It spilled out of Brenda then, the words tumbling over each other like pebbles in a rush of water. “I’m just...I’m worried, you know? About not having a baby yet.” Her green eyes searched Cassandra’s face for something—anything—that might ease this ache.
Cassandra set her sewing aside, her gaze steady and kind. “You’re doing all you can, Brenda. These things sometimes take time.”
But the platitudes were like cotton—soft and without substance. Brenda nodded, though her insides churned with impatience. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Come here,” Cassandra said, patting the seat beside her. Side by side, they sat in silence.
“Thanks, Cassie.” Brenda forced a smile, her gratitude real even if the comfort wasn’t.
“Anytime,” Cassandra replied, picking up her sewing again.
Leaving Cassandra’s home, Brenda wandered toward Deborah’s place, following the well-worn path between their houses like a lifeline. She found Deborah sitting on the porch, the click-clack of her knitting needles punctuating the afternoon stillness.
“Deb,” Brenda said, her voice hitching slightly, “do you ever wonder if some things just aren’t meant to be?”
Deborah looked up from her work, her brown eyes gentle behind the spectacles perched on her nose. “Sometimes,” she admitted, “but why do you ask?”
“Ah, it’s silly,” Brenda waved a hand dismissively. “Just thinking about babies and all.”
“Give it time, Brenda,” Deborah offered softly, her hands never stopping their dance with the wool. “Your home will be filled with little ones before you know it.”
“Sure,” Brenda sighed, the word hollow as a drum. She watched a sparrow flit from branch to branch in the oak tree nearby.
“Are you all right?” Deborah asked, concern lacing her words.
“Of course,” Brenda lied with a brightness she didn’t feel. “Just got to keep busy, right?”
“Right,” Deborah agreed, though her doubtful look said she heard the unspoken words hidden beneath Brenda’s cheer.
“Thanks, Deb,” Brenda said as she stood. “You keep those needles flying.”
“Always do,” Deborah replied with a small smile.
Back on the dusty road, Brenda’s thoughts swirled like leaves in a gust of wind. Neither conversation had brought clarity, but perhaps action would. She squared her shoulders and headed home.
Brenda rolled up the sleeves of her worn dress and set to work. Her hands gripped the broom with a familiarity that required no thought, allowing her mind to wander amidst the rhythmic strokes that sent motes of dust dancing in the late afternoon sunlight.
“Out, out, every speck,” she muttered to herself. It wasn’t just the floors that felt the brunt of Brenda’s restless energy. Beds were heaved aside, their undersides scrutinized and scrubbed until they could harbor no more secrets. Walls, too, were attended to with a fervor that had them gleaming under her care.
By the time Seth returned, the house was transformed, its normally cozy disarray replaced by an almost sterile cleanliness. He hung his hat on the peg by the door, a distracted hum escaping him as he scanned the spotless room.
“Did a cyclone blow through here or is it just you?” Seth teased.
“Ha,” Brenda retorted with feigned lightness, “just thought the place could use a good fall cleaning, is all.”
“Smells like lemon and elbow grease,” he observed.
“What exactly does elbow grease smell like?” Brenda asked.
“Like our house without the lemon,” he replied, winking at her.
They sat down to a supper of hearty stew, the kind that usually warmed the room with laughter and banter. Seth ladled the stew into his bowl, his movements mechanical, his thoughts far from the food.
“Everything all right with the herd?” Brenda asked, hoping to draw him back from whatever distant plains his mind roamed.
“Ah, yes, fine,” he responded without meeting her eye. “Just...thinking on some things.”
“Anything I can help with?” Her question was genuine.
