applied powder, cheek and lip rouge, and coal black around her eyes made her unrecognizable as the clean faced woman who’d left.
Now she’d wait for her brother to get home and explain his letter to her. But in the meantime she’d have a drink or two. She found his whiskey in the kitchen cupboard. Pouring herself two fingers of the amber liquid, she swirled it in the glass. So pretty. Even the worst rot gut whiskey had the same beautiful amber color as the smoothest single malt. She preferred the single malt, but would settle for the rot gut her brother drank. Any port in a storm as they said in San Francisco. Or in her case, any drink was better than no drink at all. She took the bottle and filled her flask. She’d emptied it ages ago on the train.
If little brother would get home from his job at the bank, they’d make their plans.
*****
She’d had the best dream. Tom had massaged her all over with her rose cream until her muscles were totally relaxed and limp. He’d brushed her hair before climbing in bed and telling her all the most luscious things he wanted to do to her body. Ahhh. Only this time he made love to her. She felt all warm and cozy, inside and out. She didn’t want to get up even though the sun hit her in the eyes. The sun!!!
“Tom!” She turned over to find his side of the bed cold. He’d been gone for a while. Why didn’t he get her up? He always got her up with a swat on the butt. This morning he was gone. She threw off the covers and realized she was naked. Where was her night gown? Her dream. Was it real? How much of it was real? She didn’t feel sore between her legs and there was no blood on the sheets. Wasn’t there supposed to be blood on the sheets after her first time?
Raising her wrist to her nose, she sniffed. Roses. So it was true. At least part of it. Tom really had taken care of her last night. She’d been so tired. Even with Agatha here, she was still always tired. She put her hands to her cheeks, her face burning at the memory.
She grabbed her chemise, shoved her arms through the sleeves and yanked it into place. She followed that with her stockings, garters, shoes, corset, skirt and shirtwaist blouse. Reaching for her hair she realized Tom had braided it for her again. How many men knew how to braid hair? She laughed. Her man did. Probably any man who was the father of a little girl. She unbraided her hair, brushed it till it shone and then twisted, forming it into a bun atop her head.
Checking the clock on the bureau she was amazed. It was already seven thirty. She’d slept right though breakfast and all of her morning chores. What about the men? Who cooked for them? They had to eat. Had Tom gotten Agatha to cook? Oh, those poor men.
She rushed downstairs to the kitchen. Tom sat at the table with a cup of coffee.
“There you are, Mrs. Harris. I was beginning to wonder when you were going to wake up.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” She poured a cup of coffee from the big pot on the stove. It always had coffee in it. The long standing policy of the kitchen was that the person who took the last cup had to make the new.
“You needed the rest. You’ve been working too hard, Rosie. It’s time you had a break.”
“What about the men? Breakfast?”
“Agatha fixed breakfast, yours is on a plate on the warming shelf. I did your morning chores along with mine. What I want from you is for you to eat breakfast, you’re going to need your strength,” he waggled his eyebrows at her. Was he teasing her?
“Then,” he continued, “I want you to pack a bag for the two of us for a couple of nights away from here. We’re going to town.”
“Town? Why? Now that you have Agatha you don’t need me anymore?”
He got up and came over to her. Running a finger down
Now she’d wait for her brother to get home and explain his letter to her. But in the meantime she’d have a drink or two. She found his whiskey in the kitchen cupboard. Pouring herself two fingers of the amber liquid, she swirled it in the glass. So pretty. Even the worst rot gut whiskey had the same beautiful amber color as the smoothest single malt. She preferred the single malt, but would settle for the rot gut her brother drank. Any port in a storm as they said in San Francisco. Or in her case, any drink was better than no drink at all. She took the bottle and filled her flask. She’d emptied it ages ago on the train.
If little brother would get home from his job at the bank, they’d make their plans.
*****
She’d had the best dream. Tom had massaged her all over with her rose cream until her muscles were totally relaxed and limp. He’d brushed her hair before climbing in bed and telling her all the most luscious things he wanted to do to her body. Ahhh. Only this time he made love to her. She felt all warm and cozy, inside and out. She didn’t want to get up even though the sun hit her in the eyes. The sun!!!
“Tom!” She turned over to find his side of the bed cold. He’d been gone for a while. Why didn’t he get her up? He always got her up with a swat on the butt. This morning he was gone. She threw off the covers and realized she was naked. Where was her night gown? Her dream. Was it real? How much of it was real? She didn’t feel sore between her legs and there was no blood on the sheets. Wasn’t there supposed to be blood on the sheets after her first time?
Raising her wrist to her nose, she sniffed. Roses. So it was true. At least part of it. Tom really had taken care of her last night. She’d been so tired. Even with Agatha here, she was still always tired. She put her hands to her cheeks, her face burning at the memory.
She grabbed her chemise, shoved her arms through the sleeves and yanked it into place. She followed that with her stockings, garters, shoes, corset, skirt and shirtwaist blouse. Reaching for her hair she realized Tom had braided it for her again. How many men knew how to braid hair? She laughed. Her man did. Probably any man who was the father of a little girl. She unbraided her hair, brushed it till it shone and then twisted, forming it into a bun atop her head.
Checking the clock on the bureau she was amazed. It was already seven thirty. She’d slept right though breakfast and all of her morning chores. What about the men? Who cooked for them? They had to eat. Had Tom gotten Agatha to cook? Oh, those poor men.
She rushed downstairs to the kitchen. Tom sat at the table with a cup of coffee.
“There you are, Mrs. Harris. I was beginning to wonder when you were going to wake up.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” She poured a cup of coffee from the big pot on the stove. It always had coffee in it. The long standing policy of the kitchen was that the person who took the last cup had to make the new.
“You needed the rest. You’ve been working too hard, Rosie. It’s time you had a break.”
“What about the men? Breakfast?”
“Agatha fixed breakfast, yours is on a plate on the warming shelf. I did your morning chores along with mine. What I want from you is for you to eat breakfast, you’re going to need your strength,” he waggled his eyebrows at her. Was he teasing her?
“Then,” he continued, “I want you to pack a bag for the two of us for a couple of nights away from here. We’re going to town.”
“Town? Why? Now that you have Agatha you don’t need me anymore?”
He got up and came over to her. Running a finger down
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