The Bride of Willow Creek(36)
“Unless the Dryfus house burns down,” Sam said. He ground his cigar under his boot heel.
Marsh nodded. “Unless the Dryfus house burns down. We’ll assume that won’t happen.”
So far everything was quiet enough that Sam suspected he was paying a fortune in overtime for nothing. Well, better safe than sorry. Tonight was his turn to patrol the site after midnight. It didn’t cost him when he took a turn.
Clovis Petry came up to them without a by-your-leave for interrupting a legal consultation. “Would the name of your long lost wife happen to be Angelina Bertoli?”
There was only one reason why the postmaster would know his wife’s name. Before he answered Clovis, he turned to Marsh. “If you’re charging me for this brief basically useless conversation, turn off the clock because we’re finished.”
Marsh smiled. “I’ll add today’s consultation to your bill.”
“Why do you want to know my wife’s name?” he asked Clovis.
“If she’s Angelina Bertoli, then I got a letter for her from Chicago. Came general delivery. I’ve been holding it for three days.”
“I’ll pick it up tomorrow on my way to the site.”
“It’s from a man.”
Marsh Collins laughed. “What’s the letter say, Clovis?”
“I don’t read people’s mail!” Offended, he stamped away.
Sam looked across the yard at Angie. She was the best-looking woman in the bunch. A fact he was becoming more and more aware of, to the extent that he’d experienced the warmth and fragrance of her next to him in the pew and he’d spent most of the sermon thinking decidedly unchurchlike thoughts.
This was becoming a problem. But he couldn’t get it out of his mind that she was a grown woman, a wife, who had never been kissed by a mature man.
Chapter 7
Monday dawned bright and clear. The crisp air was dry and cool, a perfect wash-day, according to Molly Johnson. As this was the first time Angie had put up a full wash, she was no expert on the subject.
But she would be after today. In short order she learned that doing major laundry was a far cry from washing a few delicate items by hand. Laundry was hard, backbreaking work.
She’d filled all her large pots at the pump, hefted them up on the stove, heated the water to boiling, then lifted down the pots and filled the laundry tubs. One tub for scrubbing, one tub for rinsing, one tub for soaking the whites in bluing. After getting down on her knees and scrubbing clothes on the washboard, she carried heavy wet laundry out to the line, pinned the clean items to the rope, and returned to the kitchen to wash the next batch.
Stepping back from the line, Angie waved at Molly, who was hanging clothing in her backyard, then she placed her hands against the small of her back and pressed aching muscles. Her whites looked as white as Molly’s, she thought with pleasure, judging Molly’s wash against her own. Of course, she hadn’t tackled Sam’s clothing yet. And hadn’t decided if she would.
Looking down the valley, she noticed that all across Willow Creek clotheslines sprouted brightly colored clothing that waved in the light breeze like tattered petals.
There was something satisfying about knowing that all over the district women worked in hot sudsy kitchens, cursing stubborn stains, putting up the weekly family laundry. Tomorrow, the same women would spend the day sprinkling and ironing. And Angie was connected by gender and history to all the women past and present who cooked and cleaned, washed and mended for their men and families.
Of course, this wasn’t her family, she thought with a tiny pang. The small petticoats and calico dresses fluttering on the line had nothing to do with her. Lucy and Daisy were the fruit of another woman’s womb. If Sam had been able to afford a divorce, Angie wouldn’t have known that Lucy’s drawers needed mending or that Daisy’s blue sash had faded nearly to white. If Sam had been able to afford a divorce, Angie would have been living alone and sending her washing to the nearest Chinese laundry as she always had.
Turning abruptly from the clothesline, she strode toward the flap of Sam’s tent and flung it open to peer inside.
His crumpled sleeping bag lay on a cot. There was a low, beautifully built side table holding a lantern and a book about geologic formations. He’d made a clothes tree with enough branches to support several sets of clothing.
Feeling like a trespasser, Angie glanced over her shoulder then bent and stepped inside to examine his clothing. Everything needed washing. There wasn’t a pair of pants that didn’t look as if he’d crawled around in heavy dirt while wearing them. Which she supposed he had, up at his claims.