“Fix yourself some breakfast. I'll be back about nine o'clock. The clock over the mantel tells the correct time in case that worthless doodad you call a watch stopped when you dunked it in the dishwater. Chip.”
She hurried into the living room and glanced at the large clock. While she stood there it began to strike the hour, its soft tones oddly comforting in the quiet house. Seven o'clock. She had two hours to get used to the idea of being alone.
Breakfast was, of necessity, first. She plunked a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and set out butter and jam. It was exciting to be alone, doing for herself. She opened cabinet doors until she found a box of cornflakes. Humming softly to herself she set out a bowl, went to the refrigerator for milk, pulled a stool up to the counter, and poured herself a mug of coffee. She had always eaten a good breakfast, but this morning she ate as if she were starved.
Over her second cup of coffee she realized that this would be a good time to tidy up the house—while there was no one there to witness her fumbling attempts. She left her mug beside the coffee pot and washed up the rest of the breakfast dishes.
When there was nothing else she could do in the kitchen she went to the basement and reviewed what Chip had told her the night before about starting the washing machine. Easy. Nothing to it. There were still four pairs of jeans on the sorting table. She lifted the lid and stuffed them into the washer, turned the dial to warm water/cold rinse, added a cup of detergent, and filled the little tub on the side with bleach as she had seen Chip do the night before. She pushed in the knob and the tub began to fill. Enormously pleased with herself, she skipped back up the stairs.
An hour later she had made her bed, run the vacuum cleaner over the living room rug, and made an effort to clean the bathroom. For the first time she acknowledged the value of the homemaking class at the convent school.
The door to Chip's room was closed. Margaret hesitated for a long moment before she opened it and looked into the room. She was high on the excitement of her accomplishments, and the desire to have everything just right when he returned was the impetus she needed to enter his room. But there was nothing there that needed to be done. The bed was neatly made, the bureau that had been littered the day before was cleared off, the double doors of the wardrobe were closed. Margaret felt a strong desire to linger, to sit down on the edge of the bed and let the smell of his aftershave and the woodsy odor of his clothing surround her.
The slam of a car door caused her to jump guiltily. She backed out of the room and closed the door. Chip had come back sooner than she expected! She hurried to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and perched on the stool. The front door opened and closed. Margaret waited, her eyes on the kitchen door. There was silence. Not even the sound of footsteps reached the kitchen. The silence lengthened, and Margaret felt her throat close with fear.
“Chip?” She waited expectantly. There was no answering call. Panic began to build as the silence became unbearable. “Chip?” She shouted his name. There was no sound. Nothing. Terror put wings to her feet, and she bolted for the kitchen door and jerked it open. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see someone lunging for her.
“What're you hollerin' for?” A young girl stood in the doorway. She wore jeans, a red and blue checked mackinaw, and heavy boots. Her hair, shoulder length, was drawn back and hooked over her ears.
“Who are you?” Margaret gasped, her heart pounding from fright.
“Who're you? I heard Chip had a woman here. What're you so scared for?”
“Why didn't you answer when I called out? You scared me half silly,” Margaret said crossly, closing the kitchen door with a bang.
“Why should I? You wasn't callin' me.” The girl, who looked to be in her mid-teens, moved to the cabinet, took down a mug, and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Make yourself at home, Margaret thought resentfully.
“Where's Chip? He's not at the mill.” The girl went to the refrigerator and diluted her coffee with milk from the half-gallon plastic jug. She was evidently familiar with her surroundings.
“I don't know where he is,” Margaret said brusquely, returning to her perch on the stool. “But he'll be back soon if you care to wait.”
The lithe figure leaned casually against the counter, her calf-length boots with the jeans tucked into the tops crossed nonchalantly. The girl's gaze remained on Margaret's face as if searching for some plausible alternative to the obvious.
“Everybody said Chip had a woman here. I wanted to see what she looked like.”
“Now you know,” Margaret said drily.
“Did ya sleep with him?”
“Did I…?” The girl's frankness had rendered her speechless.
“You heard me! You ain't dumb. Ain't very pretty, neither.”
