Page 75 of Charlotte

She wrote the return date in Delly’s neat system and sanded the ink. Then she looked up. “You may borrow something else.”

“Not today.”

“All right.”

That answer made him study her.

Perhaps he had expected coaxing. Perhaps he had expected disappointment dressed as persuasion. Lottie gave him neither.

“You read the Tennyson?” she asked.

“Some.”

“Enough to dislike him?”

“Enough to know he thinks too much at night.”

She smiled. “That is a fair criticism.”

“He grieves honestly.”

The words were quiet, almost hidden beneath Mrs. Schulte’s renewed instructions about chair rows.

Lottie’s smile softened. “Yes. He does.”

Peterson looked down at the book and drew one narrow scrap of paper from between the pages. “There was a loose bit inside. I did not know if it belonged.”

He handed it to her.

Lottie recognized the paper at once. It was one of the scraps she had cut for field notes. On it, in Peterson’s uneven writing, were two words.

For winter.

She looked at the botany volume.

The knot suddenly mattered.

Peterson took half a step back. “Don’t open it here.”

The instruction came too quickly to be casual.

Lottie laid her hand over the tied book. “I won’t.”

Color rose beneath his beard.

Mrs. Hanford’s voice came from the shelf. “If we are having poetry, I must approve the selection.”

“We aren’t.” Lottie turned to Mrs. Hanford. “I mean I would rather attend this year’s event not being a participant. You have much to do without having to worry about another person.”

Peterson reached for his hat. “I should go.”

“Wait,” Mrs. Schulte said.

He stopped with obvious reluctance.

“We need men to help hang bunting after church tomorrow. Above the meeting hall door, along the porch rail, and across the windows if Mr. Prentiss will stop complaining about nail holes.”

Peterson looked toward the door. “There are younger men.”