Suddenly unable to stand still, she swiped a towel across the stove surface, wiping the suds away. A good wife would cross the room and welcome her husband home with a kiss.
“I didn’t want you to work on your wedding day,” he said.
“You did.” Had he expected her to laze about, waiting for him to finish for the day? She couldn’t stand to do nothing, because then she would think of the son she’d left behind.
John’s shoulders lifted. “I would have lost too much custom if I closed the store. Tomorrow will be the same until the packet ship leaves for San Francisco. In the afternoon, I can show you the ropes.”
“Did I do so badly sorting the mail?” she asked, drying her hands.
Was he waiting for her to greet him in the doorway? He’d yet to step inside. She just couldn’t bring herself to close the space and offer up a kiss. She’d wanted a different start, too. She’d expected to be carried over the threshold the first time she entered her new home as a new bride, but that hadn’t happened, either.
“It, uh, no.” His face darkened. “You’re a great distraction.”
She had no idea what he meant. “I’m sorry?”
“I couldn’t concentrate on orders with you so close. You’re—you’re so...such a beauty.”
It took her a second to realize he’d complimented her. In an odd way it almost felt like an accusation of intentional disruption, but then the very awkwardness of it convinced her that he was sincere. Warmth crept under her breastbone.
His face screwed up. “I knew you were pretty from your picture, but I didn’t realize how pretty until you were standing beside me in the church.”
The corners of her mouth curled. “Took you that long?”
He smiled back and the tightness in her neck eased away. If only being pretty was enough to keep a man around. Her mother had been pretty, but that hadn’t kept her father from abandoning them and leaving them destitute.
“I think we’ve gotten off to a bit of a bad start,” she offered. “Perhaps we should begin anew.” Men weren’t always clear in their speech. She knew that. Otherwise she never would have been in the predicament she’d been in, where she’d had no choice but to do horrible things to survive. So it was up to her to try and bridge the gap. She took a step toward him. “You said you’d arranged for our supper?”
He nodded and stepped into the room. “Let me wash up and then we can go to the hotel.”
That was the crux of it. Marrying someone you knew only from letters was awkward, and they were both feeling their way.
* * *
After a short walk through the streets, John led Selina into a large white building with marble floors and flocked wallpaper. The hotel was barely a year old, he told her as she looked around with wide eyes. He wondered if she’d expected Stockton to be as uncivilized as the rest of the West. There were still differences between California and back East, but Stockton was quickly becoming just as modern as any city in the world, maybe even more modern, because there weren’t any old buildings, and only a handful built more than a dozen years earlier.
Before he could say boo, they were being shown into a large dining room with a few men—properly dressed men—sitting at various tables. Most of them watched Selina, although she didn’t seem to notice as she commented on how elegant the dining room looked in a hushed, reverent voice.
The maître d’hôtel showed them to a linen-covered table in an alcove. He lit a candle in the center of the table next to a spray of flowers, congratulated them on their marriage and promised their waiter would arrive shortly.
In short order a plate of bread and butter was on the table, bowls of tomato soup were in front of them and wine filled their glasses.
Selina pulled her napkin into her lap.
The first course conversation was little more than a polite exchange of strangers. All John could think about was that after dinner they would return home and go to bed, and he couldn’t seem to find a decent conversational gambit to save his life. He would have to do better with the entrée.
The waiter cleared her mostly full bowl of soup with a frown and set their main dish on the table. If she hadn’t liked the soup, John hoped the chicken and the chilled cabbage salad would go better.
“It smells heavenly,” she said.
“I hope you don’t mind, but chicken is a safer bet this time of year.” The last thing he wanted was his wife suffering from a sour stomach on their wedding night because the meat had turned.
“It is exactly right,” she said with a nervous smile.
Their conversation seriously needed to improve or they would dance around real topics all night. Maybe she had something in mind. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
“I want to know everything about you,” she said brightly. “Where were you born?”
His birth was the last thing he wanted to talk about, but he had given her the opening she likely had been waiting for. “I assume Boston. That is where I was found.”
“And did you have a family?”
His stomach clenched as if he’d been punched. What an absurd question. He set his fork down with a thump. “What part of I was a foundling do you not understand?”
She reached across the table and put her hand on his. Her touch jolted him. “I am your wife. Don’t you think I should know about your history? I would like to know all about you. And I have something to tell you that only those closest to me know. We shouldn’t have any secrets.”
She was reaching out to touch him, which augured well for the wedding night. Her hand rested lightly on his, but it made his pulse jump. Somehow he pulled his mind back to the matter at hand. “It isn’t a secret. I’d just rather not talk about it. I’ve tried to put those years behind me.”
She patted his hand. The effect of her touch faded. “I just thought a family might have adopted you.”
He stared at her. “No, my bitch of a mother made sure that would never happen.”
Selina jerked her hand back as if his words had burned her. Her face went white.
He regretted using such a crude and ugly word to describe the woman who’d given birth to him as soon as it left his mouth. He looked around to make certain no other diner had heard, but no doubt his foul language shocked her. She needn’t worry. His venom was reserved for the woman who’d left him on a city park bench as if he was trash. He didn’t want to discuss it, or think about it, especially not now.
“How can you speak so about your mother?” she whispered.
He sighed. Damn it, he wanted a smooth wedding night.
He’d hoped for a congenial dinner, a leisurely stroll back to the store and an early bedtime. Or perhaps sitting beside her on the settee for a spell, talking about anything but his miserable childhood. He was doing a lousy job of
