Bella’s Legacy

By Luanna Meyer

As a young girl in Michigan, Bella Colquhoun knows she’ll be a writer. It’s not easy for a woman in the 1920s to have a career of her own. She decides to never marry, but Ray promises to support her dreams. No one could have anticipated the railroad accident that would claim his life, teaching Bella things she never wanted to know about investigative journalism.

 

She moves to New York to attend Columbia University, but she never loses touch with the families back in Michigan, brought together by a nephew given Ray’s name. She eventually researches the family tree and decides to record the interrelated stories of extraordinary women who never quite became who they thought they would be. Across four generations, Bella traces the stories of women confronted by societal challenges as they struggle toward more than ordinary lives.

 

Bella’s family saga begins with European immigration to the Midwest and moves with the younger generations across 20th century America into the Pacific and even Africa. From women’s suffrage to civil rights, the Titanic to the Great Depression, these women face conflict with spouses and family members related to gender roles, childbearing, politics, and education. Yet, they find the strength to be someone, driven to rise above the challenges of a work-in-progress America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480872196

Luanna Meyer

Luanna Meyer has traveled all over the world. She received her PhD from Indiana University and held faculty positions at several universities in New Zealand and the USA. As a professor of educational psychology, she has published thirteen non-fiction books and been invited to speak in nine countries. She and her husband live in Honolulu, Hawaii. Learn more at http://luannameyer.com.

Book preview

Bella’s Legacy

A Novel

Luanna Meyer

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Copyright © 2018 Luanna Meyer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7220-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7219-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914398

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/11/2018

Contents

Chapter 1 Prologue

Chapter 2 Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

Chapter 3 The Teacher

Chapter 4 The Portfolio

Chapter 5 The Letters

Chapter 6 The Marriage

Chapter 7 In the Early Morning

Chapter 8 The First Time

Chapter 9 The First Child

Chapter 10 Another Journey

Chapter 11 The Color of Her Eyes

Chapter 12 The Color of The Gloaming

Chapter 13 The Dawn of a New Day

Chapter 14 The Telephone Girl

Chapter 15 The Long Visit

Chapter 16 Waiting

Chapter 17 A Long Moment

Chapter 18 Falling in Place

Chapter 19 The Tip of the Iceberg

Chapter 20 Two Encounters

Chapter 21 Career Planning

Chapter 22 Nursing School

Chapter 23 The Navy

Chapter 24 News from Hawaii

Chapter 25 The Perfect Couple

Chapter 26 Chicago-Bound

Chapter 27 World War II Ending

Chapter 28 Big Girls Don’t Cry

Chapter 29 The Accident

Chapter 30 The Weight of His Shadow

Chapter 31 Life in the Trailer

Chapter 32 Catholic Guilt

Chapter 33 Rose’s Tribute

Chapter 34 The Little Rock Nine

Chapter 35 This Much is True

Chapter 36 The Chess Game

Chapter 37 Mellie’s Plea

Chapter 38 When the Bough Breaks

Chapter 39 The Children’s Unit

Chapter 40 Leaving Home

Chapter 41 Broken Glass

Chapter 42 The Adventure

Chapter 43 Conflict at a Distance

Chapter 44 The Peace Corps

Chapter 45 Almost There

Chapter 46 It Had to Be You

Chapter 47 The Affair

Chapter 48 Settling Down

Chapter 49 Christmas in Wisconsin

Chapter 50 The Fire

Chapter 51 Diamonds and Rust

Chapter 52 Operation Babylift

Chapter 53 An Accusation

Chapter 54 New Life

Chapter 55 The Meeting

Chapter 56 The Conference

Chapter 57 Despite Everything

Chapter 58 The Separation

Chapter 59 Redemption

Chapter 60 An Epiphany

Chapter 61 The Birthday Card

Chapter 62 Epilogue: The Legacy

Acknowledgements

For Niamh and all the girls who are the women of tomorrow

1

Prologue

New York City, 1985

W hat would my life have been like, she wondered, if I’d had a child?

Bella stared at the family tree tracing four generations of the Michigan and Wisconsin roots she knew so well. Her own parents were long since dead, she had no siblings, and as far as she knew there were no others still alive related to her by blood. The names on the sheet of paper lying on the coffee table before her, including her grand-nieces Dallas and Bianca, were not hers to claim—not really. They were Ray’s.

