that. What do you do?â
âI are a editor,â said Meg. âWell, more of a writer. Freelance. Educational material. Mostly reading and language-arts stuff ⦠vocabulary worksheets, spelling masters, whatever. You?â
âSubstitute teach when weâre at the point of boiling Nikes for supper. My husbandâs a contractor. Sometimes things are busyâright now, theyâre busyâand sometimes theyâre not. When theyâre not, I slap a steely look on my face and turn into the dreaded Mrs. Ruschman, every kidâs worst nightmare. Then I stomp around and pull rank.â She grinned wickedly. âI love pulling rank.â
She fished a pair of half-glasses out of the purse next to her and put them on, lowering her chin enough to look sternly over the top.
âYouâd scare me, â said Meg. âIâm feeling a little trembly already.â
When Christine had driven away, after extracting a promise to come to supper, Meg separated the daffodils into three jars. It made her happy just to look at them, to lean over and breathe in their scent, and distributing them on the countertops took the edge off the loneliness of the house.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
She ate that night with the Ruschmansâa chicken casserole and peaches. The peaches had to be home-canned; they had flavor. After greeting her with wild enthusiasm, Warren G. Harding lay silently under the table.
âIf you feed the dog from the table, I will put on my glasses and give you the look,â said Christine. âThere is only one bad or disgusting habit he does not have. He does not yet ââshe looked pointedly at her childrenââbeg at the table.â
Christineâs husband, who had been introduced as Dan, was big and broad-shouldered and had hazel eyes like his daughter. The children, Jane and the solemn but friendly Teddy, were making an obvious effort to remember their manners.
Meg found herself witness to what was, evidently, an ongoing debate.
âIf nobody says theyâll coach by the end of the week, we wonât have a team,â said Jane, pushing minced pieces of celery from the casserole to one side of her plate. âYou know, Dad, I canât improve if I canât play.â
Dan set his iced tea down with a thunk. âI canât do it, Janie. I could make it to most of the games, but a coach has to run practices. Lots of practices. I canât. I would if I could. I canât, and Iâm getting really tired of talking about it.â
Christine rolled her eyes at Meg. âBaseball,â she said.
âYou play baseball, Jane?â asked Meg.
âI used to,â the child replied. âBut a team canât get in the league without a coach, and our coach from last year moved, and my parents have other things to do.â
Christine sighed. âI donât know enough! Your dad knows enough, but he doesnât have time. I might, I might have time, but I donât know enough.â
âI do,â said Meg.
Everyone looked at her.
âYou play baseball?â asked Teddy.
âDonât look so surprised,â said Meg. âIâm short but what they call sturdy. Come on, Christine, itâll be fun. Weâll do it together. You do what you can do, and Iâll do the rest.â
âWeâre talking about thirteen kids,â said Christine warningly. âThree or four are decent players; a couple are good; the rest are klutzes. The practice season starts in a few days, and the games at the beginning of May. Are you even sure youâre staying?â
âWith a creek three hundred yards from the house and a climbing rose on the porch?â She scooped up a peach slice and tipped it into her mouth. âAnd a neighbor who cans peaches? Are you kidding? And I love baseball. And I can stand a small percentage of the children I meet. And weâll kick butt. â
Jane looked at her