to the confessional, or the piercing glares her mother reserved for opposition to matters she valued.
Clayton might have sensed the latter from the start, as he didn’t hesitate in agreeing to stay for a meal. A month later, he accepted just as easily after driving Lily again on a Friday after work. It was a stop on his way to chasing down a lead, he claimed. Whether true or not, Lily couldn’t resist saving herself an hour of travel time, for it meant seeing her darling Samuel run to her that much sooner. It meant another hour of his lively chatter and heartwarming giggles.
So it went, ashamedly with little protest on Lily’s part—the benefits far outweighing any message she might be sending—until the drives to Maryville in Clayton’s Chevy Coupe, followed by a family supper, became a regular occurrence unless a big story pulled him away.
By late winter, her lone bus rides to and from the city came to feel much longer for lack of conversation. She didn’t always agree with Clayton’s opinions. His stances, often to a maddening degree, were as black and white as the clippings of his articles. But as a seasoned reporter, on the crime beat at that, he had no shortage of intriguing tales or skillful questions—for Lily’s parents, in particular—to prevent awkward lulls.
Over time, her father’s defenses wholly thawed. It didn’t hurt that Clayton was also Catholic and, though with German roots, “three generations American.” He was swift to point this out, as if to sidestep any resentment related to the Great War. Not that anything could deter Lily’s parents by then—or Samuel, who had grown equally comfortable from regular visits.
Besides, what wasn’t there to like? Clayton Brauer had a respectful yet confident bearing and an upstanding career, key elements of a fine suitor. Most important, he showed no averseness to courting an unwed mother.
And yet, spring had arrived before Lily was forced to confront the standing of their relationship.
She had just walked Clayton to his car, parked in the crisp darkness outside the deli. Despite being aware she shouldn’t bother, she scanned the town’s main street for gossipy onlookers and found relief in the evening stillness. She thanked Clayton profusely, as she always did before his return to Philly. He replied by peering down into her eyes, and she recognized his intent before he leaned toward her. Given the ease that had developed between them, such an encounter was surely due. But once his lips pressed to hers, she reflexively drew away, an act that immediately smacked her with guilt.
“Clayton, I’m so sorry. I know you’ve been patient…”
A corner of his mouth lifted, and his thumb gently brushed her chin. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
An expert at his craft, he had once again addressed her concerns in just a few words: that she could take all the time she needed, that he was a man she could count on.
He then climbed into his car but stopped short of closing the door. “There’s an old pal I grew up with in Chicago—works at the Sun now. He’s getting married next weekend at the Waldorf in Manhattan. If you’re up for it, I’d sure love if you came along.”
In the silence that followed, she realized she hadn’t responded. She shook her head at herself and laughed. “Gosh, of course. I’d love to go.”
He sent her another smile before starting the engine and driving away. Only then did it dawn on her that the wedding would interrupt her weekend routine. She considered changing her answer, though after their exchange that evening, paired with his ongoing generosity, how could she possibly?
Pondering this, she had ascended the staircase behind the deli counter. Up in the sitting room, her mother was knitting in her rocking chair by lamplight. The floral curtain on the window hung conspicuously open. Lily was in no mood to surmise what her mother had witnessed.
“Good night,” Lily said quickly. She turned for the upper stairs, eagerly retreating toward the room she shared with Samuel. How she yearned for the peaceful sound of his rhythmic breaths.
“Dear, wait.”
With great reluctance, Lily pivoted back. Her mother rested her knitting needles on the lap of her long skirt, an admonition in her sigh. “Lily, you mustn’t forget. A man like Clayton doesn’t happen along every day.”
Here it came, an inevitable lecture on the horrors of permanent spinsterhood. Lily was suppressing a groan when her mother added, “You need to think of Samuel.”
Lily just stared. How many times had