Free A Bone to Pick by Gina McMurchy-Barber Page B

I’d tasted into the garbage. If possible, I would have done the same with the rest of them, but Bertha kept waving at me to bring them over.
    As the students and professors lined up for their suppers, I felt a little jealous listening to them chatting excitedly about their day.
    â€œDid you manage to get signed up for the kiddy program, Peggy?” I looked up to see Robbie and Maile smirking at me. “Don’t look so serious, kid. I’m just joking.”
    When Robbie helped herself to a large biscuit, I nearly bit my lip. Boy, I’d sure like to see the expression on her face when she stuffed it in her gob. Then I saw Eddy in the line.
    â€œPeggy, I’m sorry about this afternoon,” Eddy said quietly when she reached the counter. “When I’m teaching, I really need to give my full attention to the students. You understand, right?”
    â€œSure,” I said, even though I didn’t really get what the big deal was if I dropped in on her while she was teaching.
    â€œThis evening we’re having a talk from one of the local experts. I thought you might like to join.”
    â€œA talk about what?”
    â€œViking sagas and folklore,” Eddy said. “I’ve enlisted the help of one of the guides from the site. It will be very interesting. Will you come?”
    â€œIs the expert named Niko Ekstrom?”
    She smiled at me, the way she always did when I surprised her. “You know about him?”
    I nodded. “Heard about him, that’s all.” I glanced over at the table where Robbie was wrestling with her biscuit, and I nearly laughed out loud. “I’d really like to come, but will that upset anyone?”
    â€œNo, I’m sure it will be fine. So I’ll see you in the main centre around seven, okay?”
    I was so happy I nearly floated around the kitchen.
    After dinner I went out to the tables to gather up the dirty dishes. And on every plate, pushed to the side, were biscuits, small, medium, and large.
    â€œThis is turning into a habit, girl,” said Bertha when she came out from the kitchen to help me clear up. “Show me yer recipe.”
    â€œAh, well, I didn’t use a recipe. I like to just wing it when I’m cooking.”
    Bertha’s eyes opened to the size of baseballs. “Wing it? There’s no wingin’ it in my kitchen … unless you’re a chicken headin’ fer the oven.” She picked up one of the leftover biscuits and took a bite, or at least tried. “Ack … these things are like rubber. If this is what ya get fer wingin’ it, from now on —”
    Just when Bertha was in the middle of blasting me there was a knock at the kitchen door. It was Professor Brant, the director of the field school. He asked Bertha to step outside with him. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but there was no mistaking that Bertha was upset. When she came back into the room, her pinched red face confirmed it.
    â€œWell, His Highness isn’t too pleased about the food, and I can’t say I blame him. He as much as said we either get our act together or he’s goin’ to find someone else fer the job.”
    Instantly, I felt like celebrating and would have started doing the victory dance if it hadn’t been for the look on Bertha’s face. She sat down on the stool with a thump.
    â€œThe biscuits were my fault — and the eggs,” I said. “There’s no reason for you to lose your job.”
    â€œI won’t deny that, but it seems he didn’t much like the broccoli in with the macaroni, either.” She pulled a cloth out of her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “My husband’s out of work, and I’ve got two daughters to put through college. I’ve been countin’ on this money to help us get by.”
    If I got fired, I’d spend my time learning about Vikings, wandering around L’Anse aux Meadows, and hanging out with