Page 50 of The Party Line

“Not one bit.” I realized that the music and the energy made the empty house feel alive again. Was that the reason Aunt Gracie kept a radio going most of the time? Did she feel alone in this big place without some noise? I couldn’t remember very many days in either this place or Mama’s house when music wasn’t playing—sometimes turned up to full volume, other times softly in the background, with Mama or Aunt Gracie humming along to whatever was on the radio.

“I’m willin’ to make the omelets if you’ll stir up the pancakes,” Connor offered. “I make a mean open-face omelet or a really good frittata, but I’d have to buy a license to keep my pancakes in the house.”

“Why?” I felt my brow furrow when I frowned.

“They could be used as deadly weapons if thrown at another human being,” he chuckled. “What all do you want to put into the omelet?”

I took down a mixing bowl and headed to the pantry for all the ingredients. “Make agotta goone.”

“And that is?”

“Kind of like a meat lovers pizza. If you can find it in the fridge, then it’s gotta go. Peppers, onions, ham, bacon, sausage, mushrooms ... whatever bits and pieces you find in there. And of course, cheese on the top.”

“Where did you come up with thatgotta gophrase?” he asked.

I left the pantry carrying flour, baking powder, and cooking oil. “I didn’t. Aunt Gracie did. We madegotta gosoup, goulash, and omelets pretty often. She didn’t believe in wasting anything.”

“Neither did my granny, and my grandfather is the same way,” he said as he opened a cabinet door and took out a bowl.

“How did you know where things—”

“Granny set up her cabinets for convenience. Glasses to the left of the sink. Plates and bowls to the right. She said that it made for an easy job when it was time to get them down or put them away. I figured that Miz Gracie might have done the same.”

“Looks like you were right.” I reached for the baking powder and bumped into Connor.

He bent over to get a skillet, and his hip touched my thigh.

“We need a bigger kitchen,” I muttered.

“Why?” He raised up and laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’m rather enjoying this, and like that line in Alan’s song, a little bitty house—or kitchen, for that matter—is all right.”

“That all depends,” I argued.

“On what?”

I thought of one of Jasper’s lines and used it. “That’s an explanation for another day.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Because it makes for sparks?”

I stopped what I was doing and locked eyes with him. “So you felt them, too?”

“Yes, I did.” He held my gaze. “From the first time I met you in that Dolly Parton shirt, there were sparks. If you felt them, then we need to decide what to do about them.”

“Maybe it’s only a passing thing and ...”

“What if it is?” He finally blinked and poured eggs into the skillet on the stove.

“We’ll get over it,” I answered.

“How?”

“The same way I got over chicken pox when I was a little girl,” I told him. “You weather through it.”

“What if it doesn’t go away?” he pressured.

“Then we can see if it’s real or only a flash in the pan,” I suggested.

“I think it’s real,” he said.

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