The Marriage Bed (25 page)

"In you go," Livvy said, holding the door open and letting Josie walk in beneath her arm. "And mind you look with your eyes and not with your hands."

Josie's nose squinched and her top lip lifted to reveal a row of tiny white teeth. "Huh?"

"No touching."

Josie put her hands behind her back and nodded solemnly. Livvy didn't believe for one moment the child would remain that way long, but every second was another small victory.

"Much as I'd enjoy staying and chatting with you, Miss Emma," she heard a man's voice say, "I really must be on my way, I've several sites I must survey if I'm to report to my superiors anytime soon.''

The man's back was to Livvy, but she didn't need to see Waylon Makeridge's face to identify the voice. If he wasn't distinctive enough on his own, and in that city dandy suit he surely was, the look on Emma's face would certainly have given him away.

"Morning, Emma," she said, a bit apologetically. She hated to interrupt the couple, but it was that or eavesdrop, which she disliked even more. "Morning, Mr. Makeridge. I've got some more pies and I'm in need of some more supplies, as well."

"Why, Mrs. Williamson," Mr. Makeridge said, twirling on his heel to face her. His gaze traveled from her head to her toes and back again. "Aren't you just a picture?" He shook his head as if he couldn't believe how lovely she looked. It was nearly convincing enough for her to forget she was wearing her old blue dress, the parts that Josie could reach covered in cherry-juice handprints, the bodice sporting only a little less flour than the crusts of her pies.

"A picture?" Emma said, studying Livvy with a somewhat more critical eye. "Of what?"

''Why, of a disaster." Livvy laughed. If she hadn't known better, she'd have sworn that Emma was jealous of Mr. Makeridge's attentions. "I look like a tornado hit Sacotte Farm and I couldn't get to the cellar in time!"

"Then you're still out there?" Emma asked. There was a frown beneath the mustache she had apparently tried unsuccessfully to bleach. Little red pimples joined the short black hairs, and Livyy had to pull her eyes from Emma's mouth before answering her.

"I suspect it's permanent," she admitted softly, searching the store for Josie so that she didn't have to look at the pity in Emma's eyes.

"The man that lets a woman like you get away is the man the Lord himself has branded a fool," Waylon Makeridge said, shaking his head. "What a gay time we had on the way back from Milwaukee. And now you must be racked with loneliness." He came toward her, took the basket from her hand, and put it on the counter. Josie was comparing two rag dolls quietly, and Livvy allowed herself to be led to the stool that stood by the cash register.

Josie began to make her way down the aisle, Livvy noticing for the first time how many delicate items were displayed within a child's reach. "Josie, don't—" she began as the little girl picked up the waxlike ball and brought it to her mouth.

"Eech," the little girl yelled at the taste of the soap, flinging the ball away.

Horror froze all three adults as lamp after lamp went down like a row of children's blocks. With the fall of each glass chimney, Josie's eyes grew wider, her little mouth stretched into a larger O. Glass shattered and tinkled to the floor, sounding not unlike the silver coins it would take to pay for the damage the little girl had caused. Even if she could bake them all, just how many pies could Charlie Zephin sell?

When the last lantern hit the floor, Waylon Makeridge crunched through the debris and plucked up Josie, carrying her gingerly to Livvy, the girl too stunned to object.

"Are you all right?" Livvy asked, looking her over to make sure that no shards of glass had flown in her direction. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

The little girl shook her head and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. Like Livvy, she was fighting the tears that were inevitable. Livvy lost the battle first, hiding her face with one hand and sobbing into her palm.

"There, there," Mr. Makeridge said. "It'll be all right." Several hands patted her back. She could swear one of them was little Josie's.

"I should be comforting you," she said to the child. "Some mother I am. How ever am I going to pay for this?" she asked, sweeping the scene with her hand.

Emma looked longingly at Waylon. "You could start at Sacotte Farm," she suggested.

"My thoughts exactly," he agreed. "In fact, perhaps I should accompany Miss Olivia home." He chucked Josie under her chin. "Would you like a ride in a fancy wagon?" Josie looked at the man suspciously, almost as if she were trying to place him, and then shrugged in agreement.

"Oh, yes!" Emma said. "We could take them home and then take one of Livvy's pies out by the lake and have a picnic."

"A picnic is a wonderful idea," Mr. Makeridge agreed. "I bet you'd like that," he said to Josie, wiping the tears that still dotted her cheeks. Josie nodded, busy trying to get her breathing under control.

"Waylon, I'm sure that
Mrs.
Williamson has too much to do to join us," Emma said, watching the way Waylon was studying Olivia. "I thought that the two of us . . ."

