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The days before the dance were busy and nerve wracking. During the day she and Mamaw baked pies: strawberry from this year’s crop, and blueberry and blackberry from those preserved last fall. Crimping the edges of the pie crusts was her least favorite job. She wasn’t sure why, as it went quickly, but if one didn’t press the edges hard enough, the top and bottom crusts separated during baking, sending bubbly, sticky juices to the oven floor.
Even with getting ready for the picnic and dance, there was still the weekly laundry to help with, bread to make, the house to clean, and carpets to haul outside for their semi-annual beating. She helped Papaw remove the metal chimney pipes to clean out the winter’s soot build-up. There were chickens to feed, eggs to collect, and a trip to Hastings to trade the eggs, butter, and buttermilk for sugar, flour, salt, and other essentials.
As exhausted as she was each night, sleep was hard to come by. She tossed and turned worrying about what to wear to the dance, what to put in her basket, and whether anyone would be interested in buying it. Then she smashed her pillow, angry she was even worrying about such things. Never before had she given thought to how she looked while in the country. It was a time to be free from the constraints of society.
Now here she was fretting over unimportant things. She’d simply wear her favorite yellow, short-sleeved, gingham blouse with a navy-blue skirt.
Her stomach fluttered as she stood in front of her mirror and fussed with her hair. The day was hot and humid, so the thick, curly, dark mass was harder than usual to control. With no one to help her, putting it up in a chignon was impossible; besides, it seemed a bit ostentatious for a country gathering. All she managed was to pull it back, ignoring the curls refusing to be confined in her yellow ribbon.
“Are you ready?” Mamaw called from the bottom of the stairs. “Papaw is in the wagon waiting.”
Sticking her tongue out at herself, she shrugged and grabbed her shawl in case the evening turned cool.
“Why, you look lovely, Bertie.” Mamaw turned her in a circle and eyed her from her dance slippers to her curly hair. “But I think it’s missing something. Wait here.” She went into the main floor bedroom she and Papaw shared, came out with a wooden box, and set it on a side table by the front door. “Here, I want you to have this.” She opened the box and removed a brooch attached to a dark blue, velvet ribbon.
Bertha gasped and pressed her fingers to her lips. “You can’t give me your grandmother’s cameo brooch.”
“Yes, I can. It’s mine to do with what I want. Now turn around.”
In the mirror hanging by the front door, Bertha watched as Mamaw brought the necklace around to her front and tied the ribbon behind her neck. She fingered the cameo nestled at the base of her throat. “It’s lovely, Mamaw. Thank you.” She frowned. “But don’t you want to give it to Sally or Mother?”
“No. This is to be passed down from grandmother to granddaughter. Since you’re my only granddaughter, it’s yours now.”
“Are you ladies coming or not?” Papaw called. “The horses are getting antsy.”
“More than the horses are getting ansty,” Mamaw muttered. “Hold your horses, Elmer. We’re coming.”
Sitting between her grandparents on the wooden buckboard seat, she tried to keep her attention on the woods and fields they passed, instead of the butterflies flitting around in her stomach. Why was she so nervous this year and why had she been allowed to ride in front instead of in the back with the food? Did this mean they considered her an adult? Was it time to give up her childhood? She mentally shook her head. There was no way she’d ever give up the things she enjoyed, even when she was married, had a houseful of kids, and was old and gray.
****
The acre of land one of the farmers had donated for the schoolhouse was filled with wagons sitting every which way as if the drivers simply wanted to get on with the festivities and didn’t care how they left them. To one side, stakes with ropes strung between them formed a makeshift corral for the horses. The rich grass would serve as fodder for them.
Children ran among adults who stood in groups talking with each other. With farms so spread out, neighbors didn’t get much chance to socialize. Papaw helped Bertha and her grandmother down from the wagon, unhitched the horse, and led him to the pasture.
“Bertie, please take our baskets. I’ll bring the one with our dishes. Elmer can bring the pies.”
The children playing tag made getting to the tables set up outside the schoolhouse precarious. Hopefully, Papaw would have better luck avoiding the youngsters and not get the basket of pies knocked from his hand.
Bertha set her picnic basket with its yellow ribbon, on the table specified for them.
