The Bride of Willow Creek(26)

Loud and boisterous and energetic, Willow Creek was nothing like Angie’s old neighborhood in Chicago. She could remember summer days so quiet and still that she would believe she was alone in the world. That could never happen here. The mines operated twenty-four hours a day and so did the town. A miner coming off shift at midnight could buy a meal at a chophouse or a restaurant or, if he stopped by the bathhouse first, he could dine at one of the hotels. He could drop by a saloon for a drink and a game of poker, or he could find a polka at the dance halls. Whatever a man’s vice, he could find it in Willow Creek at any hour of the day or night.

This thought made her wonder where Sam went and what he did every evening. Usually he didn’t come home until well after dark. Last night the girls had been in bed asleep by the time he quietly sneaked into the kitchen to see if Angie had left him any supper on the stove. She hadn’t.

Tonight, however, she planned to wait up for him. They needed to talk, and she doubted the encounter would be pleasant for either of them.

While she baked bread, she cut up the chicken and reviewed the items she needed to discuss with Sam. And it occurred to her that she had thought more about Sam in the last five days than she’d thought about him in ten years.

Being aware of him began even before breakfast when Sam came into the kitchen to wash up and shave. From the first day, the routine of shaving had fascinated Angie. First he put a pot of water on the stove. Then he took the mirror off the wall and propped it over the sink. Next he washed his face and groped for the towel he had forgotten to lay out.

After Angie had observed the procedure a couple of times, she started heating the water and laying out a towel as soon as she was up and dressed. It was a mistake, of course. Once a woman did a chore, the chore became hers forever after. Now Sam expected hot water and a towel. He did thank her, but even so.

After washing, he stropped his razor. Years of habit made his movements so easy and efficient that he hardly paid attention to what he was doing. Finally he soaped his face and leaned to the mirror, pulling his skin tight before he drew the razor across his jaw. When he finished shaving, he combed his hair and tied it at his neck where it fell naturally into a long curl.

Watching Sam perform his morning toilette almost seemed an invasion of privacy. Maybe that’s why observing gave Angie a delicious forbidden thrill. She had never before watched a man shave or comb his hair. Hadn’t considered that such a simple everyday act might create an odd sense of intimacy.

She wondered if Sam had felt something similar that first morning when she’d rushed into the kitchen dressed in her wrapper with her night braid hanging down her back. For her the incident had been embarrassing and excruciatingly uncomfortable. But what had it been for him? A moment of intimacy? A reminder of Laura?

She didn’t like thinking about Laura, but it was hard not to. This was Laura’s house. Laura’s curtains hung at the windows. Her tablecloth covered the table. Laura had either purchased or made the braided rugs; she’d chosen the chairs and side table in the parlor half of the big room. The dishes and utensils were Laura’s. Angie slept in Laura’s bed, cooked on Laura’s stove, fed Laura’s children, and spent many hours every day being angry at the man Laura had loved.

And being intrigued by him as well. Sam Holland was a handsome man whom Angie had once dreamed about and longed for. When she looked at his mouth, she remembered all the girlhood hours she had spent, dreamily speculating about kissing him. To her shock, she’d wondered about that recently as well.

Irritated by this unwanted line of thought, Angie put the pieces of chicken into a hot skillet, then went into the bedroom and brushed the spring suit she planned to wear to church tomorrow. She had time to change the ribbon on her hat before the chicken finished cooking. Before she peeled potatoes, she finished unpacking the last of her trunks.

Inside, carefully wrapped and padded, she found her mother’s favorite teacup. For a moment Angie sat on the side of the bed, holding the cup and saucer and remembering her mother. In the afternoons, her mother had composed letters at her writing desk with this cup and a teapot beside her. One of Angie’s last memories was of her mother sitting in bed, gazing into the teacup as if she glimpsed eternity there.

Angie turned the teacup between her fingers, examining the tiny rosebuds painted on the china. The roses were as delicate and serene as her mother had been. Angie hadn’t understood her mother’s serenity, and she supposed her mother hadn’t understood the emotional outbursts of her husband and daughter. Angie hadn’t thought like her mother or looked like her. She didn’t have her mother’s stillness or grace, and she wasn’t delicate. She must have disappointed her mother in many ways.