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I’d awake achy and restless.
    Finally, I worked up the courage to ask Mabel about his absence.
    “Oh, he’s out at the Fant Oil Field in Pecos County. They’re drilling a new well and he’s helping to get it started.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why are you asking?”
    I shrugged. “Just noticed he hadn’t been around lately. That’s all.”
    Mabel’s frown deepened. “Well, stop noticing. His comings and goings are not the business of a maid. Now wash out those Mason jars. We’re canning tomatoes today.”
    It was late August and miserable hot. That’s one thing I hate about gardening. The crops come due at the hottest part of the year and you have to fire up the stoves for canning. Mabel had all the windows raised and the electric ceiling fan whirling, but it didn’t do anything except stir the heat.
    Right in the big middle of canning, when Mabel and I had every surface in the kitchen covered with either tomatoes, tomato skin peelings, Mason jars, or vats of boiling water, Mrs. Bossier strolled in.
    “My Lord, it’s hot in here,” Penelope said, fanning herself with a copy of Harper’s Bazaar that the postman had delivered that very morning.
    “Canning, ma’am,” Mabel said.
    “I can see that,” Penelope said a bit peevishly, scooted a basket of tomatoes off a kitchen chair, and set them on the floor, before flopping down to where the tomatoes had just been.
    “Is there something you need, ma’am?” Mabel asked. “Glass of ice cold water?”
    “Indeed.”
    Mabel snapped a finger at me and pointed to the icebox. I turned to fetch the glass of ice water.
    “I’m in charge of the Ladies’ League charity event this year and I’m all out of ideas. I can’t think of a theme that hasn’t been done to death.” Penelope picked up a kitchen towel and dabbed the sweat from her forehead.
    “I thought you were through with that bunch,” Mabel said, screwing the lids down tight on a batch of canned tomatoes she was readying for the boiling water.
    “One can never be free from charity responsibilities and this is my opportunity to redeem my family name.”
    “You didn’t do nothing to ruin the family name,” Mabel said. “It was all Ruthie’s fault.”
    Penelope clucked her tongue. “What did I tell you about mentioning that girl’s name in this house?”
    Mabel pantomimed like she was locking her lips shut and throwing the key away over her shoulder.
    I set the glass of water down in front of Mrs. Bossier.
    “Thank you, Millie.” She smiled at me, but I couldn’t help feeling she was comparing me to the infamous Ruthie.
    And to tell the truth, I was feeling a sad kinship with the Bossiers’ unfortunate former maid, loving a man she could never have.
    Penelope sipped her water and leafed through the magazine. What was she doing hanging out in the kitchen?
    Mabel met my gaze, shrugged, and inclined her head toward the stove. Message received. Get back to work.
    I was snagging blanched tomatoes from the hot water with a slotted spoon and dumping them into a bowl of cold water so I could peel the skin right off them after they cooled down, when Penelope let out a whoop.
    Mabel and I both jumped and turned back to see what had made her squawk.
    Penelope was on her feet doing a little dance and flapping the page of Harper’s Bazaar around.
    “You okay, Mrs. Bossier?” Mabel asked.
    “I’ve got it! I’ve got it?”
    The way she was dancing, I was wondering if she had chiggers.
    Mabel pushed a damp strand of gray hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, wiped her hands on her apron, and went over to Penelope. “What is it?”
    “The theme of the Ladies’ League charity event. It’s right here in Harper’s Bazaar . They’re all the rage on the East Coast.” She thumped the page. “We’re going to hold a dance marathon.”
    Mabel took the magazine from her, read the article about dance marathons. Fascinated, I peered over her shoulder to read it for myself and