“Oh, my goodness, Bertie, you brought a basket this year. Now that I’m seventeen, Ma let me bring one, too.” A short, plump brunette set a basket twice the size of Bertha’s on the table.
“Becky.” She wrapped her country friend in a hug then held her at arm’s length. “I was hoping to see you here. I missed you during the school year.”
Twin dimples dented Becky’s plump cheeks. “And I was hoping you’d be here, too.” She hooked an arm through Bertha’s. “How was your school year? Do you have a beau? Is he handsome?”
Oh, no. It looked as if Becky had turned her thoughts to boys. Darn. And here she was hoping they could do some things together. “The year was fine. This fall I’ll start teaching. I don’t have a beau, so I don’t know if he’s handsome or not.”
“I don’t have one, either.” Becky squeezed Bertha’s arm. “But I’m hoping to. Anyway, my mother wants me to have one. I think she’s ready to have me married so there’s more room in the house.”
An only child herself, Bertha couldn’t comprehend being the oldest with eleven younger siblings. No wonder her mother wanted her daughter married off. But why was her own mother in such a hurry? Becky led them toward a group of young people.
“Do you want to get married so soon?”
Becky shook her head, making her curls bounce. “Not yet, but I’m supposed to act like I do. I simply want to go fishing, ride my horse, and play with my brothers and sisters. So far, Ma has allowed me the freedom to do so, as long as I get my chores done.”
Relief swept through her. As they came closer to the teenagers milling around a large oak tree, one of the boys separated from the rest. “I was hoping you still wanted to do those things this summer. One of my friends in St. Paul is only interested in fashion and boys.”
With a tug on Bertha’s arm, Becky stopped them. Her cheeks turned a becoming pink. “I still love to do those things, but boys are becoming more interesting every day. Just look at him.”
The boy looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He was tall and his hair looked as if a bottle of red dye had been poured over his head. “Who is that?”
Becky giggled. “That’s Lester Anderson.”
“Anderson? Is that Sylvester’s brother?”
“How did you know? Have you met the Anderson boys before?”
Bertha shook her head. “Just one, but with that last name and the red hair I just figured he was Sy’s brother.”
“Lester is older than Sy.” Becky patted her hair as Lester approached them, a wide grin on his face. “Whenever did you meet Sy?”
“Fishing earlier in the week.” Before she could explain more, Lester stood before them. He gave her a quick look, then turned his attention to Becky.
“Hi there, Becky. How are you on this fine day?” His red cheeks nearly masked his freckles.
The two stared at each other until Bertha cleared her throat. “Um, Becky, aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Becky patted her hair again. “I’m sorry. Bertie, I’d like you to meet Lester Anderson. Les, this is Bertie Jorgenson, Mr. and Mrs. Schaeffer’s granddaughter. She visits them every summer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Bertie.” He barely took his eyes from Becky. “You must be the girl Sy told us about. The one who fell in the creek with him?”
Heat rose to her face. “Yes, that would be me. And I have to say that I didn’t fall into the creek. The trout I caught pulled me in and Sy simply followed.”
“Well, I must say, he was spitting nails when he came home all wet and muddy, mumbling something about the biggest trout he’d ever seen.”
Bertha shook her head. “I offered him half and asked him to join us for supper, but evidently he didn’t want to.”
Les laughed. “Oh, he wanted to, all right. He was just embarrassed to land in the creek in front of a cute girl.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Sy thought she was cute? Well, wonders never ceased. Two young men broke away from the group and walked their way. As they came closer, her heart pitter-pattered. The taller one was Sy. With his red hair, the other one had to be his and Les’ brother.
“Hello again, Miss Bertie.” Sy grinned and bent at the waist like he was greeting royalty.
Bertha couldn’t help giggling at his antics. “Hello, Sy. It’s good to see you again. I see you recovered from your spill into the creek.”
“I can say the same about you.” He turned to the other redhead. “By the way. This is our youngest brother, Chester.”
Lester, Sylvester, and Chester? She suppressed a giggle. What in heaven’s name were his parents thinking? She knew people who whose children’s names all started with the same letter, but rhyming? What was his nickname—Ches? Chest? At least Sy’s shortened name wasn’t Ves.
Sy shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking. Our parents either had a sense of humor with our names, or they’re crazy.”
