Part 21 (1/2)
”No.”
”Simply because you like chestnuts?”
He continued to work, and just when she thought he wasn't going to answer, he surprised her by saying, ”It's my wife's.”
”What?”
”The tree. I planted it for her.”
Anna glanced out the window. ”Your late wife? You planted a chestnut tree for her?”
”She had one in her yard back home that she loved. I was going to surprise her with this one.”
Yet Anna knew the late Mrs. Denton hadn't lived to see it. She pictured the tree in her mind. So big. He must have lost his wife many years ago if it was a sapling when he'd planted it.
She moistened her lips. A chestnut tree. A beautiful home. Twinflower blooms. The man certainly cherished what was his.
The darkness outside and throughout the rest of the house always made the kitchen a cozy haven in the evenings, but with the addition of the rain beating against the windows, the atmosphere s.h.i.+fted from cozy to intimate.
She wanted to ask him more questions about his wife. She wanted to ask him if he'd like his hair trimmed so it wouldn't get in his eyes. She wanted to thank him for the fabric.
But she turned her back instead and concentrated on the fritters.
Keep it impersonal, she reminded herself. Pouring a portion of the boiling water into a bowl of flour, she began to beat it into a stiff paste. It wasn't until she set it aside to cool that she realized the sc.r.a.ping of Joe's ax had ceased.
She glanced over her shoulder. He stared at her hips, blade and stone forgotten. She quickly spun around to face him. He raised his eyes to hers. The intensity of his gaze triggered an immediate response deep within her.
Say something. Anything.
”Why are the ax handles so long?”
Joe looked down as if just discovering what he held in his hands. ”The handles? Well, I have to be able to reach the center of the redwoods from my springboard.”
She frowned. ”That wouldn't reach the center of a Douglas fir, much less a redwood.”
He touched the edge of his blade, a tiny drop of blood springing to the surface of his finger. ”No. No, it wouldn't. Not from the springboard, anyway. We actually have to stand inside the undercut to reach the heart of the trunk.”
She pictured the giant wedge they'd begun to cut into the redwood she'd seen yesterday. They stood inside that wedge? Wouldn't the tree collapse and squash them?
But she didn't ask. Instead, she retrieved a frying pan, scooped a goodly portion of lard into it, and set it on the stove.
”Would you like me to read to you while you finish those?” he asked.
Anna paused in reaching for the eggs. ”Read to me?”
”Yes. The Taming of the Shrew. Would you like me to read it to you?”
She loved being read to. Her father used to read to the family all the time. And with the rain, it was the perfect night for it, but she was afraid it would create too intimate a mood. Still, if he were reading, he'd not be able to ogle her.
”Yes, please. If you don't mind.”
Placing the ax in the corner, he wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, then went to retrieve the book.
She braced herself against the pastry table and took two deep breaths. Impersonal, Anna. You must keep things impersonal.
At the sound of his return, she grabbed an egg and began to separate out its yolk.
”Where did you leave off?” he asked, settling into his chair.
”The beginning of Act Two. The disguised schoolmasters had just left, and Petruchio was asking Signior Baptista what Katharina's dowry was.”
He thumbed through the book, then flipped back and forth between a few pages. ”Here we are. Petruchio is speaking.” He cleared his throat. ” 'Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, what dowry shall I have with her to wife?' ”
Joe's voice was so full of expression and life that Anna soon lost herself in the story. She beat the eggs into her mixture, then dropped it a spoonful at a time into the boiling lard.
”Everyone exits but Petruchio,” Joe said. ” 'I will attend her here, and woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say that she rail; why then I'll tell her plain she sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly wash'd with dew.' ”
Anna chuckled, watching the fritters rise into b.a.l.l.s, then flipped them when the first side turned a light brown. Katharina entered, and the sparring between her and Petruchio quickly escalated, each constructing new metaphors from the other's comments until Katharina became so furious she hit him. Hard.
” 'I swear I'll cuff you, if you strike again,' ” Joe said, dropping the register of his voice.
Spooning all but two of the fritters onto a drying cloth to drain, Anna placed the ones she'd held back onto a plate, sprinkled them with sugar, and sat at Joe's feet.
Watching him read was like watching the actual play. A myriad of expressions crossed his face. Coupled with the dialogue, it pulled her deeply into the story. When Petruchio told Katharina she was mild, gentle, and affable, Anna threw back her head and laughed. And on some finite level, she realized she hadn't laughed, really laughed, in years. The realization sobered her.
As if sensing her mood, the character Petruchio also turned serious.
” 'Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine.' ”
Anna took a bite of her fritter.
” 'Your father hath consented that you shall be my wife; your dowry 'greed on.' ” Joe lifted his gaze and looked directly at her. ” 'And, will you, nill you, I will marry you.' ”
She couldn't swallow, her bite of fritter sticking in her throat. The rain continued to tap against the windows. The sweet smell of fried pastries filled the room.
Lowering the book, Joe removed the other half of her fritter from her hand and placed it in his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he swallowed, stood, then slowly placed the book on the chair. ”Good night, Anna. I'll see you in the morning.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
The kitchen was empty. The fire cold. The oven untouched. Joe stood in the doorway. Usually when he first came from the barn in the morning, he'd find Anna bustling about.
He glanced at the staircase. Was she ill? Or had she merely overslept?
He crept up the steps and placed his ear to her door. Nothing. He tapped against it lightly. No response.
With great care to make no noise, he turned the k.n.o.b and cracked the door open. The white-and-blue bed hangings had not been drawn but were still tied back at the posts with heavy ta.s.sels. Anna lay on her stomach in her nightdress, the cotton covers tangled in her legs, her thick honey-colored braid draped across her pillow.