"But the store," he reminded her. "And you've quite a clean-up, my dear."

"Yes, but—" Emma said, stretching her top lip down and twitching it from one side to the other, not an easy task, considering the size of her teeth. Apparently the damage she had done trying to remove or pluck the hair there was now causing her to itch.

"Now, Miss Emma," Waylon said, and reached out to cup her chin affectionately. "You have work to do and I have work to do. Isn't that right?"

Emma nodded reluctantly.

"And I'll be back this evening for another of your wonderful suppers."

Emma smiled despite her disappointment.

"And you'll see to it that my room is cool, and bring me up some ice, and we'll chat on and on into the night," He scooped up Josie with one arm and extended the other elbow to Livvy. "If you don't mind waiting up for me, that is," he said, the cow, bells over the front door clanging as he pulled it open for them. "I'll just take Charlie's rig," he called over his shoulder before taking several handfuls of fancy gum drops and shutting the door behind them.

"I needed to get some supplies," Livvy said, reaching for Josie. "I almost forgot."

"I'll bring whatever you need out later," Waylon said, not letting go of Josie and leading them instead to the carriage and plopping Josie on the seat before turning to assist Livvy. "A shame we don't have a driver again," he said, taking her hand and handing her up.

"I really need to get some things," Livvy said, but she sounded unconvincing even to herself. "I've got pies to bake . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"And chocolates. Wouldn't it be grand if we had some more chocolates?" he asked.

"I think my wife has had enough chocolates to last a lifetime, don't you?" a voice asked. Livvy's head whipped around to find Spencer standing angrily beside the carriage. His hand reached up toward her face but she pulled back into the confines of the seat, "Have you been crying?" he asked. His voice went from hard-edged to tender faster than Josie could ruin a day.

"I was just taking Mrs. Williamson out to Sacotte Farm," Mr. Makeridge said. Livvy noticed he kept a fair distance between himself and her husband, who seemed to loom over him. It wasn't so much a matter of Spencer's being taller, though he was, but broader, bulkier, so much bigger than the man in the dapper gray suit.

Spencer ignored him. "Were you crying, Liv?"

Oh, she could just imagine the field day he'd have with what the baby he hadn't wanted had just done. She didn't need a lecture on how hard he worked for his money and how a three-year-old child—not his, of course—had, with one sweep of her hand, cost him half a day's work. Especially when the truth was it was more like a whole day's work, or maybe two.

Not that he'd be paying for it. They weren't his problem anymore. Not the children, and not her.

"Come on down, Liv," he said softly, extending his hand to help her. "It's not like I'm the one who left or that I said you couldn't come back. You made a mistake. There's no reason to cry about it."

Livvy couldn't help laughing. Maybe it was the relief that Josie was all right. Maybe it was Spencer's clothes, which hadn't seen the washboard or the iron and were still sporting last night's dinner—or maybe even last week's—something very red. Or maybe it was the fact that her husband still thought that the sun and the moon waited on his moods to rise and set.

"Spencer," she said, shaking her head. "I know it's real hard for you to get this idea, but believe it or not, this had nothing to do with you." She pulled Josie closer to her side and directed her words toward Mr. Makeridge. "Whenever you're ready, Waylon, I'd like to get on home."

She wished that it made her happy to see her husband standing on the sidewalk in front of Zephin's Mercantile with a bewildered look on his face as his wife drove off in the company of another man. She wished it thrilled her to hear the total confusion in his voice as he called her name after the carriage. She wished there weren't new tears tracking slowly down her face, and she wished that both Makeridge and Josie weren't seeing them.

If wishes were potatoes,
her mother always said,
then no one would starve.

"Get your goddamn nose outta my dinner," Spencer told Curly George as he sat on the railing to the corral and ate another of Livvy's cherry pies straight from the tin. " You bit a hole in the last one and I can't even bring it back to Zephin's to get the damn penny deposit back."

Curly George backed up a foot but didn't take his eye off Livvy's dessert.

"You should have seen that guy," Spencer said. "All dolled up like he was going to the goddamn opera."

The horse pawed the ground.

"Don't you be telling me I can't curse all I want to," Spencer yelled at the horse. "Ain't nobody but you, around to hear, and you ain't gonna tell Livvy, are you?"

The horse shook his mane.

"Lord, someone would think you understood me. But you don't, do you?"

George shook his mane again.

"Christ, would you stop that?" he yelled.

The horse began nosing Livvy's pie again.

"George?"

The horse ignored him.

"I think I liked it better when I thought you were listening."

