She took the milk into the house and then went outside again, crossing the expanse of dirt that lay between the barn and the fence. The wind plucked at her kerchief, as if trying to stop her.
The Russian thistles were a tangle of prickles and stems, barely green. Wiry. Tough. Spikes as sharp as pins.
She pulled her gloves from her apron pocket and put them on. Making a bowl of her apron, she eased her hand past the sharp prickly ends and plucked off a green shoot.
She tasted it.
Not bad. Maybe they could be cooked gently in olive oil, wine, garlic, and herbs. Would they taste like artichokes? Tony loved his artichokes. Or maybe pickling them was the answer …
Tomorrow she’d get everyone picking them and find a way to preserve them.
At noon, when she’d picked as many as her apron could hold, she went back to the house.
Inside, Elsa found the children and Tony already seated at the table for the midday meal.
“I found some grapes,” Ant said, bouncing in his seat, beaming at his contribution.
Elsa tousled his hair, felt its texture. “Bath tonight for a little boy I know.”
“Do I hafta?”
Elsa smiled. “I can smell you from here. Yep.”
Tony pulled off his hat, revealing a strip of white skin across his b
row, and sat down. He downed an entire glass of tea in two gulps, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Rose came into the kitchen and poured her husband a glass of red wine.
Tony dug into his plate of arancini. It was a family favorite: rice balls filled with creamy cheese, swimming in a pancetta-and-garlic-flavored tomato sauce.
Elsa put her pile of thistles into a bowl and set it by the dry sink.
“What’s that?” Rose asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Thistles. I think I can figure out a way to make them palatable. They almost taste like artichokes.”
Rose sighed. “It’s come to that. Italians eating horse food. Madonna mia.”
“Where’s Rafe?” Elsa asked, looking around. “I need to talk to him.”
“Ain’t seen him all day,” Ant said. “I looked, too.”
Elsa walked out to the porch, rang the bell for the midday meal, and waited, looking out over the farm.
The horses and wagon were here, so he hadn’t gone to town.
Maybe he was in their room.
She headed back into the house and went into their bedroom. Sunlight made the pale white walls look golden. A large framed portrait of Jesus stared at her.
The room was empty—just the bed and the chest of drawers she shared with her husband and the washstand with its oval mirror that captured her image. Everything was as it should be, except …
There were marks on the floor, coming out from beneath her bed, as if something had been put under the bed or taken out from underneath it.
She lifted the quilt and looked underneath the bed. She saw her suitcase, the one she’d brought into her marriage, and the box of baby clothes she’d saved just in case.
Something was missing. What?