29
Farley, Wyoming
He loved her.
While Red kneaded dough with Vicki, while she dusted the board and rolling pin with flour, the conversation kept sliding away from her, her thoughts returning to last night, to Rooster’s confession.
He loved her.
He loved her, he loved her.
She’d known that, in an abstract sense. Like she knew the sun would come up in the morning; like she knew they had to keep running. She’d known there was some feeling there on his part, because no one wasthatselfless, were they? But she’d doubted. She’d wondered. She’d felt guilty for tying him down.
But he loved her.
“You’re sure in a good mood,” Vicki commented, and when Red glanced over at her, she winked.
Red felt herself blush and turned her attention back to the dough. “I am,” she said, hoping for casual.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain someone, would it?”
When Red snuck another glance, the woman was giving her a sly look. The kind of look women gave one another in movies; it thrilled her to be on the receiving end of it. Made her feel grown up in a way that no calendar date could.
“Mmhm, I thought so,” Vicki said. “Here, hon, we’ll add a little lemon zest over the top.”
The knowledge of Rooster’s love carried her through the next hour – a fleet of balloons tied to her heart, making her buoyant and light in her own skin – as they prepped seven batches of cookies, an iced pound cake, and two loaves of banana bread. When her stomach started to growl audibly, Vicki called a halt to baking and dipped them up bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup from the slow cooker working away on the counter.
“You two are coming to the bake sale tomorrow, right?” Vicki asked, like it was already a given.
Red hesitated, spoon hovering in front of her lips. “I’m not sure.” She and Rooster hadn’t talked about it again, but something about their embrace last night, about sleeping tucked under his chin, had felt like acquiescence. She wanted to go.
She wanted, she realized now, to stay in Farley. At least for a little while. To see if they could find work, and maybe a little house like this. To sit on front porches, and make friends with the neighbors, and not have to worry about anything but getting their grocery store coupons in order every week. All the normal little things that most people found boring or bothersome; those were the things she craved.
Vicki set her spoon down, expression growing serious, and Red felt herself do the same. “Listen,” Vicki said. “I get the impression your boy isn’t the type to appreciate being told that he needs help of some kind. He’s like my Jack that way. And, like Jack, I think he could probably stand to let go of a little of the war he brought back home with him.”
Red swallowed hard, and didn’t say anything.
“I don’t mean anything by it, honey,” Vicki said, reaching forward to lay her hand on Red’s arm. “It happens to the best of them – sometimes I think it’sworstfor the best of them. They bottle everything up and try to be strong for their families. But inside, they’re hurting. They’ve seen things they can’t get out of their heads. He’s got the ghost eyes, your Rooster.”
Red nodded, and even that felt like a betrayal.
But Vicki smiled kindly at her. “After the sale tomorrow, there’s going to be a meeting. They’re all a real good bunch of guys. Mostly Vietnam vets, but some Gulf War and Iraq War, too. There’s even old Edgar, who was in the Pacific Theater in ’44.”
Red could see where this was going. “I – I don’t think Rooster would go for that.” Sheknewhe wouldn’t, but there was no sense being rude.
Vicki searched her face a moment, gaze narrowing, and Red thought she could read all the things she was trying to keep to herself. Finally, she nodded and turned her attention back to her soup. “Well, I figured I’d tell you about it. Rooster is of course welcome to stay. All us girls are going out for a quick bite while they meet. The boys usually come down and join us at the diner for dessert, afterward.”
She could envision it: melting milkshakes in old-fashioned glasses, the gentle chiding of friends, low laughter, clink of silverware and a sense of belonging somewhere. Being with people who only cared about what you could contribute to a conversation, not about what you could conjure from thin air.
Red took a deep breath. “I’ll ask him.”
“That’ll be good, sweetie. Eat your soup before it gets cold.”
~*~
Rooster spent the day laying down new floor and staining it. Red brought him a ham and Swiss sandwich at lunchtime and they sat in companionable silence on the new carriage house porch while he ate it. Every so often she’d let her elbow slide over, and his would echo the movement, and it almost felt like holding hands. Then Vicki called her back to the house, and Rooster drained the last of his Coke and returned to his task.
By six-thirty, the white oak floors gleamed beneath a fresh coat of poly, and Rooster’s arms and shoulders burned pleasantly from exertion. He wiped his face with the scrap of rag in his back pocket and looked up when a man-shaped shadow filled the doorway.
