Morning Glory Read Online Free PDF Page B

covered with cracked linoleum. Between the nails that held it on, chunks were missing. The sink was old, chipped and stained, with a single short pipe to drop the runoff into a slop pail underneath. There was no pump. Instead, a dipper handle protruded from a white enamel water pail beneath which the linoleum held a sunburst of cracks. The floor was covered with linoleum of a different pattern, but it showed more black backing than green ivy design. The ceiling needed washing. It was gray with soot above the woodstove. Apparently someone had had dreams of resurfacing the walls but had gotten only as far as tearing off the old plaster on a wall and a half, leaving the wooden slats showing like the bones of a skeleton. Will found it surprising that a room so ramshackle could smell so good.
    His eyes moved to the bread and he forced himself to sit and wait.
    When Eleanor Dinsmore returned to the kitchen he made sure his hat was on the tabletop instead of on his head. With an effort he rose from the rung-back chair, bolstering his stomach with one arm.
    “No need to get up. You rest while I get something started.”
    He let his weight drop back while she opened a wooden trapdoor in the floor and disappeared down a set of crude, steep steps. Her hand reappeared, setting a covered kettle on the floor, then she emerged, climbing clumsily.
    When she reached for the ring on the trapdoor he was waiting to lower it for her. Her startled look told Will she wasn’t used to men doing it for her. It had been a long time, too, since he’d performed courtesies for a woman, but he found it impossible to watch a pregnant one struggling up a cellar hatch without offering a hand.
    For a moment neither of them knew what to say.
    Finally she glanced away, offering, “I appreciate it, Mr. Parker.” And when he’d lowered the trapdoor behind her, “Never had a man openin’ and closin’ doors for me. Glendon, he never learnt how. Makes me feel a little foolish. Anyway, I thought I told you to set. Your belly’s bound to be hurtin’ after you brought them apples up for another look.”
    He grinned at her homey turn of speech and returned to the chair, watching as she added wood to the stove and put the kettle on to heat.
    “I’m sorry about what happened out there in the yard. I guess it embarrassed you.”
    “It’s a purely natural act, Mr. Parker.” She stirred the contents of the pot. “Besides, I don’t embarrass easy.” She set the spoon down and gave him a wry smile. “And leastways, you did it before you tasted my cooking.”
    She gave him a cajoling grin and got one of his rare ones in return. He tried to recall if he’d ever known a woman with a sense of humor, but none came to mind. He watched her move around in an ungainly, swaying way, placing a hand to her roundness when she reached or stooped. He wondered if she really was crazy, if he was, too. Bad enough taking a strange woman for a wife. Worse taking one who was pregnant. What the hell did he know about pregnant women? Only that in his time he might have left a few of them behind.
    “You’d probably feel better if you washed up some,” she suggested.
    In his usual fashion, he neither moved nor replied.
    “There’s the basin.” She gestured, then turned away, busying herself. He threw a longing glance at the basin, the soap, the white towel and washcloth hanging on nails at the front of the sink.
    After a minute she turned and asked, “What’s the matter? Stomach hurt too bad to get up?”
    “No, ma’am.” He wasn’t accustomed to freedom yet, didn’t believe it fully. It felt as if anything he reached for would be snatched away. In prison a man learned early to take nothing for granted. Not even the most basic creature comforts. This was her house, her soap, her water. She couldn’t possibly understand what prizes they seemed to a man fresh out.
    “Well, what is it?” she demanded impatiently.
    “Nothing.”
    “Then help yourself to the teakettle