The Carousel Painter by Judith Miller Page A

wary brown eyes and a single nod of the head. “Morning.”
    “Mr. Kaestner?”
    “Nope.” He continued to sift through the papers on the desk.
    “Nope?” I hadn’t meant to mimic him, but his response had taken me by surprise.
    He tilted his head to one side and gave me a hard look. “That’s what I said. Nope.” Lifting a pencil from the desk, he pointed to the area where I’d seen men carving on my previous visit. “He’s back with the carvers. He expecting you?”
    “Yes. Should I go back there?”
    The man dropped the paper work onto the desk and shook his head. “I’ll go get him. Name?”
    I pointed my index finger at my chest. “My name?”
    “Unless you want me to give him someone else’s.”
    “Carrington Brouwer,” I croaked. My arch enemy, the ever persistent and unmanageable giggle, rippled at the back of my throat, begging for release. I tightened my lips together and fought against the threatening laughter. For a moment I thought I might explode. It wasn’t until the man turned to walk away that I released my breath. Before I could clasp my hand over my mouth, a snorting guffaw escaped.
    The man stopped and looked over his shoulder. “You say something?”
    I held a hand to my mouth and forced a cough into the gurgling laugh. “A tickle in my throat,” I sputtered, silently condemning myself for my lack of control.
    He grunted and swatted the air as if to let me know I was an unwanted irritation, a pesky fly upsetting his busy routine. The action was unnecessary: He’d already succeeded.
    I drew in a deep breath of air and pursed my lips before I pushed the air from my lungs. Midbreath, my throat constricted, my stomach convulsed, and a loud hiccough escaped. No! Not now! Not the hiccoughs. Hadn’t the giggle been enough embarrassment?
    When I was a little girl, Papa had instructed me to hold my breath whenever I had the hiccoughs. The remedy had never proved particularly successful, but maybe just this once it would work. I pinched my nose together, opened my mouth, and sucked in air until I thought my lungs would explode. Another spasm hit my throat and stomach, but I continued to hold my breath. Without exhaling, I opened my mouth and forced a little more air into my lungs. Another hiccough. Still pinching my nose, I exhaled one long breath, drew in more air, and held it in my lungs. Maybe this time.
    “ Gut morning!”
    The voice that boomed in my ears bore a distinct German accent. Startled, I jumped and swiveled. I didn’t know who was more surprised— me or the man staring at my thumb and index finger tightly positioned on either side of my nose. Heat scalded my cheeks as I released my hold.
    “Sorry I am if I gave you a scare. Mr. Morgan said you wanted to see me, ja ?” He continued to stare at me, his brow furrowed as though he’d never before seen a woman.
    I shook my head. “No. I wanted to see—” Before I could finish, a loud hiccough erupted and echoed into the cavernous room. My embarrassment was complete. I wanted to flee.
    “Now I see why the nose you were holding,” he said. His chocolate brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “My mutter always told me a good scare would frighten the hiccoughs away.”
    “I don’t think that works, either. I was frightened when you walked up behind me, but I still have the hiccoughs.” I clasped my hand over my mouth to hold back the noise of another attack. I waited a moment and then said, “I need to speak with Josef Kaestner.”
    He touched his index finger to his chest. “That is me. Josef Kaestner.”
    My remaining smidgen of self-confidence evaporated like the morning mist. “Y-y-you?” I stammered. “ You’re Mr. Kaestner?” This man was far too young to be in charge of Mr. Galloway’s factory. He appeared to be no more than five or six years older than I.
    While he glanced toward the paper work in his hand, I studied him. His eyes closely matched a chocolate brown thatch of unruly hair that had been