Waiting For Lily Bloom Read Free Page A

instantly regretting it. A sneeze accompanied her timid knock on the door.
    No one answered.
    She knocked harder and waited. Still, no reply. She opened the door and looked inside.
    A gust of wind blew her forward as a cloud of dust rolled into the farmer’s home. Merciful stars. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, lamenting the lingering, smoky haze.
    Blast her timidity! Why couldn’t she move like Aunt Charity? Now what? Should she sweep it out? Wouldn’t that just bring in more dust?
    Good grief. Bloom was an old farmer. He probably brought that much dust in himself.
    If that were the case, why was his home so well-kept?
    Silly Lily. She chastised herself, using Papa’s pet name. What was done was done. Besides, she’d been doing a good deed, returning his mending and all. Still, she hated to see the dust coating his kitchen table. Dust on the floor she could abide, but there was something unnatural about dust on a kitchen table.
    She set the sack of clothes in a chair and looked around. Where would he keep a cloth?
    A porcelain sink abutted the kitchen wall. There, a rag draped the pump handle. She walked to the sink, worked the pump, and rinsed the rag. With broad strokes, she wiped the table, and then wiped the windowsill and the mantel. When she came to a photograph, she stopped.
    Placing the rag on the table, she lifted the frame and inspected the photo. A serious face stared back at her. The old woman’s hair was braided and pinned atop her head. She wore a black dress, buttoned high on her neck.
    Lily rubbed her thumb against the glass, as if to smooth away the woman’s wrinkles. Bloom’s wife? She placed the frame back on the mantel and scowled. For shame, Lily Driggers. A snoop was akin to the drunkard.
    She took Bloom’s cloth back to the sink, rinsed it, and draped it back on the pump handle. She trailed her wet hands down the length of her dress, and powdery dust coated her palms. She frowned and rinsed her hands again. She’d lingered long enough.
    It would soon be suppertime. With purposeful stride, she walked to the door and placed her hand on the knob. She turned it, but the door didn’t open. She tried again, and it still didn’t budge. Frustrated, she folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot on the floor.
    The door flung open.
    Broad shoulders blocked much of the sun’s light. A man placed his hands on his trim waist.
     
     
     
     

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    A gust of wind blew into the house. The man stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. So much for wiping off the table. Dust particles encased him, outlining his tall, lean frame.
    Why? Why hadn’t she put the clothes on the table and left? She grabbed her collar, drawing the material tight.
    “Who are you?”
    She flinched, his booming voice making her insides tighten.
    The sunlight filtered through the window, emphasizing his profile. The harsh planes of his forehead and cheekbones might soften if he smiled.
    “I asked you a question.” He stepped closer, the wrinkle between his brows deepening. Dark eyes flashed, the color of brown sugar boiling at the Bay Street Confectionary.
    Her cheeks warmed. What could she do? She lowered her hand to her chest. Maybe he would understand—
    “All right.” He crossed his arms. “No answer? Perhaps you’d like to talk to the sheriff?”
    This was the man who’d sat on the third pew at Trinity Baptist church. He wasn’t some old farmer. However, at the moment, he bore no resemblance to the serene gentleman she’d spied from the back row. Of course, he hadn’t seen her sitting with Uncle Ned and Aunt Charity. No matter. She would show him the clothes, and then he’d understand. She sidestepped him to retrieve them, but he blocked her path.
    “No ma’am. You’re not going anywhere.”
    Oh, brother. She stepped to the left this time, but he followed.
    “I’m losing patience.”
    This was silly. She stepped right again, and this time he grabbed her wrist. Of all the