“I think they were crazy,” Les added. “When I have children,” he eyed Becky from the corner of his eye, “their names will be as different from each other as night is from day.”
“Can you imagine how hard it must have been for my parents to find names all starting with ‘R’?”
Les frowned. “But Becky, your name starts with a B.”
“My real name is Rebecca. Then there’s Robert, Richard, Rose, Rachel, Regina, Roland, Roxanna, Ruby, Ronald, Ruth, and Roman.” She took a deep breath and grinned.
The school bell rang, its deep tone echoing against the trees surrounding the yard.
“I think they’re announcing the basket raffle.” Becky eyed Les. “Ma allowed me to bring a basket this year. I wonder who’ll bid on it?”
Bertha didn’t know much about flirting, but wasn’t it what Becky was doing? Whose face was redder—Les’ or Becky’s? Would Sy bid on hers? Besides him and his brothers, Papaw was the only man she knew here.
They walked toward the people forming a half-circle at the basket table. What if no one bid on hers? In front of everyone, she’d have to take her basket back, find a place to hide, and eat the food alone. She’d be so embarrassed she probably wouldn’t be able to take one nibble of the chicken legs she’d made with Mamaw.
The first baskets went quickly. It was obvious the purchasers were the husbands of the women. Becky’s basket was quickly bought by Les and, hand in hand, they found a spot beneath a maple tree where Les spread out a patchwork quilt.
With three baskets left, hers included, Bertha eyed the few remaining men who hadn’t purchased a basket. Most of them were young, but a few had seen many years of the sun rising and setting. Her stomach pitched and rolled. Please don’t let one of the old men buy my basket.
The auctioneer picked up her basket and sniffed. “Mmmm. This one smells like fried chicken.” He sniffed again. “And I believe strawberry pie. Who is going to bid on this basket of deliciousness?”
“Ten cents,” one of the elderly men called out.
“Two bits,” another yelled.
Oh, heavens, she was going to spend an evening with a man as old, if not older, than Papaw.
“Four bits.” A deep voice called from behind her.
Without cranking her neck and looking like a fool, she couldn’t tell who it was, but the voice didn’t sound all cranky and jittery like the elderly gentlemen. Fifty cents? Someone bid fifty cents on her basket? The man had to be rich or crazy.
“The bid is four bits. Do I have another bid?” The only sound was the wind sighing through the trees. “Going once. Going twice.” The auctioneer slapped his hand on the table. “Sold to the young buck in the back, grinning like a fool. Come up and claim your prize.”
Too afraid to look, Bertha kept her eyes on the ground as the crowd moved to the side letting the man through. In matter of minutes, a pair of work boots appeared in her sight.
“Miss Bertie?”
That voice. Her darn heart fluttered again. She knew that voice and glanced up into Sy’s smiling face.
“I believe I get share this meal with you.” He pointed to where Becky and his brother sat.
“Of course.” What an idiotic thing to say. It seemed her brain, as well as her tongue, had quit working.
Keeping his distance, he led her to the other couple. “May we join you?” At Les’ nod, Sy set down the basket and removed the red and white checkered tablecloth she’d packed, snapped it in the air, and tried to let it float to the ground.
Suppressing giggles at his three failed attempts to make the cloth lie flat, she finally took two of the corners and together they managed to spread it out. She sank to the ground, made sure her ankles were covered by her skirt, and filled a plate with chicken, beans, and a roll and handed it to Sy. After filling a glass with lemonade, she filled her own plate.
“This is delicious, Miss Bertie.”
“Thank you, and please just call me Bertie.” Her face grew red at his compliment. “Mamaw helped me make it all.”
Trying to keep her eyes anywhere but on his handsome face, she ate in silence, having no idea what to talk about with a boy. When she’d met Mr. Woods, he’d done all the talking. She was all kinds of a fool. Why, Becky and Les were chattering like blue jays.
Sy set his cleaned drumstick on his plate and wiped his hands on a napkin matching the tablecloth. “So, how long will you be staying with your grandparents?”
His question jerked her from her thoughts. “Um. I usually stay until school starts.”
“You’re still in school?”
Was that a bad thing? Would he think she was just a silly little schoolgirl? “I’m done. I’ll be teaching in a school north of here in the fall. What about you? Are you still in school?”
