Free Morning Song by Karen Robards Page B

survey the room. Unable to free herself from the ladies or think of any way to politely circumvent them, Jessie was forced to stand between them, miserably aware of how dreadful she must look in comparison. The Misses Edwards were plump but small. Neither of their silvery heads reached past Jessie's shoulder. Despite their advanced age, their gowns put hers to shame. Miss Laurel was dressed sumptuously in lavender satin, while Miss Flora was clad almost identically in mauve.
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    The music swelled. Laughter and chatter filled the air. Eleanor Bids well, resplendent in an apple-green gauze gown, floated by in the arms of blond Chaney Dart. Jessie had know her as Nell when they were little girls of seven and eight, but the petite redhead on the dance floor bore no resemblance to her childhood friend. Tall and willowy Susan Latow, in blue-sprigged muslin, danced with dark-haired Lewis Russell, while Margaret Culpepper, small, dark, and slightly plump but making the most of it in a low-cut gown of palest peach, was partnered by Howie Duke. Mitchell Todd wove his way through the crowd, a full punch glass in his hand, obviously on his way to find his partner, who must be sitting somewhere on the sidelines cooling off while he fetched her a drink. Mitch, who with his soft brown curls and hazel eyes had held a special place in her heart forever.
    . . .
    "Mitchell! Mitchell Todd!"
    Jessie was horrified to hear Miss Flora screech across the dance floor to none other than the object of every single one of her adolescent yearnings. Her head swung desperately toward Miss Flora, her mouth opened to object, but it was too late.
    "Yes, ma'am?" With his customary good manners, Mitch turned and lifted his eyebrows at Miss Flora inquiringly. He had to raise his voice to make it heard over the din, but it was still the velvety voice that sent shivers down Jessie's spine every time she heard it. Then his eyes left Miss Flora and he was looking at her instead and Jessie thought she would die. . . .
    "Come over here, Mitchell, and dance with Jessica!" This command, boomed at the volume of a cannon firing, made Jessie long to sink through the floor. Her face turned seventeen shades of crimson as Mitch hesitated, glanced at the full cup in his hand, 67

    then shrugged and headed toward the threesome in the doorway. If a heavenly chorus had announced that the world was ending right at that moment, Jessie would have fallen to her knees and given thanks. If a killer tornado had whirled through the valley and blown Tulip Hill and all therein into the next county, she would have considered herself saved. If . . .
    But there was no more time for ifs. Mitch stood in front of her. Frozen with embarrassment, Jessie couldn't even look at him, much less summon the wit to try to circumvent what was about to happen.
    "I'm sorry, Miss Flora, I couldn't hear what you said," he said mildly, smiling at the old lady. His front two teeth overlapped slightly, giving him an endearing boyish quality that made Jessie's heart go pitter-pat. Evidently he'd been trying to grow a mustache, because there was a line of brown fuzz above his upper lip. This evidence of burgeoning masculinity made her palms go damp. Or maybe the cause was sheer nervousness.
    "She said you should dance with Jessica," Miss Laurel interjected. Jessie cringed. Her palms grew damper.
    "Why—why—" He was taken aback, Jessie could tell he was taken aback, and of course he didn't want to, but what could he say? His innate good manners would leave him no recourse. "It'll be my pleasure. If you'll take this punch, Miss Laurel. It's certainly delicious, by the way. Please give Clover my compliments on the recipe." Miss Laurel took the punch cup with a smile while Miss Flora tittered thanks for the compliment to their cook. Mitch held out his hand to Jessie. She looked from it to his face with paralyzing mortification. What could she do? What should she say? She didn't want him to dance with her because he