Page 49 of All We Thought We Knew
A strange sedan sat in front of the house when I arrived. I cut off the engine, curious who’d come to visit Gertrude. In the time I’d lived on the farm, she had never invited guests. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure she possessed any friends or family.
High-pitched laughter greeted me as I came in the kitchen door. A young woman with midnight-black hair, styled in the latest fashion, and ruby-red lips sat at the table with Gertrude.
“I told him he had another think comin’ if he thought I’d go on a second date with him,” she said with a southern twang. A loud cackle followed.
I closed the door. The sound drew Gertrude’s attention.
“It’s about time you got home. We’ve been waiting.”
I drew to a stop, confused by her angry tone. “I’m sorry. Did you ask me to come home early today?” I glanced at the young woman sitting with her. Her dark eyes gave me a once-over, seeming to sum me up from head to toe.
Gertrude waved her hand in the air. “Never mind. Come meet Ivy Lee Culbertson.”
I set my purse on the counter and stepped toward the stranger. She didn’t rise, so I offered my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Culbertson. Are you a friend of Gertrude’s?”
She looked at me as though I’d said something ridiculous. “I’m your new boarder, silly.” Her eyes traveled around the kitchen. “I wasn’t sure I’d like livin’ out here in the boonies, but now that I’m here, I think I’ll enjoy the country.” She waggled her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “You got any cowboys out here? I’ve never met one before.”
I stood silent, baffled by the conversation.
Ivy Lee referred to herself as our boarder, but Gertrude hadn’t mentioned anything about taking in renters. With few motels or rental properties available in town, I’d heard people were opening their homes to the wives and families of servicemen, as well as those who came to work at the military installation. I’d never considered allowing a stranger to move into the farmhouse, mainly because Gertrude valued her privacy too much. I’d tried to respect that in the months I’d been here, often retiring to my room right after supper, so she could have the parlor to herself to read or listen to one of her favorite radio programs. It was totally out of character for her to open her door to a young woman neither of us knew.
But when I looked to her for answers, she wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Miss Culbertson.” I forced a smile. “Would you excuse Gertrude and me for a moment? There’s something I need to discuss with her. We won’t be long.”
I didn’t wait to see if Gertrude followed and headed for the bedroom at the foot of the stairs. It had once been Richard’s, but now it was where I slept. When she appeared a moment later, I closed the door.
“Would you care to tell me what’s going on?”
She sniffed and jutted out her chin. “I rented a room to Ivy Lee.”
“I gathered that,” I said, folding my arms across my belly. “Don’t you think you should have consulted me first?”
“This is my house. I can do what I want.” She gave a blasé shrug. “Don’t need your permission.”
I took a deep breath to calm my rising ire. “I’m not saying you do, but this is my home, too. It would’ve been nice to at least have some warning that you intended to allow a stranger to move in.”
“You were a stranger to me when you first got here,” she said, challenge in the words. “That didn’t stop you.”
I stared at her. “I was your son’s wife. Your daughter-in-law. Surely you see the difference.”
She turned away. “Well, it’s too late. I’ve already told her she can have the room.”
“Which room?”
She rolled her eyes. “The one upstairs. I wouldn’t give away your room without telling you first.”
Her answer didn’t make me feel better.
“May I ask what you know about her? Where did you meet her?”
Gertrude proceeded to impart the tale of how she’d gone to town to the market—“Since you aren’t around to help me anymore”—and ran into Clara Bontrager. Clara, a widow in her seventies, had taken in boarders, but her home was full and couldn’t accommodate Ivy Lee, whose friend was staying at Clara’s house.
“The poor child had no place to go,” Gertrude said, her sympathetic expression unpersuasive.
The account sounded factually correct, but I wasn’t convinced Gertrude had done this solely to help the young woman currently seated at the kitchen table.
“How much is she paying you for room and board each month?”