Sy shook his head. “I finished my schooling a few years ago.”
So, he was probably a few years older than her. “What do you do now?”
“Help my pa on the farm.” He took a sip of his lemonade and licked his lips. “This fall after the harvesting is done, I’m going to southern Wisconsin to work with my uncle and learn about taking care of and breaking horses. He’s quite an expert.”
“Don’t you have horses on your farm?”
He reached for another roll. “These are delicious. Did you make them?”
“Yes. Back in St. Paul, I don’t have a chance to cook, so whenever I come to the farm, Mamaw teaches me everything she knows.” Bertha wiped her lips on her napkin. “Now about those horses.” It was becoming easier to talk with Sy. Except for the way her heart was slamming against her chest, maybe talking with boys wasn’t so different from talking with her female friends.
“Sure, we have horses, but they’re mostly used for working. Eventually I want to raise thoroughbreds for racing.”
“I love riding horses, but the only time I get to ride on something other than a sidesaddle is when I come here.”
Sy raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like riding sidesaddle? I thought it was the only way women rode.”
“It’s the way well-bred women are supposed to ride, but I’d rather ride like a man does. I feel like I have better control of the horse.”
****
Sy’s stomach swirled and jumped like that fish he and Bertie had caught. Had he heard her right? Not only did she like to fish, but she also would rather ride a regular saddle than a woman’s saddle? “Really?”
Bertie shook her head, releasing a piece of blonde curls from her bun. He itched to tuck it back behind her ears. What was wrong with him? He was having trouble keeping his eyes from her pretty lips, wondering what they’d taste like. He’d never kissed a girl before, but it was all he’d thought about after meeting her at the creek. It must be spring fever or something silly like that.
“I know it’s not right, but I hate the constraints of society in St. Paul. I’d much rather be living out here with Mamaw and Papaw where I can be free to do what I want. Not that I do anything wrong, but here I don’t have to wear fancy dresses, or hats and gloves whenever I go outside. Why, I can even go barefoot if I want.”
Barefoot? Girls wanted to go without shoes and didn’t like wearing fancy clothes? Heck, evidently what he knew about girls could fit into one of his mother’s thimbles. Maybe it was time to ask Ma about what girls like. He mentally shook his head. That was dumb. She’d just ask a bunch of questions about why he wanted to know about girls. There were times he’d wished he had a sister to protect and not brothers who wanted to wrestle and were always in competition with each other. Maybe Pa would answer some of his questions.
Bertie pulled a whole pie from the basket, cut two pieces, and put one on his plate. His tastebuds groaned in appreciation at the sweet, yet tart, strawberry pie. “You make this too?” he asked between bites.
“No. I did roll out the crust, but Mamaw made the dough and added sugar and stuff to the strawberries. Maybe by the end of summer I’ll know how to make as flakey a crust as she does.”
“I have no doubt you will.”
When they were through eating, he stacked the dishes. When she tipped her head to the side, he knew he needed to explain. “I know most men wouldn’t do this, but Pa drummed into our heads that a gentleman always helps a lady, no matter what it is. He said women work every bit as hard, and most times harder, as men, so if he can ease her burden, he should.” Waiting for her laughter, he kept his eyes down and picked at the tablecloth.
“Why, I think that is wonderful.”
He jerked his head up and widened his eyes. “You do?”
“Sure. Papaw says the same thing. Sometimes, when he’s overwhelmed with work, Mamaw goes to the barn to help him. She says that is what a marriage is. A partnership. My parents are totally different, but I like my grandparents’ way better.”
“So, do I.” He finished helping her clean up, closed the basket, and carried it to her wagon. A small group of men tuned up their instruments. It was mainly three fiddles, but one man had a washboard, and another a tin whistle.
Since he had several inches on her, he was able to see over Bertie’s head as couples danced around the grassy dance floor. By the time the evening was over, the ground would be bare of any greenery. If it didn’t rain overnight, these same people would walk through dirt to enter the schoolhouse for church. If it did rain, they’d be sloughing through mud.
Two young boys nearly knocked Bertie over as they chased each other. He grabbed her shoulders in time to keep her from landing on the ground. His fingers burned against her bare forearms. Once she was safe, he grabbed both boys by their shirt collars.
