The Bride of Willow Creek(15)

“Then sit down,” he said reasonably, carrying the girls’ plates to the table. “All right. Whose job is it to fetch and pour the milk?”

“I’ll do it,” Angie volunteered quickly.

“No, I think it’s Daisy’s job this week.” When he saw Angie’s eyes widen, he added, “Daisy’s very good at pouring milk, aren’t you, Daisy?”

“I’m good at carrying milk, too.”

Daisy’s hint of defensiveness suggested she, too, had sensed Angie’s surprise that she was expected to do chores.

“Daisy manages very well,” Sam said, meeting Angie’s gaze. “She can do everything Lucy can except walk upright.” To his way of thinking, coddling did a child a disservice. Even a child that was disadvantaged. Moreover, he wanted both of his girls to think in terms of what they could do instead of what they couldn’t.

Bright color stained Angie’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean to imply that—”

“I know you didn’t. I’m only saying this so you don’t get the wool pulled over your eyes. For weeks this imp had Mrs. Molly believing she couldn’t carry anything, couldn’t climb up to the counter, couldn’t run errands, and a host of other couldn’ts that excused her from a long list of chores.”

Daisy turned bright red with embarrassment, but she smiled down at her plate.

“She even told Mrs. Molly that she couldn’t brush her hair,” Lucy said, laughing.

Sam glanced at the schoolhouse clock above the table. “Are you going to eat those eggs or just look at them? Get a move on. You don’t want to be late.”

“Did you pack our lunches?” Lucy asked, carefully separating her eggs and bacon before she punctured the yolks with her fork.

“Yes.”

Daisy ate her eggs from the edge toward the middle. “Papa, did you give us bacon sandwiches again?”

“There’s nothing wrong with bacon sandwiches. That’s what I have in my lunch bucket.”

“I hope we get something better when you start packing our lunches,” Lucy said, giving Angie a stare.

“What would you like?”

“Fried chicken. The Saunders twins always get fried chicken in their buckets, and it smells so good.”

“I’d like cake,” Daisy said. “Lemon cake with frosting this thick.” She held her thumb and index fingers an inch apart.

“You want Sunday dinner in your lunch buckets,” Sam observed, shaking his head. “Well, I don’t think you’re going to get it.”

Angie lowered her fork. “Lunch buckets . . . Sunday dinner . . .” Her gaze swung to the stove and cupboards, then settled on Sam with an overwhelmed expression.

“You do cook, don’t you?” He’d simply assumed she would take over the cooking. But when it came to his unwanted wife, he hadn’t yet guessed correctly.

“I can,” she said, dragging out the words. “It’s just that I’ve never had to cook every day, three times a day.”

And she probably hadn’t done more than hand laundry and hadn’t cleaned a house on a daily basis. She’d probably never filled a coal shuttle or shopped for weekly provisions or established a budget.

Because Sam had vowed to get along with her, and because she sat at his table in her wrapper with her braid hanging down, looking soft and rosy, he decided he could bend a little.

“I’ve been cooking breakfast long enough that it’s a habit,” he said, checking to make sure the girls were listening to an example of compromise. “I’ll continue doing breakfast. Then you’ll only be responsible for the lunch boxes and supper.”

He had every reason to expect an effusive eruption of gratitude since he’d just offered a huge concession. Men didn’t cook for women. If word leaked out, he’d be a laughingstock. He was willing to make things easier for her only because he knew it had to be difficult, getting thrown into real life after living in pampered ease.

That was the difference between brick masons like her father and carpenters like him. At some point in historical times, brick masons had convinced themselves and the world at large that they were fricking artists, while the rest of the tradesmen were mere laborers. And, as artists, bricklayers naturally deserved higher pay than mere laborers. They were entitled to support their families in comfort and ease while carpenters, for instance, struggled to make ends meet and had to make do without hired cooks, cleaning ladies, and privately owned covered carriages. Brick masons raised daughters who embroidered, while carpenters raised daughters who mended. That said it all.