house was white with black shutters. Gingerbread trim lined the roof. A lattice with red climbing roses was attached to one end of the deep porch that ran the width of the house.
A picket fence enclosed the property like the frame around a picture of ideal domesticity. Where the fence and an inlaid stone walkway met, a sign hung from an iron post. On it, written in swirly black letters: “Dr. Gabriel Driscoll.” Dangling from it by two little brass hooks was another sign: “Out on Call.”
Right off Thatcher knew that he couldn’t afford any room in this house. It was far too fine. He was seeking more humble accommodations. Just as he was about to turn away, the screened front door opened, and a woman came out onto the porch holding a watering can with both hands.
She tipped the spout toward some purple flowers that bloomed from a wicker stand next to the front door. Noticing him, she paused and broke a friendly smile. “Hello.”
He removed his hat. “Ma’am.”
She looked in both directions of the street as though wondering how he’d come to be there, much as Laurel Plummer had done.
She said, “The doctor is out making house calls.”
“I’m not in need of the doctor. I came to see about the room for let.”
The smile with which she’d greeted him faltered. “Oh.”
She bent down to set the watering can on the floor and wiped her hands on her apron as she straightened up. She was in the family way. Pretty far along if Thatcher were to guess.
“I had forgotten the sign still was there.” She pronounced it “da-zine” in an unmistakably German accent. “We’re no longer taking a lodger.” Self-consciously she smoothed her hand over her belly.
“Oh. Well, it probably would have been too rich for my blood anyway. Thanks all the same.” He replaced his hat and made to leave when she blurted, “Wait. I want to bring you something, to thank you for inquiring.”
He gave a dry laugh. “Ma’am, you don’t owe me anything.”
“No, wait. Please?”
Her eager nodding persuaded him. “Okay.”
She beamed a smile. “Come up to the porch. I’ll be right back.” Leaving her watering can, she bustled inside.
Thatcher pushed open the gate and went up the walk. He stopped at the bottom of the steps leading onto the porch and eased the duffel bag off his shoulder, setting it on the ground. Then he stood there threading the brim of his hat through his fingers as he took a look around.
The house across the street was comparable to Dr. Driscoll’s in size and architecture, and was obviously occupied by a snoopy neighbor. He noticed movement behind a lace curtain in one of the front windows before it dropped back into place.
After a minute or two, the lady returned, pushing through the screen door, happily bobbing her head and making the blond curls framing her face bounce. “Fresh baked shortbread. Come.”
He left his hat on top of his duffel bag and climbed the steps. She met him halfway across the porch and extended a plate to him. It was china and lined with one of those white lacy things. On it were two large squares of shortbread, the aroma of which made Thatcher’s stomach growl. He’d eaten the last of the cheese and crackers during his five-mile hike from the Plummers’ place, but they hadn’t gone far.
“Are you Mrs. Driscoll?”
“Mila Driscoll, yes.”
“Thatcher Hutton.”
“Mr. Hutton. Please.” She thrust the plate toward him.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
He took one of the squares from the plate and bit into it. It was soft, buttery, sweet, and still warm from the oven. He swallowed the bite. “Delicious.”
“My husband’s favorite.”
Her face was round and rosy, and shiny with perspiration, which she fanned with her apron. The cloth had red and yellow apples printed on it, bordered in a red ruffle. When she smiled, her whole face lit up.
He thought about the tense set of Laurel Plummer’s features. He couldn’t feature her smiling so unguardedly or wearing that cheerful apron. “Your husband’s office is here in the house?”
“Front parlor, yes.” She nodded toward a tall bay window that was both functional and ornamental.
“Do you help with his practice?”
“No. Better I don’t.”
Her cheerful blue eyes took on a sad cast as she glanced behind him toward where he’d left his duffel, which was obviously U.S. army issue. It showed the wear and tear of having been to war and back.
Even before the states got into it, people of German descent were subjected to resentment and