area. She flashed a brilliant smile at each of them, her upswept eyelashes beating against high, rounded cheeks. Everything about her appeared rounded but for a waist so tiny Thorliff could hardly keep his eyes on her heart-shaped face.
‘‘I’m looking for Mr. Thorliff Bjorklund.’’ Her voice purred like a kitten being stroked.
‘‘I am Thorliff.’’ Clearing his throat took two swallows.
‘‘Ah, but I expected someone more . . . ah . . .’’
‘‘Older?’’ Phillip’s smile dimmed in comparison to the brilliance of hers.
‘‘To be frank, yes. Are you indeed the author of The Switchmen ?’’
Thorliff paused to settle himself. ‘‘Yes.’’ Can’t you think of anything more witty or bright than yes? Repartee is needed here .
She extended her hand, palm down, wrist limp, as if used to being bowed over. Or kissed. The thought of which sent Thorliff’s heart into overdrive. Pure thoughts, pure thoughts, he mentally screamed at himself.
‘‘I am Mrs. Karlotta Kingsley, of the Kingsleys of Chicago.’’
Thorliff wanted to look to Phillip for some kind of assistance, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the beauty mark on the outside corner of her right eye, thus keeping his gaze from her cupid’s bow upper lip and other portions of roundness. He could feel the heat blazing up his neck.
‘‘We have just moved to Northfield, and I am suitably impressed with the culture here, especially the quality of the newspaper for running such a delightful saga.’’
‘‘Ah, thank you. I’d like you to meet my employer, Mr. Phillip Rogers, publisher and editor.’’ Thorliff stammered only slightly, much to his relief.
Phillip stood and bowed over the hand now extended to him. ‘‘Charmed, I’m sure. Now, how can we be of service?’’
‘‘We are moving into the Wilson house, and I would like to receive your paper. I also heard that you are publishing The Switchmen in book form?’’
‘‘Yes, we are in the process now.’’
‘‘Ah, delightful.’’ She turned her attention back to Thorliff. ‘‘I was hoping that I could invite the author to tea so we could discuss how he got started. Perhaps you would give me a few hints, as I dream of becoming a writer myself.’’
Thorliff’s throat felt like the victim of a North Dakota dust storm.
‘‘Of course Mr. Bjorklund would be most delighted to have tea with you. You may leave a message here as to the day and time. We do our best to make new folks feel welcome in our delightful town.’’
Thorliff sent Phillip a pleading glance before smiling back at the woman before him. Why did he feel like a sacrificial lamb or what he assumed a sacrificial lamb might feel like?
‘‘I would indeed be delighted.’’ Not that I have any advice to offer, but . . .
She extended her hand again, the softness of it covering slender bones. Thorliff mimicked his employer with a slight bow.
‘‘Thank you, gentlemen, and Mr. Bjorklund’’—she tapped his upper arm with the tip of her closed fan—‘‘I look forward to our time together.’’ With another incandescent smile, she turned and minced her way out the door, her dark hair trailing from under the brim of her pert hat.
‘‘Well, her prow sure came through that door before the rest of the ship.’’ Phillip fanned his face with a paper from his desk. ‘‘Whew.’’
Thorliff choked on what he was going to say and hoped the heat he could feel flaming his entire body could be attributed to the coughing jag. Inhaling, he could still sense her perfume hanging in the air, despite the smell of printing ink.
Had a twister just blown through the room or what? And what about my pledge to purity of heart? Father God, I want to see you .
C HAPTER E IGHT
Late June
‘‘Telephone,’’ Annabelle said, coming into the study. ‘‘It is long distance.’’
Elizabeth looked up from the letter she was writing. ‘‘For me?’’ Who would be calling me? she thought as she laid down
‘‘I’m looking for Mr. Thorliff Bjorklund.’’ Her voice purred like a kitten being stroked.
‘‘I am Thorliff.’’ Clearing his throat took two swallows.
‘‘Ah, but I expected someone more . . . ah . . .’’
‘‘Older?’’ Phillip’s smile dimmed in comparison to the brilliance of hers.
‘‘To be frank, yes. Are you indeed the author of The Switchmen ?’’
Thorliff paused to settle himself. ‘‘Yes.’’ Can’t you think of anything more witty or bright than yes? Repartee is needed here .
She extended her hand, palm down, wrist limp, as if used to being bowed over. Or kissed. The thought of which sent Thorliff’s heart into overdrive. Pure thoughts, pure thoughts, he mentally screamed at himself.
‘‘I am Mrs. Karlotta Kingsley, of the Kingsleys of Chicago.’’
Thorliff wanted to look to Phillip for some kind of assistance, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the beauty mark on the outside corner of her right eye, thus keeping his gaze from her cupid’s bow upper lip and other portions of roundness. He could feel the heat blazing up his neck.
‘‘We have just moved to Northfield, and I am suitably impressed with the culture here, especially the quality of the newspaper for running such a delightful saga.’’
‘‘Ah, thank you. I’d like you to meet my employer, Mr. Phillip Rogers, publisher and editor.’’ Thorliff stammered only slightly, much to his relief.
Phillip stood and bowed over the hand now extended to him. ‘‘Charmed, I’m sure. Now, how can we be of service?’’
‘‘We are moving into the Wilson house, and I would like to receive your paper. I also heard that you are publishing The Switchmen in book form?’’
‘‘Yes, we are in the process now.’’
‘‘Ah, delightful.’’ She turned her attention back to Thorliff. ‘‘I was hoping that I could invite the author to tea so we could discuss how he got started. Perhaps you would give me a few hints, as I dream of becoming a writer myself.’’
Thorliff’s throat felt like the victim of a North Dakota dust storm.
‘‘Of course Mr. Bjorklund would be most delighted to have tea with you. You may leave a message here as to the day and time. We do our best to make new folks feel welcome in our delightful town.’’
Thorliff sent Phillip a pleading glance before smiling back at the woman before him. Why did he feel like a sacrificial lamb or what he assumed a sacrificial lamb might feel like?
‘‘I would indeed be delighted.’’ Not that I have any advice to offer, but . . .
She extended her hand again, the softness of it covering slender bones. Thorliff mimicked his employer with a slight bow.
‘‘Thank you, gentlemen, and Mr. Bjorklund’’—she tapped his upper arm with the tip of her closed fan—‘‘I look forward to our time together.’’ With another incandescent smile, she turned and minced her way out the door, her dark hair trailing from under the brim of her pert hat.
‘‘Well, her prow sure came through that door before the rest of the ship.’’ Phillip fanned his face with a paper from his desk. ‘‘Whew.’’
Thorliff choked on what he was going to say and hoped the heat he could feel flaming his entire body could be attributed to the coughing jag. Inhaling, he could still sense her perfume hanging in the air, despite the smell of printing ink.
Had a twister just blown through the room or what? And what about my pledge to purity of heart? Father God, I want to see you .
C HAPTER E IGHT
Late June
‘‘Telephone,’’ Annabelle said, coming into the study. ‘‘It is long distance.’’
Elizabeth looked up from the letter she was writing. ‘‘For me?’’ Who would be calling me? she thought as she laid down
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