The Bride of Willow Creek(34)

After five minutes with a needle and thread, a bright blue ribbon circled Daisy’s hatband, and a spray of tiny pink silk rosebuds adorned the brim. Silently, the girls sat on the bed beside Angie and watched her transform the hat.

“I can sew, too,” Daisy offered shyly. “But not as good as you.”

Lucy nodded. “I made a sampler last year.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Angie said, placing the newly trimmed hat on Daisy’s head. “Sewing is a useful skill.”

The girls stood on the bed and examined themselves in the bureau mirror.

Lucy touched the lace collar. Which, Angie decided, looked ridiculous on the calico dress. “Miss Lily wears lace collars sometimes.”

“Well, if the fabulous Miss Lily wears lace collars then we know we’re in fashion.” They didn’t appear to notice the sarcasm in her tone. Angie sighed, something she’d been doing a lot of lately. As a final treat, she dabbed a tiny bit of rose cologne behind the girls’ ears and her own. “I think we’re finally ready.”

They were ready except for their calico dresses and their scruffy everyday shoes. And the white gloves they were outgrowing. And the little drawstring purses that didn’t match anything else they wore.

“Your hair looks especially nice,” Angie offered as they scrambled down off the bed. They had brushed out any tangles. Sheets of white gold rippled almost to their calico sashes.

“Thank you,” Lucy said, sounding surprised.

Pressing her lips together, Angie led the way into the kitchen where Sam waited impatiently. Did she make so few pleasant or complimentary remarks that Lucy had to thank her? At the moment she felt harassed and overwhelmed. A little pew-time would do her as much good as she hoped it did the girls. Miss Lily, indeed.

“You’ll need your coats,” Sam said, giving Angie a narrowed glance that said See, I’m doing my duty by my daughters. But even he frowned when he saw that Lucy’s coat was too short at the hem and sleeves. “It snowed last night.”

“Snow? In April?” Angie’s mouth dropped.

“Just a light skiff. It’ll melt before noon.”

Daisy took his hand. “Papa, smell me! Angie let us have real perfume!”

“Snow?” When Angie opened the front door, she stared at the ground in disbelief. This was a barbaric place. She couldn’t wait to get out of here. In Chicago the weather would be warm and mild. The tulips and daffodils would have come and gone, and the perennials would be up in her garden. Except it wasn’t her garden anymore. The house she’d grown up in belonged to strangers now.

But no, she couldn’t allow herself to think of that, or homesickness would make her chest ache and bring tears to her eyes.

Squaring her shoulders, she strode through the thin sugary layer of snow and waited for the others in the road. A bank of clouds floated south, leaving clear, crisp sky behind. To be positive about it, the cold air felt good and bracing on her cheeks.

Doors opened up and down Carr Street and families emerged, dressed in their Sunday best. The people across the street smiled and studied Angie curiously as did several others along the block. Angie returned the smiles, wondering if everyone was comparing her to Laura. Probably. And they probably knew that Sam slept in the backyard and wondered what that was about.

She slid a look toward him as he stepped up beside her and gingerly took her arm. This was the first time he had touched her since they entered the pastry shop on the day she arrived. Her impulse was to jerk away because his hand on her arm was vaguely disturbing. By the time they had climbed two streets to the church, all she could think about was the heat of Sam’s fingers burning through her sleeve.

And then, when they were seated inside, all she could think about was his shoulder touching hers and the scent of him, a soapy bathhouse scent beneath the spicy fragrance of bay rum and the light tang of his hair tonic. There were few things she admired more than a good-smelling man. But Sam didn’t need bay rum and hair tonic to smell good. He always smelled slightly like soap, a lot like a man.

Sighing softly, she noticed his hands on his thighs. Strong, square hands with long fingers. Oddly, she had never noticed what artistic hands Sam had. He could have been a brickmason with those hands. Or a poet.

Leaning close and feeling a bit foolish, she whispered, “Do you play the piano?”

His dark eyebrows soared and he smiled. “The fiddle.”

Good heavens. She’d had no idea. Their eyes met and held, and Sam’s smile widened before he looked toward the preacher as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. They knew so little about each other.