“I’m afraid you gentlemen will just have to take pot luck, when you stop by uninvited.”
Another one of those meaningful looks between the gentlemen. Ahuh. Definitely still cranky.
Ben, sitting beside her, slipped one arm possessively around his wife’s waist. “You’ll haveta excuse Mrs. Forrester, boys. She gets a mite testy when she’s been doin’ nothin’ for cookin’ for you ungrateful derelicts for days on end.”
Although neither had any experience in dealing with marital moods, they recognized when a husband was doing his best to walk a narrow line. And more power to him. The parlor settee wasn’t likely to be near as cozy as that big double bed upstairs.
“And all alone, too, without my help, when I’m the cause,” was Molly’s quiet, dejected contribution. “I’m sorry, Cam. You’ve had so much to do since I’ve arrived—since I’ve been brought here...”
Good humor restored, Camellia reached across the table to clasp her sister’s hand in her own. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Mol. Are you feeling a little better, after this afternoon’s nap?”
“Oh, yes. This weather was perfectly conducive to sleeping, wasn’t it, with all the soft rain and the house so still around us? I just wish—” She hid the beginnings of a small yawn behind one palm, “—I could regain my energy. It seems all I want to do is stay in bed and drowse my life away.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that, when you’re recoverin’.” This was Gabriel, fixing her with the eagle eye of a physician as he took in her appearance. Frail, marked by bruises, diffident, yet carrying the soft bloom of a budding rose. “You hoggin’ that bowl of succotash down your way, Benjamin?”
“Just tryin’ to keep you from inhalin’ every scrap of food Camellia set out. Next you’ll be wantin’ to take the leftovers home.”
“Say.” He brightened. “That’s a good idea. Well, Miss Molly, you just take your time gettin’ back to normal, y’ hear? Quinn Hennessey’s hands not only beat most every square inch of your body; your whole concept of self-worth and self-respect took a beatin’, as well.”
Paul Winslow, Turnabout Sheriff, said nothing in response to this charge. Not a word. But, had anyone glanced his way, they would have seen a fierce light suddenly shining in his dark eyes, and a muscle ominously flickering along the line of his formidable jaw.
After supper, the men, true to form, took their pipes and cheroots and a bottle of applejack into Ben’s study. Who knew what earth-shaking, vitally important, fate-of-the-world subjects might be discussed there? Or, perhaps, they would merely squint like sleepy owls into the smoke and cat-nap.
Molly insisted upon helping in the kitchen, despite her sister’s protests. Leftovers to wrap, dishes to wash and dry and put away, table and stove to clean, things to be set in motion for the morrow. Rolling back the white sleeves of her shirtwaist to plunge both hands into the hot sudsy water revealed the bruises Molly bore that nearly cracked Camellia’s heart in two.
“Oh, Cam, darling, don’t cry,” the girl, catching sight of that wrenched, wracked expression, implored. “It’s all right. I’m feeling better, honestly I am. It hardly hurts at all, now.”
The evening came to a close when Ben, pleading early hours for the next day, finally kicked his guests out into the rain and told them to stay away for a while so as to give everybody a break. Gabe, half-asleep, tugged on his boots, clapped a bowler atop his head, and dragged a reluctant Paul by his coat sleeve out the door.
Leaving the Forresters and Molly to heave a collective sigh and make ready for bed.
Chapter Sixteen
NEXT MORNING BEN PUT his sizable foot down, flat on the floor. Even minus the boot his action provided sufficient emphasis. No. Neither of the ladies was going anywhere today. Had they looked outside? Were they aware of how much rain had fallen, and how much more would still be falling all afternoon, given the sullen skies? Did they appreciate the condition of every street in town, halfway to a horse’s hocks deep in mud?
“Perhaps—a surrey—?” Camellia, aware of her sister’s plans to see the new attorney with Paul as escort, suggested doubtfully.
“Darlin’, a surrey wouldn’t get six yards outa the livery before it’d be stuck till next September. Naw, I’m gonna head on over to the store, but I expect you two to stay put. No sense in either onea you gettin’ mired down, like half the folks in Turnabout are gonna be.”
With a sigh, Camellia untied the sensible apron around her waist to join Ben at the table. Thick slices of bread, toasted in the oven, and eggs fried to exquisite crispness. That was it for breakfast this morning; she’d had her fill of broiling and burning and baking and was ready for a reprieve.
“What do you think, Molly?” she asked as the girl approached. “If we are prohibited by weather from leaving the house, what on earth shall we do with ourselves?”
“I’ve had a great hankerin’ for onea your cherry pies,” Ben submitted around a forkful of sunny runny egg yolk.
“No, absolutely not. If you behave yourself, I may—I just may—put together a supper for you tonight. But nothing special today, understand?”
“Sure, sure, can’t say I blame you.” But his lower lip protruded just a little, in disappointment, and his craggy face appeared so crestfallen that Camellia, carefully folding her lips together against a burble of laughter, gave his shoulder a consoling pat.
Teasing repartee and give-and-take banter though this might be, Molly recognized love talk when she heard it. Her sister had married a stranger, an unconventional man; but she seemed to be making a success of the venture. It hurt Molly, just a bit, to see this type of playful yet romantic relationship that she had hoped for with her own mate. Only to have that dream rudely snatched away and crushed underfoot, like some fragile flower.
She was beginning to believe that cultivating a sense of humor might be one of the most important attributes in a strong, stable relationship.
The two women lingered in the kitchen after Ben, mumbling things not meant for the delicate hearing of ladies, pulled on hat and slicker and headed out to brave the elements. It would be a slow day for business at Forrester’s, for sure, but duty called. Much as he might prefer to stay home lollygagging with his wife, there were things to do at the store.
“Oh, this is nice, with just you and me here,” murmured Camellia, adding more brown sugar to her cup of coffee. “Who would think those great hulking males could take up so much space in a room?”
“I know.” Molly smothered a yawn. “So pleasant. And quiet. I do declare, I could go right back to bed in this weather.”