The Seasons Hereafter by Elisabeth Ogilvie Page B

Dinsmore—he’s Owen’s man anyway—and Charles Bennett’s boy Hugo. Well, Hugo was courting over to Brigport, so I got the chance to go.” He was jaunty with the prestige of it, but she let that pass for once. So Owen hadn’t mentioned coming to the house first. She felt again the visceral excitement that was half-pleasant and half-sickening. Barry’s voice faded out as if on a radio and then strengthened again as she tried to listen to him. We’re going to salt down my part in this fish house. When I start going by myself I’ll do everything, like the gear and boat was my own.”
    â€œWhen do you start by yourself?”
    â€œNext time we go to haul. We’re shifting pots today.” He was delighted with her attention, and talked and talked as greedily as he swallowed his food. She listened kindly, protecting the mood in which she had awakened.
    â€œWell, I’ve got to get moving,” he said at last. “Any coffee left there I can take?”
    â€œPlenty, and I’ll make some sandwiches.” She got out a couple of lobsters and opened them. He watched her, tipped back in his chair and smoking. “You know something, Van?” he said diffidently.
    â€œNot much.” She gave him a quick smile. “What?”
    â€œThere’s no reason now why you can’t send off to the catalog for some new clothes. Them shirts of mine don’t do much for you, and they got some real nice things you’d look good in. Not that you don’t look good in almost anything you put on, except that goddam raincoat.”
    She wrapped sandwiches and put them in his dinner box. “Well, maybe I’ll think about it,” she humored him. “You haven’t got so many shirts that we can divide them, anyway, the way I hate washing and ironing.”
    He was pleased by her response and rushed on. “And get yourself a couple of dresses besides pants and shirts. You know those kind with the tight top and full skirts?”
    She looked over her shoulder at him and saw him grinning, a little red and overheated as if by lascivious thoughts. “I’m not the type,” she teased him.
    â€œSure you are!” he blustered. “You’re a woman, ain’t ye? They’ll be having dances pretty soon and you want something nice to wear. I’ll be blasted if I can see how anybody can do a Lady of the Lake in one of them straight-up-and-down nightshirts that looks like a grain bag stitched up.”
    That was Barry, pushing his luck and talking about dances. She said indifferently, “I’ll see.”
    â€œWell, anyway, you can do with some new slacks,” he said, more subdued. “See if they got some like those of Mrs. Mark’s you had on the other day. Pick out something for me too, huh?”
    It was crafty of him, but she could forgive him that today, even while knowing how he’d tell the other men that the wife liked to pick out his clothes for him.
    When he had gone she took the bedclothes off the couch and hung them out in the yard to air.
    â€œHi!” It had happened at last. Kathy Campion was coming across the wet grass, her blue eyes sure of welcome. “Look, I’m not pushy—well, maybe I am—but how’ll you know you can use my washing machine if I don’t tell you?”
    Be ordinary, Vanessa warned herself. You need protective coloring. “Thanks,” she said in a friendly if not effusive manner. “But so far I’ve only got a few things to wash, and I’d just as soon do them by hand, the cistern water is so soft.”
    â€œIsn’t it, though?” Kathy lingered, hugging herself against the chill that raised gooseflesh on her arms. “I haven’t had a chance to ask you how you like it out here.”
    â€œI like it a lot,” said Vanessa. “It’s so good to be out of the city with spring coming that I can’t seem to stay in the