Courting Miss Hattie (35 page)
Feeling
herself
about to tremble and trying to will away the sudden inexplicable desire to lift his hand to her breast, Hattie stepped back.
"Would you like some more ice for your eyes?" she asked, keeping her voice impersonal. "It does seem to work better than anything else."
"It certainly felt good today," he admitted. "Could
I
put my head in your lap again?"
Her eyes widening in shock, she opened her mouth to speak but had no idea what in the world she could say.
Reed took a step toward her, and she immediately backed away, right up against the kitchen table. Her expression was like that of a cornered animal. Hesitating, he moved away to give her more room and was rewarded when the hint of fear in her eyes drained down to mere wariness.
Glancing away from her, he tried another tack. "Something sure smells good, Miss Hattie."
"It's just tomatoes," she said.
"I
completely forgot about them, but thankfully the fire went out instead of scorching them."
"You know,
I
hear all over the county that you're a fine cook, but
I
swear, Miss Hattie,
I
don't believe you've ever invited me for supper before."
She frowned in puzzlement. "Why, Reed, we've eaten breakfast together a million times. You know exactly how
I
cook. You can come here for supper any time you've a mind to. You know that."
"How about tonight?" he asked cautiously.
"Tonight?" Hattie was almost at a loss for words. "Reed, you know I'd enjoy having you over, but truthfully, having worked in the field all afternoon,
I
haven't got a thing cooked for supper."
He laughed. "Okay, my fault. I can't come for supper tonight, because there is no supper. How about later on this evening, Miss Hattie?
I
could come over, and we could sit a spell on that porch swing
I
built you."
She stared at him. It sounded suspiciously as if Reed Tyler were asking to court her. But surely he wouldn't be asking such a thing. Should she ask him straight out if that's what he had in mind? Casting out the idea as altogether too risky—if he said no, he had never considered such a wild idea, she would undoubtedly need the earth to open up and swallow her—she decided just to agree and see how it went.
Then her memory snagged on an important detail. "Tonight might be a bit crowded," she said, hoping her lightness and humor would protect her from making a fool of herself. "
Ancil
will be here a little after dark."
Reed's smile dimmed appreciably, but he shrugged in understanding. "I didn't realize you'd become engaged again."
"We haven't," she said quickly. "He's simply calling on me like before. There is nothing understood between us. We're just courting."
Accepting that with a nod, Reed grabbed his hat and turned to the door. "Well,
I
guess I'd better be going." Annoyance was clear in his tone.
"Good-bye," she said.
"Good-bye."
He stepped out the back door, and Hattie sighed heavily. What had he wanted?
she
wondered. What was he saying? She would probably never know. Just as she turned back to her stove, the screen door was jerked open, and Reed walked back in.
"Is Drayton calling on you tomorrow night?" he asked.
"No
."
"May I
come
sit on your porch then?"
"You can come for supper."
"Fine."
"Fine."
CHAPTER
18
C
asting
a quick glance at her face in her hand mirror, Hattie paused to smooth her hair back before heading to the kitchen. She was certain there had never been a longer day than the one she had just lived.
Everything was ready for her supper with Reed. A succulent pork roast was keeping warm on the top of the stove,
yeastrolls
were in the breadbasket, green beans and new potatoes simmered patiently, and the okra was ready to fry. A peach cobbler sat cooling on the windowsill, and Hattie was dressed once again in the summer lawn dress Reed had admired at the July Fourth picnic. All that was needed now was the gentleman caller. At that thought, Hattie trembled with nervousness.
Since Reed's departure the previous evening, she could only describe her erratic behavior as "in a tizzy." Again and again she'd warned herself that she was making far too much of Reed's request to sit on her porch. "He's hurt and lonely," she would say aloud. "It's only natural that after being jilted, he would seek the companionship of a close friend."
But even her sensible words couldn't still the feverish anticipation she felt. Her visit with
Ancil
the night before had been a disaster. He had caught her wool-gathering more than once and had left early, obviously irritated.
She had been able to think of nothing but Reed, though. The sight of him—laughing beside her in the pig sty, holding her as she cried on the porch, the strip of naked pale skin she had glimpsed at his waist—and the taste of those wondrous sweet kisses they had shared. "Peaches," she whispered dreamily to herself. Raising her head in startled surprise, she stared in horror at the cobbler cooling on the windowsill.
Peaches! Would it remind him? Would he think she
meant
to remind him? Glancing nervously at the back door, she grabbed the square cobbler tin and covered it quickly with a clean dishtowel. Opening first one cabinet then another, she finally deposited her embarrassing dessert on the top shelf of the pantry. With a hand over her heart and a sigh of relief, she assured herself that the oven was still warm enough to bake a batch of cookies and hurried to mix her sweet substitution.
