Page 9 of The Auction
The man. The one I’d spotted in town looking at me like I was some kind of answer to a problem of his. He’d found my father in the crowd. I’d watched them bend heads to talk. Every other second the man had looked over at me.My father had shaken his head, and, for a second, I’d thought that was it. But then the stranger had put his hand on my father’s shoulder and my father had seemed compelled to listen.
They’d separated, but an hour after we got back to the farm, I’d heard a truck pulling up.
I’d run to the door to see the man getting out of what was a well-used Ford pickup.
“Upstairs, girl. This is man’s business.”
I’d whirled around to find my father right behind me. He’d known the man was coming.
They’d arranged this. Herb had told him where we lived.
“Not him,” I’d said, my voice low. “He’s not from here.”
“I’ll be deciding who,” my father had grumbled. “You know, in other parts of the world the child gets no say in who they marry. It’s all arranged by the family.”
It always killed me when he said things like that. My father knew nothing beyond the plains and valleys of this farm. The town of Riverbend. The hospital in Jefferson where he’d finally been diagnosed. But any time something came up that he thought could prove his point, he’d reference therest of the world.
Like he even knew what that meant.
Maybe he’d seen something about arranged marriages in India one time and that was enough to support this notion he could sell me off to the highest bidder.
Heck, who was I kidding?
This man, this stranger, had been the only bidder.
“Stay in your room. I’ll call, if you’re needed.”
If I was needed in deciding whether I would consider this man as my future husband.
Such. Utter. Bullshit.
Now I could hear the muttering of a discussion happening downstairs. My bedroom wasn’t close to the kitchen so I couldn’t make out any actual words. Then chairs were scraping across the linoleum floor. I scrambled to my feet, expecting to hear my father calling for me.
He hadn’t locked me in my room, but I knew better than to go downstairs prematurely.
He’d make a scene for the purpose of showing his authority and I really didn’t have the energy for that.
“Juliette!” I heard. Followed by his raspy cough.
Herb couldn’t fill his lungs with enough oxygen for shouting anymore.
I’d obviously changed since coming home. Chores had to be done and I wasn’t butchering a chicken in a dress.
Much less a white one.
I was wearing denim overalls over a short sleeved work shirt. My feet were bare, no toe polish for me, as Herb considered it sinful.
I took the steps to the main floor like a death march.
One. At. A. Time. To a beat.
The house was built back in the nineteen-twenties in the traditional Craftsman-style that was popular around these parts. Natural woods, front porch, heavy-handed dormers that made the front of the house look joyless. There were two bedrooms on the main floor and two upstairs.
When it was originally built there’d been only one bathroom, but at some point Herb’s father had gotten creative with the space upstairs and carved out another one with room for a tub that I could use separately from Herb.
The front door opened up to a narrow foyer lined with hooks for various clothing needs, then came the living room and the kitchen and dining area were at the back of the house.
No grand windows, no open concepts or spacious views of the mountains behind us.
