Page 43 of The Harvey Girls

The little neighborhood of small rustic cabins wasn’t far, and as she walked, her thoughts lingered on the man’s comment about everyone liking Will.

She’d never heard anyone referred to in such a way in her old life.

People might say a man was respected or admired.

But to be liked was another thing entirely, wasn’t it?

The last cabin in the row was a bit more dilapidated than the rest, with a shingle missing here and there and a bit of paint peeling on the columns that held up the little front porch.

Charlotte barely noticed, however, because Will himself was sitting in a chair on the porch next to an upturned wooden crate.

On it sat a bottle of Bevo, a brand of the nonalcoholic near beer that was the only legal option these days.

Will was reading a newspaper in his lap.

“You certainly do keep abreast of current events,” said Charlotte from the short walkway.

Will’s head snapped up from the paper. When he caught sight of her, warmth spread across his face as if he’d suddenly been hit by a ray of sun on an overcast day. Charlotte could only smile back, the stiffness she seemed to carry constantly now melting into softness.

“I like to know the news of the world, even if I’m only in a quiet little corner of it.”

“I have some news,” said Charlotte as she trod the couple of steps onto the porch, “though it might not be as fascinating as what’s going on out there.”

“I always like to hear what you’ve got to say, new or not.

” He stood in greeting, as a gentleman should, and she thought for a moment that he might embrace her—as a gentleman should not.

She could imagine such a greeting with great clarity, however, almost as if it were happening in some alternate universe, and she had only to shift somehow into that other reality to feel his arms around her.

“Let me get you a chair.” The screen door squeaked, and he disappeared inside.

She watched him go and saw a tidy room with a short brown upholstered sofa and a kitchenette to the left with a little round table—oak, she guessed, like the much larger one in the breakfast room back in Boston.

There was a doorway on the right through which she could see a made bed. Will’s bed.

“Here we are.” He came back through with the chair and set it on the opposite side of the crate. “It’s cool out here.”

“It’s lovely,” she said, and she meant it, though a couple of battered kitchen chairs and a crate were hardly beautiful. The breeze lifted the last bit of dampness from the back of her neck.

“Can I offer you a drink? Water? Bevo, if you like?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” She was a bit thirsty, but she was anxious to tell him her news. “Mr. Patrillo called me into his office just now.”

His face fell. “What did he want? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Will. Apparently the Randolfs were quite pleased with the trip and told him so. He’d like me to accompany you on future excursions.”

His face broke wide with delight and he tapped the flat of his hand on the table. “No kidding!”

She grinned back. “No kidding.”

They sat on the little porch talking and eventually she accepted a Bevo, which she did not like at all, and he laughed at the face she made.

As the sun set and the temperature dropped, the breeze grew chilly, and he invited her inside.

It would have been a reputation-incinerating event for a young woman to enter a man’s home alone back in Boston. But this was not Boston.

Will sliced up an apple, a wedge of hard cheese, and some bread. “I’m sorry I don’t have much to offer. I generally eat meals at the men’s commissary.”

“How did you end up in this place?” she asked.

“I’ve worked for Fred Harvey for seven years. That’s a long time at the Grand Canyon, where there isn’t much of a town, and most everyone is single. It’s not the ideal place to raise a family. Folks meet their mate—or don’t—and they move on.”

“But you’ve stayed.”

He shrugged. “I like the work, I’m paid well, and I have a bit of freedom with the driving.”

“You haven’t met your mate here.”

His expression dimmed slightly. “No.”

Charlotte hoped he would expand on this one-syllable answer, but he did not.

“So you’ve been here long enough to earn your own little home.”

“House, I guess,” said Will. “Not sure if it qualifies as a home. The Park Service doesn’t need it at the moment—you may have guessed that from the maintenance they’ve neglected. But if their ranks expand, I expect it’ll get a paint job, and I’ll be back in the dormitory.”

The apple, cheese, and most of the bread were gone, and they were sipping tea when Charlotte noticed the surprisingly ornate clock ticking away on a side table. It read eight o’clock.

“Is it really that late?” she asked, startled.

“I’ve never known it to be a minute off,” Will said. “I wind it regularly.”

“I was planning to go to the movie at the community hall.”

“What’s it called?”

“I don’t know. Some silly thing. I was only going to keep an eye on Billie and that Robert. There’s something about him I don’t like.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, he made a crass comment about drunken Indians that I didn’t particularly care for when Billie was… under the weather. But it’s his age, mainly. I’m fairly certain he’s much older than she is.”

“He didn’t look that old. Early twenties? No older than twenty-five, I’d wager.”

Charlotte glanced again at the clock. It appeared to be an antique in good condition. The base was dark wood, beautifully carved with branches and little birds. The glass domed out from the face, encircled by a thin brass band.

“How old is she?” Will asked in the silence.

“Young.”

“How young?”

She turned her gaze to him, and he tipped his head. “You know you can trust me.”

Charlotte let out a resigned sigh. “She’ll be sixteen in three weeks.”

“Fifteen?”

“You’re sorry you asked.”

“Well, it certainly solves the mystery of why you’re so protective of her.” He wrapped up the last bit of bread in paper and took the plates over to the small sink. He looked back at her still sitting at the table. “We’d better get going.”