white-flour cake was cooling in the window.
The wedding was never going to be grand, rushed as it was. But it should have been merrier. Emerson whipped the bowl of buttercream as Zora tried to brighten the kitchen. She unfurled her nicest tablecloth and stared into the distance while she did it.
Sometimes, her gaze would stray toward Emerson, revealing the raw, wounded animal she’d trapped inside her apron and best Sunday dress.
Julian had been missing for a week. No letter, no telegram . . . the only relief so far was no word of a body found in a creek or runoff ditch. They couldn’t stop their lives for him. The army wasn’t about to wait for its new doughboys. The fields needed water; the chickens wanted feed.
“Dad,” Charlie said, starting up the porch steps. “We’ve been talking, and we don’t want you to worry about the farm. We’re going to send home as much as we can.”
Leaning against the counter, Emerson shook his head. “We’ll mind the farm.”
“You can’t do it alone.” Charlie brushed his fingers against the screen, instead of opening the door. It was like confession when he said, “I didn’t know they were going to do this.”
“Didn’t think you did,” Emerson reassured him.
Pressing a hand against the door frame, Charlie closed his eyes, then finally said, “Marjorie and I can go to the city-county building. She’s going to want a real wedding afterward anyway, and it doesn’t seem right . . .”
Zora straightened the tablecloth. “You’re not taking back your wedding day, Charlie. Let’s try to enjoy it.”
“Mama . . .”
Warning, Zora said, “Charlie.”
“Mind your mother,” Emerson said.
His being the oldest showed, in the way he hesitated, and the way he made himself walk away instead of arguing. They could tell him not to think about it, but he would. He had two well-meaning idiots for brothers, going off to Europe with him . . . and he was missing one stupid spoiled brat who should have stayed home.
Julian had always been his, sort of. Being seven years older, Charlie felt like an extra father. He taught Julian to walk twice, once when he was a fat baby with a rooster comb of thin gold hair. And again when he was a skinny, wobbly boy down to one leg and a pair of crutches.
Maybe he should have pushed more about what happened in the barn on Julian’s birthday. Or he should have heard him leaving the house. How far could he get on his own? Charlie’d driven to Indianapolis looking for him; Henry and Sam got as far as Zionsville before coming back without him.
Reading Charlie’s face, Emerson gently kicked the door to get his attention. “I said mind your mother, Charlie. It is what it is.”
Charlie dragged a hand down his face. “Yes, sir.”
“It is what it is,” Zora repeated once Charlie had rejoined his brothers in the yard.
Carrying the buttercream to the counter, Emerson reached for the cake. His hands, so rough from working the land, were gentle when it came to frosting. Long fingers turned in elegant shapes, and he spoke deliberately.
“They’re all grown, Zo. It was going to break our hearts no matter how they proved it.”
“I’m glad you can be philosophical,” she said.
“It’s not philosophy, it’s a fact. We can cry later when it’s the two of us.”
Taking up her scissors again, Zora attacked the bundle of daisies in the basin waiting to be trimmed and tied with ribbon. Flatly, she said, “I’ve already cried.”
Emerson put his spatula aside. With careful scoops, he spooned icing into a cone of paper. His lips barely moved when he replied.
“Well, I haven’t, so get ready.”
***
Los Angeles wasn’t quite what Kate expected.
They’d found a room to share at The Ems right away; it wasn’t very expensive on account of the constant waft of garlic from a restaurant around the way. And jobs came quickly too, because Mollie knew where to ask.
The golden glow of the Los Angeles in Kate’s mind
The wedding was never going to be grand, rushed as it was. But it should have been merrier. Emerson whipped the bowl of buttercream as Zora tried to brighten the kitchen. She unfurled her nicest tablecloth and stared into the distance while she did it.
Sometimes, her gaze would stray toward Emerson, revealing the raw, wounded animal she’d trapped inside her apron and best Sunday dress.
Julian had been missing for a week. No letter, no telegram . . . the only relief so far was no word of a body found in a creek or runoff ditch. They couldn’t stop their lives for him. The army wasn’t about to wait for its new doughboys. The fields needed water; the chickens wanted feed.
“Dad,” Charlie said, starting up the porch steps. “We’ve been talking, and we don’t want you to worry about the farm. We’re going to send home as much as we can.”
Leaning against the counter, Emerson shook his head. “We’ll mind the farm.”
“You can’t do it alone.” Charlie brushed his fingers against the screen, instead of opening the door. It was like confession when he said, “I didn’t know they were going to do this.”
“Didn’t think you did,” Emerson reassured him.
Pressing a hand against the door frame, Charlie closed his eyes, then finally said, “Marjorie and I can go to the city-county building. She’s going to want a real wedding afterward anyway, and it doesn’t seem right . . .”
Zora straightened the tablecloth. “You’re not taking back your wedding day, Charlie. Let’s try to enjoy it.”
“Mama . . .”
Warning, Zora said, “Charlie.”
“Mind your mother,” Emerson said.
His being the oldest showed, in the way he hesitated, and the way he made himself walk away instead of arguing. They could tell him not to think about it, but he would. He had two well-meaning idiots for brothers, going off to Europe with him . . . and he was missing one stupid spoiled brat who should have stayed home.
Julian had always been his, sort of. Being seven years older, Charlie felt like an extra father. He taught Julian to walk twice, once when he was a fat baby with a rooster comb of thin gold hair. And again when he was a skinny, wobbly boy down to one leg and a pair of crutches.
Maybe he should have pushed more about what happened in the barn on Julian’s birthday. Or he should have heard him leaving the house. How far could he get on his own? Charlie’d driven to Indianapolis looking for him; Henry and Sam got as far as Zionsville before coming back without him.
Reading Charlie’s face, Emerson gently kicked the door to get his attention. “I said mind your mother, Charlie. It is what it is.”
Charlie dragged a hand down his face. “Yes, sir.”
“It is what it is,” Zora repeated once Charlie had rejoined his brothers in the yard.
Carrying the buttercream to the counter, Emerson reached for the cake. His hands, so rough from working the land, were gentle when it came to frosting. Long fingers turned in elegant shapes, and he spoke deliberately.
“They’re all grown, Zo. It was going to break our hearts no matter how they proved it.”
“I’m glad you can be philosophical,” she said.
“It’s not philosophy, it’s a fact. We can cry later when it’s the two of us.”
Taking up her scissors again, Zora attacked the bundle of daisies in the basin waiting to be trimmed and tied with ribbon. Flatly, she said, “I’ve already cried.”
Emerson put his spatula aside. With careful scoops, he spooned icing into a cone of paper. His lips barely moved when he replied.
“Well, I haven’t, so get ready.”
***
Los Angeles wasn’t quite what Kate expected.
They’d found a room to share at The Ems right away; it wasn’t very expensive on account of the constant waft of garlic from a restaurant around the way. And jobs came quickly too, because Mollie knew where to ask.
The golden glow of the Los Angeles in Kate’s mind
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