Page 63

“No.”

The book club—it had no name, according to Lou, who heard it from Laura—was held every “fifth or so Sunday, after church but before supper, or sometimes after supper.” The host changed every gathering and today it was Janey Thurson, in her strangely fairy-tale cottage complete with waterwheel. (“Unnecessary,” Janey had confirmed of the wheel, “but Ned has a flair for the dramatic.”) Bridgers, who had been convinced that the club was more a myth than an actual occurrence, had insisted on sending along two bottles of thick red wine; the Bridgers-Murray-Cruthers family simply did not appear at a doorstep empty-handed, he declared, blissfully ignoring that their chronic lack of friends had severely limited the doorsteps in their history.

“Is it polite to ply a ladies’ book club with alcohol at one in the afternoon?” Maggie asked doubtfully, staring down at the bottle as Lou knocked on Janey’s door.

“I think it’s perhaps the most polite thing you can do at a ladies’ book club,” Lou said, stepping back as the door swung open.

“Well, well,” Janey drawled, fanning herself dramatically, “if it isn’t Louise Barrow, finally come out of her social hibernation to mingle with the common folk.”

“I’m glad you feel honored with my presence,” Lou said, passing her breezily. “I brought Maggie.”

Maggie, unused to being introduced in any way, much less as an afterthought, offered what she hoped was a convincing smile; she couldn’t quite summon the Maggie Cruthers Special. She held up the wine bottles, feeling exceptionally stupid. “I—my brother made me bring it." Incredibly, the stupidity intensified.

“Your brother is a smart man,” their host replied, plucking the bottles from her hands. “Come in, come in. The tall one?” She stepped aside as Maggie entered, carefully wiping her shoes on the mat inside the door.

“The tall what?” Maggie froze mid-wipe. “The tall bottle?”

Janey looked amused. “Your brother. The tall one or the redhead?”

“Oh. Oh!” Oh. “Bridgers. The, er, shorter one.”

Janey nodded sagely, looking deeper into the house towards the drift of voices. “I’ve met him. The tall one never speaks.”

“He doesn’t have very much to say.” Maggie glanced around as they walked into the drawing room. The windows were open, the drapes pulled back to welcome the warm breeze; the room was cluttered with comfortable-looking furniture, currently filled with gabbing women drinking from teacups and laughing over private jokes. Lou was pouring herself a cup of wine from the collection of bottles on a small table near the window, and silently handed a second to Maggie.

“Who don’t you know here?” she murmured with a degree of discretion Maggie appreciated. The sensation of being untethered was entirely alien to her, never having needed to ingratiate herself to anyone besides a mark across a table, and she resisted the urge to cling to Lou’s hand or hide behind her.

“I know Mrs. Thurson, and Laura, of course.” The latter, absorbed in conversation with a woman who looked younger than Maggie, had not noticed their arrival yet, and was gesturing grandly during her story. The young woman looked awestruck, and Maggie wondered how many people had found themselves stunned by Laura’s sunshine. “Who’s that she’s talking to?”

“That’s Margaret Harpe—don’t worry, she’s Margie, not Maggie—and the silent one next to her is Matilda Varsey. Old friends of Laura. Margie lives with her aunt Grace; poor thing has arthritis of the hip and can’t do much on her own.” She subtly pointed to another woman, this one in a dress the violent, aggressive purple of eggplant. “That’s Davina. Her father hit gold in ’49, and now she thinks she’s better than the rest of us.”

“Davina Hatterson?” Maggie asked, the name drudging itself up from the muddy depths of her mind.

“The very same.”

“Oh,” Maggie breathed. “She is quite fancy.”

A small clatter jerked everyone’s attention to the other side of the room, where a redhead had just knocked over a stack of papers. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Janey!”

“Don’t fuss, George,” Janey strode over to the woman, batting her hand out of the way as she bent to scoop up the sheets. “Just some scribblings; I should have put them in drawer.”

“I hit them with my skirt,” George explained, looking pained. “I’m sorry.”

Janey patted the woman on the arm. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s just paper.” She left the room, presumably to store her papers in an environment safe from treacherous skirts and the women who wield them.

Maggie had not realized that she was staring until the woman saw her, catching her eye and brightening. “Hello!” she said, making her way to Maggie and Lou.

“Hello,” Maggie returned, nodding. “I’m Maggie Cruthers.”

“Oh, I know who you are!” She swept her hands across her dress. “The modiste! How exciting. I’m Georgia Markis, but please call me George.” She turned her attention to Lou, who looked wary. “You must be Louise Barrow. My mother buys meat from your shop.”

Lou lifted a brow. “Does she?”

The woman’s warm smile returned, and Maggie had a jolt of recognition. Lou excused herself to settle in nearer the book conversation, and Maggie gave George a dry smile. “Have you lived here for a while, then?” she asked.

George shook her head. “My family moved here from New Ulm over the spring. We’ve only just unpacked.”

Maggie studied her. “You look different without the hat.”