She was closest to Lily. Lily, who was also married to a railroad man. Lily, a woman who knew as she did what it meant to lose someone precious—suddenly, unspeakably.

If Lily were here now, what story might she tell?

Years ago, she’d written an exposé for a New York magazine about work—and death—on the railroad. The historical chronicle of labor relations and growth of the unions were there, as were the violent opposition of the bosses to improvements in working conditions and, ultimately, the cold-blooded killings of demonstrators seeking change. Even in those early days of her career, she had a reputation for the quality of her writing and her work; there was little doubt the article would be published. But she’d wanted this project to be far more than just another example of well-researched investigative journalism. The story went beyond being a piece of writing, it was a piece of her life.

Bella knew what railroad jobs in those days were really like—for the men who were the workers, for the women who kept things going, for their families. She forced herself to remember everything.

No wonder, then, she’d written something else as well. She’d penned a brief memoir about events that would always loom large in her past. It was a time filled with hopes for the future, then one unplanned moment led to tragedy and shattered everything. Writing the memoir had made her cry—something she hadn’t done often since those days—so she’d filed it away and never shown it to anyone.

I’m sure I wouldn’t have thrown it away. It must be here somewhere.

She got up from the sofa where she was enjoying her second cup of coffee and went to what was once an extra bedroom. It had been decorated as an office for years, for her writing, looking nothing like a bedroom any more. Crowded shelves lined two walls—overflowing with the hundreds of books read since moving into the Manhattan brownstone.

My God, I really ought to give away some of them after all these years of living here, she thought.

She knew she wouldn’t. Books were special, and she never managed to let go of those she treasured—their page numbers marking each journey.

It had to be in one of the file cabinets next to her prized Stickley desk. She switched on the desk lamp first, casting a soft yellow glow through its mica shade, then turned on the larger, matching floor lamp.

There, that’s plenty of light to find what I’m looking for.

Two large oak file cabinets (she smiled, they matched her arts and crafts style desk perfectly, pleasing the eye) accommodated the mass of folders grouping her writings into time periods and topics. The memoir had to be there. Thank goodness, she was sufficiently organized she could narrow down the most likely location, chronologically, to the bottom two drawers of the cabinet furthest from her desk.

Each file drawer was crammed full of first drafts and corrected proofs for the many articles written during her earliest years living in the city. More than one silverfish escaped from the oldest folders, dated as long ago as the 1920s.

She must have searched through a dozen folders before she found it. The file was labeled according to the year the story ended, 1925.

Has it really been that long ago?

She pulled out the yellowed, slightly crisp pages of the typed manuscript. She struggled with a smile at first, but it was a sad smile and almost immediately overwhelmed by a rush of grief. The Color of the Gloaming seemed to leap off the page, gripping her emotions without pity. She sighed, laying the folder and its contents onto her desk, standing there for just a moment before picking up the pages to take them back into the living room to read.

An hour later, Bella indulged her feelings, trying to recall as much as she could of those years. What had Ray felt like? She pictured his wonderful, piercing blue eyes and could almost hear the words. He had often told her he loved her—and he said it in the way every woman wants to hear. She wasn’t sure she was ever again loved that way in her entire life, but then, they had only the one year together before the tragedy. Who knows what it might have turned into after a lifetime of marriage and family?

Pushing the memories aside, she glanced again at the family tree drawing still lying before her, next to her half-empty coffee cup. Some of the names were those she had known personally: Lily, Lily’s mother Serena and daughter Maggie, and, more recently, lovely Dallas. Then, too, there was Bianca, whom she had never met but knew so much about. In many ways, Dallas, and Bianca—cousins—were the culmination of these four generations of women.

Every one of us a different person. Or are we so very different? What if someone were to record our stories—at least those moments that we remember, the moments that matter most?

Bella thought about how—through the ages—women had been expected to bow to the needs of family, children, and, of course, men. Was it truly in women’s nature to be the glue that holds it all together, the spine that keeps those close to them standing tall when outside forces try to beat them down? Don’t women have a right to be somebody too, to achieve their own hopes and dreams, not just support those of others?

