Page 98 of Charlotte
“When we are alone.”
Delly folded the paper more slowly than she had opened it. “That matters.”
“I know it matters.”
“Lottie—”
“No.” The word came out too sharp. She lowered her voice, but not her chin. “Please do not begin with the warning.”
Delly drew back a little. “I haven’t warned you.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to ask whether he had also given you a promise.”
The question struck harder because it was fair. Lottie took the drawing back and held it against herself. “No.”
Delly’s eyes moved toward the paper. “Then he is giving you walls and withholding the door.”
The words were so like Delly—neat, exact, and unbearable. Lottie’s temper flashed.
“You have been saving that tone for him all week.”
“I have been trying to understand what is happening.”
“No, you have been trying to decide whether I am safe.”
Delly’s shoulders stiffened. Lottie knew that stiffness. It meant her sister was calling herself reasonable while preparing to become immovable.
“Not here,” Delly said.
“Why? Because someone might hear me sound less than grateful?”
“Because this is the library.”
“Libraries are places for truth.”
“They are not places for sisters to wound each other in front of the lending ledger.”
That was unfairly sensible.
Lottie hated when Delly was sensible while being infuriating.
She turned and walked out the side door.
Delly followed.
Neither of them spoke as they crossed the small stretch of yard behind the meeting hall and made their way toward the church. The evening had cooled, and the sky above Wild Rose Ridge was brushed with gold. Main Street still carried the sounds of supper and wagon wheels, but the churchyard was quieter. The little white church stood with its windows catching the last light. The low stone wall beneath the maple tree waited as if it had been built for women who needed somewhere to sit while their hearts misbehaved.
Lottie did not sit.
Delly did.
That annoyed Lottie too.
“You are going to say he is wounded,” Lottie said.
Delly looked up at her. “He is.”