“You boys need to slow down. You almost knocked Miss Bertie over.” Recalling how he’d been the same way, he struggled to put on a stern face. “Now what do you say to her?”
The boys hung their heads. “Sorry, Miss Bertie.”
“That’s fine, boys. Now, if you want to run around like ragamuffins, do it behind the schoolhouse. Otherwise, sit quietly and listen to the band.” It wasn’t surprising when the boys took off for the back schoolyard.
Bertha glanced over her shoulder at him. “Thank you for saving me from those two ruffians. You handled them well.”
“I remember what it was like to be that age and full of all that energy.” The band struck up a polka. “Care to dance?”
“I’d love to.”
Now if he could get his hands to stop sweating. He’d never asked a girl to dance before. What if he stepped on her toes? What if he forgot the steps? What if . . . His heart nearly exploded from his chest when he put his hand at her waist and took her hand in his. If her damp palm and high color were any indication, she was as nervous as he.
Thankfully, the polka was fast enough that talking was impossible because with her in his arms, his tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. He probably couldn’t carry on a conversation with a flea right now.
As soon as the song was over, the band typically switched to a waltz, giving the dancers a chance to slow down and catch their breaths. Before he had a chance to ask her to dance with him again, his brother, Chester, tapped him on the shoulder, which meant he had to give her up. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought his younger brother was useless.
The polka had made him thirsty. Bertie probably was too, so while his blasted brother turned her effortlessly around the makeshift dance floor, he filled two glasses with lemonade and stood on the sidelines waiting for the song to end. Three songs later, he stood in the same spot, still holding the glasses, his half empty.
What a fool he’d been thinking she would join him when the dance with Chester was over. But men, young and old, one by one, tapped out her partners, and here he stood probably looking like a love-sick fool holding two glasses of lemonade. Why hadn’t he tapped out Chester right away? And why didn’t one of these glasses hold beer? Of course, a pretty girl like her wouldn’t be without partners. In what was still considered the wilderness, the ratio of men to women was high and it didn’t take eligible women long to be snatched up.
The band finally took a break and the players headed to the beer barrels lining a table. What should he do now? He couldn’t stand where he was holding the blasted glasses. Should he dump them out? Drink them both then hightail it for home?
“I hope one of those glasses is for me. I’m parched.”
In his self-loathing, he hadn’t noticed Bertie approach. Her face was flushed, and more tendrils of curly hair, as black as a crow’s feather, had loosened. He tried to keep his eyes from her bosom rising and falling rapidly.
“Sy? Is that lemonade for me?”
“What? Oh, yes, it is.” He handed her the warm lemonade. He was such an idiot. “Did you have fun dancing?”
As she drank from the glass, her eyes sparkled like the stars on a crystal clear, dark night. “Oh, yes. The dances I attend back home aren’t this much fun. But truth be told, my feet hurt. Most of the men aren’t as good a dancer as you.”
She thought he was a good dancer? His face flushed. Darn red-haired blushing. When would he ever grow out of it? With his luck, probably when he was old and gray like his gramps.
“Thank you for the compliment. My mother would be happy to know all the lessons she gave us boys and all the times we crushed her toes didn’t go to waste.” He pointed to the band members who were downing glass after glass of beer. “I’m not sure how well they’ll play after their break, but would you care to dance with me again?” Her grin set his heart racing.
“Only if you can keep the other men from tapping in. I’d really like to share a few more dances with you.”
Would his mother be upset with Bertie’s boldness? But then he recalled the story of his parents’ courtship and how his mother, who was one of the quietest women he’d ever met, chased his father down, tackled him to the ground, and announced to everyone within hearing distance that she was going to marry Mr. Anderson. The adults thought it was humorous for a four-year-old child to do such a thing, but she was right. Fifteen years later, they were married and now had twenty-five years together.
“Since I don’t blame them, I’m not sure how I can keep others from wanting to dance with you.”
Bertie sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” She tapped his chest with her folded-up fan. “But it’ll be your fault if I can’t walk tomorrow.”
Sy breathed a sigh of relief when the next dance announced was a square dance. They formed a square with Les and Becky. With his father doing the calling, his mother stood on the sidelines, grinning at him and his brother. Was she getting ideas about two of her sons paying attention to girls? He had overheard her talking with a neighboring lady about how she was ready for grandchildren. Huh. Since Les was the oldest, let it be his job. He had no intention of settling down any time soon.
