled line one’s key back, activating her earpiece but not her mouthpiece.
“—should have seen Chili slip the dogcatche
r’s noose,” Birdie said. “He threw it right over her, but instead of running, she backed up, so he couldn’t tighten it.”
“That Chili’s a smart one, all right,” Fred answered.
The line was much clearer and louder than before, which meant fewer people were listening in. Returning the key to neutral, Georgie smiled. That was one way to ensure some privacy—talk so long everyone grew tired of listening and just hung up.
Placing her hands on her back, she arched and glanced out the giant bay window overlooking her backyard. The pink columbine had just begun to bloom, beckoning birds, bees, and butterflies. Even now, a ruby-throated hummingbird hovered over one of its bell-like flowers, sipping sweet nectar from deep within.
Georgie reached blindly for her opera glasses, then focused on the tiniest of the bird species. As if sensing its audience, the showy male flew sideways, backward, and hovered in midair before zipping out of view.
A sense of awe and delight filled her. Winter’s quilt had been thrown off, leaving the way for spring. She hoped it would bring even more birds to her doorstep than last year.
She examined her yard as if from a bird’s point of view. It offered plenty of open sky for flying and chasing. Yet surrounding its perimeter were trees, brush, vines, and ground cover specifically designed to entice.
Evergreens for the grackles, holly for the songbirds, Mexican plum for the fruit birds. Honeysuckle and Virginia creeper for a whole array of feathered friends. Wild rye for nesting material. And at the top of a five-foot pole, a wooden starch box with a rounded-out entrance and perches at either end. In just a few short months, some lucky family would have a private, cozy cabin for nesting. She wondered who it would be this time.
Under her back porch eaves hung alternating containers of sugar water and birdseed. Scattered throughout the garden were three different kinds of birdbaths, for more young birds died from lack of water than from any other cause. She had even planted items for coaxing insects to her yard, knowing they were an essential food source for her birds.
She returned her opera glasses to the corner of the switchboard table. One by one, she pulled each toggle key backward to see if anyone was still on the line. All had disconnected—even Fred and Birdie had finally hung up. She unplugged a cable, activating its spring-loaded reel, which coiled it up beneath the desktop, leaving only the metal plug visible. When all cables were in ready position, she checked her watch. Lunchtime.
Luke eyed the giant telephone pole in front of a quaint cottage on Cottonwood Lane. Thick wires radiated out in all directions. Yet every single one originated from the roof of the cottage. He assumed they terminated at the switchboard inside.
Tying Honey Dew to the hitching rail, he let himself through the front gate. A covered veranda stretched across the tiny yellow clapboard house, offering a haven for a green bench to the right of the door and two rattan rockers and a porch swing to the left. A squirrel on a lawn settee beneath a giant burr oak sat on its hind legs and twitched its nose.
Luke wondered if the telephone company provided the outdoor furniture. While preparing to go undercover, he’d been surprised to learn SWT&T gave their rural switchboard operators a fully furnished home. He could see doing that for a married woman, but a single gal?
That kind of independence was unheard of, even for one as old as Miss Gail. According to his report, she was twenty and unwed. Not for the first time, he wondered why.
Adjusting his hat, he climbed the steps. The front door was open, leaving only a screen between him and her.
He knocked. No movement, no noise. He could see the door led to a large living area.
He knocked again. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Nothing. He stepped back. The double window above the green bench looked into the same big room. He circled around the rockers on the left and peeked inside an open smaller window.
Lacy curtains billowed out, giving him a glimpse of a bed, a washstand, and a wardrobe. He immediately straightened, though there was no need. No one had been inside the bedroom.
Sighing, he looked up and down the street. Hers was definitely the smallest house on the block. Cattycorner and three lots down was the Campbellite church. But there was no activity there, nor anywhere else.
Honey Dew swished her tail and gave a slow blink.
Returning to the door, he knocked again, then cupped his eyes with his hands and rested them against the screen. A bank of windows lined the entire southern wall of the living area. Spaced across it was a large, cluttered office desk, the switchboard, and a boxed-in contraption. The frame for all the cables, perhaps?
Centered along the west wall was a stone fireplace, bookcases on either side. He lifted his brows. Surely SWT&T didn’t supply her with books, too. But where else would all those have come from?
An overstuffed divan, an easy chair, and a rocker crowded the center of the room, facing the dormant fireplace.
No rug. No wall hangings. No ornaments on the mantel. No zillions of tiny knickknacks, which stifled every parlor he’d ever seen.
