Page 31 of Charlotte

Lottie lowered her gaze to the paper, but a smile escaped anyway. Cornelia leaned closer and studied the list. Her face changed from teasing to genuine interest.

“This is good advice. Very good. He thought about weight and damp. See here?” She pointed to the paper. “He knows the meeting hall wall by the north window swells in wet weather.”

“He wrote children will lean.”

“They will. He is right.”

Lottie smoothed one crease with her thumb. “Do you know him well?”

“Peterson?”

“Yes.”

Cornelia did not answer quickly. That was enough to make Lottie look up.

“I know him as much as he allows most people to know him,” Cornelia said. “He has worked here a good while. Longer than many. He is dependable, keeps mostly to himself, and does not like being discussed.”

“Then I feel rather wicked asking.”

“You are not asking from idleness.”

“No.” Lottie looked at the list. “I am asking because I am supposed to marry him.”

Cornelia’s eyes warmed, but there was caution there too. “Supposed to is a complicated phrase in this town.”

“Is it?”

“This place has seen more than one match arrive in one shape and become another before God was through with it.”

Lottie glanced toward the dining room, where Mrs. Schulte had begun explaining something to a bewildered logger with the aid of a butter knife and two saltcellars. “Do the Busy Bees know that?”

“They believe they assist Providence.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It keeps them busy, which may be mercy for the rest of us.”

Lottie laughed. Then the laughter thinned when she looked toward the hotel door and saw Mr. Peterson through the front window.

He stood on the boardwalk outside, not coming in. Her breath caught before she could stop it.

He wore work clothes today, not his Sunday coat. Suspenders crossed over a clean shirt, and sleeves buttoned at the wrist despite the mild morning. His hat sat low enough to shade his face. In his left hand, he carried a narrow bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

He looked once through the window.

Their eyes met. Then he looked away.

Lottie rose so abruptly her chair scraped.

“Charlotte?” Cornelia glanced from her to the window. “Ah.”

“That might be nothing.”

“It might.”

“It is probably something for Mrs. Schulte.”

“Then Mrs. Schulte will survive waiting.”