my buttons.”
Push her buttons ? He didn’t understand
the words but the meaning was clear enough. It made him want to
shake the woman for giving Melody even one moment of grief. “Worry
can’t be good for your child,” he said. “Just forget about your
aunt. I’ll take care of handling her.”
She studied him. “Others have tried.”
“Trust me,” he said.
“I do,” she said. “Maybe more than I should.
There’s something different about you, George. Something I can’t
quite get my arms around.”
Her arms had felt just about right when
they’d been wrapped around his neck. “Nothing much here, Melody.
I’m just a man about to enjoy a meal with his wife and her
family.”
She didn’t look convinced but nor did she
press the issue. She put her hand on his arm and pulled him toward
the dining room. “Well, then, we better hurry. It’d be a good idea
to get to the chicken before Tilly does.”
***
She had been kissed before . Melody
tried to remember that as she passed first the chicken, then the
potatoes and the green beans, and finally the fresh-baked bread.
With her plate full to the edges, she focused on her food and tried
to ignore that her heart was beating too fast and that the tips of
her fingers tingled.
Thankfully Grandmother had put George
directly to her left. If he’d have been across the table, if she’d
had to for even one minute look up and see those eyes and that
mouth, she might make a fool out of herself.
It had to be hormones. In the last few
months, she’d read just about every book ever published on the
topic of pregnancy. All of them said it. Pregnancy caused normally
well-behaved hormones to pitch a fit. Well, when she finished
eating, she was going to bring her stuff in, unpack her books, and
find the one that explained exactly how to get the little renegades
back in line.
She maybe could have understood her reaction
if it had been a
push-you-up-against-the-wall-and-stick-my-hand-under-your-shirt
kind of kiss. But it had been sweet. Nice. Gentle.
“Melody!”
She dropped her fork. It clattered when it
hit the thick edge of her plate. She looked across the table at
Bernard. The man was frowning at her.
Oh, boy. Had he seen that she was practically
squirming on her chair? “Yes,” she said.
“Honey, I said your name three times. Where
were you?”
Half-way there. And with just a kiss.
Amazing. “Just enjoying Bessie’s cooking,” she lied. “What did you
say?”
“I was asking whether or not you might be
able to help with some data entry—we’re way behind on our computer
work. Gino had a girl from town helping but she broke her hand.
He’s maybe too proud to ask for help but I know I could use
it.”
“Where is Gino?” she asked. Generally, at
mealtime, both Bernard and Gino joined the family.
Louis leaned forward in his chair, gave
Bernard a deliberate look, and then focused his attention on
Melody. “Hopefully making sure those field hands of his don’t wreck
anything else.”
She looked at her grandmother but the woman’s
face was carefully neutral, as if what she cared most about in the
world was spreading butter on her roll. Melody felt, more than saw,
George shift in his chair, and knew that he’d picked up on the
hostile undertone.
“What do you mean, Louis?”
“A couple of them ruined one of our trucks
last week. Evidently there’s no word for oil in Spanish,” he added
sarcastically.
“They’re migrant workers, Louis,” Tilly said
as she dumped another big scoop of potatoes onto her plate. “What
do you expect?”
Aunt Genevieve made a choking sound.
Grandmother gave her sister a warning look and then carefully laid
down her fork. “Tilly,” she said, “they are not migrant workers.
Most of them have been with this family for more than ten
years.”
“Well, you’d think they’d have learned a
little of the English language by now. Live in America, speak
American.”
Melody looked at both her grandmother
Push her buttons ? He didn’t understand
the words but the meaning was clear enough. It made him want to
shake the woman for giving Melody even one moment of grief. “Worry
can’t be good for your child,” he said. “Just forget about your
aunt. I’ll take care of handling her.”
She studied him. “Others have tried.”
“Trust me,” he said.
“I do,” she said. “Maybe more than I should.
There’s something different about you, George. Something I can’t
quite get my arms around.”
Her arms had felt just about right when
they’d been wrapped around his neck. “Nothing much here, Melody.
I’m just a man about to enjoy a meal with his wife and her
family.”
She didn’t look convinced but nor did she
press the issue. She put her hand on his arm and pulled him toward
the dining room. “Well, then, we better hurry. It’d be a good idea
to get to the chicken before Tilly does.”
***
She had been kissed before . Melody
tried to remember that as she passed first the chicken, then the
potatoes and the green beans, and finally the fresh-baked bread.
With her plate full to the edges, she focused on her food and tried
to ignore that her heart was beating too fast and that the tips of
her fingers tingled.
Thankfully Grandmother had put George
directly to her left. If he’d have been across the table, if she’d
had to for even one minute look up and see those eyes and that
mouth, she might make a fool out of herself.
It had to be hormones. In the last few
months, she’d read just about every book ever published on the
topic of pregnancy. All of them said it. Pregnancy caused normally
well-behaved hormones to pitch a fit. Well, when she finished
eating, she was going to bring her stuff in, unpack her books, and
find the one that explained exactly how to get the little renegades
back in line.
She maybe could have understood her reaction
if it had been a
push-you-up-against-the-wall-and-stick-my-hand-under-your-shirt
kind of kiss. But it had been sweet. Nice. Gentle.
“Melody!”
She dropped her fork. It clattered when it
hit the thick edge of her plate. She looked across the table at
Bernard. The man was frowning at her.
Oh, boy. Had he seen that she was practically
squirming on her chair? “Yes,” she said.
“Honey, I said your name three times. Where
were you?”
Half-way there. And with just a kiss.
Amazing. “Just enjoying Bessie’s cooking,” she lied. “What did you
say?”
“I was asking whether or not you might be
able to help with some data entry—we’re way behind on our computer
work. Gino had a girl from town helping but she broke her hand.
He’s maybe too proud to ask for help but I know I could use
it.”
“Where is Gino?” she asked. Generally, at
mealtime, both Bernard and Gino joined the family.
Louis leaned forward in his chair, gave
Bernard a deliberate look, and then focused his attention on
Melody. “Hopefully making sure those field hands of his don’t wreck
anything else.”
She looked at her grandmother but the woman’s
face was carefully neutral, as if what she cared most about in the
world was spreading butter on her roll. Melody felt, more than saw,
George shift in his chair, and knew that he’d picked up on the
hostile undertone.
“What do you mean, Louis?”
“A couple of them ruined one of our trucks
last week. Evidently there’s no word for oil in Spanish,” he added
sarcastically.
“They’re migrant workers, Louis,” Tilly said
as she dumped another big scoop of potatoes onto her plate. “What
do you expect?”
Aunt Genevieve made a choking sound.
Grandmother gave her sister a warning look and then carefully laid
down her fork. “Tilly,” she said, “they are not migrant workers.
Most of them have been with this family for more than ten
years.”
“Well, you’d think they’d have learned a
little of the English language by now. Live in America, speak
American.”
Melody looked at both her grandmother
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