Page 62 of Charlotte
Cornelia turned a page somewhere behind them with heroic tact. Lottie tried to think of anything sensible to say. She had many words at her disposal. Too many, Delly often said. Yet the right ones had scattered like frightened birds.
Peterson saved her by looking toward the shelf. “You said local nature.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll need more than flowers.”
“What else?”
“Leaves. Bark. Maybe feathers, if you can keep children from stealing them. Tracks, if someone draws them.”
“Could you?”
“Could I what?”
“Draw tracks?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Some.”
“Would you?”
“I have work.”
“Yes.”
“The camp does not pay me to draw squirrel feet for a library.”
“No.”
He looked at her for a long second. At last, he sighed, which Lottie was recognizing as the sound of Peterson losing an argument with his own better nature.
“I can draw a few.”
Joy rose in her so quickly she had to look down at the book press.
“Thank you.”
“It is only tracks.”
“It is not only tracks.”
“It will be once they are drawn.”
“You are determined to make every thoughtful thing sound smaller than it is.”
His jaw worked once, but not in anger. More as if the words had found their mark, and he needed a moment with them.
“I should get back,” he said.
Lottie nodded. “Of course.”
He moved toward the ledger, then paused.
“Tennyson is not due until Tuesday,” she said.
“I know.”
“Are you returning it early?”
