There was a sound coming from the rec room. Surely she hadn't left the radio on that morning? Leaving Weshelle in the hallway, she slipped out of her boots and walked to the back of the house.
"Bryant?"
He was sitting on the sofa.
"It's me, all right."
"I hadn't expected you."
"Surprise, surprise."
"I'll go get Weshelle out of her stroller. I left her by the door when I heard noise back here."
He followed her. She ignored him as she pulled off the covers and unbuckled the complex of straps.
"Let me put her in the playpen. Then I'll start some supper." Lenore started for the kitchen.
"Since when is the playpen in the kitchen?"
"We keep each other company. I'm in the kitchen quite a bit."
Lenore suddenly remembered that she had left a large batch of papers from work spread out on the table. She'd been working on them evenings, since the report wasn't due until next week. If Bryant saw them . . .
"You can go back and finish catching the news."
"If you don't want me in the kitchen, then maybe that's where I'd better be. Trying to hide something. Maybe a boyfriend after the husband, like you had one before the husband?"
She looked back. "Not likely."
"If you're trying to hide the fact that you went back to work as soon as I left time, give it up. Veda Mae told me. Enjoyed herself, in fact. Like she's been saying, you couldn't wait to show off all that fancy education instead of staying home like a decent mother."
"Weshelle is perfectly fine with Chandra."
She started clearing the papers off the table in the breakfast nook, Weshelle still on one arm. Bryant picked up the transcriptions she had already completed and started tearing them to pieces.
"Stop that!" She grabbed for them.
He pushed her away.
She caught herself on the refrigerator, then backed out of the kitchen. He was still tearing up the papers. Once in the hall, she reached for the phone.
"Wesley is not here," Clara said. "He had to work late. There is a problem?"
"Clara," Lenore said. "I need Dad. I need help now. Bryant is here and he found out I went back to work. Clara, I'm afraid."
"I will come," she said. "I can get there more quickly than I can find him."
"Damn you for a Kraut bitch." Bryant's tone was threatening.
"I have told you nothing but the truth," Clara said stubbornly. "For what you have done, for what you have threatened, she should pick up Weshelle and come away with me now. Right now. This moment."
"She's my wife and it is no business of yours to interfere."
"Why is it not my business? She is the daughter of my husband."
Lenore stood a little helplessly. Clara had read Bryant the riot act. Now, he was starting to focus his generalized anger against Grantville's immigrants against her.
"She is my husband's daughter. She is family. I will call the police if you harm her."
Bryant clenched a fist.
Lenore shrank back. If Bryant hurt Clara, Dad would . . . Dad would be perfectly capable of killing anyone who hurt Clara. Dad had a temper and when it came to Clara he was . . . well, more that way than ever. Protective.
The doorbell rang. She ran so fast that her stocking feet slipped a little on the waxed linoleum in the hall. She saw her boots sitting there and slipped them back on.
Brother Al Green from the Baptist church. Caroline Jones' husband, Trent Dorrman. Standing there, clutching a supply of helpful pamphlets, back once more in another effort to do counseling with Bryant. They had been here before, around New Year's. She didn't have any hopes that their attempts would do any good, but she had never been so happy to see anyone in her life.
"Come in," she said. "Please, please, please, please, please."
The situation had been defused, if that was the word for it. Brother Green was walking Clara back home. Trent had stayed to supper. Nothing but scrambled eggs. Fried apples. She hadn't had time to do anything more.
She left them at the table while she took Weshelle into the nursery to get her ready for bed. When she came back, Trent was just going.
She looked at him, thanked him, and asked how Caroline was. Caroline was fine, he said.
Once the door closed, she looked back at Bryant.
It had been the wrong thing to say. Something else to set him off.
"Caroline," he said. "Prim, prissy Caroline. Meddling Caroline. Caroline who sicced Dorrman onto me in the first place."
"I'm sure that she didn't have anything to do with it. She's a Methodist like me, not a Baptist."