"Good night."
Cleavis Rhy yawned broadlyand then shook his head as if to clear it. Glancing down to the tablet he carried, he carefully wrote in the number of tins of wool fat that he'd found on the shelf. He hadn't planned on doing inventory today. But he'd never seen a better day for it.
Apparently, every soul in Vader either expected the store to be closed or weren't tempted to venture too close. Cleav would have welcomed a bustling business. He had no desire to be alone with his thoughts. His thoughts were too troubling.
"Stupid, clumsy clodhopper!" he muttered to himself. He'd thought with his trousers instead of his brain! He deserved exactly what he'd gotten! He sighed derisively at himself. He'd gotten exactly nothing!
"You have made your bed, and now you have to lie in it," his mother had declared last night.
"Lying in it" was exactly what Cleav had planned to do as he'd hurried through his bath. However, his mother had stopped him on his way upstairs.
"I wish to speak with you in the parlor, Cleavis," she'd said in her most disagreeably haughty tone.
Cleav was not a man to be bullied about by his mother, but long years of experience in dealing with Eula Rhy's snits had taught him to let her speak her piece. Otherwise, he would never hear the end of it.
"Of course, Mother," he'd answered politely and indicated that she should precede him across the threshold.
Walking across the room to lean with studied casualness against the mantel, he gestured toward her favorite chair. "Please sit," he told her. "It's very late and I'm sure that you are tired."
Eula Rhy made herself comfortable before she realized she'd been outmaneuvered. It was going to be very disconcerting—and not very effective—to scold her son while looking up at him. "You have married this young woman in good faith," she began adamantly.
Cleav nodded agreement.
"Needless to say, she is not what I had in mind for you. I very much doubt that she is what you had in mind for yourself."
"That's neither here nor there, Mother," Cleav said. "The deed is done."
"It certainly is," Eula agreed. "She'll undoubtedly turn our home into her own, as is her right as your wife. Have you thought about that?"
Cleav looked annoyed. "What are you suggesting, Mother?" he asked. "Esme is a very intelligent young woman. If you think she'll be raising chickens in the pantry and hogs in the dining room, I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment."
Eula Rhy raised an assessing eyebrow. "I'm glad to hear you defend her. You'll undoubtedly be doing a great deal of that in the future."
Cleav closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sure my wife and I will have our share of problems to work out," he said evenly. "Like all couples, time and familiarity are in our favor."
Mrs. Rhy gave a lofty snort that could only be described as a huff. "Time and familiarity are not usually the only things newlyweds have to base a future upon," she told him.
"There are other things," Cleav defended hastily.
"Name one?" she challenged.
One thing immediately came to mind, but Cleav was loath to speak it to his mother.
"Well . . . there's ..." he dissembled.
"Do you love her?" The question snapped at him like a whip.
"I . . ." he hesitated. "I believe that she loves me," he said finally.
The older woman gave him a moue of disbelief. "She loves you or she loves a fine house and nice clothes?"
Cleav's mouth thinned to a line of displeasure. "Esme is not like that, Mother," he said with complete confidence. In his mind's eye he could see her sitting in his shadow at the pond. Her eyes sparkling with delight as she watched the fish and then darkening with desire before she threw herself in his arms.
"She cares for me, Mother. Do you find that so hard to believe?"
Eula Rhy looked her son up and down as if to take his measure. "I believe she might think that she loves you," his mother admitted. "But even that won't last long if you continue to trample her pride as casually as you did her mother's hand-crocheted tablecloth."
Even this morning, as he counted the salves and drops on the medicine shelf, the truth of his mother's words continued to haunt him. He'd pulled Esme tight against him with all the finesse of a green farm boy at a house of ill repute. His desire had led him to act crassly.
