“Ham and eggs happen to be my favorite, Melva,” I say, raising my voice above the storm. The soft, pattering rain has become a torrent.
She mutters something beneath her breath and goes to work folding the laundry.
“And you were worried aboutmeordering you around,” I murmur to Beckett, teasingly. “Seems as if Melva has you well under hand.”
He leans close to me. “I learned from my mother to never get on a cook’s bad side.”
“I should go check on Marguerite. See if she needs anything,” I say, turning away from the surprising warmth in his eyes. One moment, he’s charming, the next he seems determined to drive me away. Despite my attempts to convince him otherwise, I have the feeling he still only considers me a gold digger ... and the fact that I care so much about what he thinks of me tells me more than I’m comfortable admitting, even to myself.
That night, as the storm rages overhead, blowing the tree limbs sideways to scratch against the house, I imagine I see Weston again, writing at his desk under the eaves, the lightning illuminating him briefly before he disappears. A frisson of fear and excitement runs through me, as Iblink and refocus my eyes, willing him to return, to no avail. I can’t help but wonder whether my encounters with him are only flights of strange fancy. I’m tempted to go down to the studio, to open myself to his world once more, but Marguerite’s mood turned fitful and dark again after dinner, and I don’t want to risk waking her.
She was convinced there was a crying baby in the house, and it took Beckett, Melva, and me more than an hour to calm her and ease her anxieties. According to Melva, the crying baby is another of her recurring delusions—one real enough to bring me to tears.
Beckett insisted on spending the night in one of the guest bedrooms, despite my assurance that I can manage Marguerite on my own. He still doesn’t trust me. It’s obvious. His mistrust rankles, but why do I care so much what he thinks of me?
I toss and turn, thoughts of Beckett, of Weston, of Marguerite and her sisters running through my head until morning glows pale gray through the attic windows. The rain slows to a gentle shower, then ceases before dawn. I rise, pull my wrapper on over my nightgown, then go downstairs to fill my ewer with warm water.
Light bleeds from the kitchen. Either Melva arrived incredibly early to work, or Beckett is up for the day. I’d bet on the latter. I’m suddenly conscious of my state of undress—a state he’s already seen me in once before, after my episode with sleepwalking. I turn and start to pad silently back through the dining room, hoping to avoid another embarrassing encounter, when a shadow falls long across my path.
“Good morning, Miss Halloran.” Beckett clears his throat. “Up early?”
“I didn’t sleep well, with the storm.” I turn to see him standing there in his undershirt and trousers, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. “I ... I just came to fetch some water, for washing up.” My eyes flit from the dark stubble on his jaw to his narrow waist and broad shoulders, where freckles scatter the surface of his suntanned skin.
“Here,” he says, setting his coffee cup down. “I’ll get it for you. I’m warming a kettle of water to shave. You can have it.”
“Oh, you don’t ...” He takes the ewer from me before I can finish, his fingers brushing mine. My belly tumbles. I cross my arms awkwardly as I wait. He returns a moment later and hands me a cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” I say, inhaling the warm aroma.
“Come into the kitchen and sit with me. It’ll be a while for the water.”
I follow him and sit at the trestle table, feeling suddenly shy. I pat at my braided hair, rub the sleep from my eyes. Beckett sits across from me, propping his elbows on the table. I do my best to avoid staring at him. His work has made him lean and hard. Strong. I remember the note of pity in Georgia Merritt’s words. If she could see him right now, she’d eat crow. He looks better than butter on sliced toast. The very picture of ideal masculinity. My skin warms and I quickly take a drink of coffee. “Marguerite sleep through the night?” I ask.
“She did. I didn’t hear a peep.”
“I hope Harriet’s mother-in-law is feeling better, so she can come today. She’s so good with Aunt Marg, even if she acts like Carry Nation with her hatchet around me.”
“She doesn’t care much for drinking, that’s for sure.” Beckett laughs. “I wouldn’t expect her today. When one in the family gets sick, the others usually follow.”
“True. I suppose it won’t matter, since we’re going to town today. The roads didn’t wash out, did they?”
“I don’t think so.” Beckett raises his cup to his lips.
After a moment of awkward silence, I move beyond our stilted small talk. “Has Aunt Marguerite ever talked about her sisters with you, by any chance?” I ask. “Claire or Florence?”
“Not really. I know that your aunt Claire died when she was fairly young, and that your grandmother and Marguerite didn’t always see eye to eye. I met your grandmother a time or two, when I was little.” He chuckles. “She frightened me.”
“How so?”
“She was imposing. Tall. Grand.”
“We called her the Snow Queen, my cousins and I. Louise always claimed she was a witch.”
“A very pretty one,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “I can see where you get your looks.”
“Oh ... I don’t really look like her,” I hedge, avoiding his gaze. “That’s Louise. I favor Aunt Claire, most of all. I’ve seen her pictures. We have the same heart-shaped face. Same nose.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it? How family traits skip generations.”