“Thanks a lot!” Margaret looked down to hide a faint smile.
“I heard he's goin' to marry you. I never thought he'd take up with no city girl.”
“Why not? City girls aren't all that bad.”
“I only know what he said, is all. A lot of city girls have been after him. He always said they didn't know their backside from a hole in the ground.” Irritation infiltrated the girl's tone. “Where're you from, anyhow?”
“Chicago. That is, a small town near Chicago,” she improvised quickly.
“I suppose he met you when he went there to meet with that old man who owns part of the mill. I heard the old man died, so I guess he won't be going there no more unless it's to see you.” The girl sank down into a chair. “What's your name?”
“Maggie.” Margaret was surprised at how quickly the name came to her lips. “What's yours?”
“Elizabeth, but I'm called Beth. We live on the other side of the mill. My pop is foreman of one of the logging camps,” she said proudly. Curiosity was patent in the girl's wide eyes. “How long are you gonna stay? There's not much to do up here—not like what you're used to.”
“I haven't decided how long I'll stay. I just came to see if I'd like it here.”
“So there's nothing…settled?” Eagerness had crept into the girl's voice, and Margaret felt a rush of sympathy for her, because she was sure, now, that Beth had a crush on Chip.
“Oh, no. Nothing's settled.”
“That's good. I sure hope he don't get you pregnant.”
Margaret's mouth dropped open, but she couldn't think of anything to say. The girl's bluntness stunned her. She got off the stool, looked around for something to do, then remembered the clothes in the washing machine.
“Excuse me. I've got to take some clothes out of the washer.” Somehow she liked the sound of the words. It was crazy, but they made her feel a little important.
“I can help. I'm used to doin' 'round here. I told Chip I'd come and clean while Dolly's gone, but he didn't want me to. Guess he thought folks'd talk.”
“No. Sit still. I'll just put them in the dryer.”
Margaret went down the basement steps and lifted the lid on the washer. The wet clothes clung to the sides of the tub. She lifted them out to put them into the dryer, and her heart leapt into her throat. Big white splotches everywhere—all over the jeans! With trembling hands she looked at each pair, holding them at the waist and letting the long, slim legs hang down. The splotches were on the legs of some, on the front and back of others. What in the world had happened? What had she done wrong? More important than that, what was she going to do now?
“Maggie?” Beth called from the doorway at the top of the stairs. “Chip's back. He's tying up the boat.”
Margaret opened the dryer and shoved the jeans inside. She turned the dial as Chip had told her to do, and the drum began to turn, the zippers from the blasted jeans making small clicking sounds as they whirled. She'd have to decide later what to do about the jeans. She only knew that she didn't want that child upstairs to see the mess she'd made.
Margaret took big gulps of air into her lungs to calm herself, then straightened her glasses, smoothed her hair, and calmly mounted the steps.
Chip came in the back door as she reached the kitchen. Their eyes met and held. He smiled, a half-smile at first, beginning with his mouth, lifting it wide, then crinkling his eyes.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
“Morning.” It was the oddest feeling. She felt as if she were coming alive. She knew the endearment was for Beth's benefit, but it caused a warm feeling of belonging to course through her.
“Hi, Chip.”
“Hi, Beth.” He strode across the room and wrapped an arm around Margaret. A finger approached the tip of her nose and slid upward until it reached the crosspiece of her glasses and firmly pushed them into place. “Hi,” he said, just to her, his voice low, with a caress in its tone. The smiling blue eyes moved from her eyes to her lips, which were curved in a nervous smile.
She felt the soft brush of his mustache on her cheek, then his lips, firm and warm, against her mouth. It was a slow, unhurried kiss, and when he raised his head his eyes glinted into hers with devilish amusement. She was trembling, shaken to her roots, and she stared at him almost angrily.
“How're you doing, Beth?” he said to the girl who stood beside the door with a stricken look on her face.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine. What are you doing out and around so early? I thought schoolgirls liked to sleep in on Saturday mornings.”
“Well…I had to go to town. Thought I'd stop by and see…when Dolly's comin' home.”
