Page 43 of In These Hills

Josephine just nodded.

“It’s nice to have another female in our midst,” an older woman added as she took her seat. “I’m Miss Thelma Livvy, a teacher at a local school.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Livvy,” Josephine answered. “I was a teacher, too.”

Miss Livvy’s expression brightened. “What ages did you teach?”

“The younger ones at first, then gradually moved to the upper grades.”

“The upper grades? I’m impressed. You’re still quite young.”

Josephine smiled, appreciating the comment but feeling a homesickness when thinking of her students. And Sarah.

“The fine gentleman at the end,” Miss Mary continued, “is Mr. Roughton Waggoner. He owns a store on the square where you can find everything you need, no matter if you knew you needed it or not.”

More laughter, and the man nodded silently in her direction. Josephine sensed his quiet nature.

Miss Mary continued the introductions—each sharp, warm, and perfectly fitting. The woman had a gift for hospitality and wit, and Josephine resolved to stay on her good side.

Another gentleman entered and conversation ebbed as he took the last seat, casting Mr. Motlow a dismissive glance before tucking his napkin in his lap.

“Mrs. Dunham, this is Mr. Will Parks.” Miss Mary’s tone took on the guarded calm of a teacher heading off a squabble. “Mr. Parks has pledged to open Lynchburg’s first automobile store—once Mr. Henry Ford has his newfangled Model T ready. Haven’t you, Mr. Parks?”

“I sure am, Miss Mary. Might be another two or three years, but mark my words, Ford’s Model T will change the world. And I’m going to do my part to help it along.”

“Hear, hear!” Mr. Prince said a little too loudly.

Mr. Motlow cleared his throat. “I just hope the Model T is a better contraption than Ford’s Quadricycle.” He laughed under his breath. “Some horseless carriage that turned out to be. And for two hundred dollars? Why, I wouldn’t do anybody in this town the disservice of loaning them the money for such a bucket of bolts.”

Mr. Parks flushed crimson. “Don’t start with me tonight, Tom Motlow. I am not in the mood for your tomfoolery!”

Mr. Motlow smiled, his gaze sweeping the table. “I recently heard of a fellow who named his Ford after his wife. He said he did so because he can’t control either one.”

Laughter erupted, and though Josephine was tempted, she didn’t join in. Not seeing Mr. Parks’s reaction. Nor Miss Mary’s, who appeared none too pleased.

“However,” Mr. Motlow continued, “I will say that Ford really is a family car. There’s a hood for Mama, a tank for Papa . . . and a rattle for Baby!”

More laughter, and Mr. Parks shoved his chair back. Miss Mary was behind him in a flash.

“Calla, our wonderful cook, has prepared all of your favorites tonight. Especially yours, Mr. Parks. Chicken fried up golden brown and those candied apples you love so much. We’ve got fried okra and pinto beans with smoked ham hock, mashed potatoes fairly floating in butter, and rolls coming hot from the oven. And for dessert, fudge pie for everybody who cleans their plates.” She winked. “Now let me say the blessing, thank God for the friendships in this house—”

Josephine caught the look she gave Mr. Motlow.

“—then we’ll dig in and eat while it’s still hot.”

Josephine bowed her head. All followed suit except for Mr. Motlow, whose grin lingered beneath closed eyes.

She counted twelve tenants in all. And no sign of Mr. Bobo. Five mismatched dining room chairs lined the far wall, and she got the impression that if more people showed up, Miss Mary would simply squeeze them in.

She had no idea how many rooms were in this house or how many beds each accommodated. But as she headed back into the kitchen, she caught the friendly interactions between tenants, heard the tink of utensils as people ladled sumptuous food onto their plates, and it occurred to her that Miss Mary Bobo’s Boarding House was far more than meals and beds. It was community. Friendship. A place of belonging. And even a place for friendly rivalry, it would seem.

And while the warmth of that settled deep inside her, it also sharpened the ache of standing on the outside looking in.

Later that night, she lay awake on her cot in Calla’s small quarters in the old cabin out back, staring through the window beside her bed into the dark night sky. No stars. No moon. Only blackness. Her heartbeat felt heavy and sluggish in her chest.

The salve Calla had smoothed over her face was pungent and not yet dry, so she kept her cheek angled away from the thin pillow stuffed with cotton batting.

She’d eaten supper with Calla in the kitchen, every bite better than the last. When she’d said so, Calla had waved off the compliment. “Cooking’s about all I know, Josephine. That and cleaning and sewing. I know gardening too, I reckon. I’m fair to middling at growing things.”