Each time they touched hands, his breath caught and chest tightened. With a fast dance like this one, it made breathing difficult. Although he wasn’t sure if it was the dance or Bertie making him feel like he’d run three gunny sack races in a row. To make sure it was her and not some disease he was coming down with, he paid particular attention to how he reacted when he touched Becky. Nothing. Not a twinge, tingle, or tickle. It was like touching a piece of wood.
The song ended, and he immediately took Bertie into a waltz. At least he’d have her in his arms for a little bit before she was taken away.
“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Bertie asked, as he turned her away from an approaching young buck. “We don’t square dance back home.”
“It certainly was.” He looked down at her twinkling eyes and flushed face. “I like it when the band plays a slow song after a fast one. Gives a person time to catch a breath.”
Bertie peered over his shoulder. “There’s another one approaching.”
“Another one what?” Even though the man was supposed to do the leading while dancing, Bertie pulled his hand until they were facing the other direction. The same young buck wove around the dancers. “Oh.” Using his hand at her waist, he guided her across the lawn, enjoying the way the young man raised a fist at them.
“Thank you for trying to keep me away from other dancers. My toes thank you, too.”
Her fresh scent filled his being. He couldn’t place it, but it made him want to breathe deeply and commit it to memory. After all, she was only here for the summer. If she went off to teach somewhere, the chances of them seeing each other again were remote.
“I have to say it’s been a challenge, one that’s about to end.”
She glanced first over one shoulder, then the other and frowned. “Oh. They’re coming from all directions, aren’t they?”
“You should feel honored that so many men want to dance with you.”
“Honored?” She giggled. “If the number of women equaled the number of men, I’d agree with you, but since we’re outnumbered three to one, I think it’s more likely they’d dance with a toad if it were female.”
Before he could respond, the young buck who’d been practically chasing them, tapped him on the shoulder.
“Finally, my turn.”
The only thing, and right thing, he could do was give her up. With a bow, he handed Bertha over. “Sorry,” he whispered in her ear.
“Me, too.” Without another glance at him, she turned her smile on the next dancer.
Sy stood on the sidelines, arms folded over his chest, keeping an eye on how close the young buck was trying to hold Bertie. She seemed to be able to fend him off, but if he didn’t stop trying to pull her closer, he’d have to step in.
“If you keep frowning like that, you’ll have wrinkles before your next birthday.”
“Hi, Ma.” He kept his attention on Bertie and her partner, but when another man tapped in, he turned to his mother. “Why aren’t you dancing with Pa?”
“After calling that last dance, he had to wet his whistle a time or two.” She patted his arm with her fan. “She’s quite fetching, isn’t she?”
Was her next partner holding her too close, too? “Hmm?” He’d better pay closer attention to his mother, or he’d find himself agreeing to hang out laundry or something equally horrible without even recalling what she’d said. “Oh, yes, she is.”
“Is that the girl who stole your fish?”
“Geez, Ma. She didn’t steal my fish. I simply helped her catch it.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t offer to share it with you.”
Would Ma ever stop asking questions? “She did offer. Even invited me to supper.”
“Why, Sylvester Anderson, why didn’t you take her up on the offer?”
He shrugged and watched another man, old enough to be her father or grandfather, cut in. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a girl ask me something like that. I guess it scared me.”
“Hmmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His mother patted him on the arm again. “Nothing, dear boy. Nothing at all.” With that she joined his father, who led her into the next dance. If there was another female available, he’d ask her to dance, but even old Widow Olson, who had to be sixty if she was a day, was taking a stroll in the arms of an even older man. At this rate, he might as well head home. Why was not being able to talk or dance with Bertie making him irritable? Tonight was only the second time he’d seen her, but since their fishing incident he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
Two long, frustrating dances later, his neck aching from straining to keep an eye on her dance partners, Bertie was finally escorted to his side by none other than his younger brother.
“The lady says her feet hurt.” Chester bowed before her. “Thank you, lovely lady, for an equally lovely dance.”
Could he bop his brother on the top of his head? Probably not. His mother would kick him all the way home, and his father would do worse. Didn’t Chester realize how idiotic he sounded? Lovely lady. Lovely dance. Huh.
