Page 41 of Silver Lining

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"I'm staying," she said, pushing up from the table. "I ain't changed my mind about a baby." Spinning in a swirl of skirts, she stormed toward the pump and worked the handle so vigorously that water gushed into the dishpan like a geyser. "I never said I expected a big welcome, and I never even hinted that your family hasn't treated me right! They've been polite, thoughtful, and nice as pie." She threw him a burning look. "They're treating me squarely, not for my sake, but for yours, and that's all right. But it's true that I could die right now standing here about to wash up the supper dishes, and no one would weep a single tear. That's how it's always been, and that's a fact!"

Abruptly Max realized that he had no idea what they were arguing about. Not an inkling. Standing, he decided now was a good time to inspect the rest of the house. For a moment he watched Louise furiously scraping the bowls and pie plates into the slop bucket, then decided he didn't have to explain why he was leaving the table. But he felt the need to say something.

"I've said all I'm going to on this subject, and don't you forget it." Hell, he didn't even know what the subject was.

"Oh, you can count on that!" she shouted as he left the kitchen and entered the hallway leading to the foyer.

He lit the lamps in the dining room and parlor and discovered that his instructions had been followed to the letter. The wallpaper reflected Philadelphia 's favorite shade of crimson and the parlor sofa was upholstered in an offsetting dark blue. The colors were repeated in a flowered carpet and again in the fringe on the lampshades. Everything had turned out exactly as he had imagined when he'd designed these rooms. Except…

Frowning, he walked to the mantelpiece over the parlor fireplace. He'd pictured the heirloom candlesticks bequeathed to Philadelphia by her mother framing both ends of the mantelpiece, perhaps flanking an artful arrangement of figurines and velvet and silk flowers.

Instead, a solitary silver spoon stood against the wallpaper in the center of the mantel, propped against a scratched pewter watch case.

His impulse was to tuck the items into a drawer rather than give such shabby pieces a place of prominence. Displaying them was ludicrous. Embarrassing. Then he remembered Louise showing him the spoon at the campsite, something he'd forgotten. He covered his eyes and sighed.

For a while at least, this was her home, too. She had as much right to display her treasures as he had to display his collection of first editions in the glass-fronted bookcase. And that's what she had done.

Now he spotted a short stack of what turned out to be songbooks piled on top of the bookcase.

Curious, he opened the bench seat in front of the piano and found more songbooks there. She'd placed a few with the piano and a few with his books as if unable to decide whether the songbooks were music or reading material.

Swearing, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and found the green marble. Damn it. That's what he hated. About the time he was angry and feeling self-righteous and put upon, she said or did something that knocked the wind out of him.

After staring at the silver spoon for a full minute, he reluctantly returned to the kitchen and leaned in the doorway, watching her stack bowls on the drain board. A dish towel was draped over her shoulder. "I'm not going to dry the dishes."

"I didn't ask you to."

"But I'll empty the dishwater in the yard."

"No, thank you. I'll do it myself," she said in a tight, clipped voice.

"I don't mind emptying the pan," he said, striving for patience.

"Well, I don't want you to do one damned thing for me!"

Max didn't understand why an angry woman refused to allow a man to do something helpful. Just as his mother had done when his father was alive, Louise bustled around the kitchen, wiping this, drying that, creating enough noise and commotion to make him feel that he was an idle lump of wood standing in her way.

"All right, what are you sore about?"

"Why would I feel sorry for myself?" She waved the dish towel and looked around with flashing eyes. "I never even knew a stove like that existed, and now I'll be cooking on it! And this house is the most beautiful place I ever saw. It will be a privilege to care for it and all the wonderful things in it. So don't you go accusing me—me!—of feeling sorry for myself, because I ain't! If it wasn't for you, I'd be as happy as a horse in high clover! You ask me, it's you who're feeling sorry for yourself!"

He saw it now. He'd insulted her or stung her feelings or maybe both when he said she was feeling sorry for herself. That's what the slamming and banging was all about.

"You think I'm feeling sorry for myself?" He didn't like hearing it either.

She leaned against the sink and crossed her arms over her chest. "There are going to be a lot of unhappy days for you, Max. When Wally and Philadelphia return to the ranch and the main house. The first time you see her as your brother's wife. The first Sunday dinner with everyone present. As you see her belly get bigger. The day she delivers."

"What's your point?"

"Making me feel bad isn't going to make you feel better."

Anger tightened his chest, and he pushed away from the doorjamb. Wives didn't speak to husbands that bluntly or critically. She had just given him one more reason to resent having married her.

"If you'll excuse me," he said coldly, "I'm going up to bed."

"You're excused!" She rolled her eyes and drew out the words. Then she picked up the dishpan and carried the dirty water toward the mudroom door. "I'll be up when I finish here."

He'd forgotten that only one bedroom had been finished. As Philadelphia had hinted that she would like rooms to furnish and decorate, he'd purposely left two of the three bedrooms empty. Like it or not, he and Louise would have to share a bed.