“Oh, Mama. I miss you. There are so many things I wish we could have talked about.”
Sighing, Angie turned the cup between her fingers.
When she had packed for this trip, she hadn’t imagined she would stay in Willow Creek longer than overnight. She had pictured herself settled in a small house waiting for the divorce to be final. She had brought the teacup as a piece of home and history to comfort her when the days were lonely and the wait seemed long. She had wanted the teacup as a reminder of family and of her mother.
What on earth would Emily Bertoli have thought if she’d seen where Angie was living now, still waiting for her life to begin?
Deciding she needed something to see and touch that had not belonged to Laura, Angie placed the cup and saucer on the windowsill above the sink where she would see them every time she washed dishes or prepared a meal. The cup and saucer would remind her that this situation was temporary. Eventually she’d go home again, this time as a free woman.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of cooking and chores and cooking and cleaning and cooking and thinking about what she would say to Sam when he finally came home.
But first there was supper with the girls. As usual they rolled their eyes and turned sullen when they ran inside and found her waiting instead of Sam.
Angie had warmed wash water for them and watched diligently as they scrubbed their faces and hands, then brushed dust off their dresses before they sat down to supper.
“What did you do all day?” She hadn’t seen them since lunch and that made her uneasy. “I thought we agreed that you would tell me where you were.”
“We got busy,” Lucy said. Her eyes brightened when she saw the fried chicken, but heaven forbid that she should admit she was pleased.
“You didn’t go to Myers Street, did you?”
“No,” Daisy said solemnly. “Papa told us not to.”
Angie passed the mashed potatoes. “So where were you?”
Closing her eyes, Lucy held the bowl of mashed potatoes under her chin and let the steam bathe her face. Angie had no idea why she would do such a thing. “We played kickball with the Mueller children for a while, then we went to the site and watched Papa work.” She considered Angie through a sweep of pale lashes. “I want to be a carpenter when I grow up.”
Daisy’s mouth rounded in surprise. “I thought you wanted to be like Miss Lily.”
“I want to look like Miss Lily when I’m not being a carpenter.”
“Girls can’t be carpenters.” Daisy looked to Angie for confirmation.
“Well, I’ve never heard of a female building a house,” Angie said slowly, “but there’s no reason why a woman can’t hit a nail with a hammer. I’ve done that myself.”
“Was Papa a builder back when you knew him?” Lucy asked.
Angie touched her napkin to her lips and nodded. “My father hired your papa and his father to build new cabinets for our kitchen. That’s how I met your father.”
The first time she’d seen Sam, she had stopped abruptly as if she’d run into an invisible wall. She’d never seen a man as handsome or as natural. He took her breath away and made her heart race even before he looked at her and before she heard his voice. He stood in the backyard beneath the big elm measuring a length of wood balanced across two sawhorses. His expression was intent and focused, his hands sure and quick with the yardstick.
The young men of Angie’s acquaintance, brothers or cousins of friends, wore stiff-looking suits and polished shoes and slicked their hair with pomade. She knew boys didn’t dress as formally at home, but she didn’t often see them in their private casual mode. It was strange to observe a man without a jacket and with his shirtsleeves rolled up. She could see the hair on Sam’s arms, which seemed shockingly scandalous and made her feel warm and strange inside.
Eventually he’d looked up and smiled, and her heart stopped. Dark hair and dark mustache. Blue eyes. Sun bronzed skin on his hands and face and throat.
At age sixteen, she had believed in heaven and happy endings and love at first sight. And she had seen all three in Sam Holland that first day, that first minute.
“Angie?” Daisy tugged at her sleeve.
“What?”
“You have a funny look on your face.”
“I was just . . .” She looked around, her gaze settled on the three pots of water heating on the stove. “I was wondering where you keep the bathtub. It’s Saturday night. Bath night.”
Daisy lowered a drumstick to her plate and her face tightened. “I don’t need a bath.”
“We use the laundry tub for baths,” Lucy said, wiping grease from her fingers. “Daisy doesn’t want to take a bath because she doesn’t want you to see her foot.”