In her heart, Bella believed women needed to be more than window dressings, more even than nurturant wives and mothers—ever pretty and quietly strong. She wanted them to roar in demanding the fairness and justice in the world they were expected to support in their families.

Surely, things were improving. Bianca, Dallas, even poor little Mellie had managed to achieve some of their dreams. Had Lily done so? In a way, yes—at least to the extent possible in her time. Or was that part of the excuses women make for giving up, settling for the dreams of their husbands, sons, even daughters?

Bella had once thought it best to have a plan for one’s life. She still wanted to believe that. But the years had taught her few lives are lived according to plan—even when there is one.

In the end, Bella thought, all we have is the power of the moment, as everything in our lives becomes part of the past. It is moments we remember most, so much more than years, so much more than events.

It is the moments that form the stories—the chapters of the ordinary lives of extraordinary women.

I’m the writer. Maybe it’s up to me.

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2

Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

St. Michaels, 1883

"Daddy, teach me how to milk? Letitia stood near her father who was sitting on the three-legged stool, leaning his body into the dairy cow as he worked. Fascinated by his smooth swift motions, she watched and listened as the steady pure white streams splashed rhythmically into the pail beneath. As for Lettie, as her father called her, she was stroking Maybelle’s soft, dark gray nose—well, the cow was Maybelle" only to her. None of their dairy cows had names, except to Lettie.

If you asked, Lettie would say she loved horses more, but she didn’t have a horse. And even an eight-year-old knew horses don’t really know who you are, whereas cows were almost affectionate. Maybelle and the others followed Lettie with their eyes when she walked nearby, and she was positive Maybelle brightened up the minute she touched her face. Their farm team of Mollie and Bigly never did that, unless being offered a carrot. Cows didn’t demand a carrot for their attention.

You’re a bit young, Lettie.

Letitia stiffened, protesting, But Fred is only six, and even Albert is a whole year younger than I am. You’re teaching them!

Of course, I am. That’s because milking is a man’s job. Women help with the milking if there aren’t enough hands around to get the job done. We don’t need you to milk. Besides, there are too many women’s jobs you need to do around the house to help your mother.

It’s not fair, Lettie said. Milking is lots more interesting than sewing buttons or scrubbing floors. Why do they get to do everything that’s fun just because they are boys?

Her father chuckled to himself. Smiling affectionately, he glanced up to meet his daughter’s eyes as she glared at him with one of those terribly stern looks on her pretty little face. This was just like Lettie, always arguing and asserting herself. He wondered why she was so different from her two older sisters. It’s how things are, Lettie.

I don’t see why. After all, Grace and Monika are happy to do all that house stuff. You never see them out here helping with the cows. I think they like sewing buttons!

This wasn’t going to be easy. Let’s talk to your mother and see what she thinks. He smiled and gave her a wink, hoping that would be the end of it.

Letitia knew the conversation was over for now. But she wouldn’t forget. Once her father finished the milking, he would come back into the house to sit down for breakfast and that would be her chance to settle this, once and for all.

Her mother surprised them both by saying, I think she could do it, Matthias. With the two older girls, I really have plenty of help around the house. She’s older than the boys and really good with animals, so she might be quick to pick it up.

Matthias bit his tongue. He had expected his wife to back him up, but then again, she did tend to speak her own mind. He should have settled it with Lettie, now there was no going back. There was going to be a girl in the barn milking the cows.

Ja, okay, we’ll try it. But Lettie, milking is hard work. You have to get up very early every morning—there are no Sundays for the cows that need to be milked—and you’ll be working again after school every day.

Oh, Daddy, I know I can do it. And I already get up early to watch!

And you must keep up with your schoolwork, Letitia, said her mother, who was a stickler about that.

I’m better than anyone in school in both math and reading. I can do it.

Don’t brag, Letitia, said her mother, frowning now. And don’t underestimate the commitment you are making. A floor can be scrubbed in the afternoon rather than in the morning, and the ironing can be put off a few hours. But cows can’t wait.

I know perfectly well that milking cows is more important than scrubbing floors, Lettie thought to herself, knowing enough not to say the words out loud. That’s partly why I want to help with them, not floors and buttons.

