pointed into large store windows. “Ye see those three women?”
Jonas glanced in the direction Reggie’s crooked extended right hand finger pointed.
“Menfolk work in the warehouse. Never stock up like today.”
“What? You complaining about good business?” Jonas peered again to see half a dozen customers in the two aisles visible. One appeared to be Ms. Stark from Jove Foods.
“Nay. But I want verra badly to have business after this week.”
Jonas shrugged. “Let’s wait and see. Reasonable heads no doubt will prevail.”
“Let’s ye all hope so. Gotta be inside. Will ye be bringing a lassie to the St. Patrick’s Day dance this weekend at the Legion?”
“Hadn’t planned to.” Jonas felt cheeks dial up heat. “Catch you later.” He strode to the office with neck and left calf muscles tightening. He opened bottom office desk drawer; pulled out tattered collection of Pottstown strike news clippings. The funeral possession picture catapulted imagination into the future and retightened neck muscles. At ten minutes past four, Jonas leaned back in office chair. Through interior window he noticed Melanie Stark stand in front of Bonnie’s desk. He wondered what brought her in as he stowed visible papers. He rose, and at the office door, waved Ms. Stark to enter. “Have a seat. If you like, please close the door.”
“Your dog here?” Inquisitive eyes darted into office corners.
“Locked up in my sister’s backyard.” He wouldn’t risk glance at gray pantsuit to verify if it had been the one Webster nipped that morning at Jove Foods. Ms. Stark probably owned more than one gray suit. The pink-collared blouse different; same brunette hair curl framed soft facial features.
“Pretty secretary.”
He caught Bonnie’s frown before Ms. Stark closed office door. “She’s not my secretary. Deputy Bonnie Walsh is a full-fledged officer.”
Melanie unbuttoned two jacket buttons before balancing herself on the Windsor chair’s front edge. Dusty-blue eyes, clearer indoors, intrigued him as her fingers smoothed the thigh-covering pant material. “You’re not planning to assign her to any picket line?”
“Absolutely. She’ll do an excellent job.” He didn’t want to discuss a strike that hadn’t yet occurred. Nor did he wish to revisit the morning events. If he again said he was sorry, he’d most likely only antagonize her further. He’d wait a couple of days to repeat the damage compensation offer, if she hadn’t responded. “Saw you earlier inside Reggie’s Grocery. What brings you here?”
“St. Patrick’s Day fest at church. Bonnie’s on a committee with me.”
“Strange that First Lutheran is holding a St. Patrick’s Day bash.”
“Why?” Her eyes scanned office. “We know our congregation will be supportive. And, this way, we’ll attract the Catholics to our fund-raiser.”
“Guess so.” His words clipped, voice unenthusiastic. Not productive to talk about events he wouldn’t attend. At least Reggie hadn’t been too inquisitive about Jonas not going to the Legion. A Lutheran by baptism, he presented himself with mother every Sunday at ten a.m. First Lutheran services. Like clockwork, dad would claim an ailment to prevent riding along. Mother often joked: if dad had all the ailments he claimed, the bathroom medicine cabinet, loaded with all the necessary prescription bottles, would’ve fallen off the wall years ago.
“You’re coming to the fund-raiser, aren’t you?” Feminine eyes pleaded.
“Hadn’t planned on it.” He squirmed; chair rolled slightly. An extended glance at the telephone produced no ring. C’mon Bonnie. Summon me. A noisy dog complaint works.
“Your date sick and her cousin out of town?” Ms. Stark’s shoulders twisted, then settled.
Jonas pressed lips together. His surmise concluded she teased, but he couldn’t be certain. He hadn’t known her to date any area guy. Of course, she’d probably thumb nose at the hodgepodge of rustic bachelors. Growing up a farm boy before graduating from urban Evermore Community College, he re-polished farm-boy image to help bolster rural Sheriff-election campaigning.
“Sorry,” she said. “Shouldn’t be so forward. It’s not Sadie Hawkins.” A coy smile edged from mouth corners. A waggled tongue slowly moistened center of upper lip.
The multiplying apprehension her question created inside him subsided when, unprompted, Ms. Stark arose to announce she couldn’t allow frozen grocery purchases to thaw in car trunk. He hoped sigh of relief hadn’t been noticeable before he swiveled chair from desk.
With a hand on office doorknob, she suggested he’d enjoy the St. Patrick’s Day party even if he made but a cameo appearance to shake hands with voters. Her parting words were twofold: She’d toast his health at the fest; and, who knew what regrets he’d have if he stayed home?
Two
Noel’s arm trembled, right hand raised and cupped, aligned knuckles poised in midair. Casting fear aside, he rapped the door’s brass doorknocker twice. Hinges creaked; the door, encouraged by the second bolder knock, inched backward from its frame. Invisible through door crack, spice aroma, perhaps oregano, bombarded nostrils. He didn’t know, grandma would. He should leave.
“C’mon in,” a familiar voice said from within. “Dinner’s ready except for extra garlic bread.”
Melanie Stark’s house, next to a park, had been easy for Noel to find. As a youngster, he’d chased rabbits, often with a BB gun, through the adjacent woods. This westside Kanosh land since cleared for homes. Noel parked on a wide concrete apron that connected the house to a rear detached, extra-wide two-car garage. He stepped into a white sanctuary of cabinets, sink, and appliances. Wheat-colored curtains framed the eat-in kitchen table and side-by-side triple windows.
“I’m glad you came. Let me take your jacket.”
Noel searched brain for conversation. “Saw the fireplace, you grill much?” He’d marveled at the four-foot wide cooking grate of the huge masonry fireplace erected between the house and garage at the driveway’s concrete edge. Two flues emerged from the single chimney.
“When it’s warmer.”
Noel shrugged off a denim jacket. Ms. Stark hung it on a white peg inside the door. He breathed a sigh of relief that choosing a light blue dress shirt and khaki pants meant he hadn’t underdressed. He flinched when Ms. Stark, dressed in a clinging, fully buttoned white blouse tucked into black slacks, brushed his left arm with her right elbow.
“I’m delighted you’re here. Guess I’m repeating myself.”
He shifted leg weight from right to left. “Thank you ... Ms. Stark.”
“Please, please call me Melanie. We’re not at work.” She bustled between the sink and stovetop. “Would you like red or white wine?”
The lace-edged skirt trim of a folded blue and white apron laid exposed across a chair back as the neck ties dangled. Tongue-tied, he rested right hand on the apron. Plates on the kitchen table set for two elbow-to-elbow diners. A dangling, twitching hand rubbed left thigh. He didn’t
