and Samuel Mills staking the tender tomato plants in the garden. The May morning had brought thick clouds, heavy with rain to the mountain peaks, promising a storm in the valley below. A good rain was always welcome in the valley, but a hard storm would decimate their crop.
Working in tandem, Luke and Samuel tethered the plants to thin stakes Luke had made in the Millses’ barn. Olivia sighed. Luke spent every spare minute out in the barn, going out just after supper and not coming back until bedtime. It made for a lonely life, but since she could offer him so little companionship, perhaps it was just as well. Apart from the crops and the weather and her health, they seemed to have little to say.
Across the creek, behind the main house, Delia and Charlotte gathered the laundry, which flapped and billowed on the line. Olivia blotted her face with a gray handkerchief that smelled of dust and sweat. She should have borrowed Delia’s washtub last week when it was offered, but she hadn’t the energy. Besides, it really didn’t matter. She and Luke never went anywhere. Who cared if their clothes were less than pristine?
Luke rarely complained. Not about his dusty clothes or the plain, unappetizing meals she set before him every day. Delia had given her several recipes, including the one for dried apple pie she had just taken out of the oven. Delia had even supplied the ingredients. It had seemed simple, but somehow Olivia had failed to master it.
The misshapen pie with its burned edges and pasty middle seemed another reminder of her failed life. Maybe things would have been better if they had gone on to Laurel Grove. But in the end, Luke had decided to stay. Taking the loan Mr. Mills offered was only slightly more acceptable than becoming in effect a sharecropper, beholden to Mr. Pierce for a percentage of their first harvest. Luke thought it best to remain here, helping Samuel with his orchard and gardens in exchange for the shelter of this leaky cabin, a small monthly wage, and a share of the earnings when the crops were sold. If this year’s crops were good and if they could save most of his earnings, perhaps next year they would go on to Laurel Grove. By then his leg would be mended and the baby would be here. And perhaps by then her future wouldn’t seem quite so bleak.
With a rueful glance at the ruined pie, Olivia took up her broom and made a halfhearted attempt to sweep the floor, though the wind would simply blow dust and grit right back inside this pitiful excuse for a home. It was hardly more than a shed, one room wide and two rooms deep. In the front room, a small pine table held a single oil lamp. A threadbare settee, a castoff from Noah Pierce’s wife, sat in front of the fireplace. Beneath the window sat a narrow bed with a corn-shuck mattress that dug into her skin every time she moved. A black cookstove, a table, and three mismatched chairs filled the second, smaller room overlooking the orchard and the creek.
After he’d made the decision to stay, Luke had built a chicken coop, and now the yard was overrun with nervous, jerky hens that fluttered and squawked and pecked in the dirt for june bugs.
The baby moved, and Olivia eased onto the settee and flapped the hem of her apron to cool her face. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, gritty from yet another sleepless night. It wasn’t only the prickly mattress that kept her awake into the wee hours. She worried constantly about the baby. She knew nothing about caring for children. How on earth could she be the kind of mother she wanted to be when she’d had so little mothering of her own? Certainly Mrs. Fondren with her stern eyes and sharp tongue had provided no example. Olivia worried she would turn out like her own mother, lacking the courage and daily self-sacrifice motherhood required.
The letter she’d written to George after this morning’s breakfast crackled inside her pocket. Maybe writing to him was wrong, maybe it was a betrayal of Luke
Working in tandem, Luke and Samuel tethered the plants to thin stakes Luke had made in the Millses’ barn. Olivia sighed. Luke spent every spare minute out in the barn, going out just after supper and not coming back until bedtime. It made for a lonely life, but since she could offer him so little companionship, perhaps it was just as well. Apart from the crops and the weather and her health, they seemed to have little to say.
Across the creek, behind the main house, Delia and Charlotte gathered the laundry, which flapped and billowed on the line. Olivia blotted her face with a gray handkerchief that smelled of dust and sweat. She should have borrowed Delia’s washtub last week when it was offered, but she hadn’t the energy. Besides, it really didn’t matter. She and Luke never went anywhere. Who cared if their clothes were less than pristine?
Luke rarely complained. Not about his dusty clothes or the plain, unappetizing meals she set before him every day. Delia had given her several recipes, including the one for dried apple pie she had just taken out of the oven. Delia had even supplied the ingredients. It had seemed simple, but somehow Olivia had failed to master it.
The misshapen pie with its burned edges and pasty middle seemed another reminder of her failed life. Maybe things would have been better if they had gone on to Laurel Grove. But in the end, Luke had decided to stay. Taking the loan Mr. Mills offered was only slightly more acceptable than becoming in effect a sharecropper, beholden to Mr. Pierce for a percentage of their first harvest. Luke thought it best to remain here, helping Samuel with his orchard and gardens in exchange for the shelter of this leaky cabin, a small monthly wage, and a share of the earnings when the crops were sold. If this year’s crops were good and if they could save most of his earnings, perhaps next year they would go on to Laurel Grove. By then his leg would be mended and the baby would be here. And perhaps by then her future wouldn’t seem quite so bleak.
With a rueful glance at the ruined pie, Olivia took up her broom and made a halfhearted attempt to sweep the floor, though the wind would simply blow dust and grit right back inside this pitiful excuse for a home. It was hardly more than a shed, one room wide and two rooms deep. In the front room, a small pine table held a single oil lamp. A threadbare settee, a castoff from Noah Pierce’s wife, sat in front of the fireplace. Beneath the window sat a narrow bed with a corn-shuck mattress that dug into her skin every time she moved. A black cookstove, a table, and three mismatched chairs filled the second, smaller room overlooking the orchard and the creek.
After he’d made the decision to stay, Luke had built a chicken coop, and now the yard was overrun with nervous, jerky hens that fluttered and squawked and pecked in the dirt for june bugs.
The baby moved, and Olivia eased onto the settee and flapped the hem of her apron to cool her face. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, gritty from yet another sleepless night. It wasn’t only the prickly mattress that kept her awake into the wee hours. She worried constantly about the baby. She knew nothing about caring for children. How on earth could she be the kind of mother she wanted to be when she’d had so little mothering of her own? Certainly Mrs. Fondren with her stern eyes and sharp tongue had provided no example. Olivia worried she would turn out like her own mother, lacking the courage and daily self-sacrifice motherhood required.
The letter she’d written to George after this morning’s breakfast crackled inside her pocket. Maybe writing to him was wrong, maybe it was a betrayal of Luke
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