WHILE THE CHILD SLEPT, snow fell. It had fallen all morning.
It glistened, silver and white, on the greenhouse roofs. Like ragged lace, it covered the cold frames still empty of seedlings. It eddied around the corners of the barn, dancing with the wind as if alive and bewitched.
But the inside of the little farmhouse was warm. Briana had been up and working for almost an hour. The scents of coffee and bacon and biscuits hung in the kitchen air like country ambrosia.
It was a scene of almost perfect peace.
Then Briana smashed her finger with the hammer. A swear word flew to her mouth, but she sucked it back in pain. This almost made her swallow the spare tack she held between her teeth.
Through sheer willpower, she recovered and bit on the tack more firmly. She had a job to do, and with all her Missouri stubbornness, she meant to get it done.
She settled herself more steadily on the top rung of the ladder and gripped the hammer. She tapped the last crepe-paper streamer into place on the ceiling beam. Now kitchen, living room and dining room were festooned with spirals of red and white.
Briana cocked her head and examined the effect. It looked fine, it looked festive, it looked—happy.
Happy, she thought numbly. Good. I want things to look happy.
She climbed down the ladder and plucked the unused tack from her mouth, then thrust it into the pocket of her carpenter’s apron. She stowed her hammer in its proper drawer and hung the apron on its peg inside the pantry.
She checked the food warming in the oven, then called her daughter to breakfast. She made sure her voice was firm, steady and, above all, cheerful.
“Nealie! Up and at ’em. Breakfast time.”
From the bedroom came a groan that was impressively loud for such a small girl. “Agh!”
“No dramatics,” Briana ordered. “They scare the cat.”
With even greater drama, Nealie shouted, “I hate mornings!” This time her groan ended with a horrible gurgle. “Aargh-gack-gack.”
The black cat, Zorro, streaked out of Nealie’s room, down the stairs and to his sanctuary behind the washing machine. Zorro was of a nervous disposition.
Briana looked at all that remained visible of the cat, the twitching tip of his black tail. She crooked an eyebrow. “Good morning, Zorro. I’d hide, too, if I were you. Some mice were around earlier asking for you. Big mice. One of them had a baseball bat.”
“Mom!” Nealie stood in the doorway looking sleepy and indignant. “You know Zorro’s scared of mice.”
“And he knows I’m kidding.”
Nealie gave her mother a rueful smile. She was a small child with big glasses that made her look like an impish owl. Her new plaid bathrobe was too large, and the sleeves hung to her fingertips. From under its hem peeped large brown fuzzy slippers made to look like bear paws. The slippers were ridiculous, but Nealie loved them.
The girl dropped to her knees beside the washer. “Poor Zorro,” she cooed, pulling him from his hiding place. Pieces of lint clung to his black whiskers and fur. She began to pick them off.
“Come on, Zorro,” Nealie said comfortingly. “You can sit on my lap. I’ll pet you.”
She plunked down cross-legged on the floor and laid the cat on his back. She stroked his fat stomach, scratched his ears and babbled affectionate nonsense to him. He purred his almost noiseless Zorro purr.
Briana bit her lip and put the oatmeal into the microwave. All business, she opened a container of yogurt, then poured orange juice into a glass.
“I didn’t want to wake up.” Nealie yawned, stroking the cat. “I was wrestling a crocodile. I was winning, too.”
“Of course, you were,” Briana said loyally.
“I’m going to hunt crocodiles when I get big,” said Nealie. “To help them, not to hurt them. Zorro and I’ll build them a safe place so people can’t make them into watch straps. Won’t we, Zorro?”
Zorro’s green eyes rolled unhappily, as if the thought of crocodiles made him queasy.
Briana stood by the counter, one hand on her hip, watching the timid cat and her fearless child.
Nealie was such a little girl. She was smart and imaginative, but much too small for her age, and delicate, as well. It was as if nature had not given her a body sturdy enough to contain so much spirit.
Nealie yawned again, then looked up, noticing the red and white streamers for the first time. Behind her big glasses, her eyes squinted.
“Hey! What’s this? When’d you do all this?”
“This morning. I can’t believe you didn’t hear me,” Briana said, setting out Nealie’s vitamins.
“What’s it for?” Then the child’s face brightened like a sunrise. “Is it for Daddy? Is he coming home? Is he? Is it a surprise for him?”
Briana fought not to wince. “No. You know he won’t be back for a while.”
The sunshine in Nealie’s expression clouded over. “Oh,” she said. “Then what’s all this for?”
“Your uncle Larry’s birthday,” Briana said. “We’ll have fun. There’ll be cake and ice cream and—”
“—and Rupert and Neville and Marsh,” Nealie said in disgust. “Blech.”
Rupert and Neville and Marsh were her cousins. They were all boys, all younger than Nealie, but bigger. Their idea of fun was running, shouting, scuffling and tormenting cats and girls.
“Why can’t Aunt Glenda have the party?” Nealie asked. “Then the boys can break their own stuff.”
“She wanted to have it,” Briana said, defending her sister-in-law. “She’s not feeling so good lately. So last night I said I’d do it.”
“I know why she doesn’t feel good.” Nealie pouted. “She’s going to have another baby. I hope it’s not another boy—ugh.”
Briana knew the baby would be a boy, so she made no reply. Instead she said, “Wash your hands and come eat.”
“Zorro’s not dirty,” Nealie protested, kissing him on the nose. “He’s sterile. I heard you telling Mrs. Feeney.”
Caught by surprise, Briana laughed. “That’s a different kind of sterile. It means he can’t make kittens. But germs he can make—and does. Wash.”
“I love Zorro’s germs,” Nealie said, straightening her glasses. “They’re wonderful, beautiful germs because they’re his.”
She kissed him again, then rose and washed her hands, then plunked herself down at the table. After the first few bites, she only picked at her food.
“Try