He pulled the pie away from George and the horse sauntered away looking for something more appropriate to eat.

Her eyes had been cold when she'd looked down at him from that buggy. Cold and sad and closed as if the chapter were ended. And Josie, who didn't seem to object any to Makeridge picking her up and putting her into the carriage, why, he could swear she'd grown three inches since he'd seen her. Livvy hadn't grown bigger, only more beautiful.

He downed as much more of the pie as he could manage and then whistled over to George, who came running. While the horse worked on the remains of Livvy's fine baking, Spencer took what comfort he could in the animal's company.

"She'll be back," he assured the animal. "She loves me. She's always loved me. That's not something you turn on and off."

The horse nuzzled his shoulder.

"She will," he said again, as if George had told him otherwise.

"What do you say, George? Think Peaches is carrying your foal?"

He couldn't bring himself to say the words, not even inside his heart, but he didn't need to form the thought to know it was there.

He gazed up at the cloudless day, the blue that went on as far as his eyes could see.

He'd been alone before. But then there had been nothing he could do about it.

He eased down from the railing and threw open the barn doors. Neil's bed was cut and sanded and ready for the pounding of the pegs.

And he was ready to pound.

Chapter Eighteen

"Is there some kind of difference between these, Miss Zephin?" Spencer asked as he studied the hairbrushes that were lined up neatly below the glass in the counter. He didn't want to appear stupid, but he wanted to be sure to get just the right one for Olivia's silky mane. And then he wanted to take the brush and run it through her hair for a hundred strokes. And then he wanted to place his hand at the back of her neck and feel the weight of that hair and let it run through his fingers. And then he wanted to. . .

"Well, of course there's a difference," Emma snapped. "That one's twenty-five cents and that one's a dollar." She pointed first to one end of the display and then to the other. A dollar for a hairbrush?

"Well, which is the kind that a woman would use?" A dollar? A dollar was a lot of money. Not that Livvy wasn't worth every penny of it.

"See the ovals?" Emma asked. The cow bells rang out and she nearly jumped out of her skin. "Waylon?" she called out.

"It's just me," Charlie Zephin answered. "You lose him again?"

"As I was saying," Emma continued, her voice quavering slightly, "you'll want an oval. A Florence brush is especially nice." She waved in the general direction of three brushes all with peacocks worked into their backs.

They were centered in the display, so Spencer figured that placed them in the fifty-to seventy-five cent bracket. They looked a lot fancier than the one on the expensive end, which was plain aluminum and without any of the cheaper ones' fancy details. Bargains, he was certain. So it surprised him every bit as much as he supposed it surprised Emma when he said, "I'll take the one on the end," and pointed to the aluminum one dollar Cosmeon brush with good Russian bristles, if one could believe the sign that lay next to it.

"Good choice," Charlie said as he eyed the purchase and then headed for the stairs up to their living quarters. "Going for quality is always a good choice."

He hadn't come looking for a brush at all, quality or not. He'd come looking for Waylon Makeridge, his palms just itching to find the pretty man's face. Not that he didn't trust Livvy, or that he had any doubt that in another day or two she'd be back in his house and his bed where she belonged. He just wanted to make sure that Makeridge had no doubts, either.

But Makeridge wasn't there. And in the hour he had been waiting, he'd found one thing after another that he'd somehow never bought for his wife. Things a woman like Olivia should have, like those side combs for her hair, and cream for her hands. He didn't know where the money would come from, especially after he had assured Emma that he'd make good whatever was owed for Josie's accident or tantrum or whatever it had been.

"Think he'll be coming back any time soon?" he asked, fingering a pair of dainty slippers and realizing that he didn't even know what size Livvy wore. When he had her back he was going to measure ever inch of her. Slowly. Very slowly.

Emma sighed. "If this is the kind of husband he'll make, I'm not sure I'm really interested," she said, then covered her mouth with her hand. "My, I didn't really mean to say that. I suppose I'm just dreaming, after all."

Spencer took a good look at the woman on the other side of the counter, if ever a look at Emma could be considered
good
. She had some sort of red mustache, and that was nearly the most attractive thing about her. Still, she was quiet spoken and intelligent. And her pa owned the only mercantile in Maple Stand and business was good. Add to that the fact that she'd been cooking for Charlie for a long time and he hadn't died or turned into a rail. "The man would be lucky to get you," he said, meaning it as much because he liked Emma as because he didn't care for Makeridge.

"Oh," she said, blushing slightly and waving away his comment with her hand. "And with talk like that it shouldn't take you long to win Mrs. Williamson back."

