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and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. Walter wondered what was she playing at.
    “I put some holes in this spout see.” She held the teapot up close for him to get a good look. Sure enough somehow she’d worked little dings and holes into the pot.
    Her nimble fingers spread the paste thick over the broken spots. She added water to the pot and put it on the stove. “This’ll just take a minute. I’ve been working ever since I met with you. Trying out different ratios of flour and water. Yesterday morning I was eating breakfast and it hit me. You need more than flour to keep that steam in.” She studied the pot like some mad scientist. Such a good, smart girl. He couldn’t let her get mixed up in this mess. What was the old coot thinking?
    “Heard Max saw you today. Said you bragged on him for his number smarts,” Walter said, looking down at his calloused hands.
    “I did and I meant it. Max’s a smart boy, Walt. You and Mae have done a fine job with him.” She smiled at him.
    Walt nodded. “Said he came back to get the grocery list and heard you talking to Mr. Thomas.”
    He looked up at her for the first time. Her eyes were huge. Pain pricked at her throat hoping the boy hadn’t heard Paul call him a gimp. But she didn’t have to ask. She could tell by the look on Walt’s face that he had.
    She closed her eyes and let out a sigh.
    “Thanks for taking up for him. He said he heard you say he wasn’t no gimp and he was a smart boy,” Walter added.
    “Oh, I really think Mr. Thomas is some kind of ugly. Just a big ole bully. Wish I could tell him where to stick his opinions.” She saw fire thinking about that sweet boy hearing a grown man call him names.
    “You’ve got a good soul, Emmie. I’m not sure it’s right to get you mixed up with any of this.” He pointed at the pot that had just started to whistle.
    Sure enough almost no steam was coming out the cracks and holes she had made in the spout. It was all pouring right out the top, just as it should.
    “That looks pretty good there, Emmie.” He took a closer look at the bowl. “What’d you do?”
    “Well, like I was saying I was eating breakfast yesterday and it hit me… oatmeal. I mixed a little of oatmeal in with the flour and tried it out on the pot and it worked like a charm.” She grinned.
    “Did you beat the heck outta your teapot just to learn to make good paste?” he asked, then chuckled, not sure if he was laughing because she’d outwitted him on the paste he’d been making for forty years or because she was so happy with the results of her experiment.
    “Fine job, Emmie. Right fine job,” he said as she covered the bowl of paste with butcher paper. “That should keep it fresher for you. Is that enough or do you need me to mix up some more?” she asked.
    He assured her that the bowl was plenty, gave her a dollar with the promise of another next week. Then he paused for a moment like he had something else to say but thought better of it.

Chapter Seven
    “W here in the world have you been? I was getting worried about you,” Ava asked as she opened the door. She was wearing a large feathered headband, an obnoxiously large feather headband.
    “Ya been plucking a chicken, Ava?” Emmie laughed, pointing to her friend’s forehead. Spotty made an attempt to walk into the house with her. She gently pushed him back to the porch.
    “Wait, here.” He flopped down on under the chair nearest the front door with a disapproving sigh. When Emmie turned back to the door Ava was standing with a hand on her hip, glaring down in her direction. Apparently, she did not find humor in Emmie’s joke.
    “I’m sorry. It’s lovely.” Emmie smiled but then couldn’t help but add as she walked by, “I’m just saying it’s a good thing the dog is staying outside. Or he may try to eat your hair.”
    Ava frowned and patted her curls. “It’s the latest fashion you know—all the rage in Chicago.”
    “Hmm…” Emmie smiled and nodded.