“Is something wrong?”
Bertie’s words broke through the green haze swirling around in his mind. Once again, he needed to pay attention to the person trying to talk to him. “What?”
“Is something wrong?” Bertie crinkled her forehead. “You look as if you want to punch someone. Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry I spent so much time dancing with other men.”
What was wrong with him? Now he made her think she’d done something wrong. He was certainly three times an idiot. Their donkey had more brains than he did. “No, Bertie, you didn’t do anything wrong. I guess I’m a little jealous I didn’t get to take more spins around the floor with you, but it’s not your fault you’re pretty and men want to dance with you.”
“Oh.” She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth. “And now the band is quitting. Maybe there will be another dance this summer.”
He brightened at the thought. And maybe if he properly asked her to go with him, the other men would understand she was his partner and would leave her alone. And maybe pigs could fly. “There’s always the Fourth of July party. It’s a big one held in Hastings.”
“That sounds wonderful.” She nodded toward her grandparents who were heading their way, carrying the empty baskets.
He needed to do something before her grandparents made it to them. He needed to see her again. “Since it’s Sunday tomorrow, we don’t do anything but the basic chores. Would you like to go fishing?” He held his breath. Please say yes.
“I’ll need to ask Mamaw. She’ll certainly want a chaperone for us. Do you think Becky and Les could join us?”
“If your grandmother says yes, I’ll ask them.”
“Are you ready, my dear?”
“Yes, Mamaw. I just need to gather my basket.”
Sy raised an eyebrow at the Schaeffers and cleared his throat.
“Um, Mamaw, Papaw. Sy has asked me to go fishing with him tomorrow afternoon. Would that be all right?”
Mr. Schaeffer lowered his eyebrows and eyed Sy as if he’d never seen him before. Did he think he would harm his granddaughter? “And would just the two of you be going?”
“I’m going to ask my brother, Les, and Becky Albright to go with us.” He held his breath waiting for her grandparents’ permission. He wanted to rush in and say something but recalled his father always telling him and his brothers it was best to keep your mouth shut and wait out a person’s answer before jumping to conclusions. Sweat trickled down the back of his shirt.
Mrs. Schaeffer finally answered. “I think it would be all right. But, before we leave, I need assurances that your brother and Becky will join you.”
****
“I’ll get my basket while Sy asks.” Leaving her grandparents to take their belongings to the wagon, she followed Sy to their blanket and Les and Becky who were gathering up their things. Please let them say yes. Their voices were too low for her to hear, but Sy’s grin said it all, and Becky ran off to her parents.
“Becky is asking her folks.” Sy picked up the blanket and folded it.
Bertha bit back a grin at his folding technique which was more like rolling it up in a ball and stuffing it in the basket. “Here she comes now.”
“My folks said yes.” Becky giggled and wrinkled her nose. “But do I really have to catch a fish?”
Who was she trying to kid? Becky loved to fish. Was she trying to act all girlie in front of Les? She’d have to have a talk with her.
Sy held the basket to his side. “Great. Should we meet at our usual fishing hole after church?”
What fishing hole did he mean? “Um. Is that the one where we . . .”
“Yep.” Sy winked at her and walked toward the wagons.
“Bertie Mae Jorgenson.” Becky tugged on her arm and whispered as she walked alongside her. “What did you mean, the one where you what? Where? When? What happened?”
The walk to the wagons was short, so Bertha made her story short.
“You mean you both fell into the creek?”
“Yep. And by the way,” she stopped her friend. “what’s up with saying do I really have to fish? You love to fish as much as I do.”
Becky scraped her shoe in the dirt. “Well, I didn’t want Les to think I was a tomboy or anything. I want him to see me as a woman, not a silly girl.”
“Well, I think he’ll see you as a silly girl if you act like a silly girl. For heaven’s sake, you need to fish tomorrow. It’ll make you seem more interesting.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” She recalled the way Sy had stood behind her to help land the fish. “You could always act like you need help getting a fish in. Who knows where he might touch you?”
Eyes wide, Becky covered her mouth and giggled. “Oh, you are so smart, Bertie.” She spun on her heel, then stopped. “We should each probably bring a picnic lunch, shouldn’t we?”
“I think that’s a lovely idea.”