He’d come home to spend a long weekend with his family. What she didn’t hear was the undercurrent of deception floating beneath his words.
It was late October, the time of year when days were warm and pleasant but darkness came early and with it a chill that settled into her bones. Carrying this child was different than the others; Eliza wasn’t sleeping well, and she felt the cold as never before. There was a shawl around her shoulders from morning till night, even on days when the sun was hot enough to warm the floorboards of the front porch. That afternoon she complained about the crack on the side of the house that leaked cold air into the bedroom, and Martin said he’d fix it.
“Today?” she asked, her eyes wide and a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
He gave a nod and called for Oliver to come and lend a hand.
Normally he hated doing repairs, so Eliza saw this as a sign that he was reaching out, trying to make things right between them. If he was willing to try, she would also.
With Martin coming home so soon, she sensed there was a possibility all the anger and bitterness was now behind them, forgotten or forgiven. Today she could see a shadow of the man he’d been earlier that summer, and while there was no assurance this behavior would continue she had reason to be hopeful. Earlier that month, Eliza had preserved most of the fruit they’d harvested. She’d been fearful there might not be enough to see them through the winter, but with Martin making such an obvious show of trying she wanted to make this weekend special.
Selecting the best of the apples still in the basket, she peeled and sliced them, took a bag of flour from the shelf, and began mixing the dough for her pie crust. As she sprinkled water into the floury mix and worked it into dough, she found herself remembering how it felt to have the kind of happiness they’d shared back then. A warmth that she hadn’t felt for several months settled inside of her, and as she slid the pie into the oven she realized she no longer needed the shawl.
Martin returned to the house as she was setting out the plates for supper. He spotted the pie sitting atop the stove and grinned.
“Apple pie, my favorite.”
There were evenings when supper was a frenzied affair, when a too-hot stove caused the biscuits to burn, the baby started screaming, or one of the kids toppled a glass of milk, but none of those things happened that night. Margaret Rose was asleep in her crib, and the boys were full of questions as Martin told of his latest job installing lights along the river walkway. The minute supper was over, Martin looked over at Eliza and gave a wink then told the kids to go to bed.
“Your mama and I need some time alone,” he said.
Oliver grumbled for a few seconds, but when Martin lifted his arm and pointed toward the bedroom that was the end of it.
Warmed by her memories of the summer evenings when they’d sat together on the porch or walked down by the creek, Eliza suggested they sit outside to have coffee and pie.
“I’ll take a piece of that pie,” Martin said, “but don’t bother with coffee.” He gave her a sly grin then added, “Fix yourself a cup of that tea I brought, then come sit beside me.”
“Tea? You brought me tea, not candy?”
“It’s something special. I think you’re gonna like it.”
“Tea? You spent money to buy tea when you know I make my own?”
She took the paper bag from the shelf, opened it, then held it to her nose and sniffed. It had a strong odor, mint-like and sharp with hints of citrus and evergreen.
“What kind of tea is this?”
“It’s a mix. I don’t know that it has a name. The girl said—”
“What girl?” Eliza reached for her shawl and pulled it around her shoulders.
“The girl that sold it to me. Good Lord, Eliza, I bring you a gift and instead of appreciating it, you start questioning me like—”
“This doesn’t smell like any tea I know of.”
She tipped the bag and sprinkled some of the mix into the palm of her hand. At first the dried leaves appeared to be brown. When she lifted her hand for a closer look, she could see the tiny tinge of purple pennyroyal and twigs of what most likely