Part 9 (1/2)

I concentrated on s.h.i.+fting the pedals slowly and carefully but forgot to look at the street as the car lurched forward. A boy on a bicycle swerved wildly around us to avoid getting hit, and Rosita ran to get Esmeralda from the front yard and take her inside. Nonetheless, I had the car moving forward.

”Other side of the road, Louisa! Quick!” I swerved the car over to the right just as a car came around the corner. Down the street I drove, in first gear, as the engine started to sound like it was whining.

”Now listen to that sound. That high pitch means the engine is working too hard and needs to be brought into second gear. s.h.i.+ft again.”

I did what she asked, but the engine made a hideous grinding sound. I hoped we were out of Robert's range of hearing.

”Make it smoother! You're grinding gears. It should be a smooth movement between pedals, like dancing.”

Dancing? I could not imagine Martha Gordon dancing. I shot a look over at her, and again she read my mind.

”I'm not a Baptist, Louisa. Presbyterians do dance. Watch out!”

I looked back at the road and realized I had drifted the car toward the middle. I overcorrected, and we both leaned heavily to the right. ”I'm going to get better at this,” I promised. ”Don't you worry.”

Her forehead was starting to show beads of perspiration. ”Let's head out of town before you kill someone.”

The next hour flew quickly. I thought it was a wonderful first attempt. As we pulled back up to the house, a bit jerkily, I asked Miss Gordon if we could plan for another lesson next Sat.u.r.day. She groaned and said, ”Lord knows I'm not a miracle worker.” She got out of the car and went straight up to bed. We didn't see her again until the next morning.

Robert walked around his car, giving it a thorough inspection to check carefully for any dents or sc.r.a.pes. But he had a look of happy amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes, I noted, irked, as we ate a meal of cold leftovers for dinner.

The next morning, I wasn't sure if Miss Gordon had fully recovered from giving me a driving lesson, but she was up early, coffee was brewing, and breakfast was underway.

”Feel better?” I asked.

She only raised an eyebrow at me and continued to set the table.

Robert was sitting at the table with coffee in his hand, reading through his sermon notes. He glanced up at me. ”Louisa, tomorrow afternoon I want to take you and William back to the copper pit. I have to run an errand out that way and thought it would be fun to see it again.”

Fun? I winced. For me, the copper pit and fun just didn't belong in the same sentence.

So on Monday, Robert drove us back to that gaping hole in the earth. He wanted to show us the process of how they extracted the ore when the workers were there.

Like the first time, I feigned interest. ”Robert, why do you like copper mining so much?”

”I don't know,” he said, rubbing his chin. ”I find it fascinating. I worked at the mines when I was a teenager to save up for college. I even studied metallurgical engineering in college. I wanted to run a mine someday, but my father wouldn't hear of it. He was determined I would carry on the ministry.”

I wasn't going to let this rare moment of openness pa.s.s without getting a few questions in. ”Is that how your family ended up in Copper Springs?”

”My grandparents emigrated from Scotland back in 1872. My grandfather had worked in coal mines in Scotland and was able to get a job here in Arizona. My father and Aunt Martha were raised right here in Copper Springs. And then my father went to seminary, built the First Presbyterian Church and the parsonage, too. Later, I picked up where he left off.”

”You didn't feel a call to the ministry?”

He gave a short laugh. ”No, not really. Only my father's call.”

I tilted my head and looked at him. ”Are you sorry?”

He gazed at the pit as he answered. ”Sometimes. Sometimes I am. I'm not sure I'm as good a minister as I might have been at running a mine.”

”But, Robert, you're a wonderful minister,” I said, meaning it. Robert's sermons might be lackl.u.s.ter, but he was a true shepherd to his flock.

In a charming way, his cheeks flushed as he kicked a stone on the ground.

Just then, a group of B-25 bombers flew overhead. Because of Arizona's perpetually sunny weather, the military had built airstrips in the desert to test planes. Robert picked up William to point out the planes, and the three of us watched them circle the sky, mesmerized.

We stopped again at the Prospector's Diner in Bisbee. Just as we were heading to the door, I spied the rude waitress inside. ”Wait.” I put a hand on Robert's arm as he held the door. ”Before we go in, tell me what you want to order.”

”Why?”

”Please? Just tell me now, and let me do the ordering.” I already knew what William would order. Robert c.o.c.ked his head slightly, bemused, but went along with my request.

Inside, the rude waitress asked if we wanted to sit at a booth or a counter. ”The gallery,” I said imperiously. She led us to a booth, and we slid into it.

”Dollface, whatcha gonna have?” she asked, chomping on her gum.

”A pair of drawers. Blond with sand for him. Draw one in the dark for me. For the boy, paint a Bow Wow red and add bullets. A Jack Benny for the gentleman, a splash of red noise for me. Oh, and add dog biscuits.”

The rude waitress looked at me without expression for one long moment. Then recognition slowly flickered in her eyes. Without even flinching, she turned back to holler a word-for-word repeat to the cook, Vern, of what I'd ordered.

”Please tell me that you didn't memorize diner lingo just in case we came back here,” Robert said, shaking his head in disbelief after the waitress left.

”Perhaps. Perhaps I did just that,” I said airily.

”How in the world did you learn it?”

”I read an article about it in a magazine at the library.”

”Happy, now?” he asked, arching an eyebrow, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

”Yes, actually, I am,” I said smugly.

Not much later, the waitress brought back our orders and placed just what I had ordered in front of us.

”Thanks, Soup Jockey,” I said, grinning.

William started in on his hot dog, slathered in ketchup, with a side of baked beans. Robert looked down at his grilled cheese and bacon sandwich. And I crumbled crackers on top of my tomato soup.

The waitress returned to refill our coffee mugs. Before leaving our booth, she looked right at me and said, ”Dollface, if you're ever looking for work, come on back and tell Vern that Wilma sent cha.”

”Ah, vindication,” I said as she left to wait on another table.

Robert just shook his head, grinning. ”Louisa, G.o.d broke the mold when He made you.”

”Pardon? How so?” I stopped stirring my coffee and looked up at him.

”You're just one of a kind.” He reached over to help William pour even more ketchup on his hot dog.