affinities in other directions. But, no. Lace visited Harley often, frequently cooked to encourage his finicky appetite, and protected him fiercely. As for her desire that Harley become a learned man, the Education of Harley Welch was entering its third year.
Lace picked up the test papers and examined them. Her eyes glanced quickly over the pages, and she alternately sighed or nodded.
Father Tim gazed at her, profoundly moved. When he had first met Lace Turner, she was living in the dirt under her ramschackle house on the Creek, foraging for food like a dog. Her transformation was a miracle he’d been privileged to witness with his own eyes.
“Ninety,” she pronounced, making a mark with the pencil.
“Why, that’s terrific!”
“He spelled the Willamette River correctly.”
“Good! I hope you’ll give him a couple of extra points for that.”
Lace smiled one of her rare smiles. He was dazzled, and no help for it.
“Ninety-two, then!” she said, looking pleased.
“So, how many falls?” he asked.
“Five.”
“Aha.”
“I’m sorry you’re leaving,” she said.
“Thank you, Lace. Of course, we won’t be gone forever, it’s an interim situation.”
“What’s a interim situation?” asked Harley, coming in with two glasses of tea. “This ’uns your’n,” he said to Father Tim, “no sugar.”
“It means a time between,” said Lace.
“Between what?” Harley wondered.
“Between what I’ve been doing and what I’m going to do later,” said Father Tim, laughing.
Lace held up the test paper. “Harley, you made ninety-two on your test.”
Harley’s eyes widened. “How’d I git two odd points in there?”
“You spelled Willamette right.”
“I got it wrote on m’ hand. Naw, I’m jis’ kiddin’, I ain’t.” He handed her the tea. “Here’s your’n.”
“Yours , ” she said. “And thank you.”
Harley grinned. “She’s like th’ po’ lice, on you at ever’ turn.” Harley’s days in liquor hauling, not to mention car racing, had taught him about police. “Boys, she can go like whiz readin’ a book, says words you never heerd of. Did you say one of them big words for th’ rev’rend?”
“Omnipresent,” said Lace quietly.
“What’n th’ nation does that mean?”
“Everywhere at one time.”
“That describes my wife’s mama near perfect. She had eyes in th’ back of ’er head. That woman was a chicken hawk if I ever seen one. Say another’n.”
She flushed and lowered her eyes. “No, Harley.”
“Look what I done f ’r you. ”
“You didn’t do it for me, you did it for you.”
Harley nodded, sober. “Jis tell th’ rev’rend one more, an’ I’ll not ask ag’in.”
“Mussitation.”
“Aha.”
Lace hurriedly drank the tea, then collected her books. “It’s nice to see you, sir. Harley, eat your supper tonight, and thank you for a good job on your test.”
“Thank you f’r teachin’ me.”
“Well done, Lace!” Father Tim called, as she left by the door to the driveway.
Harley glowed with unashamed pride. “Ain’t she somethin’? I’ve knowed ’er since she was knee-high to a duck. She agg’avates me near t’ death, but I think th’ world of that young ’un.”
Father Tim wished his dictionary weren’t packed, as he didn’t have a clue as to the meaning of “mussitation.”
He sat with Harley next to the fan that turned left, then right. “Lord, at th’ rust they’ve got down there,” sighed Harley, shaking his head. “I don’t know but what I’d park your new ride in th’ garage and drive th’ Buick.”
“I don’t think so.”
In the escalating temperature of an official heat wave, the two men spoke as if in a dream. Harley leaned toward Father Tim, to better catch the stream of air on the left; Father Tim leaned closer to Harley to catch the right stream.
Both had their elbows on their knees, their heads nearly touching, gazing at the floor.
“Think you can keep up with our
Nora Roberts
Deborah Merrell
Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz
Jambrea Jo Jones
Christopher Galt
Krista Caley
Kimberly Lang
Brenda Grate
Nancy A. Collins
Macyn Like