The Storm by Shelley Thrasher

You have a real talent.”
    What a bunch of lies. She didn’t trust the Frenchies, even if they were America’s allies. She rocked from one foot to the other, feeling as restless as a billy goat in rut. “It was right kind of you to stop by and socialize, Jacqueline. I ’spect we’ll see you at Sunday school next week? We only have a preacher once in a while.”
    Of course she had to try to get the last word in. “By all means. Thank you again for your hospitality.”
    After another month of Sundays, she headed for the front door. “I’ll tell James you said good-bye,” she informed Jacqueline. “And he said for you to tell Eric not to be a stranger. He’s itching to discuss his war experiences. He and Patrick are out back feeding the livestock. Bet the milk cow’s wondering where Molly is. Never get much rest down here on the farm.” Humph. Unless they were a lazy good-for-nothing like Molly.
    Molly chimed in. “Drive carefully. I hope to see you soon.”
    She walked Jacqueline to her car and hung around her forever. Probably trying to persuade her to spend the night.
    She’d almost given up hope of Molly milking the cow, but when she peeked out the kitchen window she spotted the T-Model creeping down the driveway. Molly ambled back toward the house just as slow.
    The little sluggard made her see red.

    *

    Molly strolled past the sweet-smelling purple wisteria and hummed “Good Night.”
    Those two words had been so painful when she graduated from college. She’d been inseparable from several of the girls during their four years at boarding school and spent all her free time with each of her favorites in turn. How she’d loved to stay up after hours and whisper with them. They’d cried and laughed together.
    While she attended the university and until she married, she exchanged passionate letters with one of the girls, Esther Harris. They’d pledged everlasting love and devotion, but now they wrote each other about everyday affairs. Then, they’d dreamed, even talked about spending the rest of their lives together, but now things had changed.
    When Mr. James proposed, she finally persuaded herself that loving a woman like Esther had merely prepared her for life’s real purpose—marriage and devotion to a worthy man. Preachers stressed that a woman and the right man would truly become one in body and spirit and share every thought and feeling. Her papa and mama clearly adored and respected each other, so she would follow their example.
    But Mr. James evidently hadn’t expected such a union. He wanted someone to make him look good in public, give him lots of sons, and help his mother on the farm. When she’d eventually understood that most husbands were like hers, who was probably better than most, she’d tried to reconcile herself to the reality of marriage.
    Being with Jacqueline this afternoon, though, had stirred the remaining ember of her grand dream and made it glow.
    Maybe she and Jacqueline would become close friends. That would be so much better than the emotional wasteland she lived in now.
    She wanted to always feel alive inside—like she did before she married and as she had this afternoon.

Chapter Twelve
    â€œDo you have to chew so loud?” Eric glared at Jaq, dark purple pouches under his eyes. At least he didn’t need his eye patch any more.
    She murmured something to keep from biting back.
    â€œAnd quit slurping that milk. I had to get up early, and now I have to go milk—” He drew back his hand as if he might hit her.
    She slammed down her glass. “That’s enough! I’m not your mother or your maid or—”
    â€œOr my wife.” Eric snatched a biscuit and dipped it in his egg yolk like a farmhand. Some of the runny stuff dripped on the front of his blue work shirt, which she’d have to wash.
    â€œNo, I’m not. And I can’t wait to get