Page 72 of Silver Lining
On bitterly cold mornings Louise and Max sat beside the kitchen stove, drinking coffee and waiting for dawn, dreading the necessity of going out into the driving snow to search for cattle in a blizzard. Many nights they half pushed, half carried stiff, half-frozen beeves into the barn and desperately tried to save them from freezing to death. Sometimes they succeeded; sometimes they didn't. It was an exhausting, heart-wrenching experience no matter how the effort ended.
All week Louise fervently looked forward to Sunday when the family came. Then she put on her lady skirts and shirtwaists and worked at preparing for the hard week to come. The work went easier when shared. This was the day the butter got churned, the laundry got washed, the rips and tears got darned and mended. On Sundays, she cleaned house from top to bottom, usually with Sunshine wielding a dust rag alongside her. Then before the men went back out to feed the beeves in the early evening, they all sat down to a late-afternoon meal. Afterward, Gilly played the parlor piano loud enough for Livvy and Louise to enjoy the music while they tidied up the kitchen.
No one mentioned Philadelphia except to comment occasionally that her father had sent his carriage to take her into town; otherwise Louise assumed Philadelphia stayed at the main house alone.
Louise didn't really expect Philadelphia to visit the man she should have married in the house he had built for her. Her presence would have made everyone acutely uncomfortable. But it was also true that Philadelphia 's refusal to join the family created a subtle tension that ran beneath the Sunday gatherings like a dark undercurrent.
"Aunt Louise?"
Abruptly she realized that Sunshine had called her twice. "Sorry, I guess I was woolgathering."
"Mama has lots of items on our parlor mantel, but you only display that one spoon. Why don't you put out other things, too?"
They had finished dusting the piano and parlor furniture, and now Louise was polishing her spoon. She liked to feel the cool smooth weight in her hand, liked to polish and rub until her reflection peered back at her in the shiny bowl.
"This is the nicest thing I ever owned, and it's special. It's the only thing I have that's good enough to display."
"Why is the spoon so special?"
"I'd like to hear the answer to that," Max said, appearing in the archway.
Snowflakes sparkled in his dark hair and on his lashes. Melting snow had dampened his shirt collar, and his cheeks glowed pink with cold.
Louise decided yet again that he was the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on. It amazed her, simply knocked the air out of her chest that this splendid man was her husband. She could not believe that in a few hours they would climb into bed together and share each other's warmth and bodies. A flush heated her cheeks, and she looked away from his smile and back down at her spoon.
"This spoon reminds me of a schoolhouse and your uncle Max. I like to look at it and hold it in my hands."
"That old spoon?" Sunshine asked, puzzled.
She nodded, avoiding Max's steady gaze. "The boys up at Piney Creek gave it to me. No matter how low I feel or how tired or how cranky or lonely, I feel better when I look at my spoon." Now she lifted her head and slid a quick glance toward Max. "No matter what else I may have done, this spoon reminds me that once upon a time, I did one good thing."
Now Sunshine laughed. "You do lots of good things, Aunt Louise! I 'spect you always have."
"I 'spect so, too," Max said quietly, gazing at her above Sunshine's head.
Her stomach tightened, and her heart pounded against her rib cage. His expression was unreadable, but he looked at her as if he really saw her, as if his sharp blue eyes penetrated to regions others couldn't see.
Or maybe she'd been reading too many romantic songbooks.
"Well, you're both wrong," she said firmly, raising her fingertips to the heat pulsing at the base of her throat. If Sunshine hadn't been standing beside her, she might have dropped in a cuss word to emphasize her point. "I'm mean and selfish. I'm cantankerous, stubborn, and willful. So don't go hanging any halos on me." She replaced the spoon on the mantel and stepped back to admire the soft shine as she always did. "Every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. Those are words to live by, and I do. But once," she said, her voice going soft, "I did a good thing. And I'm proud of that."
"You are so funny, Aunt Louise. Ain't she, Uncle Max?"
"Isn't," Louise said automatically. "Not ain't."
Max leaned in the archway, continuing to regard her in that peculiar, penetrating way. "Ma says she knows you don't have an extra two minutes, but she wonders if you could find time to bake mincemeat pies for Christmas Eve. She says your pies are as good as anything she can make."
That news made her smile. She'd made wonderful progress on cooking now that she had a real stove at her disposal and was using it every day. "I'll find time."
"Oh, she's mean and selfish and cantankerous, isn't she?" Max said to Sunshine. He had that sparkly-eyed, twitching-lips look. "Always seeing to her own self-interest. Just can't get her to do one thing for the family or to help out someone else."
"That's not Aunt Louise, that's Aunt Philadelphia," Sunshine said, speaking with the careless honesty of children. She beamed at them. "I can play a new song on the piano. Would you like to hear it?"
"Very much," Louise said, clearing her throat. "You can serenade me while I finish dusting and sweeping in here."
Max watched Sunshine climb up on the piano bench, then he straightened in the doorway with a frown.
"I came to tell you that Wally, Dave, and I returned to the house to get warm, but we're going out again. I spotted a cow about a mile north that looked like she was in trouble. I'll bring her in while Wally and Dave see to those sick beeves in the barn."