Margaret noticed how Beth kept her gaze on the floor, and she could see herself when she first met Chip years ago in her father's study. Inner conflict was tearing the girl apart. Margaret rushed to say something to fill the silence.
“Beth and I had a nice visit. I'm glad she stopped by. Another time I'd like to go to town with you, Beth.”
“That'll be okay, I guess. I've only got that old pickup, but it gets me there.” Now she was looking from one to the other of them, her gaze watchful. “Guess I'd better get goin'.” She moved toward the kitchen door to go back out through the front of the house. Then turned, her eyes anxious. “Are you really goin' to
marry
her?”
“If I can talk her into it, I am. Don't you think I've made a good choice?” Chip's tone was even, his face serious. He tightened his arm to keep Margaret beside him.
“But you said the woman you married would want to spend her life here in Flathead. You said city girls don't know nothin' but primpin' and dressin' up like that old man's girl. You said she was useless as tits on a boar. You said—”
“I was wrong, Beth,” Chip interrupted. His voice was stern, but there was an undertone of gentleness. “City girls are like any other girls. If they want to adjust to this life, they can.”
“But—”
“Run along, Beth. Are you keeping your grades up like you promised?”
“And if I don't, I suppose you'll take the old pickup back!” Resentment flared on the young face.
“You're damn right I will! A bargain's a bargain.”
Margaret watched the emotions flicker across the girl's face, and she forcefully moved out from the circle of Chip's arm. “Like I said, Beth. Nothing has been decided.” She wanted to say,
He's lying! I'm the useless one he told you about.
“Don't you love him?” Beth asked hopefully, her eyes dark with hurt.
“Of course she does. She told me so last night.” Chip shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. His glance at Margaret dared her to contradict him.
Beth's face tightened angrily. “You get her pregnant before she decides and I'll never speak to you again!” She shot Margaret a stricken look and bolted out of the room. The front door slammed as she left the house.
“Why did you tell her that? It was…unkind,” Margaret finished weakly.
“Unkind? You think it's better to let her hope?” His voice was brusque. “It's time she stopped hanging around here and got a boyfriend her own age.”
“You didn't have to be so brutal. You didn't have to lie about being…about me.”
“I had two reasons for saying what I did. She'll spread it up and down Flathead Range that you're here as my fiancée, and she'll get over her silly romantic notions about me.”
“You had no right to involve me. You should've talked to her father.”
He looked at her with irony in the twist of his lips. “She doesn't have one. Well, I guess she does have one…somewhere. The bastard left them about six weeks ago.”
The words were slow to sink in. When they did, Margaret was puzzled. “But she said her father was a foreman at one of the logging camps.”
Chip shrugged. “Beth makes things up. She'll never admit that he pulled out and left them. She always has a reason why he's away. He's in the hospital, or he joined the service and is in Germany, or some other lie.”
“Oh, the poor girl!” She frowned up at him. “All the more reason to show a little compassion.”
He took a deep breath, as if making some inner decision. “Don't tell me how to run my affairs, Maggie. You know nothing at all about the situation.”
“Maybe not. But I learned a little more about you—and your opinion of the
old man's girl!
I'm surprised you'd want someone so useless to even pretend to be your fiancée!” His smile only increased her irritation.
“I knew you'd pick up on that.” His grin deepened, and he reminded her of a tiger that had just been thrown a piece of raw meat.
She felt a hot wave wash over her body as he blatantly surveyed her slender figure. His eyes slowly lifted to her face. She might be technically inexperienced, but she interpreted his look to mean she wasn't entirely useless.
The sexual assessment in those blue eyes left her chilled but angry.
“Your jeans are in the dryer, you chauvinist…creep! I hope you enjoy wearing them!” She jerked her head toward the basement door, and her glasses slid down her nose. Chip reached out with a forefinger and pushed them up before she could jerk her head away.
“You look kind of cute in those glasses. Why do you wear the contacts?”
“Because I want to!” she snapped defiantly.
“Good enough reason, princess. Now, run along and get a jacket so we can go to town and buy you some decent clothes.”