looked her in the eye. “I’ve never been so serious about anything before in my life. What do you say, Miss Miller? A joint venture of an artist and a storyteller.”
She didn’t need to think about it, not for a minute. “Absolutely, yes. I would love to.” Phoebe would remember little about the remaining drive back to Ohio. Not the video, or the scenery of New York and Pennsylvania, or even the rest of the conversation with Eli. She could only think about one thing: She was about to become a children’s book illustrator.
E IGHT
Willow Brook
M atthew recognized a bad sign when he saw one. When his foreman dropped him off at his driveway on Friday night, his house was dark. A sole kerosene lamp burned on the kitchen table in the back of the house.
“Thanks, Pete,” he called, slamming the truck door. “See ya Monday morning.” Pete waved and drove home to his own family, while Matthew slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked up to face the music.
It wasn’t as though he’d had much choice regarding his quitting time. When the owners of one of the horses he trained arrived late in the day, it was his job to present the horse and remain until everyone was satisfied. The stable’s groom had handpicked tangles from the horse’s tail and mane, but Matthew had to work him in the lunging ring to show off the progress that had been made since the last visit. Later, he’d tacked the horse out himself while the owners asked plenty of questions. He had a few of his own. Owners had different opinions as to how saddlebreds should be prepared for the prestigious show circuit. Because they paid very high fees for the services of Rolling Meadows Stables, it was his job to give them what they wanted, even if that meant sticking around until seven on a Friday night.
Matthew entered his home through the back door, careful not to let the screen door slam. He knew his children would be asleep by now, postponing his reunion with them until morning. “Martha?” he called in an exaggerated whisper.
After a few moments, his wife shuffled into the room. She wore a long nightgown, white socks, and an exhausted expression. She’d released her waist-length hair from its bun, and it trailed down her back in a loose plait. Despite her frown, Matthew thought she looked beautiful. “Evening,
fraa
. Sorry I’m late for supper.” He hung his straw hat on a peg and went to the sink to wash.
“Late? Six-thirty or seven would be late. Supper is done and over with. I kept a bowl of stew warm for you so long that I’m sure it’s not fit for hogs anymore…if we owned any hogs.” She crossed her arms over her bodice. “I started supper at three o’clock. Now it’s nine. That’s bedtime, not the dinner hour.”
Matthew considered suggesting that she start cooking at four or four-thirty, considering his schedule, but then squashed the notion. No sense stirring up a hornet’s nest when their time together was short. “Since, as you mentioned, we don’t own a pig, give me whatever stew you have left.” He kept his voice neutral, trying not to sound angry as he poured himself a glass of cold milk.
“Do you mean to say you haven’t eaten yet?” Martha sound genuinely shocked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He shot her a look over the refrigerator door. “I was working late tonight, Martha, not having dinner in a fancy restaurant with my boss.” His neutral tone had evaporated.
She hurried to the stove and pulled a bowl from the oven with pot holders. She set it on his place mat along with some slices of homemade bread. Matthew sat down with his milk and stared into his supper. The colors and shapes of what had been potatoes, carrots, peas, onions, and beef had blended together into a greenish goo. “Good grief! How many times did you stir the pot? This looks like you put it through the butter churn.”
“Quite a few times. I didn’t want it to stick to the bottom of my Dutch oven.”
He shrugged.
She didn’t need to think about it, not for a minute. “Absolutely, yes. I would love to.” Phoebe would remember little about the remaining drive back to Ohio. Not the video, or the scenery of New York and Pennsylvania, or even the rest of the conversation with Eli. She could only think about one thing: She was about to become a children’s book illustrator.
E IGHT
Willow Brook
M atthew recognized a bad sign when he saw one. When his foreman dropped him off at his driveway on Friday night, his house was dark. A sole kerosene lamp burned on the kitchen table in the back of the house.
“Thanks, Pete,” he called, slamming the truck door. “See ya Monday morning.” Pete waved and drove home to his own family, while Matthew slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked up to face the music.
It wasn’t as though he’d had much choice regarding his quitting time. When the owners of one of the horses he trained arrived late in the day, it was his job to present the horse and remain until everyone was satisfied. The stable’s groom had handpicked tangles from the horse’s tail and mane, but Matthew had to work him in the lunging ring to show off the progress that had been made since the last visit. Later, he’d tacked the horse out himself while the owners asked plenty of questions. He had a few of his own. Owners had different opinions as to how saddlebreds should be prepared for the prestigious show circuit. Because they paid very high fees for the services of Rolling Meadows Stables, it was his job to give them what they wanted, even if that meant sticking around until seven on a Friday night.
Matthew entered his home through the back door, careful not to let the screen door slam. He knew his children would be asleep by now, postponing his reunion with them until morning. “Martha?” he called in an exaggerated whisper.
After a few moments, his wife shuffled into the room. She wore a long nightgown, white socks, and an exhausted expression. She’d released her waist-length hair from its bun, and it trailed down her back in a loose plait. Despite her frown, Matthew thought she looked beautiful. “Evening,
fraa
. Sorry I’m late for supper.” He hung his straw hat on a peg and went to the sink to wash.
“Late? Six-thirty or seven would be late. Supper is done and over with. I kept a bowl of stew warm for you so long that I’m sure it’s not fit for hogs anymore…if we owned any hogs.” She crossed her arms over her bodice. “I started supper at three o’clock. Now it’s nine. That’s bedtime, not the dinner hour.”
Matthew considered suggesting that she start cooking at four or four-thirty, considering his schedule, but then squashed the notion. No sense stirring up a hornet’s nest when their time together was short. “Since, as you mentioned, we don’t own a pig, give me whatever stew you have left.” He kept his voice neutral, trying not to sound angry as he poured himself a glass of cold milk.
“Do you mean to say you haven’t eaten yet?” Martha sound genuinely shocked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He shot her a look over the refrigerator door. “I was working late tonight, Martha, not having dinner in a fancy restaurant with my boss.” His neutral tone had evaporated.
She hurried to the stove and pulled a bowl from the oven with pot holders. She set it on his place mat along with some slices of homemade bread. Matthew sat down with his milk and stared into his supper. The colors and shapes of what had been potatoes, carrots, peas, onions, and beef had blended together into a greenish goo. “Good grief! How many times did you stir the pot? This looks like you put it through the butter churn.”
“Quite a few times. I didn’t want it to stick to the bottom of my Dutch oven.”
He shrugged.
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