Page 79 of Charlotte

Lottie smiled down at the flower. “That is what I thought.”

Delly studied her sister for a long moment. The warning Lottie expected did not come. Delly looked tired, married, and gentler than she wanted to be.

At last, Delly said, “Then give him room to decide what his attention costs him.”

Lottie nodded. “I will try.”

“Trying is sometimes sufficient for one day.”

That sounded unlike Delly and very much like something Jebediah might have taught her without using a single direct lesson.

“Where’s your husband?”

“Down on the beach. He’s helping to build a gazebo.”

Lottie closed the book with care.

“Then walk with me because tomorrow is going to be busy.”

“How so?”

“They are calling it bunting day.”

“Is your Mr. Peterson coming?” Delly asked as Lottie closed the meeting house and locked the door.

“He isn’t my Mr. Peterson, but I hope so.”

The light faded as they reached the hotel. After dinner, Lottie went to her room and pulled out her journal to capture her thoughts.

Outside, the last light faded beyond Main Street. Tomorrow would bring church, bunting, too many witnesses, and Peterson with a hammer in his hand if he did not think better of it before morning.

Lottie did hope he would come.

She did not write that hope down, as Delly would have. She held it close to her heart.

Some things were safer left uncatalogued until they had enough courage to stand on their own.

Chapter Eleven

June 27, 1886, Morning — Main Street

By Sunday afternoon, Wild Rose Ridge had taken leave of ordinary sense and surrendered itself to bunting.

Red, white, and blue cloth hung from porch rails, window frames, wagon sides, fence posts, and one unfortunate hitching post Mrs. Beck declared “lonely.” Children ran through the street with paper flags. Mr. Prentiss stood outside the mercantile guarding his doorframe from nail holes. Mrs. Hanford carried a basket of ribbon as though entrusted with military supplies.

Lottie loved every bit of it.

The meeting hall had been swept, aired, and invaded by patriotic intention. Two long swags of bunting waited to be hung over the front doors. A crate of books sat beneath the lending table, safely away from dust, hammers, and enthusiastic children.

Peterson had been assigned to help with the ladders, nails, and heavy lifting around town.

Lottie strongly suspected the Bees had not given up on the match, whatever the town whispered, and meant to throw the two of them together as often as decency allowed.

She blessed them for it.

She would have blessed almost anyone who gave her an hour in Peterson’s company.

She wanted the library to be beautiful. Not merely decorated, but welcoming in a way a man could see from clear down the street. She wanted even the most book-shy logger passing by to feel there was a glad place, a kind place, a place that wanted him in particular and would not laugh if he came inside.