The man stepped closer as if he might cross into the tired hovel of a house. “He owes me money.”
“So you’ve said.”
His thick shoulders touched both sides of the frame as he loomed down at her, his warm breath smelling like anchovies. The moment he left, she’d bolt the lock. “You think you’re smart?”
Would Professor Farrow hear if she screamed? Or perhaps one of the neighbors. “It’s time for you to leave.”
The man’s eyes wandered up and down her lace-trimmed housecoat, trying to rile her. “How long’ve you been Simon’s broad?”
But she wasn’t about to be intimidated by the likes of him.
She flashed the gold band on her left hand. “We’ve been married for two months.”
Though, as much as Simon traveled, she hardly felt like a wife. He’d even missed the birth of their daughter sixteen days past. Probably would’ve missed their wedding if she hadn’t reminded him. They had traveled up to Cleveland where his minister friend married them in a hotel lobby, no family or other friends to celebrate. While she’d dreamed in her younger years of a grand wedding, their short ceremony suited her fine, especially since she was past hiding her bump. The new dress she’d bought with Professor Farrow’s money had barely even fit.
Simon’s forgetfulness was troubling, but she was too worn out to think much of it. Turns out, babies were a lot of work, especially when the housekeeper refused to tidy up the caretaker’s cottage where Professor Farrow was supposed to live.
Before he left for his business in Cleveland, Simon told her that he didn’t want to push his father out of the big house while he was still grieving the loss of his wife, but it was high time the man recovered. This garden shack was built for one person, not a family of three. Simon would realize it the moment he came home.
When the baby cried, Izzy tried to close the door, but the monster of a man didn’t budge. “Tell your dandy of a husband that I paid him a visit while he was gone.”
Five visits, to be exact, but she wasn’t about to argue. “I’ll let him know.”
“And tell him that I think he has a mighty fine wife and kid.”
Izzy hated the way this man spoke about them, but she wouldn’t delay his departure with another rebuke. “Are you leaving a name?”
He tipped his cap like he was some kind of gentleman. “Just tell him Louie was looking for him.”
She slid the bolt into place and leaned against the papered wall. Next time Louie knocked—next time anyone knocked—she wouldn’t answer.
Then again, she couldn’t stay inside here forever. She’d go batty, just her and a crying baby.
That afternoon, while Greta slept in the open bureau drawer that doubled as a crib, Izzy used the hidden key from the bird feeder to slip into the main house, desperate for supplies. Evaporated milk, she needed for Greta’s bottle. Cereal for her. Two oranges from the refrigerator. A chunk of white cheese. Half bottle of gin.
Simon had promised to stock their small pantry before he left, but he had forgotten. At least the professor kept his kitchen full. Much too full, in her mind, for one person. He’d yet to say anything about the missing food, and for that, she was grateful. She would remember his kindness when he finally moved into the caretaker’s place.
A cry rattled the back door, but Izzy didn’t run back to the cottage. Greta was perfectly fine, safely padded in her bed. If Izzy weren’t so concerned about Louie, she’d take herself on a short stroll around the neighborhood, just to get some fresh air.
She’d begun to miss those walks with her college friends, the laughter and chatter as they circled in clusters, slowly making their way to the cafeteria, mounds of food prepared for them. Instead she was scrounging around in this kitchen like a vagabond when she should have been ruling as mistress.
How she longed to attend a Friday night picture show with Simon or a friend, get swept away by the likes of Clark Gable or Jimmy Stewart, but her big plans for the evening were to bottle-feed her baby, change adiaper or two, and attempt to sleep in the few hours that Greta stopped crying. All while hoping Louie didn’t return.
Simon would have to buy her a baby carriage soon. And perhaps a small car so she could leave if another man like Louie showed up at her door. Now that her parents knew about her marriage and baby, she’d visit them in Elms. Her mother would help with Greta, and Izzy could get some blessed sleep.
Simon had promised her that things would get better soon. He was about to make a windfall on one of his properties. Only a short matter of time, he’d said, and they would have plenty of cash. She wouldn’t let him give his earnings away to that Louie fella.
This spring, she and Simon had plans to take the train west for their honeymoon. While Ohio was still shivering from the bitter winds and mounds of snow, they’d be walking on the Pacific Coast, her hand in his, the warm sand and waves spilling over their bare toes. With his windfall, they could stay in the Ambassador Hotel for a month. Drink martinis and listen to jazz at the Cocoanut Grove with a crowd of movie stars, just like she’d seen in the magazines. And sit next to the swimming pool because, as she’d already told Simon, she didn’t know how to swim.
After an evening out at the theater, she would send pretty postcards back to her parents and siblings, ask them to kiss Greta for her while they were gone. And when they finally returned to Ohio, she and Simon would reward her parents with a pile of gifts. Then they would move into the big house, and Simon would hire her some help. Over the coming years, she would entertain housefuls of guests as Mrs. Farrow.
But until then, she’d bide her time. Entertain herself. If they couldn’t travel yet to California, maybe she could find something decent to read here to steal her away.
With Greta’s cries quieted, she left the food on the counter and listened for sounds of Professor Farrow rustling at his desk. Or the housemaid making her rounds. When she heard nothing, she moved throughthe dining room and into a library with hundreds of books. Maybe thousands. It was a wonder really, growing up with so many books, that Simon hated to read. Though sometimes she wondered if he hated his father more than the actual books. Maybe he’d take up reading in their later years.
The professor subscribed to no magazines that interested her, but she found two shelves filled with novels. Ernest Hemingway. E.M. Forster. John Steinbeck. Then four books written by Via Belle, the older lady who’d visited Winfield last fall and signed her book. Izzy had readSparrow Islandtwice and kept it in a box with her other college things, tucked under the bed.
Mrs. Belle had been quite gracious to her and her friends. While she wasn’t what anyone would call a beauty with her graying hair pinned back into a bun, her simple skirt and blouse, there’d been a kindness about her, especially when some in the audience tried to cut her down a notch. Either Mrs. Belle didn’t understand that the professors and Simon were mocking her or she’d chosen the upper road instead of rolling in the muck.
