Bing sings, the fireplace crackles, and I take another bite of the savory, homemade stew.
Everyone at the table chats and laughs, and as we eat together, I come to the conclusion that whatever is happening . . . is going to be interesting. Or educational. Or terrifying.
Or all of the above.
Chapter Four
After dinner, the men slip away, leaving Gran, Sophie, and me to clear away the dishes and clean the large kitchen. Soon, as I’m scrubbing a pot in the battered farm sink, I smell smoke from a pipe.
They’re smoking indoors.
Because this is 1944.
The smell permeates the room quickly, and before I can mask my reaction, Gran catches sight of my face.
“Men are smelly creatures, aren’t they?” she asks, as she swings around to put the glass milk pitcher into the fridge. The fridge is a relic, of course, but also rather new. It’s mind-bending. I’m using antiques . . . when they weren’t antiques.
“Nothing smells better than a freshly bathed man, though,” Sophie speaks up, and Gran . . . Marina . . . rolls her eyes.
“Daddy smells like campfires,” she tells her mother. Sophie nods, a loving expression in her eyes.
“He does. Except for when he’s freshly bathed.”
She towels off the last pot, and I pull the drain from the sink.
“Let’s put the strainer in there,” Sophie says quickly, settling the screen into the drain. “These old pipes get clogged easily.”
Because there’s no garbage disposal, I realize.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“How could you know this old house is antiquated?” Marina asks me. “It should be a museum, not a home.”
“Marina!” Sophie chides. “This is our home. It was your father’s home, and his father built it with his bare hands. It will be in our family for generations to come and will outlast us all. At least, that’s the plan.”
“As I said,” Marina grins, “it’s old and should be a museum.”
“But you love this house,” I protest, and then realize I shouldn’t know that. “I mean, anyone would,” I backpedal.
“Oh, she’s too young to understand what tradition and family mean,” Sophie interjects, and Marina rolls her eyes behind her mother’s back. “She just wants to live in the lower forty-eight, where there are more exciting things to do.”
“I think any girl my age would,” Marina replies, defending herself. “Aren’t I right, Piper?”
Both women look at me expectantly, and I’m a deer in the headlights.
“Um,” I stammer, and Sophie laughs.
“It’s fine,” she assures me. “Both places have merit.”
I visibly relax, and she laughs again.
“We give Marina too much leeway,” she tells me. “But she means well. She’s a good girl.”
“Usually,” Marina amends.
Now it’s Sophie rolling her eyes.
“Don’t give Piper the wrong idea,” she tells her daughter. “You’re a good girl and you know it. You’ve just got a bit of a spunky mouth.”
“Strong women run in our family,” Marina tells me. “So I learned from the best.”
I can’t help but wonder if it’s true. Does it run in our family? Did Gran think I’m strong?
I realize that I’m already referring to the gran I knew as Gran, and Marina when I’m thinking about the young girl in front of me.
Separating them in my mind might be the key to not losing it.
See? I tell myself. You’re strong. You’re adapting. You’ve got this.
“Oh, you.” Sophie sighs, shooing at her daughter with her hands. “Go on, get. Take your smart mouth and go make sure the men have towels. It’s bath night.”
“Bath night?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Sophie nods. “We need to conserve electricity right now, so Friday night is bath night.”
“For all of us,” Marina adds. “I’m sorry. It’s awful. Sponge baths every other day.”
“Marina, land sakes. We’re blessed to have very little impact from this war,” Sophie rebukes her. “If we can only buy a little sugar or can only bathe once a week, it’s nothing compared to the sacrifices our boys are making over there.”
“I know, Mama.” Marina sighs.
“So I don’t want to hear you complain about this again.”
“Yes, Mama,” Marina agrees with another sigh.
“It won’t be for much longer anyway,” I speak up, and immediately feel like clapping my hand over my mouth. “It will surely be over soon,” I add.
“I don’t know,” Sophie answers. “We keep hoping, and it just never happens.”
“Nothing can last forever,” I say brightly.
“It’s almost like you haven’t experienced an Alaskan winter,” Marina says, with a wink. “Because I assure you, it lasts forever.”
“What did I just tell you?” Sophie says sharply. “Stop complaining, missy.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
Marina is contrite now, and she turns to me. “Want to help me pass out towels?”
“Marina, don’t enlist our guest to—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “I’d love to. Truly.”
Sophie nods with an approving smile, and I hurry to keep up with Marina as she practically darts from the room. I turn down the hall to the laundry room, but Marina continues on, so I turn around and join her.
She leads me downstairs, which at this moment in time isn’t finished yet. Gone are the wooden beams and brick walls of the wine cellar. It’s now a very, very rustic laundry area, with concrete walls and just a couple of single lightbulbs hanging from overhead. An old washing machine sits in the corner, and makeshift clotheslines are stretched from one side of the room to the other.
This is the laundry room now.
She grabs dry towels off the lines and tosses them to me to fold. Soon enough, we each have an armful, and we head back up the wooden stairs.
The men are all extremely happy to get their towels, and I feel a little like Santa Claus as I hand them out.
Bing Crosby is singing on the record player again, its crackling sound adding a festive flair to the evening.
“We get the record player tonight too,” Marina tells me, her eyes sparkling. I’m seeing now that Friday nights are an event here. “So hurry and take a bath, and we can dance!”
Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I rush to the bathroom, eager to see what 1944 deems as entertainment.
I’m derailed for a minute as I realize that there’s no shower.
Only a claw-foot bathtub.
How am I supposed to wash my hair like that?
As if on cue, Marina taps on the door, then thrusts a bottle of shampoo at me.
“Here, you can borrow my shampoo. Just don’t use too much; I don’t get another card for more for a couple of months.”
Rationing. I forgot.
“Thank you,” I tell her sincerely. “I’ll just use a dab.”
She grins. “Just leave it in there. I’ll bathe next. Remember—just two inches!”