Page 71 of Merrily Ever After
There’s even more food by the sink. She must have had a delivery this morning. Cans of food with unfamiliar labels. French, I think. Maybe Italian. I don’t know where she gets them from. Or how she eats it all.
It makes me wonder why she orders so many things from Mam when she seems to like making things herself. Not that I’d ever say anything to her about it. Her order is always the biggest, and I’m pretty sure it would be a big hit to us if she stopped.
Then again, maybe she knows that. And that’s why she does it.
“There you go again,” she calls. “Back in your head.”
I dry my hands. I hadn’t even realized I’d been daydreaming.
“Staying quiet won’t win her heart,” she says as I take my seat. “Wallflowers only get noticed in books. You’ll have to stand up and take the lead, you hear me?”
I nod, taking her seriously. I know this. It’s why I’m here.
“That’s how my husband caught my eye,” she continues. “He was very confident. Not smug, now. But he knew who he was and he knew what he liked. And he just happened to like me.” She smirks a little as she pours a glass of milk and pushes it my way.
I watch her quietly, knowing it’s rude to pry, but unable to help myself. I’ve been curious ever since I first saw her photographs. And surely, it’s better to ask her to her face than behind her back around the town.
“What did he do? Your husband?”
She doesn’t so much as blink. “He was a spy for the government.”
My eyes go wide. “Really?”
“No.” She gives me a look. “Christ, they get stupider every year. He was a hotelier.”
“What’s—”
“He ran hotels,” she says, exasperated. I know she’s not as annoyed as she sounds, though. Else she wouldn’t have deigned to answer the question. The more time I spend with her, the more I’m starting to pick up on these things. Little tells that have me convinced that there’s a lot more to her than the grumpiness she tries to show everyone.
“We traveled all over the world,” she says. “Rome. Paris. New York. Stayed in some of the most beautiful buildings you could imagine.” She coughs and grabs the butter. “That is until he went and got himself into a road accident in London. Died instantly. The funeral cost a fortune.”
“You must miss him.”
“Sometimes. I don’t miss his snoring, though, that’s for sure.” She reaches for the coleslaw and spoons a sizeable portion ontomy plate. “I miss the dancing every now and then. You’ve been practicing?”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
I nod and she raises her brow. “Well, I guess I’ll be the judge of that,” she says and passes me the bread.
Chapter Five
It’s a strange winter. The short days blend into one, a pattern of up early and bed late as I balance my work on the farm with college and the flurry of activity that always comes at this time of year.
Three weeks before Christmas, the various festive drawings Rachel and I made as children are carefully taken down from the attic and taped to the walls. The shelves fill with biscuit tins and sweet treats that catch the eye every time we enter the room, and Mam starts checking the fruit cake every night in case it needs more brandy.
One cold, dark evening with a million stars overhead, I help Dad pick out a tree and we carry it back to the house for all of us to decorate. I barely have time to sit down most days, but I still go to the discos. Still take my lessons. Still wait for the right moment even though I can no longer think about it without getting nervous.
It doesn’t help that the weekend before the last dance of the year, Mrs Fallon barely opens the door before she starts berating me. “You’re late.”
I’m not, but I just nod as I hand her the groceries and step inside.
“I’m out of coal,” she continues.
“I’ll get you some more.”
“I’ve already ordered some,” she says, exasperated. “Where are you going?”
