Page 78 of Charlotte
“Bread from Mrs. Dawes. For Jeb.” Delly set it on the table. “Apparently marriage causes women to hand one another baked goods.”
“That seems pleasant.”
“It is logistically burdensome.”
Lottie laughed and reached for the botany volume. “I have something to show you.”
Delly’s eyes narrowed. “Is it dangerous?”
“No.”
“Romantic?”
“Possibly.”
“That can be dangerous.”
Lottie opened the field page and turned the protective sheet back.
Delly leaned over the table.
For once, her sister had no immediate comment.
The wild rose lay between them, delicate and unmistakable. Peterson’s three words sat beneath it in careful, uneven script.
Proof of summer.
Delly read the words twice.
Then she looked at Lottie. “He returned this today?”
“Yes.”
“With the flower inside?”
“Yes.”
“He wrote that?”
“Yes.”
Delly straightened slowly. “No, Lottie. A man does not press a flower by accident.”
Warmth rushed into Lottie’s cheeks. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“I think so.”
Delly tapped one finger against the table, stopping well away from the page. “This does not mean certainty.”
“No.”
“It does not mean he is ready.”
“I know.”
“It does mean he is paying attention.”
