The Bride of Willow Creek(35)
Flustered, Angie edged away and frowned at the girls, who were swinging their feet and craning their necks to see who was coming down the aisle. Hoping to spot Miss Lily, no doubt.
“Stop fidgeting and pay attention,” Angie admonished them. And she recalled her mother saying the same thing to her.
She turned her own face forward as the choir took their seats and silently chided herself as well. What kind of woman was she to sit in church and be distracted by artistic hands and warm shoulders and the scent of bay rum and the thought of intense blue eyes? It was disturbing that physical thoughts intruded so frequently on what was nothing more than an unwanted but necessary arrangement between her and Sam.
After the service Angie joined the women and Sam joined Cannady Johnson, the mayor, his attorney, and a half dozen other men near the big spruce at the edge of the churchyard. The men lit cigars and talked about the prizefight scheduled for later in the summer.
Sam smoked and listened, watching the women congregate near the church doors. Molly Johnson had taken Angie in hand and introduced her to the group. All the women wore Sunday clothing, Sam noticed with a grimace. So did the children chasing and skipping around the churchyard. Except his. Damn it. Well, Angie would take care of that. He didn’t doubt for a minute.
Ten years ago he wouldn’t have guessed that she’d mature into the kind of woman who would stand up to a man and demand this or that. And back then he couldn’t have imagined how inadequate her demands would make him feel. Until Angie Bertoli reappeared in his life he had believed he was succeeding with his daughters. Now he felt guilty that he couldn’t spend more time with them and appalled that they didn’t own Sunday dresses. He was no closer to Daisy’s operation than he had been a year ago. That was his biggest inadequacy.
Exhaling, he squinted and stared at Angie through a stream of smoke. How many times a day did she remember her father shouting at Sam: You’ll never amount to anything. Did she think of that prediction as often as he did? Did she look at him and thank her stars that she’d spent ten years alone in Chicago instead of wasting her time with him?
Cannady Johnson rocked back on his heels and studied Sam with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s a mighty fine-looking wife you got yourself, Holland.” The men shifted to study Angie.
“Eye-talian, isn’t she? I’ve heard that Eye-talian women are—”
Whatever Peak Jamison had been about to say died when he saw Sam’s cold eyes.
Cole Krieder stepped into the silence. “My first wife was Italian. Best cook who ever stirred up a tomato sauce, God rest her soul.”
“Speaking of your new wife, Sam, we should talk.” Marsh Collins, Sam’s attorney, walked away from the men and beckoned Sam to follow. Sam guessed he’d known they would have to discuss Angie sooner or later. A churchyard was as good a place to talk business as the Gold Slipper, he supposed.
“Is it true that she isn’t a new wife, but a wife you’ve had for several years?”
He wished someone else would involve themselves in a scandal so the gossips could occupy themselves with problems other than his. “It’s a long story, but yes.”
Marsh nodded. “It was a good idea to bring her here. Might help. Just in case.”
“In case I miss the deadline for Daisy’s surgery.” His gaze swung to the children and he concealed a wince. Daisy ran after a half dozen little girls, her lurching gait painful to observe. She bravely insisted that it didn’t hurt to walk or run on her ankle bone, but it was hard to watch and believe her.
His chest tightened and he bit through his cigar, spitting out the piece with a swear word. Sometimes it felt as if the powers that be conspired against him. Three times he’d had the money saved for Daisy’s operation. The first time, a low-down no-good thieving bastard had stolen his nest egg. The second time he’d saved enough, one of his men had fallen off the roof of a project, landed on a pile of bricks, and died. Sam had given his savings to the man’s widow. His last nest egg had gone to pay for a decent funeral for Laura. He’d bought her a silk dress to be buried in, and the best casket Mel Jackson carried, the one with brass fittings and handles. A granite headstone would have cost less, but he bought marble. He didn’t regret his choices; he only wished he could manage Daisy’s surgery, too. And he would, damn his hide.
“If things don’t work out like we hope,” Marsh Collins said, phrasing the possibility with uncharacteristic delicacy, “we aren’t giving up. Having a wife will help. Looks like a stable home and all that. Plus, everyone in this town will stick up for you.”