Time and time again as she mixed up the substitute dessert, she glanced at the back door, waiting for him to make his usual appearance. He would give a tap on the screen and let himself in, then sit at the kitchen table and begin talking about his day and asking questions about hers. It was this certainty about his behavior that led her to assume that the knock at her front door must be either a peddler or a neighbor passing by. Displeased by the interruption, she couldn't quite keep the annoyance out of her expression as she answered the door.
* * *
Reed stood on Miss Hattie's front porch, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He wore his Sunday dress suit but had discarded the tie before he'd gone even a hundred yards from his house and now sweated in the unseasonable coat. His hair was still damp and slicked down tightly to his head. Clasped in his fist
was
a handful of marigolds and dahlias. The cheerful flowers contrasted sharply with his expression, which was distinctly uneasy.
"Reed!" Hattie exclaimed when she saw him. "What a surprise."
He caught his breath at her words, and his heartbeat accelerated with anxiety. "You did invite me for supper this evening?" he asked quickly.
"Yes! Oh yes, of course," she said. "I just didn't expect you at the front door. I mean…
"Feeling increasingly foolish, Hattie finally opened the door
. "
Please come on in." Her voice sounded formal and distant even to her ears.
Reed stepped into the little parlor and stood ill at ease for a moment. Glancing at Hattie he saw she seemed equally at a loss. As if suddenly recalling his purpose, he thrust the flowers at her. "These are for you."
Taking them, Hattie felt a flutter of pleasure. Unsure what to make of it, she made a hasty retreat. "Let me put these in water," she said as she turned to the kitchen.
Alone in the parlor, Reed couldn't decide whether to continue standing and wait for an invitation to sit or simply sit. Remaining at the edge of the room for a couple of minutes, he finally realized how stiff and awkward he must appear. Immediately he sat down in a cane-seat rocker covered by needlepoint pillow and back. Rocking back and forth, he barely had time to get comfortable before he changed his mind and moved to the settee, seating himself at the far end to give Hattie plenty of room to join him.
Through the day, he had become increasingly unsure of himself. Eyebrows had
raised
all around his family's table that morning when he'd ask his mother about the flowers in the garden.
"They're not too many
left,"
she said, an unspoken question in her voice.
"I just need enough for a bouquet," he said.
"You going courting already?" his father asked with calculated nonchalance.
Reed nodded and concentrated on his breakfast as if it were really no one's business.
"I was beginning to wonder if he was just going to pine away forever," his brother Cal teased. "Who's the young lady?"
Reed gave his brother a sarcastic look. "Since when have you been interested in the ladies I call on,
"Not interested, just curious."
"I bet I
know who it is," Andy piped up. Everyone looked
at
the handsome teenager with the infectious grin. "Eva Lynn Holmes swears that God answered her prayers when Bessie Jane set you free."
"Eva Lynn Holmes!" Reed said incredulously. "She's just a schoolgirl."
"She's the same age as Bessie Jane," Andy said.
Reed shook his head and chuckled. "I remember when Mrs. Holmes would ask all us kids to keep watch on Eva Lynn 'cause she was prone to eat dirt." The rest of the family joined him as he laughed. Turning to his youngest brother, Reed added, "I'm not very likely to ever feel the desire to call on a female I remember as a dirt eater."
Andy nodded.
"So who are you calling on?" his father asked finally.
Reed carefully finished chewing his bacon and swallowed. "Hattie Colfax."
The silence was deafening.
Clive cleared his throat. "I think that's a fine idea, Reed. Miss Hattie is a lovely woman. Your mother and I both like her a lot."
This wholehearted endorsement by their parents didn't squelch his brothers' surprise. "You're serious?" Andy asked, appalled at Reed's interest in a woman Andy considered strictly a part of the adult world. "She's a lot older than you."
"Only five years," Reed said.
he
used to eat dirt."
Reed had blushed fiery red at that statement, and even thinking about it now in the comfort of Miss Hattie's parlor embarrassed him.
All afternoon he had wondered about the nature of his friendship with Hattie. They had been friends for so long, but he had always been the younger one. Did she remember those years when she used to order him to wash his hands before he sat down to her table? How about the time he'd smashed his hand on the cotton planter and she'd put the ice on it while he cried like a baby? She dried his tears and held her hanky for him to blow his nose. When she looked at him, did she remember that? Running a nervous hand through his hair, he desperately hoped not.
Could a woman entertain romantic illusions about a man she'd known in
kneepants
, a man she'd splashed in the face with buttermilk when he'd gotten too big for his britches?