thoughts of Patrick Henry Buckmeyer from her mind and found her place in the story. After only ten pages, a knock interrupted her rewrite.
“Yes?”
The door opened, and Mary Rachel’s head appeared. “Daddy says you have time to wash up before dinner. I filled your pitcher this morning. It’s there on the bureau in its bowl.”
May capped the ink well, set her quill down, then examined her hands. As customary, she’d not gotten a speck of ink on her anywhere. She hated getting dirty, stained with the offending liquid even worse.
But if he wanted her to wash…. “Thank you, dear. I’ll be right down.”
She resisted the urge to change dresses or tidy her unruly curls or even daub on more perfume. No need for any of that, she had no one to impress.
Plain and simple, he’d invited her only to indulge his favorite daughter. She grinned. That was so funny, him calling each one his favorite. She’d use that in one of her novels to be sure.
Maybe she’d write about a widower—with a passel of children—looking for love out in the wild west. Henry himself would make an excellent model for her next hero.
Unlike all the perfectly handsome mannequin men who played hard to get in her other books.
Or was he?
May practically skipped down the stairs and found all the men sitting at the table. The girls carried in a beautiful soup tureen, a platter of sandwiches, another of sliced vegetables, and drinks for each place.
She did miss New York’s ice. It would be especially nice out here in the core of this volcano known as Texas.
In mere minutes, the Buckmeyer fellows all stood, and the little ladies took their chairs one by one in obvious order of age. Mary Rachel sat on her father’s left.
The chair on his right remained empty. He offered it to her with a sweep of his hand and a smile. She took the seat between him and Chester, and all the males sat after she did.
All hands came out, palms up. Oh, yes. No doubt time to pray. She laid her left in Henry’s and reached across Chester to take Mammy’s, but he grabbed it and wrapped his left hand around the colored woman’s as though he did such every day.
“Houston, I believe it’s your turn to say grace. And don’t be long-winded.” Henry gave her a little squeeze. She glanced at him, and he smiled.
Thankful everyone bowed their head, she did likewise, knowing full well she had blushed, by the warmth in her cheeks. A little wave of flutters rolled in her tummy.
“God is good. God is great. Thank you for this little bit of grub. And please give us meat and taters for supper. Amen.” The boy looked straight to his father who pursed his lips and gave his boy a half nod.
“Thank you, Son.”
The soup, a vegetable medley in a delicious chicken stock, hit the spot. The sandwich tray came by , with wholes, halves, and quarters. She chose a half with ham.
From the second tray, she took a leaf of lettuce and two slices of the reddest tomatoes she’d seen since she was a little girl. She’d enjoy a thin sliver of the purple onion, but.…
“Henry, you lied to me.”
The man eyed her hard. “How’s that?”
“You told me Mammy was good in the kitchen, not that she was a master chef you had stolen away from Queen Victoria’s court.”
The cook leaned out past Chester. Her lips spread into the biggest grin. “Oh, Miss May, now you’re the one fibbing, not my Mister Henry.”
“Truth be told, I’ve never eaten at the Queen’s table except in my stories, but the cuisine couldn’t be any better. This soup is divine, and that’s a fact.”
“I agree. Mammy can cook rings around all of ‘em. We’re all blessed to have her.”
Blessed, not lucky? An odd way to put it. May took another sip then forced her hand to lay down the spoon. If she didn’t watch it, she’d weigh a ton before she headed back east.
But exactly when she would do that posed another question.
If Chester agreed, she might just go on to California, try her hand at
“Yes?”
The door opened, and Mary Rachel’s head appeared. “Daddy says you have time to wash up before dinner. I filled your pitcher this morning. It’s there on the bureau in its bowl.”
May capped the ink well, set her quill down, then examined her hands. As customary, she’d not gotten a speck of ink on her anywhere. She hated getting dirty, stained with the offending liquid even worse.
But if he wanted her to wash…. “Thank you, dear. I’ll be right down.”
She resisted the urge to change dresses or tidy her unruly curls or even daub on more perfume. No need for any of that, she had no one to impress.
Plain and simple, he’d invited her only to indulge his favorite daughter. She grinned. That was so funny, him calling each one his favorite. She’d use that in one of her novels to be sure.
Maybe she’d write about a widower—with a passel of children—looking for love out in the wild west. Henry himself would make an excellent model for her next hero.
Unlike all the perfectly handsome mannequin men who played hard to get in her other books.
Or was he?
May practically skipped down the stairs and found all the men sitting at the table. The girls carried in a beautiful soup tureen, a platter of sandwiches, another of sliced vegetables, and drinks for each place.
She did miss New York’s ice. It would be especially nice out here in the core of this volcano known as Texas.
In mere minutes, the Buckmeyer fellows all stood, and the little ladies took their chairs one by one in obvious order of age. Mary Rachel sat on her father’s left.
The chair on his right remained empty. He offered it to her with a sweep of his hand and a smile. She took the seat between him and Chester, and all the males sat after she did.
All hands came out, palms up. Oh, yes. No doubt time to pray. She laid her left in Henry’s and reached across Chester to take Mammy’s, but he grabbed it and wrapped his left hand around the colored woman’s as though he did such every day.
“Houston, I believe it’s your turn to say grace. And don’t be long-winded.” Henry gave her a little squeeze. She glanced at him, and he smiled.
Thankful everyone bowed their head, she did likewise, knowing full well she had blushed, by the warmth in her cheeks. A little wave of flutters rolled in her tummy.
“God is good. God is great. Thank you for this little bit of grub. And please give us meat and taters for supper. Amen.” The boy looked straight to his father who pursed his lips and gave his boy a half nod.
“Thank you, Son.”
The soup, a vegetable medley in a delicious chicken stock, hit the spot. The sandwich tray came by , with wholes, halves, and quarters. She chose a half with ham.
From the second tray, she took a leaf of lettuce and two slices of the reddest tomatoes she’d seen since she was a little girl. She’d enjoy a thin sliver of the purple onion, but.…
“Henry, you lied to me.”
The man eyed her hard. “How’s that?”
“You told me Mammy was good in the kitchen, not that she was a master chef you had stolen away from Queen Victoria’s court.”
The cook leaned out past Chester. Her lips spread into the biggest grin. “Oh, Miss May, now you’re the one fibbing, not my Mister Henry.”
“Truth be told, I’ve never eaten at the Queen’s table except in my stories, but the cuisine couldn’t be any better. This soup is divine, and that’s a fact.”
“I agree. Mammy can cook rings around all of ‘em. We’re all blessed to have her.”
Blessed, not lucky? An odd way to put it. May took another sip then forced her hand to lay down the spoon. If she didn’t watch it, she’d weigh a ton before she headed back east.
But exactly when she would do that posed another question.
If Chester agreed, she might just go on to California, try her hand at
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