Free Mittman, Stephanie by A Taste of Honey Page B

her
go to New York, but both of them had ended with a veiled plea to let her return
home and make a life for herself in Van Wert now that she had seen what the
rest of the world had to offer.
    As
if there was a life to be had in Van Wert. And she always asked about Noah
Eastman and his girls.
    The
note still sat on the edge of the counter, the heat in the kitchen wilting its
edges. Maybe it was an apology for embarrassing her at the picnic on Sunday. He
certainly owed her one. Miller had been sour the rest of the afternoon. He'd
gone on and on about how Hannah should have been punished for running away and
he didn't know what was wrong with young people these days. Annie hadn't been
able to tell if he was referring to Mr. Eastman or his daughter, since Miller
always held himself so much older than everyone around him.
    He
kept bringing up the age difference between himself and Annie as if it were
some huge barrier between the two of them, a hurdle to be approached cautiously
and measured carefully to make sure it was surmountable. That was the word he'd
used: surmountable. She'd had to ask him what it meant and he'd given her the
same look he always did, as if he was disappointed with her lack of education.
He knew as well as everyone else in Van Wert that she had left school to raise
her siblings. So why did he seem surprised when she hadn't heard some word
before? Who'd he think she was likely to hear it from? Bart? Ethan?
    The
screen door creaked and slapped.
    "Bakin'?"
Bart said when he came in from the fields for lunch. "Hell of a hot day to
be bakin'. It's hotter'n Hades in here, Sissy. Why ya got all the windows
closed?"
    With
him came a heavenly breeze and Annie realized he'd left the door open. She
threw a towel over the cookie rack and sighed. Dirt. Dirt everywhere. Dirt all
the time. She wished she was already married to Miller and living in town. At
least there the wind didn't sail through your house and bring all the dust of
the prairie along with it.
    "Shut
the door," she told her brother. "Does all of Ohio have to be on that
table for every meal?"
    "I
never seen it as dry as this," Bart said. "Washed up at the pump and
before my hands were dry they were fulla dirt again. Guess I'll try again in
here."
    When
he finished he pulled the towel off her cooling cookies and dried his hands. He
noticed something on the floor, and as he bent to pick it up Annie realized it
was the note from Mr. Eastman. It must have blown off the table when Bart
opened the door.
    "That's
for me," she said, going to take it from his hand.
    "'Annie
Morrow,'" he read. "What is this, anyway?" He opened it before
she could pull it away from him. "What is this supposed to mean?"
    She
should have read it the moment she found it. Read it or destroyed it. Anything
but left it for Bart to find. What if it was about Francie? Francie would never
forgive her for letting Bart see something personal. "What does it
say?"
    "It
says, 'Your skin is the color of baked bread.'"
    "What?"
    Bart
looked at the note again and then handed it over to his sister. Sure enough,
that was what he had written. Even Annie could read those words. Her skin?
Noah Eastman was talking about her skin?
    "Where'd
that come from? Who sent it?" Bart asked.
    There
was no signature, thank goodness. "Risa must be feeling playful with the
new baby coming," Annie said, trying to sound unruffled while her blood
raced and her heart pounded against her apron so hard it was a wonder Bart
couldn't see it. What in the world could he be talking about? Your skin is
the color of baked bread? "It was in the flour sack. Sit down and I'll
get your dinner."
    She
shooed him out of the kitchen and went directly to the new sack of sugar
waiting to be opened on the counter. She ripped it open and stuck her hand in.
Sure enough, crackle, crackle. This one said her hair was like burnt
sugar swirled atop a beautiful cake.
    She
jammed the note in her pocket and spooned up a plate of sausages, sweet
potatoes,