Little Blackbird (23 page)

Tessa slid into the boat like an uncoordinated baby seal, belly first with arms trapped beneath her body weight. She flopped onto her back and stared up at the man with his head haloed by white marshmallow clouds in a faded blue sky.

“Thank you,” she said as he pulled her into a sitting position. She crawled over a bench seat toward Lily and sat. Then she exhaled, trying hard not to start crying again.

“This is Harold Spencer,” Lily said. “He’s one of the men who volunteered to help those who are stranded today.” Lily lifted her oar and paddled in rhythm with Harold.

Tessa hugged her arms around her middle even though the rising sun warmed her cheeks. Soggy air clung to her skin like heated syrup. “How’s the rest of town? Are there a lot of people who need help?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harold said. “Most of the people in the low-lying areas are either under a good bit of water or the roads around them are flooded. Anybody stuck in a flooded home has been pulled out now though. The other men have motor boats, much faster than Bessie here,” he said, patting the edge of the rowboat, “and they picked up people a lot quicker. Mrs. Connelly here flagged me down as I was rowing Mrs. Jolene Harper to her niece on Walnut Street.”

Tessa nodded and looked at Lily. “I haven’t called Mama yet. You think she’s having a conniption about now?”

“I called her. She
was
having a conniption and wanted to know why you didn’t call her first. I told her it’s because Jakob and I live closer.”

“Did she buy that?” Tessa felt too frayed at the edges to try and soothe her mother’s worries effectively.

“Sure,” Lily said. “She was just relieved you were okay. She’d already talked to your neighbor, John somebody, around eight this morning, and he said the whole bottom floor of the building was underwater. She didn’t know why you didn’t call anyone sooner. What took you so long?”

Tessa stared at an armada of clear plastic bowls with blue lids floating past. A spring wreath decorated with pastel, plastic eggs and tied with a soggy blue ribbon weaved in and out of the current that pulled everything downhill, back toward the epicenter of the pond. “I was sleeping. You know a cannon blast can’t wake me when I’m out.” She glanced at Lily again. “Thanks for coming to get me.” She blinked away her tears. “Where am I going to live?”

“Hey, now,” Lily said, pausing in her rowing and sliding closer to Tessa. She looped her arm around Tessa’s shoulders. “It’ll dry up, and we’ll get in and assess the damage. Then, we’ll fix it. You can stay with us if you can tolerate a two-year-old holy terror, and you know your mama will take you in.” Lily squeezed Tessa’s shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it seems right now.”

“’Cause it seems awful,” Tessa said. A toothbrush sailed past on miniature rapids.

“Wanna grab breakfast at the diner? Isn’t that your usual routine?” Lily asked.

“Is it even open?” Tessa tucked her short brown hair behind her ears.

“It is. I drove past it on my way to you. Downtown is dry. How about a huge stack of waffles smothered in cane syrup?”

Tessa smiled for the first time all morning. “You think they’ll let me eat inside? I smell like a river rat.”

“You’ve smelled worse. Remember when you were on that boiled cabbage kick? Dang, you reeked for days.” Lily nudged her elbow into Tessa’s side.

Tessa couldn’t help but chuckle. She
had
stunk. Nobody liked the smell of cabbage sweating out of the pores, not even the one sweating. “I think I might need biscuits and gravy too. For comfort, you know.”

Lily grinned and lifted her oar. “Mr. Spencer, will you please row two damsels in distress who are in desperate need of Southern cooking toward downtown? We would be much obliged for your kindness,” she said, laying on her Southern accent thick.

Mr. Spencer shook his head and mumbled, “Silly girls,” but he was smiling and changing directions, pointing the bow toward Scrambled.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to all of my early readers and helpers—Becky, Carla, Hank, Jason, Jenna, Karissa, Tia, Tracey, and Vanessa—for your insight, knowledge, encouragement, and questions that helped give this story wings. Thanks to Julianne for your beautiful cover design and for always taking the time to help me, no matter what. Special thanks to my readers. Your support of my dreams is priceless.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Jennifer Moorman was born and raised in southern Georgia, where honeysuckle grows wild and the whippoorwills sing. She considers herself a traveler, an amateur baker, and a dreamer. Jennifer lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where she is currently working on her next novel,
Honeysuckle Hollow
. Her enchanting debut novel,
The Baker’s Man
, is available in print and as an e-book. To learn more about Jennifer, visit her website at
www.jennifermoorman.com
.