Fifteen“I’ll take June,” Tate said. “Goose needs you in the kitchen.”
They’d returned from the chapel, June still wrapped in blue, and Bridget watched as Tate helped her upstairs. What now? She wanted to call after them. She still wished Tate would send for Doc, but June did appear to be all right, bruising aside.
Half an hour later, a dozen peeled potatoes lay in the bottom of Bridget’s kettle. Goose stood at a table, flour strewn across. He wore a conical paper hat he’d fashioned out of newsprint, and a white bed sheet pinned shoulder to shoulder reached to his feet. He looked clean and made Bridget think of a wall, prepped and waiting for a sign to be painted on it. Holding a ring from a mason jar, he punched along the sheet of dough he’d rolled across the table. His perfect circles n
