Winter, long and cold this year, offered no relief. The light snow of yesterday became heavier. The trolleys still ran but people didn’t linger after church in the morning. Everyone knew how easy it was to get stranded. You couldn’t trust the automobiles either. Even with chains on the tires, a machine could get stuck in a snowdrift.

There were more and more automobiles in Runnymede. Trucks hauled tools and heavy supplies. Once businessmen figured out the cost of maintaining a truck, many switched because in some ways the machines proved easier to repair than horses. Even throwing a shoe could cost half a day’s work, because you had to get the animal to the blacksmith, and hope there wasn’t a backup and that he hadn’t quicked the hoof, which would keep the animal off hard work for some days. However, many folks still swore by their draft horses or their harness horses because they sure were reliable in snow and muck and they loved them to boot. It was harder to love a truck.

Louise and Juts lived at the top of Emmitsburg Pike on a small farm called Bumblebee Hill. The trolley line on Emmitsburg stopped at the bottom of the hill, which made for a strenuous walk down, but with a setting this beautiful, the journey was well worth it.

The young ladies’ mother, Cora Hunsenmeir, fed small, precisely cut logs into the wood-burning stove and checked a pork roast, the glorious aroma of which filled the small wooden home, much to the delight of the dog and cat.

A chug, chug, chug drew Juts to the window.

“Momma, there’s a truck outside,” she exclaimed. “It’s one of Douglas Anson’s paint trucks.”

Cora wiped her hands on a dish towel, straightened her apron, hurried to the door, and opened it after a few knocks.

“Mrs. Hunsenmeir?” Cuts on his face, flowers in one hand and a small box in the other, Paul Trumbull raised his hat. “I’ve come to apologize.”

“Well, sweetie, no need to apologize in the cold. You come right on in here.”

He stepped in, bashfully looked toward Louise, who stared blankly at him. “Miss Hunsenmeir, I am so sorry.”

She set aside the socks she’d been darning in front of the tidy living room’s fireplace, and stood up.

Juts, astonished, kept her smart mouth shut.

Paul walked over, handing Louise the bouquet. “You should have flowers every day.” His wide grin made him more appealing. “I…your coat looked so much like my date’s and there was the seat she’d been saving and, well, you know the rest. I meant no harm and I am deeply embarrassed to have troubled you.”

Louise, tongue-tied, took the bouquet of perfect pink roses.

“Oh, here.” He handed her the box.

Juts wordlessly took the flowers her sister handed to her as Louise opened the box. She stared, then pulled out a roll of tickets.

He grinned again, looking right into her wonderful gray eyes (all the Hunsenmeirs had lustrous light-gray eyes). “Movie tickets for the rest of the year.”

Louise looked at Paul, then back at the tickets. She laughed. “I’ve never been given anything so wonderful. Ever.”

Cora stood behind him. “Let me take your coat. You need a hot meal. Bachelors always do.”

“Oh, ma’am, I couldn’t put you out.”

“You aren’t putting me out one bit. I haven’t cooked a meal for a handsome man in too long.” She took his coat then ordered Juts quietly, “Come on in the kitchen and set the table.”

“Yes, Momma.” Juts reluctantly followed her mother as the two young people stood facing one another in the living room.

Louise motioned to a rocking chair. “Oh, please sit down.”

She sat opposite him on a worn old wingback favored by Felicia, the cat, attesting to her clawing prowess.

Resting at Louise’s feet, the handsome English setter, General Pershing, was satisfied that this young man passed muster.

“How did you find us?” asked Louise.

“Well, once I was released from jail, I walked back down to the Capitol Theater. I wasn’t kept long in jail. I knocked on the door and Mr. Dexter came to the door, I offered to pay damages and he said forget it, wasn’t much. I asked if he knew who was the young woman whom I inadvertently kissed and he said, ‘Louise Hunsenmeir.’ He told me where you lived and you know, what a nice fella, he called his friend Mr. McLaughlin, the florist. He said he’d stay open if I hurried over to the shop. So I did.”

“Thank you. You did give me a scare.”

“You gave me one.”

