Work Song (34 page)

A goodbye to a good woman costs a piece of the soul, and having already paid once when I departed from Rose in that earlier time, not much was left in me after I spoke this one. The old feeling of leaving love behind came back like a terrible ache; pernicious bachelorhood was no joking matter. With regret I watched Grace’s face, so near and yet so far, for the effect of my news. I hoped she was not going to cry, because that affliction is catching. But there was a glisten as her eyes met mine. Her chin came up an inch in the Butte way, and I was bracing myself for a landlady-like farewell when she uttered instead:

“Morrie? I’ve never seen any of the world except Butte. I—I want to go with you.”

Something like a galvanic shock went through me. Could I have heard right? Her tremulous look took the question away. Mutely I gestured to the two vacant spots at the table.

Those she took care of with boardinghouse dispatch. “Griff and Hoop could scrape by on their own. They pretty much run the place anyway.”

Still wordless, I touched a finger to skin.

“No sign of hives whatsoever,” she reported bravely, “yet.”

“Ah,” I recovered my voice. “This is most serious, Grace. We must examine this matter before we do anything rash. Let us say you board the train with me tomorrow—”

She nodded tensely.

“—in full sight of this town and everyone you have ever known—”

She could not help sending a lip-biting glance toward the wedding photograph of Arthur Faraday, on duty at the sideboard.

“—in which case,” I finished, “we should perhaps do it as man and wife.”

Grace blinked.

“Or, if you prefer,” I spread my hands in offer, “woman and husband.”

My proposal took full effect. She covered her mouth with her hand as if a hiccup wanted out. When the hand came away, there was a rosy glow of anticipation on her face, dimple and all. “You mean it?”

“I do. As you shall hear me repeat at an altar, if you so wish.”

“Grace
Morgan
?” she tested out with a lilt very close to music. “I’ll need to make a clean start on the name.”

I gave her a smile that went back to the beginning before this one. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My imagined Butte and its Richest Hill and Morrie’s beloved library could not have taken shape in these pages without the unflinching help of librarians in the right places: Rich Aarstad, Ellie Arguimbau, Karen Bjork, Jodie Foley, Lory Morrow, Barbara Pepper-Rotness, Brian Shovers, and Zoe Ann Stoltz of the Montana Historical Society; Anne M. Mattioli and Christine Call of the Butte-Silver Bow Public Library; and Sandra Kroupa, Rare Book Curator of the University of Washington Libraries. My heartfelt thanks to them all.

I’m similarly indebted to the cadre of talented souls who vitally aided in one way or another in the making of this book: Liz Darhansoff, Charles Hulin, Marshall J. Nelson, Becky Saletan, Elaine Trevorrow, Marcella Walter, Mark Wyman; and Carol Doig, this lucky thirteenth time.