Page 11 of Charlotte

“Are you one of them?”

The question had leaped ahead of her manners. She knew it by the way his face closed.

“I get by.”

It was the sort of answer that shut a gate and leaned a board against it. Lottie, being Lottie, looked for a latch.

“You read the page on the dock.”

His gaze snapped to hers.

“I saw you,” she said gently. “Only for a moment. You looked at the line before you closed the book.”

“I was making sure it wasn’t torn.”

“That is not how one looks for torn pages.”

“How would you know?”

“My father mended books. Then I helped catalog a professor’s library for his widow. I know the difference between a man checking paper and a man reading words.”

He said nothing.

Lottie looked down at the Tennyson and ran one thumb over the wrinkled corner. “The line was from ‘Tears, Idle Tears.’ Not the happiest poem to arrive on a dock, I admit. Had I known it intended to fall open at your feet, I would have chosen something livelier. Perhaps Shakespeare. Though Shakespeare falling at a person’s feet seems like a warning.”

That earned a sound, small as it was. Mr. Peterson had nearly laughed.

Lottie’s bruised hope rose from the corner of her heart. He seemed to regret snickering at once.

“You shouldn’t build too much on a man picking up a book.”

“I haven’t built anything yet.”

His eyes moved to her face again. She felt the look clear down to her toes.

“I consider it a foundation,” she admitted.

“Don’t.”

Lottie held still. Behind them, Delly said something about not wishing to marry furniture, and several women made shocked little sounds. Mr. Simms laughed again, low and unwilling. The parlor had found its entertainment for the evening.

In the hallway, everything narrowed to Mr. Peterson’s face.

“Don’t?” Lottie asked.

He looked down at his hat. “Mrs. Schulte and the others mean well.”

“Yes. I gathered that from the way everyone looks slightly afraid of them.”

This time his mouth moved slightly.

“Meaning well is not the same as knowing,” he said. “They chose me because I’m steady. Quiet. Been here long enough not to run off before winter. That may be enough for a roof beam. It isn’t enough for a husband.”

Lottie’s fingers tightened around the cake plate. “You wrote for a bride. The sisters had the letters.” She didn’t want to share they had provided her with the letters after the first round of brides were delivered to Wild Rose Ridge.

“That was before.”

“Before what?” Lottie stepped closer.