Bittersweet by Nevada Barr Page A

the yard.
    “Finish the ’taters,” Margaret shouted too late. Wiping her hands on her apron, she came onto the porch to hold the door open for her husband. “Never seen the flies so bad,” she commented. Lizbeth slipped under her arm to follow Gracie into the field and away from the chores.
    “Pretty thick already,” Emmanuel said as he squeezed by her. “Heat, I guess.” He set a box of groceries down on the kitchen table. “That ought to hold you for a while.”
    Sarah came in, carrying a freshly killed and plucked chicken by the feet. Her hair was pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck and she wore an apron dotted brown with old blood. Mrs. Tolstonadge took the bird and examined it thoroughly. “Good job, Sare. Hardly a pinfeather left.” She laid it on the table and started to unpack the groceries.
    “Sarah?”
    “Yes, Pa?”
    “Sam’s going in to town this afternoon, asked me to tell you he’d be willing to come by and fetch you if you’ve any trifles you’re needing.”
    “I’m okay, Pa. Mam’s got chores for me.”
    Emmanuel pumped water into a mug and drank deeply. “Saw Miss Grelznik—she’d just got back from Philadelphia. Had more boxes than a dog has fleas.”
    “Miss Grelznik’s back?” Sarah turned eager eyes on her mother. “Can I go into town, Mam? I can get everything done before bed if I get back early. Please? I haven’t seen her since graduation.”
    Mam shoved her balled fists into the dough she’d left to rise. “Ask your pa.”
    Emmanuel looked at his daughter, her eyes bright, the color rising in her cheeks. “I thought you were too busy to go anywhere this afternoon.” Sarah clasped her hands tight behind her and held her breath. Emmanuel pumped himself another cup of water and drank it. “Sam’ll be by around noon. You’ll ride with him if you’re goin’.”
    Sarah ran into the back room and shut the door behind her.
    “You leave that open,” Emmanuel snapped. “Heat’s bad enough without you closing out the breeze.”
    “I’m dressing, Pa,” came the muffled reply.
    He started for the door, but Mam laid a hand on his arm. “Let her primp up, Manny, she’s old enough to want to look pretty for town.”
    “Primping for that schoolteacher.” Emmanuel went to the bedroom and set the door ajar. “You can fuss with the door part open. There’s nobody here wants to look at you.”
    Mrs. Tolstonadge shaped the dough into loaves. “Things’ll come right. They always do.” When Emmanuel snorted, she said, “You got a bee in your bonnet?”
    “Maybe I do.” He jammed his hat on and left the house.
     
    Imogene’s door was open to catch the afternoon breeze. She stood with her back to it, unpacking a crate. Boxes and piles of books were strewn about the room. She lifted out a stack of McGuffey’s Readers and counted them. Their bindings were battered and covered with ink marks but she handled them as if they were finechina. Despite the summer heat she wore a heavy black dress with the suggestion of a train that swept the floor when she moved. Against the dark cloth her face showed pale, and gray shadows smudged her eyes.
    Sarah stopped halfway up the path, her shadow thrown before her. She was bareheaded and the sun had burned color into her unprotected cheeks. Smoothing her hair back nervously, she pushed in the pins that had worked loose, and watched Miss Grelznik through the open door.
    Imogene stopped and turned suddenly, as though she had heard someone call her name. “Sarah?” She came to the top of the steps, her eyes narrowed against the light. “Is it you?” Imogene swiftly descended the steps and, bending down, hugged her, kissing her warm cheek. Sarah rested against her shoulder for a brief moment before Imogene held her away. “Cat got your tongue?”
    “Miss Grelznik! I never said good-bye.”
    “It seems like a long time, doesn’t it?” Imogene hugged her again. “How you’ve changed in these eight weeks!” She turned