They both laughed uproariously, the awkwardness evaporating.

“I don’t know your name,” she said.

“Paul Trumbull. People call me Pearlie.”

“Come on, you two,” Cora called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s on the table.”

Paul inhaled spoon bread’s odor, the pork roast, wonderful green beans that Cora and the girls put up in August. On the kitchen table covered with a checkered oilcloth, a glass of water sat by his plate

Cora had overheard his name. “Mr. Trumbull,” she said.

“Pearlie, please call me Pearlie.”

“Would you like something stronger? I have home brew and some beer.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hunsenmeir. I have to drive the Anson truck back.” He smiled.

Once Cora convinced Pearlie to call her Cora, they all chattered away. The cat, Felicia, proved an even bigger pest than General Pershing.

“Lots of Trumbulls Green Spring Valley way,” Cora said, referring to a lush part of Maryland a bit east of Runnymede.

“I’m one of them. I came home from the war and couldn’t find a job. I might have found one in Baltimore but I can’t live in a big city. My mother reminded me that my grandfather was once a constable in Runnymede. I was kind of curious, so I came out here and found a job with Anson’s. Mr. Anson has been real good to me.”

“They’re good people.” Cora nodded. “I know there are many of you fellows looking for work. Hard times. I’m so glad you found a job.”

“I like it and I like Runnymede.”

Paul was reluctant to talk about the war, but he did offer that he’d seen a part of the world that he would have never seen otherwise.

Juts couldn’t help herself. “Was it awful?”

Louise quickly corrected her sister. “Juts, that’s not a proper question.”

“I’m sorry,” Juts replied.

“It was awful,” said Paul. “I don’t know what was worse, when the big guns fired all the time or when they stopped.” He paused. “I hope there is never another war again.”

“Me, too,” the two sisters said in unison.

“Jigs for coke!” Juts happily crowed.

“All right.” Louise laughed.

If two people say the same thing at the same time, the first one who says, “Jigs for whatever” has to be awarded the desired item by the other person.

“Juts, let’s clear.” Cora, after clearing all the dishes, brought out an apple pie while Juts carried a large pot of tea.

Now as warmed up as the tea, Juts giggled. “I bet you won’t go out with Lottie Rhodes again.”

Put on the spot, Paul took a moment to reply. That moment seemed an age to Louise. If he disparaged Lottie, he wouldn’t be a gentleman.

Finally, he replied. “No, I expect I won’t, but I am grateful to her for introducing me to people here. If you think about it, Louise, she introduced me to you.”

This made them all laugh.

“I go to school with her little sister and she’s worse than Lottie,” said Juts. “She rouges her nipples.”

Shocked, Cora sputtered, “Juts, control yourself.”

Too late, Paul’s face shone beet-red, as did Louise’s. Then Cora rumbled a little, Juts started to laugh, and then all laughed until tears rolled from their eyes.

After the pie, Paul offered his help to Cora. “I can wash dishes with the best of them.”

“Pearlie, you will never wash a dish in my house. You go sit by the fire.”

He glanced out the window. “Oh, ma’am, the snow’s really shaking down and I have to get this truck back. Your hill’s pretty steep.”

“It is that.”

“I thank you for this wonderful meal and for making me laugh, and”—he looked at Louise—“for forgiving me.”

“Well, we certainly started a rumpus.” She laughed, then abruptly changed the subject. “Pearlie, are you a churchgoer?”

“Not much before the war but I learned to pray there. I was baptized an Episcopalian.”

“I’m a Catholic,” Louise said with pride.

Juts sighed. “Momma and I are Lutheran. It’s a long story.”

Cora handed Paul’s coat to Louise, which she held for him to put on. “Pearlie, all roads lead to God. We just keep walking.” Cora smiled.

As though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Louise nodded. “Yes. It’s true.”

The three women walked him to the door. He put his hand on the old porcelain knob. “Thank you again, and”—he looked at Cora—“I hope you will allow me to call upon Louise.” He looked to Louise, whose face glowed.

“Then the house will be filled with laughter.” Cora gave him a motherly peck on the cheek and all three watched him start down the hill.