"Win her back?" he asked. He hadn't realized people knew about her move over to Bess and Remy's. He should have known better. After all, this was Maple Stand.

And then he thought about what he had done to Livvy—and the conclusions Maple Stand had drawn about her and her barrenness—and he wondered if he deserved to ever get her back, after all.

"We all thought that with all those Bouche children . . . I mean, we knew how much your own children meant, but still . . . Well, it's none of my business, but it did seem like a strange time to give up." Emma looked as unnerved as Spencer felt. She busied herself cleaning the top of the counter with her apron. "It's none of my business," she repeated.

If Emma knew, then Makeridge probably did, too. Hadn't he said he was taking Olivia out to Sacotte Farm? Hours ago. He'd said that hours ago.

"I'll kill him," Spencer said. He pulled out his watch and checked the time. "Five minutes. That's all I'll give him. Then I'll kill him."

The cow bells jingled and he spun around.

"Waylon!" Emma said, relief flooding her voice. "Wherever have you been? I mean, I'm so glad you're back!"

"I was doing my job," Makeridge said, pulling at the bottom of his suit to straighten the wrinkles. "I've been measuring all day in that damn sun and I'm hot and tired and I surely don't need an argument from the shopkeeper's daughter."

"How about from me, then?" Spencer asked. Over his shoulder he said to Emma, "Go on up now and see if your father needs anything. Makebreath and I need to have a friendly little chat."

"Oh, Mr. Williamson, your family already owes enough for broken goods from this morning. . . And Waylon's chin is still too sensitive to touch!"

The engineer rolled his eyes. "Go on up. I sure could go for some of that lemonade you make." He unbuttoned the jacket to his suit and directed his next words to Spencer. "Olivia makes a good lemonade herself, doesn't she? Between the two of us we must have polished off over a pitcher this afternoon."

"Were you at Sacotte Farm all day?" Emma asked. She was poised at the bottom of the stairs keeping her eyes on both men.

Makeridge shrugged. "Think we got ourselves a nice site for the Ahnapee and Western spur. Tomorrow I'm going to go out there again with my equipment . . ."

"The hell you will," Spencer said, lessening the distance between himself and Makeridge. "If I hear that you or your
equipment
are within ten feet of my wife, you're gonna wish it was a train that hit you instead of me."

"Mr. Williamson! I'm sure you're misunderstanding—" Emma began.

"Go upstairs!" Spencer shouted at her.

"Do it," Makeridge agreed.

They waited for her steps to reach the upstairs door, which opened and then closed.

"You know, Makebreath, if it wouldn't compromise my wife's reputation, which matters to her, I'd kind of welcome you making a move on her. It'd give me such satisfaction to rearrange what's left of that pretty face of yours."

"Sacotte Farm is not without its treasures," Makeridge said, rocking on his heels confidently. After the punch Spencer had landed in the Lucky Clover, he didn't know what Makeridge had to feel confident about.

"I'm well aware of all the treasures at Sacotte Farm. Especially now. But before you know it, those treasures'll be right back where they belong, and you'll have parts all over Door County."

"I get the feeling you're threatening me, Mr. Williamson. Now, why is that?" He ran a tongue between his teeth and his lip, then began picking at something between his front two teeth. "A bit of cherry pie, I think."

"Better be careful of those pits," Spencer warned. "I've heard a man can choke to death on one small stone."

"What's stuck in your craw, Williamson?" Makeridge asked, using the fingernail on his pinky to continue picking between his teeth. "Think maybe your wife is tired of being treated like kitchen help and is ripe for courting?"

"Anybody going to court my wife, Makebreath, it's gonna be me."

"That so?"

Spencer took one more step toward Makeridge, so that when they drew in deep breaths, their chests nearly touched. "I thought you were interested in Miss Zephin. Isn't one woman enough for you?"

Makeridge laughed. "Emma? You know what Bouche called her? The walrus. You thought I could be interested in her? This store could be a goddamn gold mine and her garden could grow money trees, and even then I'd still need a bag over her head just to manage a poking. If she offered to take it out, wet it down, and blow, it dry, I'd still want a buck for my troubles."

For the second time that day glass went shattering to the floor of Zephin's Mercantile. But this time the glasses came falling down the stairs, at the top of which stood Emma Zephin, tray still in hand while the pitcher and glasses continued to crash toward the store.

"I suppose this means I won't be getting supper," Makeridge said, still picking at his teeth as if he hadn't just broken the woman's heart.

How women stood men at all Spencer wasn't sure. But how they stood men like Makeridge . . . Spencer picked up the man by his collar and dragged him toward the stairs.

"Now just a second," Makeridge said, raising his hands to shield his pretty face.