That’s right, Lettie, her father chipped in, looking quite firm. If I teach you how to milk, you cannot waste my time. If you don’t learn quickly so the job gets done, if you start taking it easy, if you miss a day—that will be it. No second chances!

Letitia kept a serious face, but inside she was smiling. She knew not to gloat about this victory, but it was a victory nonetheless. It was also the first ending to what was to be a succession of battles: Letitia against traditions; Letitia struggling to be her own person. She didn’t know it yet, but Maybelle was only the beginning.

3

The Teacher

St. Michaels, 1885

T he community that became St. Michaels, Wisconsin, was initially little more than a cluster of a dozen or so simple houses constructed by early settlers emigrating from Kennfus, a tiny village in Prussia. Hard-working and religious, they also built St. Michaels Catholic Church with a school for the children situated alongside—in pride of place in the center of their new village. They wanted the best education possible for the children. As was typical at the time, High German was the language of instruction and teachers had to be bilingual. Letitia was starting sixth grade when Miss Haider was hired, fresh from completing her teaching qualification at the Milwaukee State Normal School. She was Letitia’s teacher for the next three years, quickly becoming her favorite teacher ever.

Miss Haider had twice traveled as far away as Kentucky to see the famous Derby, and she had visited art museums in Milwaukee and Chicago. She was to become Letitia’s window to the world outside of St. Michaels. She loaned out her many books to the children at school, and because Letitia was such a good reader, Miss Haider gave her first choice of those too difficult for many of the others. By age ten, Letitia had practically memorized her favorites: Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. She loved The Swiss Family Robinson as well, especially the fact that the mother was portrayed as intelligent and resourceful—not just a background figure. Maybe that was why Letitia overlooked her annoyance about all four children in the adventurous family being boys. That too worked out, however: Jack, the cleverest of the children, was a girl in her version. Whenever she re-read the tales, it was no wonder Jack became Lettie in her mind.

But it was Black Beauty that captured her imagination. Many years later, she decided it was this one book—more than any other—that had steered her life in the directions she had taken. Her mother’s re-telling of the story for her at age five led to her obsession with drawing horses, even twisting pipe cleaners into make-believe stallions, mares, colts, and fillies roaming the Wild West. At barely eight years of age, her parents had given her a copy of the book for her very own, proud of their precocious Lettie who could read every word.

Letitia certainly made an impression on Miss Haider. In a discussion about the Kentucky Derby in class, Letitia asked about the horses, Is it hard for them to run so fast?

Well, yes, that’s why only the best and fastest horses ever get to race in the Triple Crown, Miss Haider answered.

But how are they treated? What if they break a leg? Letitia knew that on a farm, a broken leg meant the horse was shot. What happened to race horses? How often did they have to be killed?

If that happens, it’s a terrible accident. I don’t want to mislead you. They are put down, so it’s very sad.

Letitia went silent, but she waited for Miss Haider at the back of the classroom after all the other children had gone. Fighting back the tears, she asked if her teacher knew the book Black Beauty.

"I do. It’s wonderful. Anna Sewell is one of the authors I most admire. Have you read Black Beauty?"

Yes, I have my own copy. It’s my very favorite book. I’ve read it three times. I love it, but it’s a very sad book too.

Miss Haider wondered where this was leading. What should she say?

I know you are an enthusiastic reader and have lots of interests, but do you have a special interest in horses?

Oh yes, Miss, I love horses. I love all animals, but horses most of all. I can’t do much to help with our farm horses, Mollie and Bigly, but I am very good with them. Sometimes I imagine I will have my very own horse when I grow up.

I have seen some of your artwork, Letitia, and now that you mention it, I’ve noticed you drawing little horse figures around the edges of your papers when your work is done.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to not pay attention. It’s just sometimes I finish my work right away, so drawing horses is what I do until the next lesson!

Yes, that’s fine, Letitia. I wasn’t worried. You are an excellent student and you always work hard. But I wonder if we can find a way for you to use your love of horses every day, rather than wait until you might have one of your own.

