At seven on the dot, Lovey heard Joe’s old farm truck turn onto the gravel drive. She’d made lemonade and carried a tray with two glasses out to the generous front porch. Joe smiled and removed his hat as he stepped up. After a brief greeting they settled into rockers, with the lemonade on a small round table between the two chairs. Their talk was polite and cordial, covering topics as riveting as the weather, horses, and planting cycles. Lovey knew on some level that Joe was trying to find topics that would be safe yet friendly, and at the same time she found it hard not to just blurt out some topic that might be considered salacious, but might actually give her some indication of his true character. With Southern men she knew you had to peel several layers of the onion back to get to the heart of what they thought. But tonight she was feeling a little tired and sad. The exploration of Joe’s soul would have to wait for another evening, if it happened at all.
They lingered on the porch together under the waning sunlight for an appropriate amount of time, about an hour. Then Joe thanked her for the lemonade and bid her good night. There was an awkward moment as he stood to leave when she thought he might ask her to go on a date or something, but he didn’t say anything and she didn’t encourage him to.
After she watched the headlights of his old truck retreat and turn onto the main gravel road, she gathered the empty glasses onto the tray and carried them back into the kitchen. Her father was sitting in the dimly lit study, next to the silent radio, with an open book in his hand as she passed by on her way to the sink. Annoyed, Lovey wondered how much of her conversation with Joe her father had listened to through the open door.
“Did you have a nice visit with Joe?” her father asked.
She peeked around the door frame from the warmly lit kitchen. “Yes. Were you listening to our conversation?” She tried to temper her question so that the tone wasn’t as accusatory as she’d felt it.
“Only a little. Don’t be angry. It’s a father’s job to worry over his daughter.” He shut the book he’d been holding. “A father wants to be sure of the company his daughter keeps.”
If only you knew, thought Lovey. “Well, I’m going to bed early to read. Have a good evening, Father.”
“Good night, sweetheart,” he called after her, but she was already headed down the narrow hallway to her room.
Chapter Seventeen
Royal ejected the sheet of paper from the typewriter, crumpled it, and tossed it across the room. There were several wads of discarded work already there to keep this newest addition company.
Maybe she should go find Ned and do something to get her mind off Lovey. Their shared moments were completely taking over every conscious thought. She’d sort of lost her appetite, she was daydreaming at odd hours, and now she wasn’t able to string a decent, complete thought together on paper. She stood abruptly, almost toppling the chair.
Maybe she’d sipped more whiskey than she realized. Her head spun a little, and she figured she’d better lie down for a little while before driving. She was just about to slip out of her shirt and boots when she heard a soft knock at the door.
A young boy stood outside her door as she opened it.
“Mr. Duval wants to see you.” The boy was rail thin, his overalls stained at the knees, and his shirt collar frayed from many washings and likely handed down to him from an older brother. Royal recognized the boy. She’d seen him around the town square, but in the moment couldn’t call forth his name.
“Mr. Duval junior or senior?” Royal rubbed her eyes in an attempt to clear the fog settled into her gray matter.
“Um, both I think. They was both there at the table down at the Mill.”
“All right then. You run on back and tell ’em I’ll be along directly. I just need a minute to collect myself.” Royal pushed the door closed as she heard the boy scuttle down the hall toward the stairs.
The watch in her pocket showed nearly ten o’clock. It was later than she’d thought. Sometimes when she was thinking and writing it was as if time sped up. She’d lose hours and not notice their passing as she sat with her thoughts. Royal poured some water into the basin that stood in the corner of the room and splashed her face with cool water. That helped. She toweled off, took some papers from the table, shoved them into her leather satchel, and headed out into the night.
Walking to the Mill seemed like a more judicious plan, given her head was still a bit fuzzy. She’d rolled the Ford once already in the past two weeks; she didn’t relish the idea of doing it again.
The night was fully dark. A couple of gas lamps burned at the street corners near the marble courthouse casting an eerie glow in the thick, humid air.
The Mill was a nickname for a drinking spot on the other side of town. It had been a gristmill once, long before she was old enough to pay attention to such things. For as long as she’d been running deliveries for her grandfather, it had been a gathering spot for local men. She usually only stopped there when she either had a case to deliver or she knew her grandfather was inside. As was often the case, because of the way she dressed and the fact that she did what most would consider men’s work, the townsfolk treated her a bit differently. Mostly, the men weren’t sure sometimes how to behave around her. She
