“Why do you need me?” she asked, shivering and pulling her camel-colored wool coat close. “I don’t know anything about running.”
By this point, they had reached her boardinghouse. The front porch light glowed. Inside the window of the front parlor, he could see Mrs. Eldridge, the sharp-eyed widow who owned the place, sitting in a chair, her eyes focused on the embroidery hoop clutched in front of her.
“I think you’re right. The Stephenses are going to be dubious about this whole idea of their daughter running with the boys. But if you’re with me, they’ll be dazzled by your beauty and won’t be able to say no.” He reached for one of her hands and pulled her close. Overhead, stars glittered like hard specks of frost in the clear, cold night air.
She rolled her eyes, but allowed herself to fold into his chest. The heat of her body against his made him want to keep her there forever. He breathed in how good she smelled, something flowery and sweet.
“I’m serious. You’ll add a healthy dose of respectability to this whole venture.”
“So I’m respectable, am I?” Her eyes gleamed in that beguiling way that made him forget everything except for how much he loved wrapping his arms around her.
“You’re always a model of respectability when parents and students are around.” He nuzzled her jawbone. “Of course, I like it that you’re not always so respectable when it’s just the two of us.”
“Oh, you!” She punched his arm playfully.
“Shh,” he whispered, hoping the old widow wouldn’t look out her window and see the two of them. He wanted every last minute alone with Mary Lou. “So, will you come with me?”
“I suppose if you can find something that girl is good at, maybe it will help her.”
Instead of saying thank you, he pulled her to him and kissed her. She relaxed in his arms and made a small sound of contentment.
On the road to the Stephens farm, his motorcar groaned over the potholes and ruts. When the house came into view, he scanned the place. Empty fields surrounded it in every direction. He parked next to the picket fence and straightened his tie. Then he took a deep breath, opened the door, and emerged, careful to avoid muddy puddles. As he went around the back fender to open the door for Mary Lou, the quiet of the place struck him. They were in the final gasp of winter and the days were lengthening, but it was still too early for planting. All farms were lonely places at this time of year, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this one felt particularly desolate.
The fence’s gate squeaked in protest as he held it open for Mary Lou and they stepped inside the yard. Ahead of them on the porch, a shaggy, gray-muzzled shepherd mix raised its head to watch them approach before dropping its chin to rest on its front paws.
Burton rapped on the door and squinted through the window beside it to detect any movement inside the house. Mary Lou reached for her hat to make sure it was angled just right.
A woman opened the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes? May I help you?”
Burton took off his hat and held it to his chest. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Coach Moore and this is Miss Schultz from Fulton High School. Are you Mrs. Stephens?”
Her face blanched. “I am. Has something happened to Helen?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s fine, ma’am,” he stammered, flustered. This wasn’t how he wanted their meeting to start. “There are no problems with her at all.”
Mrs. Stephens looked relieved before frowning in confusion. “So, what’s this about? My husband is in town at the moment.”
“That’s all right. Again, Helen’s not in any sort of trouble.”
She gestured for them to enter. He followed Mary Lou inside onto a faded Persian carpet, laddered with rents. The house exuded an air of defeat. The ceiling and floor lines slanted—all angles showed signs of settling through long winters, parched summers. A scrim of dust textured the surfaces of the threadbare upholstered furniture and lumpy horsehair divan. But there were a few surprises. A rickety bookshelf lined the far wall, loaded with leather-bound books and paperbacks, an unusual sight in a rural farmhouse. Across from the bookshelf were an upright piano and a harp, both polished to a buttery shine.
Mary Lou clasped her hands together. “Ohh, who plays the harp?”
“I do.”
“And the piano?”
Mrs. Stephens nodded, her expression appearing to slip from guarded to something more neutral as she looked at the instruments.
“That’s wonderful. I’m the band director at the school.”
“That so?”
“Yes. In fact, the spring concert is approaching. This year’s orchestra and band are both quite good. May I give you a few tickets so that you can bring your family to enjoy some live music?”
A faint smile appeared on Mrs. Stephens’s face. “Thank you. I tried to get Helen to play the piano, but she couldn’t seem to sit still.” She waved toward the door leading to the kitchen. “I was in the midst of rolling out some biscuits; why don’t you both come on back and have a seat while you tell me about why you’re here?”
Mary Lou and Burton did as instructed and took seats at the kitchen table. The smell of flour hovered in the air. A paperback of The Good Earth was set facedown on the counter next to the board with the biscuit dough.
“I see where Helen gets her love of reading,” Coach Moore said, bobbing his chin toward the book. “She always seems to have a book in her hand. And she reads some pretty