Letitia was intrigued. She knew what she loved, and she knew what she wanted. Miss, I want to be an artist when I grow up. There are lots of paintings of horses, but most of them don’t look right to me. They look like the horse is flying or something. Horses don’t gallop like the pictures in our history book, do they? You’ve seen them run at the Kentucky Derby, so you must know.

It sounds to me like you will want to study anatomy and biology, so you know what animals really look like when you do art. And you could learn about the work of other artists you enjoy. Miss Haider was impressed by this small girl who was so intelligent and so curious about everything. She couldn’t resist touching Lettie’s shoulder as she leant down slightly and asked, What can I do to help?

Letitia smiled broadly. She knew she had her work cut out for her. But there would be people who would listen to her and help her. Her parents may not know much about art, but they had let her do the milking and caring for the animals rather than expecting her to learn girl-type chores around the house. And now Miss Haider was challenging her to have a plan, to be more confident she could work towards achieving her goals. She was certain she wanted more than someone else’s ideas about what she should do and be.

4

The Portfolio

St. Michaels, 1895

L etitia opened the old trunk where her treasures were stored, looking for the yellowed, tattered copy of The Swiss Family Robinson from her childhood. She remembered how wonderful the illustrations were. Johann David Wyss must have been so talented! Not only did he write this fantastic adventure tale depicting the most interesting family imaginable, he was the illustrator as well. She especially loved his animal pictures. Obviously, it was geographically impossible for Wyss’ fantastical collection of animals to be together in one location, much less on some island miles from any other land mass, but that hardly mattered. Almost anything can seem real on the well-written printed page with beautifully drawn pictures to make the story come alive.

She devoured books but had no desire to be a writer. It was true she sometimes adapted stories, like making the boy Jack Robinson a girl named Lettie. But that was just for fun, and being an author wasn’t part of her life plan. What she wanted—what she had always wanted—was to be an artist.

Like most girls from farm families in this part of Wisconsin, she stopped going to school after eighth grade. School was still a privilege at the time, and eighth grade seemed to her parents more than enough for a girl. Both were German immigrants who came to America as children with their families, arriving with just enough money to purchase land for an unbelievably low cost. Land was cheap: it had been taken by the government for almost nothing from Indians forced to move west by the colonizers, who had grown increasingly clever at crafting treaties for their own benefit. Her parents knew little of this history and shared local prejudices towards the tribes whose land they now occupied. The newspaper printed a letter sent by one of the village founders to family still in Bavaria about a wilderness that lacked any roads for travel other than Indian trails—missing the irony of the obvious. In their minds, European settlers were courageous pioneers taming a previously uninhabited territory, attracted by a so-called new world. It certainly offered the invaders a better future than the poverty and persecution they left behind in the old country after the 1848 war. The Indians they displaced weren’t so fortunate.

Letitia wanted to complete high school, but she was needed at home. First there was the milking. The herd had grown larger over the years and her brothers Fred and Albert had taken on heavier duties now that they were older—more manly stuff than milking cows. Then too, she had to help care for her younger brothers and sisters.

Letitia’s more grown-up relationship with Miss Haider began with her volunteering to help with the younger students during her last year in school. She enjoyed reading to them, watching their faces light up with excitement as she made the stories come alive, often substituting the children’s names for characters in the stories. Miss Haider discovered how good Letitia was at tutoring those having trouble learning to read. When Miss Haider arranged to pay Letitia from the school budget the following year, her parents agreed she could spend two hours each day at the school, provided she finished her chores. It wasn’t much, but now she could contribute to her family. Best of all, her parents occasionally let her keep enough to buy art supplies, the endless paper, and charcoal pencils she coveted.

And there was more. For the past two years, she had been invited after school one afternoon a week to Miss Haider’s little house on the school grounds. This became her special time with someone she admired, someone who she was sure could show her the pathway towards doing more with her life than being another farmer’s wife. Her older sisters hadn’t complained, but she had watched pretty, young girls turn into tired, bedraggled wives and mothers before they were even in their mid-twenties.

