“I’ll bet you’re great. Gee—Lizzie—but you’re pretty.” His round face went scarlet as the words popped out and he shifted uneasily under the loose ill-fitting coat that hung from his broad shoulders.
She met his wide-eyed admiration with a smile. “It’s the paint, Lou.”
“No, sirree! You always were pretty. I used to watch you sittin’ beside me in the choir, and when you threw back your head and sort of closed your eyes to sing, I didn’t wonder Sam Goodwin was crazy about you.”
“Is he still organist at the First Presbyterian?”
“Yep.”
“And are you still in the choir?”
“Yep.” His boyish brown eyes dropped. His plump hands twisted the brim of his wide slouch hat. “Guess that’s the most I’ll ever amount to.”
[8]
] “But that beautiful voice of yours—it’s a sin!”
“My Dad don’t think so. Gimcracks, he calls it. I asked him once to give me enough to get it trained,” the eyes lifted with a twinkle, “and I never asked him again.”
She patted his arm sympathetically. “He wouldn’t understand—of course.”