Cinderella in Overalls - By Carol Grace Page 0,78
refrigerator and turned the stove on and off to see how it worked. And as suddenly as they had come, they hurried to the door, anxious to get back to the market. Josh offered to drive them.
He stood in the doorway as they filed out. “Sorry about the lunch,” he said with a rueful smile. “They appeared at the bank just as I was leaving. I didn’t have time to get anything for you.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “There’s enough here to feed an army.”
His gaze drifted down the shirt she was wearing to her bare legs, and he nodded. “I’ll be home as early as I can.”
Her heart thumped against her chest. Home. It had such a nice ring to it.
It took her an hour and a half, resting often, to make a cheese soufflé and a salad for dinner. When Josh came in the door, he was carrying a newspaper under his arm just as in her dream. She gulped. Maybe dreams did come true. No, she reminded herself firmly, it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. He paused in the doorway to look at her, and she raised the spoon to give the salad a final toss. He came up behind her and enclosed her waist with his arms.
“Didn’t I tell you you’re not supposed to do anything that requires concentration or vigorous movement?” he warned. He kissed the top of her head and she closed her eyes.
“Cooking doesn’t require any concentration. And I’ve been moving very slowly. It’s taken me ages to make this simple dinner.”
His hands moved up to cup her breasts under the cotton fabric of the shirt she was wearing. “I could get used to this,” he said, nuzzling her neck with his lips.
“It’s just a soufflé,” she said breathlessly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
She pulled away and opened the oven to check on the soufflé. She could get used to it, too, having Josh come home every night to her. But she didn’t dare. She had to get back to the farm as soon as possible, to make that break as easy as possible before she was hopelessly entangled, hopelessly in love. She was in love, she admitted to herself, but not hopelessly, not yet.
They ate on the balcony. He told her about the weavers’ new alpaca sheep and about the new group of hat makers who had just applied for a loan. They laughed. They talked. They drank coffee and lapsed into a comfortable silence. Too comfortable. Catherine stood and looked into the living room.
“Where have you been sleeping?”
“On the floor in my sleeping bag.”
“I’ll take the floor. I’ve been in your bed for days now. It’s your turn.”
He took his coffee and stood by the door to the balcony. “No, it isn’t.”
“I’m much better. I won’t put you out much longer.”
His eyes made a tour of the long shirt that grazed her knees. “You look better, but you’re not well yet.” He set his cup down and crossed the room to tilt her chin with his thumb. “What’s your hurry? The women seem to be doing fine without you. The truck’s being repaired. Until then they’ll ride in with Tomás.”
“I feel guilty. Farmers aren’t allowed to get sick or take vacations. I’m restless.” The first part was true. There were always cows to be milked and horses to feed. The last part wasn’t. She wasn’t restless. She was happy to lie in bed and look at the view from Josh’s window all day, then make dinner for him at night. But she didn’t want him to know how happy she was. He might get the wrong idea. And she knew that when she got well she would be restless and she’d leave.
The next night Josh brought a flat of strawberry plants the women had sent her and a clay pot. “They said they noticed my balcony had a southeast exposure, perfect for strawberries.”
Catherine pressed her finger into the damp soil. “They’re right,” she said. The next day she planted them in the pot, a feeling of contentment stealing over her as she felt the sun on her back and the soil between her fingers.
A week went by. The women sent tomato plants next and squash seedlings until the balcony was almost full and Catherine told Josh to tell them to stop. So they sent food instead, and Catherine cooked more dinners. After dinner they talked and laughed and fell silent and thought.
“Will you water these plants when I leave?” she