Page 73 of Charlotte

“Reading is the purpose of books. Handling is merely the path to it.”

Mrs. Schulte tapped her pencil against her list. “We must also decide who will read for the Independence Jubilee.”

Lottie looked up. “Read?”

“Yes. A passage from Scripture, something patriotic, perhaps one poem if Mrs. Hanford survives the notion.”

Mrs. Hanford’s mouth thinned. “Poetry should be selected with moral caution.”

“I volunteer Mr. Sutton for Scripture,” Mrs. Beck said, “and Cornelia for the patriotic piece.”

Cornelia, who had been quietly shelving primers, turned. “Do I receive a vote?”

“No,” Mrs. Schulte said. “You read clearly.”

“That is difficult to argue with.”

“Charlotte can read the poem,” Mrs. Beck added.

Lottie’s hand settled over the ledger.

A month ago, she would have agreed at once. She liked reading aloud. She liked giving words breath and shape. She had read to Mrs. Whitmore through long afternoons in Chicago when the old woman’s eyes had failed and loneliness sat heavy in the room.

Now the thought of standing before all Wild Rose Ridge with Peterson somewhere in the crowd made her heart behave foolishly.

“What poem?” Lottie asked.

“Tennyson would be lovely,” Mrs. Beck said.

Mrs. Hanford made a sound of grave concern. “Tennyson is not American.”

“Neither is tea, yet we manage.”

Cornelia coughed into a stack of schoolbooks.

Lottie looked at the empty place on the shelf where Tennyson still belonged. “Mr. Peterson has that volume until Tuesday.”

Mrs. Beck smiled too widely. “Then perhaps Mr. Peterson should return it in time for you to choose something.”

Mrs. Hanford looked toward the door as if Peterson might appear for the sole purpose of proving her fears correct. “I hardly think a logger needs to be entangled in poetry before a public gathering.”

“He is already entangled,” Mrs. Beck said cheerfully. “It is in the ledger.”

Lottie closed the ledger before anyone could inspect his name again. “We have several days to choose a reading.”

“We have one week to organize an Independence Jubilee,” Mrs. Schulte said. “There is no time to waste.”

The door opened before Lottie could answer.

Peterson stepped inside with two books beneath his left arm. The room immediately became too interested in him.

To his credit, he did not turn around and leave, though Lottie could see the impulse pass through him. His gaze moved once over Mrs. Schulte’s list, Mrs. Beck’s ribbons, Mrs. Hanford’s paste jar, and the half-decorated meeting hall.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hanford said.

“No,” Mrs. Beck said at the same time.