He frowned. The phone company said she’d come from their Dallas exchange and had been here for over a year. Seems like she’d have given it a woman’s touch by now.
Straightening, he swiped at a gnat buzzing about his ear. Maybe he should check the back. He was halfway down the side of the house when it occurred to him she might be at the outhouse.
He slowed his pace. He’d just look around the corner. If she was making a trip to or from, he’d dart back to the street and start all over.
“Dad-blast it, Ivan.” A woman’s strident voice. “I’ve told you never to come around here. How many times do I have to tell you?”
Luke froze. An unwelcome suitor? A woman living alone would be mighty vulnerable. He crouched down, inching his way forward.
“I’m sick and tired of you coming over here licking your lips while drool drips from your mouth. I’ve had enough, I tell you. Enough.”
Luke stopped midstride. What kind of woman would say something like that? Only one kind he knew of. And it wasn’t the kind who had a respectable address in a respectable neighborhood.
“Stop it.” Her voice jumped an octave. “No! Get!” Whack. “I mean it. Get away from here.” Whack. Whack.
Luke took several running hops, removed his hat, and peeked around the corner.
A little wisp of a woman held up the hem of her brown skirt with one hand and swung a broom with the other.
“Botheration,” she mumbled, jumping over a clump of pink flowers. “Missed again.”
He slowly eased away from the house. Whatever creature she was whacking, it wasn’t of the two-legged variety.
“Out!” She swung.
“Rrrrraaaaaarrh!” A reddish-brown cat leapt to the edge of the property, the woman keeping pace.
“You find your dinner somewhere else, Ivan. You cannot dine here.” She swung and missed. “Ever. Do you hear me?”
Ivan jumped onto the trunk of an elderberry, then onto a fence and over the other side.
“And stay there,” she shouted, shaking her fist. “Because the next time you come back, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll shoot you with a slingshot. Just see if I don’t!”
Luke rubbed a hand across his mouth. What the deuce was wrong with cats?
She stood with her back to him, a swath of blond hair tumbling over one heaving shoulder while she gripped the broom’s handle so tight her knuckles turned white.
Looking up into the tree, she shaded her eyes with her hand. “It’s all right, little ones. You can come out now.”
Ah. There were some kids up there who were afraid of cats.
But no one answered her call. No leaves in the tree shook. He took a couple steps forward and for the first time noticed the magnificence of her backyard.
At first glance, it looked almost random. But upon closer inspection, he realized there was nothing arbitrary about it. It was more like a precisely arranged orchestra, with wildflowers in the front wh
ere the strings go. Tall grasses in place of the woodwinds. Shrubs in lieu of brass. Vine-covered fences for percussion. And midsized trees interspersed throughout. At the edge of the property, three giant shade trees provided a backdrop.
She stepped toward the elderberry, rested the broom against its trunk, then stuck two little fingers in her mouth.
Cheeeeeeeo . . . wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet. Cheeeeeo, cheeeeeo, cheeeeeo . . . wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet.
His mouth slackened. Her whistle was strong, loud, and sounded exactly like some bird he’d heard a million times. He had no idea which bird it was. Wouldn’t know it if he saw it. But he’d sure heard it sing like that. Plenty of times.
She did it again, and lo and behold, if something didn’t answer her back. His gaze flew to the branches of the tree but saw nothing.
Laughing, she propped her hands against her waist, arched her back, and lifted her chin. A breeze wafted the hair that had come loose.
“Don’t you worry, handsome,” she said. “I’ve chased that mean ol’ cat away. You’re safe now.”
“Well,” Luke drawled. “I’m mighty relieved to know that. Thank you.”
Squeaking, she spun around. A bird darted from the elderberry, but he didn’t look. No longer cared which bird made that noise.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she breathed.
He settled his hat on his head. “Weren’t you?”
“No.” She stood in a patch of autumn sage, its rich red blooms forming a three-foot hedge around her.
He sauntered closer. “You must be Miss Gail.”
“That’s right. Who’re you?”
“Luke Palmer. The new troubleman.”
“Oh!” She jumped forward, skirting the sage bush, brushing her skirt, tucking in her blouse. “I wasn’t . . . I didn’t . . . I . . .” Sighing, she stopped. “Hello.”
He tugged his hat. “Hello.”
“Welcome to Brenham.”
“Thank you.”
Her eyes were green. He’d seen hazel before—a bit of blue with a bit of green. But these were all-out green like a Scandinavian goddess’s, except she was no bigger than a mite. She had all the requisite curves, though.
