The Blue Door - By Christa Kinde Page 0,13
and her rice pudding high. “I’ve got it, thanks,” she replied crisply.
The mailman let his hands fall to his sides as he bleakly watched her march toward the stairs leading down to the fellowship hall. Jayce, who’d been relieved of his burden by another kitchen lady, shook his head at his daughter’s stiff back, then strode over and casually addressed Milo. “Care to tell me what happened?”
“Sir?”
“I thought maybe the dinner at our place was a fluke, but my Prissie seems to have had a change of heart where you’re concerned.”
Milo winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I’ve disappointed your daughter,” he offered.
“In what way?” her father inquired. His tone was reasonable, but he looked every inch a man prepared to defend and protect his daughter.
“I believe she’s finally seen, well, sir, the age difference alone,” Milo offered uncomfortably.
“Sure, sure … I get it.” With a heavy sigh, Jayce dropped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It was kinda cute when she was little, the way she took a shine to you. Puppy love or whatever.”
The mailman shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Have you done anything you should be sorry for?” Jayce inquired, an edge back in his tone.
Milo quickly straightened and earnestly met the man’s gaze. “No, sir! Absolutely not.”
“Then stop looking so guilty,” Jayce urged. “Girls are just … girls. Naomi says it’s part of growing up.”
“I asked Harken for advice, and he believes everything will work for the good.”
“He’s a wise man,” Mr. Pomeroy mused. “The two of you kind of look out for each other, don’t you?”
“I rent a room over his shop, so we’re neighbors.”
“Love thy neighbor, and all that?” Jayce asked with a chuckle.
“And all that,” Milo agreed. “Sir, should I stay away from your family for a while?”
Prissie’s father absently tugged at his tie, his expression serious. “You’ve been a good friend ever since you moved to town, and I hate to see this kind of rift develop.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No, I don’t want you to suddenly disappear from our lives,” Jayce said decidedly. He glanced in the direction his daughter had disappeared. “Prissie’s a lot like my father; she’s not one to let go of a grudge quickly. If there’s any way to make up with her before her mind is set, I’d do it quickly.”
The strains of organ and piano drifted from the sanctuary, signaling the nearing of service time, and Milo smiled as he took a step back. “I will, sir. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“Your trust,” he replied, excusing himself with a polite nod.
In the kitchen, Prissie and Beau prowled the perimeter, assessing the other offerings with a practiced eye. The countertops were crowded with an assortment of glass casserole dishes and foil-topped pans, and crock pots vied for outlets. “Two kinds of meatballs,” she whispered.
“But three people brought baked beans,” her brother replied in a low voice. Giving her a small smile of triumph, he added, “And I only saw two lasagnas.”
“So far.” With a significant nod at the fridge, she reminded, “There’ve been more Jell-O salads lately, so Jude might win again.”
It was a game of sorts, with pot luck predictions made in the car on the way to church. The tally wouldn’t be official until they actually walked through the line at lunchtime, because there were always latecomers whose contributions threw everyone off.
Beau peeked under the foil covering a pan and wrinkled his nose at a broccoli casserole before casually lifting the corner on the next pan, which contained cheesy potatoes. “Say, Priss, how come you blew off Milo?”
“I didn’t blow him off; I just didn’t need his help.”
“I’ve heard about girls playing hard to get and stuff, but did you see the look on his face?”
Prissie sniffed. “I can’t say that I did.”
“Hmm,” Beau hummed distractedly, gazing critically at a pot of meatballs. “You know that look Jude gets if a hen pecks him when he’s gathering eggs?”
Immediately, Prissie’s littlest brother appeared in her mind’s eye. Jude loved the whole farm, but the hens were his special favorites. When he felt he’d offended one, he’d follow it around the yard, wide eyes brimming with unshed tears, apologizing. It was sweet and silly, because he wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone one of their flock.
Beau watched her face, then nodded. “Whatever he did, even if it was nothing, he’s sorry, and he wants to make up.”
“Do you mean Jude or Milo?” Prissie asked suspiciously.
Her brother just shrugged and edged closer