“There’s no right or wrong way to handle this. There’s no one here to judge you. Whatever is right for you, is simply…right.”
The back of her eyes stung at his words and she nodded.
In the days that followed, Naomi made it a point to rise each day before Luke arrived, wash up, and with Ester’s help, don her short stays and one of her recently dyed gowns.
She’d intended to return to the task of sewing coverings for the windows, but when she discovered a lovely mint-colored muslin in one of the old trunks, she instead washed out the musty smell and went to work making a quilt for her baby’s bed. She embroidered stars and moons on the leftover material and made a few small pillows for decorations.
But babies didn’t require pillows, did they? For the hundredth time, she wished her mother were here to answer these little questions she’d never before considered.
It was handy having the major about, however, and… interesting.
Even when Arthur had lived here with her—before he’d joined up with his regiment—most days he’d grow edgy and irritated if he couldn’t go into town almost daily. He hated being housebound, he’d told her once.
It was always Arthur who completed any necessary shopping, and Naomi had usually been content to remain at their home. She’d not been naïve to the fact that he passed a good deal of his time at the tavern. A few nights, she remembered, he’d not returned until the following morning. On those instances, he’d show up looking sheepish, bearing flowers or some gift, and full of apologies.
Ale made him sleepy. He’d always be sure to be home most of the next day and make love to her the following night. Sometimes, they’d lie in bed in the mornings together, he’d rest his cheek on her belly and talk to their baby.
He’d said he was excited that they would become a family and had promised to fix up the nursery before he left. But time had run out.
Luke’s reliability was a stark contrast to Arthur’s habits.
They were very different types of men, she reminded herself. Arthur’s devil may care attitude toward life had attracted Naomi. All her life, she’d been a good girl, done the right thing. He had personified some of what she’d longed for.
Luke, however, was levelheaded and practical. Solid.
Dependable.
He arrived daily, without fail, and tackled each repair in a level-headed manner. And aside from the first day that he’d purchased the supplies without speaking to her first, he always consulted her before commencing a new project. He’d patiently explain the different options and then answer any questions she’d had.
Did she want the porch painted white or brown to match the stone accents on the house? Which part of the roof needed to be repaired next? And would she mind if he added bins in the pantry when he repaired the cupboards?
His presence was comforting and consistent. And he never chastised her if he caught her wiping a tear or, on the one occasion, when he’d come upon her sobbing in her garden.
He’d simply taken the hoe out of her hands and gone to work digging up the last of her potatoes.
When she had pulled herself together, he’d handed it back and squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“At least now you won’t have to worry about watering them,” he’d said.
And she’d gone from crying to almost laughing. It had not been the first time he’d done that for her. Given her the chance to grieve and then brought her back to the present in a way that she knew she could go on.
On the eleventh day of her widowhood, Naomi determined it was time she did some real work on the nursery. Water stains aside, the white color of the room had grown dull and gray from age and the pale-yellow paint Arthur had purchased over the summer had yet to be applied. Surely, she could manage to brush the color on herself. How difficult could painting be?
She dressed in her oldest frock and, after drinking a cup of tea with cream and sugar and eating a plate of eggs, climbed back up the stairs and entered the charming little room she’d selected for her baby.
First things first, she drew back the heavy drapes but then immediately bent over coughing from the heavy cloud of dust she’d unsettled.
“Want some help?” Luke’s sudden appearance made her jump.
“You need to make more noise when you walk.” She sent a mock glare to where Luke was standing in the doorway. “Or wear bells.” He had a habit of appearing out of nowhere, often leaning against a doorframe and giving her that crooked smile that was becoming far too important to her.
He pointed outside where splatters of rain were hitting the window. “I can’t do much outside until it stops, and Ester is baking and has shooed me out of her kitchen.”
“She must be baking bread.”
“And an apple pie.”
“Well then, we mustn’t hinder her in any way.” Ester’s pies were legendary, and Naomi’s appetite seemed to have returned almost voraciously.
