She could live among these strangers unwanted; invisibility was a skill she’d learned. What mattered now was the baby.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, thinking, You, you, little one, you will be loved by me and love me in return.
Nothing else mattered.
I will be a mother.
For this child, Elsa would marry a man who didn’t love her and join a family who didn’t want her. From now on, all her choices would be thusly made.
For her child.
“Where should I put my things?”
FIVE
Mrs. Martinelli walked so fast it was hard to keep up with her.
“Are you hungry?” the diminutive woman asked as she bounded up the steps and strode past the collection of mismatched chairs on the porch.
“No, ma’am.”
Mrs. Martinelli opened the front door and stepped inside. Elsa followed her into the house. In the parlor, she saw a collection of wooden furniture and a scarred oval cocktail table. Crocheted white doilies hung on the backs of chairs. There were large crucifixes hanging on two of the walls
Catholic.
What did that mean, really? What had Elsa promised to become?
Mrs. Martinelli moved through the sitting room and went down a narrow hallway, past an open door that revealed a copper bathing tub and a washstand. No toilet.
No indoor plumbing?
At the end of the hall, Mrs. Martinelli pushed a door open.
A boy’s bedroom, complete with sports trophies on the dresser. An unmade bed faced a large window, framed by blue chambray curtains. Elsa saw a photo of Gia Composto on the bedside table. A suitcase—no doubt packed for college—lay on the bed.
Mrs. Martinelli scooped up the photograph and tossed the suitcase under the bed. “You will stay here, alone, until the wedding. Rafe can sleep in the barn. He loves that on a hot night anyway.” Mrs. Martinelli lit a lamp. “I will speak to Father Michael promptly. No need to draw this out.” She frowned. “I will need to talk to the Compostos.”
“Perhaps Rafe should do that,” Elsa said.
Mrs. Martinelli looked up. The small woman was a study in contradictions: she moved with the fast, furtive motions of a bird and looked fragile, but Elsa’s overwhelming impression was of strength. Toughness. She remembered Rafe’s family story, how Tony and Rose had come to America from Sicily with only a few dollars between them. Together they had found this land and survived on it, lived for years in a sod dugout they’d built themselves. Only tough women lasted on Texas farmland.
“I think he owes her that,” Elsa added.
“Wash up. Put your things away,” Mrs. Martinelli said. “We will see you in the morning. Things often look better in sunlight.”
“I don’t,” Elsa said.
Mrs. Martinelli studied Elsa for an agonizing moment, obviously found her lacking, and then walked away, closing the door behind her.
Elsa sat down on the edge of the bed, unable suddenly to catch her breath.
There was a quiet knock on the door.
“Come in,” she said.
Rafe opened the door and stood in the opening, his face dusty. He took off his cap, twisted it in his hands.
Then, slowly, he closed the door behind him. He came toward her, sat down on the bed. The springs protested at the additional weight.