Help Wanted: Husband?. Darlene Scalera
out a towel, swiped at the water splatters on the sink’s edge. “Are you afraid of hard work, Mr. Holt?”
“No, ma’am. Work hard, play hard. That’s my belief. Keeps life interesting.” It also kept a person from thinking far into the night, remembering things better off buried.
She twisted the towel. “All right, seven thirty-five an hour.”
“Ten dollars.”
She wrung the towel. “Seven-fifty.”
“Eight.”
“Seventy seventy-five but not a cent more, and be sure you’ll earn every penny of it.”
“Plus the bonus at the season’s end,” he reminded.
She slapped the towel onto the counter. He smiled.
“Plus the bonus at the season’s end. That’s my final offer, Mr. Holt.” She flung up the lid of a bulky-shaped, bright white appliance. “If you prefer to pursue opportunities elsewhere, that, of course, is your prerogative.” She lifted out a loaf of perfect bread, brown, smooth crowned, the smell alone enough to make a man give thanks. She set it on a wire rack. “I wish you good luck and Godspeed.”
That loaf of bread. His grandmother had made bread like that. And pies. Oh Lord, his grandma’s pies. He could still see her, standing in a kitchen as old and dingy as this, her hard-knuckled hands cutting the lard into the flour, giving the bowl a quarter turn, cutting straight in again until the dough formed into soft crumbs. In late spring, there’d be rhubarb. Blueberry and peach would follow in the summer; apple and squash in the fall. His mother had been warned early in her marriage to stay out of her mother-in-law’s kitchen, which suited her just fine since she had never been one much for cooking anyway. When they moved out West, whenever his father had mentioned pies, his mother had always declared she’d go to her grave without ever making a pie. She had, too. After his father had died, she’d pretty much stopped cooking altogether.
“Do you make pies?”
“This isn’t a diner, Mr. Holt.”
He smiled, the smell of the fresh bread sweet as a woman. He looked at Lorna, drawn up tight beneath her loose clothes. Even her high-and-mighty gaze couldn’t take away the pleasure of that fresh bread. He breathed in deeply.
She paused a moment before turning back to the counter. “I’ll get you clean sheets after supper…if you’re staying.”
Out the window the sun was making its way home. He smelled the bread, could feel those clean, fresh sheets. He would stay tonight. What he would do tomorrow, he’d decide, as always, when tomorrow came. “I’ll stay.” He turned to go.
“Did you mean what you said earlier?”
He looked at her over his shoulder.
“About the soil being rich, and our yields being the envy of other farmers? Or were you just saying that for the Aunties’ benefit?”
Her expression stayed neutral, but beneath the careful tone of her voice, he heard the low leavening of hope. He remembered the hurt in her eyes earlier when she talked of the gossip about her. Yes, he’d said those things then for her aunts’ benefit, but for her benefit also. Now he saw she needed to believe. And maybe, just maybe, he needed to believe a little, too. For both their benefits—hers and his—he said, “Seeds are no more than possibilities, Mrs. O’Reilly. Plant them, and anything is possible.”
He opened the door. She cleared her throat. He glanced back once more.
“Thank you.” The gratitude was so quiet and right in her voice, she turned away to the counter.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice without overtones. He was still shaking his head when he reached his truck. A raise and a thank-you. Beneath that buttoned-up, tight-lipped exterior, the widow wasn’t going soft around the edges on him, was she?
“Naw,” he told the listening land. It’d take a lot more than an extra seventy-five cents an hour and a weak moment to prove the widow wasn’t wound tighter than a fisherman’s favorite reel. He gave a chuckle as he gathered his duffel bag. He left his sleeping bag stored in the narrow space behind the front seat. Tonight he’d have clean sheets, the thought alone bringing him enjoyment.
He started back across the yard. He couldn’t say what tomorrow would bring, never could, but tonight he’d have a roof over his head, smooth sheets, a belly full of warm, fresh bread…and a promise of land. He looked at the fields’ gentle curves, the trees waiting for new growth, the light coloring the sky. All was possibility.
No, he couldn’t say what tomorrow would bring but, for tonight, he was here in Hope.
Chapter Three
Hell, he was late. He had gone to the trailer. Its rooms were narrow, and his head just missed the ceiling. But the bathroom boasted a stand-up shower with a Plexiglas door, and the bed on a bare metal frame was a double, not long enough for his length but big enough for his width. He’d dumped his bag next to the bed. A tall, plain dresser stood against one wall, but he didn’t unpack. He never unpacked. He’d stretched out on the mattress, finding it surprisingly, pleasantly firm. He had closed his eyes, enjoying the support of the mattress, the ease of his muscles. He hadn’t meant to take a nap. Now it was six thirty-five. He was an hour and twenty minutes late. Hell.
Still he forced himself to stop, catch his breath before he rounded the corner and reached the long length of yard where he could be seen from the house. He crossed the lawn, walking fast but not fast enough to show he was worried. He climbed the steps two at a time. Through the back-door window, he saw Lorna standing at the sink. She didn’t look happy as she scrubbed an iron frying pan. He debated the wisdom of facing an angry woman with a weapon in her hand.
He chuckled low. He was the one going soft around the edges. He was late. That’s all. It wasn’t a felony.
He rapped on the glass, then opened the door without waiting for permission.
Her gaze shot to him, went back to the frying pan. “Dinner was at five-fifteen, Mr. Holt.”
Whatever sliver of favor Lorna had found with him earlier was gone. “I had good intentions of—”
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Mr. Holt.” She gripped the frying pan, scrubbing so hard her entire body twitched. He watched her scrubbing and twitching, her chin thrust out, her lips taut. He burst out laughing.
She spun around, soap bubbles and water spraying, and glared at him. “You find rudeness and complete disregard for rules amusing, Mr. Holt?”
Lord, she was more rigid than a cold corpse. Such control when she was about to split at the seams any second. Grinning, he stared at this ramrod of a woman. Was it the sheer challenge of her or the surprising glimpses of softness he’d witnessed earlier? Maybe it was her ironclad control that fascinated him—a man whose own lack of restraint had ruined his life…and taken another’s. He wasn’t certain, but he had to admit that this woman with her odd affections and strict routines and hints of humanness intrigued him as much as she chaffed at his well-developed good nature.
He let his smile go soft and lazy. “Call me Julius, darling.”
Anger drained what little color she had. Her lips pressed into a hard white line. “Supper is over, Mr. Holt. Breakfast is at five.”
He noticed the loaf of bread now wrapped in cellophane on the counter. When he looked back, he saw a thin triumph in those eyes gone the gray of thunderclouds. He would listen to his stomach rumble all night before he asked her for so much as a crust.
Then, as she was apt to do right when he thought he had her all figured out, she sighed and said, “Would you like a slice of bread, Mr. Holt?”
She was a puzzle all right. He glanced again at the bread. His stomach said yes but his pride said no. He didn’t need Miss High-and-Mighty’s