Page 17 of Homestead

“Okay.” His mouth works oddly. “You’re not little.”

I eye him suspiciously, but he doesn’t say anything else.

* * *

The day passes uneventfully. Jimmy does his outdoor chores, and I familiarize myself with the house and swap out the bedding for the new stuff Greta sent with us. It includes a prettier quilt in peaceful shades of brown and green.

I go through the clothes she gave us and am relieved to discover they’re entirely women’s clothes. I don’t have anything to my name except the clothes and shoes I was wearing when I arrived and the big T-shirt Greta gave me at the farmhouse to sleep in.

But from the bag I pull out several tops, a couple of skirts, a pretty cotton dress, another pair of jeans, a couple of other pants, a fuzzy purple bathrobe, and several pairs of underwear. I have to roll up the legs on the jeans and pants, but otherwise everything fits me. There aren’t any bras, but I haven’t worn a bra for years. From what I observed at the Carlsons’, most other women don’t either. The last thing I pull out of the bag is a nightgown. It’s pink with wide straps and is made of a soft, stretchy material.

I really like it. I like everything. I open drawers in the dresser to discover that Jimmy has already cleared out half of them for me. I stow all my new stuff away and still have space to spare.

I make eggs for lunch as Greta suggested and do some cheese toast on the side. Jimmy gobbles up everything quickly, so he clearly finds nothing lacking in my meal.

He’s got more work to do in the afternoon—he explains that usually he takes it easy on Sunday but he got distracted from his normal work yesterday by preparing the house for me to hopefully come—so I find a pile of dirty clothes in the old bathroom and decide I might as well wash them.

It takes a good chunk of the afternoon, but I’m glad to get something useful done on the first day. Jimmy enjoys the dinner of ham steak, canned green beans, and potatoes just as much as he enjoyed lunch.

By the time I finish washing dishes afterward, Jimmy is back from getting the animals settled for the night. It’s dark out. I’m not sure what time it is, but it feels like it’s almost bedtime.

He smells like dirt and winter air when he comes back inside. I’ve been drying the last dish slowly because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now.

Is he going to want to go to bed already?

Is it time for us to have sex?

He stands behind me, watching as I finish drying the plate and put it back in its spot on a shelf. When I turn around, he’s looking at me.

I really wish the man would just say something. What the hell is he waiting for?

“What do you like to do in the evenings?” he asks after a few seconds of us staring at each other.

I lick my lips in a nervous gesture until I realize what I’m doing and stop. “I… I usually read books. We had a lot.”

“Oh. Yeah. I got some. Not a whole lot, but I guess it’s better than nothin’.” He makes a gesture with his hand, so I follow him into the small room full of boxes. He checks a couple of them until he pulls out one that’s half-filled with an assortment of books. “Some of these were Mary’s. She’s… she was my wife.”

I nod, glad that Paula gave me the background, so that information doesn’t take me off guard.

“So there might be somethin’ here you like,” Jimmy continues, picking up one worn paperback and staring at it. It looks like some sort of mystery. “And it’s pretty easy to find books in old buildings. I’ll get you some more. If you tell me what you like, I can look for those ones.”

“Okay. Thank you. That’s nice of you.”

He puts the book back in the box, and we stare at each other some more.

Deciding I need to take some responsibility for making conversation, I ask, “What do you usually do in the evenings?”

He makes a face. “Honestly, not too much. I’m usually so exhausted trying to get stuff done that I basically collapse at the end of the day. In the evenings, I’ve been still trying to rinse out a few clothes or prep somethin’ to eat the next day.”

“Oh. Wow. I didn’t think about that. You’ve had way too much to do for one person.”

“Yeah.” He rubs at his beard—it’s a habit of his. “It’s been a lot. So guess I’m… It’s good you’re here.”

“Yes. I guess so.” I shift from foot to foot.

Should I step over and find a book to read? I’d be happy to curl up on the couch or in the chair and read for an hour or two. But then what would Jimmy do? Maybe he’d rather I do something with him.

Maybe he wants to have sex and thinks it would be pushy to bring it up.

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