Spencer smiled as he sat the man on the fourth or fifth step, where his face would be even with Spencer's fist. The man, Spencer thought as he reached back to deliver the hardest blow he had in him, was a lightweight.

Makeridge crumbled and Spencer looked up past him to Emma, who stood stunned and still.

"Didn't want to break anything valuable," Spencer said, trying to explain why he'd brought Makeridge to the stairs, when the real reason was that he wanted to give Emma the satisfaction of seeing him hurt the man who had just hurt her.

"What's going on out here?" Charlie Zephin said as he opened the door and looked over his daughter's quaking shoulder. "Oh, my Lord! Not Makeridge again, Williamson. We'll never get that spur."

"He insulted your daughter," Spencer said, flexing his fingers and turning to leave.

Charlie came running down the stairs and bent to see to Makeridge. "So?" he said. "Who hasn't?"

Waylon Makeridge was as good as his word. The children hadn't been out of the house for ten minutes when Charlie Zephin's rig was coming up the path.

"Think he'll be wanting any breakfast?" Bess asked, clearing away the children's dishes then pulling off her apron as she headed out to greet the engineer.

Livvy brushed back her hair and smoothed her bodice before following her sister-in-law outside. There was something about the way Mr. Makeridge looked at her—like she was a woman—that made her take an extra moment to glance in the mirror by the door.
Not all that bad,
she allowed herself, trying out a welcoming smile then chiding her ridiculous behavior. It wasn't as if she were interested in Mr. Makeridge. He was Emma's beau, and she was . . .

She refused to finish the thought.

Bess was waiting at the bottom of the steps for Makeridge to alight from his carriage, and Remy was coming in from the field with an arm raised in greeting. But Livvy could tell from the way Waylon bobbed his head about that he was not looking for Bess or Remy.

She pushed out the screen door and watched the smile come to his face.

"My Lord! What happened?" she asked, not even trying to keep the horror out of her voice.

"Oh, this?" he said, pointing vaguely toward his face, which was swollen and discolored and seemed to pain him with each word. "Ran into a door."

"That the same door you ran into when you first came to town?" Remy asked, his gaze flying between Livvy and the engineer, who was easing his way down from the carriage.

Mr. Makeridge nodded and then so did Remy, as if the engineer and her brother had a secret of which she and Bess were unaware.

"Dangerous doors," Remy said with a smirk. "You ever hear how this county got its name?"

"Door County?" Mr. Makeridge asked. "Surely not . . ."

"The Door of Death," Bess confirmed. Mr. Makeridge looked dubious. "Really. Death's Door.
Porte des Marts
."

Mr. Makeridge swallowed so hard that Livvy could see his Adam's apple fight with his shirt collar.

"For heaven's sake," she said. "It's not as if the doors here go attacking people." She looked at the man's bruises. "Except maybe in your case. It's the waterway between the lake and the bay."

"I see," Makeridge said, completely disinterested. He turned his attention to Remy. "I understood that you might be interested in the spur running right through your farm, Mr. Sacotte." He looked out across the vast orchard of cherry and apple trees that Livvy had grown up around.

"Might be," Remy agreed. "If the price was right."

"Not often we pay for the land," Mr. Makeridge said. "Usually the town's happy enough to get the railroad and all the business it'll bring, that they just grant us an easement."

Remy shrugged while Livvy and Bess exchanged looks. "Not much usual about Maple Stand," Remy said. "Thought you might have noticed that."

"Indeed I did," Makeridge agreed, studying Livvy.

"That is," Remy continued, "no one takes advantage of someone here and gets away with it, if you get my drift."

Mr. Makeridge grimaced and nodded. "Got more than that," he agreed. "Mind if I walk around a bit? I need to get the lay of the land. The rises, the dips." He seemed to be outlining a woman's body as he spoke.

"Take all the time you want," Remy said affably. "Want me to show you around? Born here, right in this house, you know. Livvy, too."

"Is that right?" Makeridge said, turning to Livvy. "I'd hate to take you from your work, Mr. Sacotte. Perhaps Mrs. Williamson wouldn't mind showing me her hills and valleys."

"I—I don't know," Remy said. "Liv's got little Josie to look after and baking to do."

"Josie's still petting those new kittens by the barn," Bess said, gesturing with her head toward the door where Josie sat, a kitten in her lap and another crawling up her chest. "I'll keep my eye on her. You go ahead. I sure don't want to miss this chance, Mr. Makeridge."

"Then shall we?" Mr. Makeridge asked, extending his elbow to Livvy. "Which way would you suggest?"