Remembering those first sweet days of self-deception, Cleav sighed for their loss.
Then he slammed the feather duster against the row of washtubs with a vengeance.
"Damn it!" he complained bitterly. Certainly, another woman might have loved him. But other women no longer mattered.
He wanted Esme. He wanted her to love him.
And he was determined to win her. The question was how.
He could give her anything that she might want. But she wasn't the kind of woman who cared for "things" too much. They were good together in bed, he reminded himself. Was that enough to win a woman's love?
Not the way he was going about it, Cleav muttered to himself aloud.
He hadn't taken her in his arms for days. He was afraid that in the heat of passion he would declare his feelings for her and embarrass the both of them.
But he couldn't stay away. He wanted her. Even now, he wanted her.
That could be a start, but he also had to try to make her his friend—to try to understand her, to share her problems and her life.
The bell over the door jingled, and Cleav looked up to see who the customer was. It was Yohan Crabb.
"What you need, Yo?" Cleav asked him with as much patience as he could muster.
The old man shrugged. "Not a dang thing," he answered easily. "They's just so busy at the house, I thought I'd come down here and see what you were up to."
Cleav made a split-second decision and reached for the ties at the back of his apron.
"I need you to handle the store for a couple of hours for me.
"What now?" Yo asked, nearly dumbfounded.
Cleav handed him the apron.
"There's a price book in the money drawer beneath the counter. If somebody wants to buy something that's not marked, look it up in the book."
Yohan, clearly stunned, attempted to choke out a refusal. "I cain't hardly read."
"Just do the best you can," Cleav said with a wave of unconcern. "I've got something important to do."
"You going to see about them fish?" Yo's question was almost an accusation.
"No," Cleav replied as he headed out the door. "I'm going to see about my wife."
The moon was on the rise as Esme sat before the vanity brushing her hair. The fancy store-bought soap—Mrs. Rhy called it shampoo—left her hair as soft and silky as an egg wash. But Esme's thoughts were not upon the long strands of hair she pulled her brush through. They were on her husband, Cleav.
That afternoon in the sewing room, she had been laughing at a joke Mrs. Rhy had made and wondering at the sudden change in her mother-in-law when Cleav suddenly appeared at the door.
"Mother, sisters," he greeted the other women with polite nods. "If you will excuse my wife, I need to speak with her for a moment."
Esme didn't wait to hear their answers. She immediately hurried toward him.
"What is it?" she asked, but he'd ignored her and simply taken her arm to escort her up the stairs.
His silence worried Esme. She knew he'd been angry at noon. And why not? He'd spent years trying to be a perfect gentleman and live in a gentleman's house with gentlemanly manners. And in a few weeks his new wife had turned his kitchen into a dance hall and his mother remembering her own hill upbringing.
Cleav probably saw her behavior as some horrible breach of conduct. Was he angry with her? Planning to chastise her privately?
Cleav opened the door of their room and gestured for her to enter. Esme did, with some trepidation.