It wasn’t long before the relationship between the teacher and her former student grew to be more than an ordinary friendship. Miss Haider was Letitia’s closest link to her dreams, and the older woman enjoyed the company of this beautiful and bright younger woman who so obviously adored her. Being an unmarried teacher in a predominantly rural area was lonely. Nevertheless, Letitia’s parents were insistent she return home promptly after the once-weekly afternoon teas spent in her teacher’s home—they had heard too many whispers. Two of the mothers tried to match Miss Haider with eligible bachelor relatives; she politely but firmly refused even to meet them. It wasn’t long before the inevitable Quatch created a cloud of suspicion: something wasn’t quite right about this young woman who had no interest in perfectly decent young men keen to marry.

Letitia was excited about today for a couple of reasons. Miss Haider had just returned from her third trip to watch the Kentucky Derby so would have lots to tell. And Letitia had something else on her mind to talk about this afternoon. She replaced the book and other items she had taken from the trunk and closed it. Turning, she reached under her bed to retrieve the portfolio she had designed based on her research on how artists kept their drawings. She had worked hard on a set of charcoal drawings of horses, and they were ready for inspection and advice.

She was going to ask Miss Haider the next step to going to art school.

It’s time, she decided.

Letitia, I have so much news to share! Miss Haider was smiling broadly. Come in, let’s have our tea right away with these lovely little cookies you should like. I want to tell you everything about my trip.

These times with her mentor were the highlight of Letitia’s week, and this week was going to be the best ever. Miss Haider hugged her and gave her a little kiss on the cheek, and Letitia hugged back. She said, Letitia, from now on I want you to call me by my first name, Adaline. Will you do that please? It seems much too formal after all this time for you to still be calling me ‘Miss Haider’ when we are such good friends!

Taken by surprise at this honor, Letitia felt her face flush with pleasure. Are you sure? Is it proper to call you by your first name?

Yes, of course! We know each other so well, you can’t keep calling me Miss! Besides, it makes me feel like I am a hundred years old!

So, it was settled. Adaline it was. Letitia agreed, but wondered what her parents would think. Best not to tell them right away, she thought.

"Letitia, I stopped in Chicago on my way to Kentucky and I met someone amazing. I read in the Chicago Daily Inter Ocean that a famous artist Richard Lorenz was exhibiting at the Chicago Art Institute. He is an equestrian specialist, and his paintings of horses are wonderful. They say he is second only to Frederic Remington in his depictions of the American West."

For what seemed like ages, Miss Haider talked almost non-stop about what she learned in Chicago. She said she spoke with Lorenz about a former student who wanted to be an artist too, and he shared that he lived in Milwaukee and taught privately. Letitia, Milwaukee is so close—maybe we can figure out how to get you there to take some lessons from him.

Letitia could scarcely believe her ears. Would her horse drawings be good enough to impress a real artist?

But before Letitia could respond, Adaline shifted the conversation to the Kentucky Derby and how magnificent the two-year old colts were. She could wait. After all, they both loved horses and she wanted to hear all about the race before she was ready to share her drawings.

After Miss Haider cleared away their empty tea cups and plates, Letitia reached for her portfolio.

Adaline, she said. It felt odd calling her mentor by her first name, but she went on, I brought some drawings to show you. You’ve just seen the most beautiful horses possible, so you can tell me if I’m getting it right. I want you to be honest!

She opened her portfolio to display the first two drawings on the small table. You know all about portfolios and I’ve tried to put together my best drawings. Tell me if these are good enough. Do you think Mr. Lorenz would even be interested in me as a student? The words tumbled out, maybe this really could happen.

Letitia, these are splendid! You have so much talent, and I’ve watched your work become increasingly sophisticated, more and more correct technically. But what is best of all is your drawings make the horses so exciting. This is how horses look and why they have always been so special throughout the history of mankind.

Letitia beamed with pleasure. She’s a teacher, she wouldn’t deceive me or flatter me.

Can I keep your portfolio to look it over more carefully tonight? I’ll return it tomorrow when you come to school for tutoring. Is that okay?

Oh yes, I would be honored, Adaline. Letitia blushed: it still felt awkward to be calling her teacher by her first name.

Oh dear, Letitia, I just realized how late it is. I know your parents want you home well before dark as you still have milking to do.

They rose to their feet, almost in unison, standing barely two feet away from one another. Letitia felt transfixed, barely whispering the first words that came to her, "I feel