William chuckled softly. “I suspect the general store won’t know what hit it when the Winslow sisters descend.”
“Nor will Charles, once he sees the bill,” Albert jested, earning a playful glare from his friend.
“Whatever my wife desires,” Charles stated, a touch of warmth seeping into his voice as his glance slid briefly to Rosie.
“Then it’s settled,” Izzy declared, her smile as wide as the prairie sky. “Tomorrow, we create!”
With cups emptied and farewells exchanged, the party dispersed, each couple stepping out into their separate lives. Yet, for Rosie, the promise of tomorrow was a thread pulling her heart toward a future rich with possibilities.
*****
LATER, HOME WITH CHARLES, Rosie thought about what cleaning project she should tackle first.
“Rosie,” Charles said suddenly, “there is something I should show you.” His tone held a note of formality that piqued her curiosity. With a courteous hand at her elbow, he led her toward the house and then veered off toward the cellar door.
“Most folks keep their ice boxes in the kitchen or pantry,” he explained as he opened the door, revealing the wooden steps descending into cooler shadows. “But Margaret—my wife—she believed it would be better down here, where the air stays cold.”
“Practical,” Rosie murmured, trailing behind him, her boots echoing softly on the stairs. The cellar held rows of preserved goods and neatly stacked firewood, but what caught her eye was the large ice box sitting against the far wall.
“Quite,” Charles agreed with a nod. “She was always full of such notions.”
As he opened the box to reveal its chilly contents, Rosie leaned forward, her breath forming a faint mist. There, nestled among the blocks of ice, lay an assortment of meats, vegetables, and dairy products. Her hands reached for a cut of beef, envisioning the rich aroma of stew bubbling over the fire.
“Supper,” she announced.
“All right,” he replied, his words clipped.
With arms laden with provisions, Rosie climbed back up to the warmth of the kitchen. As she set about preparing the meal, she couldn’t help but wonder at the oddities of marriage.
Soon, the stew simmered, fragrant and hearty. Rosie watched Charles from the corner of her eye as he pretended not to notice the way she moved around the kitchen that had been his first wife’s, now hers by both right and necessity, transforming raw ingredients into a meal that spoke of home.
*****
ROSIE WAS ALREADY AWAKEbefore there were any signs of morning the following day. She dressed quickly, tying her apron tight around her waist, a determined glint in her eye. Today, she would spend the afternoon with her sisters, a reunion of hearts and laughter. But first, there were chores to be done, a testament to the endless rhythm of domestic life.
She gathered the laundry. With practiced ease, she plunged each item of clothing into the wash basin, scrubbing and rinsing until her fingers pruned. One by one, she pinned the garments to the line.
In the kitchen, she started breakfast. The coffee pot gurgled happily, sending forth tendrils of steam that fogged the windowpanes.
“Good morning,” Charles greeted, his voice groggy with sleep. He eyed the spread with appreciation, though his gaze lingered only briefly on Rosie before skittering away.
“Morning,” she replied, her tone chipper despite the early hour.
“I’ll be with my sisters this afternoon. Perhaps we can invite them as well as their husbands for supper soon?” Rosie asked, pouring the coffee with a steady hand.
Charles paused, his fork midway to his mouth. “I have...duties,” he said.
“Of course,” she nodded. She was happy her sisters had married friends of his because he would be much more likely to be willing to have them around.
She gathered the soiled bedding from Charles’s room. She was methodical as she plunged the fabrics into the soapy water, her arms working with the kind of fervor found only in those who understand the value of hard-earned cleanliness.
Rosie tackled the pantry while the clothes on the line dried. She scrubbed at the floorboards until they shone, and the walls—once dulled by layers of dust—now gleamed.
“Rosie Jordan does not shy away from elbow grease,” she muttered to herself, a wry smile playing on her lips.
Later that afternoon, Rosie met her sisters at the general store. Her heart swelled at the sight of them. Never in her life had she spent more than a few hours without the company of either sister, and life felt so different without them. No one who wasn’t a multiple could ever understand the bond between her and her sisters.
“Rosie!” Izzy called out.
