“Oh,” she said. “Right. Of course.”
ELSA CLOSED THE TRUCK door and stared through the open window at Rafe, who smiled, slowly raised his hand, and then drove away.
What kind of goodbye was it? Would he want to see her again?
Look at him. Of course not.
Besides, he lived in Lonesome Tree. That was thirty miles away. And if she did happen to see him in Dalhart, it wouldn’t matter.
He was Italian. Catholic. Young. Nothing about him was acceptable to her family.
She opened the gate and entered her mother’s fragrant world. From now on, blooming night jasmine would always make Elsa think of him . . .
At the house, she opened the front door and stepped into the shadowy parlor.
As she closed the door, she heard a creaking sound and she stopped. Moonlight bled through the window. She saw her father standing by the Victrola.
“Who are you?” he said, coming toward her.
Elsa’s beaded silver headband slipped down; she pushed it back up. “Y-your daughter.”
“Damn right. My father fought to make Texas a part of the United States. He joined the Rangers and fought in Laredo and was shot and nearly died. Our blood is in this ground.”
“Y-yes. I know, but—”
Elsa didn’t see his hand come up until it was too close to duck. He cracked her across the jaw so hard she lost her balance and fell to the floor.
She scrambled back into the corner to get away. “Papa—”
“You shame us. Get out of my sight.”
Elsa lurched to her feet, ran up the stairs, and slammed her bedroom door shut.
With shaking hands, she lit the lamp by her bed and undressed.
There was a red mark above her breast. (Had Rafe done that?) A bruise was already discoloring her jaw, and her hair was a mess from lovemaking, if that was what it could be called.
Even so, she would do it again if she could. She would let her father hit her, yell at her, slander her, or disinherit her.
She knew now what she hadn’t known before, hadn’t even suspected: she would do anything, suffer anything, to be loved, even if it was just for a night.
THE NEXT MORNING, ELSA woke to sunlight streaming through the open window. The red dress hung over the closet door. The ache in her jaw reminded her of last night, as did the pain that lingered after Rafe’s loving. One she wanted to forget; one she wanted to remember.
Her iron bed was piled with quilts she had made, often sewing by candlelight during the cold winter months. At the foot of her bed stood her hope chest, lovingly filled with embroidered linens and a fine white lawn nightdress and the wedding quilt Elsa had begun when she was twelve years old, before her unattractiveness had been revealed to be not a phase but a permanence. By the time Elsa started her monthlies, Mama had quietly stopped talking about Elsa’s wedding and stopped beading scraps of Alençon lace. Enough for half a dress lay folded between pieces of tissue.
There was a knock at the door.
Elsa sat up. “Come in.”
Mama entered the room, her fashionable day shoes making no sound on the rag rug that covered most of the wooden floor. She was a tall woman, with broad shoulders and a no-nonsense demeanor; she lived a life above reproach, chaired church committees, ran the Beautification League, and kept her voice low even when she was angry. Nothing and no one could ruffle Minerva Wolcott. She claimed it was a family trait, inherited from ancestors who had come to Texas when no other white face could be seen for a six-day horse ride.
Mama sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hair, dyed black, was drawn back into a chignon that heightened the severity of her sharp features. She reached out and touched the tender bruise on Elsa’s jaw. “My father would have done much worse to me.”
“But—”
“No buts, Elsinore.” She leaned forward, tucked a ragged lock of Elsa’s shorn blond hair behind her ear. “I suspect I will hear gossip today in town. Gossip. About one of my daughters.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “Did you get into trouble?”
“No, Mama.”
“So, you’re still a good girl?”
Elsa nodded, unable to say the lie aloud.
Mama’s forefinger moved down, touched Elsa’s chin, tilted her face up. She studied Elsa, slowly frowning, assessing. “A pretty dress doesn’t make one pretty, dear.”
“I just wanted—”
“We won’t speak of it, and nothing like it will ever happen again.”
Mama stood, smoothing her lavender crepe skirt, although no wrinkles had formed or would dare to. Distance spread between them, as solid as any fence. “You are unmarriageable, Elsinore, even with all our money and standing. No man of note wants an unattractive wife who looms over him. And if a man did come along who could overlook your weaknesses, certainly he would not dismiss a tarnished reputation. Learn to be happy with real life. Throw away your silly romantic novels.”
Mama took the red silk dress on her way out.
THREE
In the years since the Great War, patriotism ran high in Dalhart. That, combined with rain and rising wheat prices, gave everyone a reason to celebrate the Fourth of July. In town, store windows advertised Independence Day sales and bells clanged merrily as folks went in and out of the merchants’ stores, stocking up on food and drink for the festivities.
Usually Elsa looked forward to the celebration, but the past few weeks had been difficult. Since her night with Rafe, Elsa had felt caged. Restless. Unhappy.
Not that anyone in her family looked closely enough at her to see the difference. Instead of voicing her discontent, she buried it and went on. It was all she knew to do.
She kept her head down and pretended nothing had changed. She stayed in her bedroom as much as she could, even in the ragged heat of summer. She had books delivered from the library—suitable books—and read them from cover to cover. She embroidered dish towels and pillowcases. At supper, she listened to her parents’ conversation and nodded when she needed to. At church, she wore a cloche over her scandalously short hair and made the excuse that she didn’t feel well and was left alone.
On the few instances when she dared to look up from a beloved book and stare out the window, she saw the emptiness of a spinster’s future stretching out to the flat horizon and beyond.
Accept.
The bruise on her jaw had faded. No one—not even her sisters—had remarked upon it. Life returned to normal at the Wolcott house.
Elsa imagined herself as the fictional Lady of Shalott, a woman trapped in a tower, cursed, unable to leave her room, forever doomed to watch the bustling of life outside. If anyone noticed her sudden quiet, they didn’t remark upon it or ask the cause. In truth, it was not so different. She’d learned how to disappear in place long ago. She was like one of those animals whose defense mechanism is to blend into the landscape and become invisible. It was her way of dealing with rejection: Say nothing and disappear. Never fight back. If she remained quiet enough, people eventually forgot she was there and left her alone.
“Elsa!” her father yelled up the stairs. “It’s time to go. Don’t make us late.”
Elsa pulled on her kid gloves—required even in this terrible heat—and pinned a straw hat in place. Then she went downstairs.