The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Thirty-Seven





SHELBY, IOWA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 15, 1931



“WHAT kind of name is Vivian, anyway?” Charlie asked, resting against the doorframe.

Ritzi filled the tin cup with water and poured it over the baby’s soft brown hair. Ringlets had begun to curl over her ears and at the base of her neck, and Ritzi toyed with them as she lay her down in the shallow tub.

“A pretty one.”

“She looks like you.” He was a bit closer now, standing over her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.” Charlie knelt next to Ritzi on the floor and rested his arms on the edge of the tub. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Neither did I.”

She could feel the heat of his gaze on the side of her face. The nape of her neck. The rise of her breasts. Ritzi wanted to bury her face in his chest. She wanted to touch his cheek. Instead, they both looked at the baby, their forearms brushing lightly. If she moved her pinkie an inch to the left, she could wrap it around Charlie’s. She didn’t.

Charlie reached into the tub with his other hand and set one finger in Vivian’s chubby fist. She curled her fingers around it and tugged. From the corner of her eye, Ritzi could see the dimples flash on Charlie’s face.

“She needs a middle name,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about Jane. After my mother.”

Ritzi cleared her throat, and emotion filled her voice. “I didn’t know you wanted a say.”

“Sarah,” he said, voice tender. “I hate the bastard who did this to you. But she’s your baby, and I could never hate her.” He pulled his finger from her tiny grasp and set it against her little rosebud lips. “I think Vivian Jane Martin is a good name.”

Charlie handed Ritzi a towel and left the bathroom.

Once Vivian was clean and dry and diapered, Ritzi lay her in the middle of the bed to kick her feet in the air. She stood next to the open window and looked out at the fields. The corn was ready for harvest, and in the darkness it looked like a black wave rolling from the house in all directions. A breeze gathered the long, rough leaves and rubbed them together. When she closed her eyes, it sounded like summer rain. The sky was clear and the stars bright, and Ritzi was overwhelmed with the simplicity and beauty of that evening. She hadn’t seen the stars one time in New York City. Before shutting the window, she leaned out a bit and inhaled the scent of grass and wind. The earthy fragrance of geraniums drifted up from the porch below.

Ritzi slipped out of her shoes and pulled her dress over her head. She didn’t notice Charlie in the doorway watching until she saw his reflection in the window. She could see his eyes trail down the curve of her back, the roundness of her bottom beneath her slip. He swallowed. She hoped he would come into the room. That he would talk to her. Touch her. But when he caught her eyes in the reflection, he turned and walked away. Ritzi flipped out the light and curled around the tiny form of her daughter. She lay in the bed wide awake.

The hall was dark, and she heard Charlie’s familiar steps heading toward the linen closet. He grabbed a blanket, like he’d done every night since she’d come home, then picked his way down the stairs to the living room. His feet shuffled across the hardwood floor. In her mind, she could see him sitting on the edge of the couch and taking off his boots, the left one first and then the right. He would unbutton his shirt, fold it, and set it on the chair. Same with his pants. Socks laid neatly on top of the pile. Ritzi imagined him standing in the living room, moonlight grazing his face and chest, and longing crept through her.

The couch groaned beneath his weight in the room below. He fussed with his blanket and pillow. Slowly the house grew quiet, only the faint creaking of wind and the settling of old plaster walls.

Vivian whimpered in the bed beside her, and Ritzi laid a hand on her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. Then she sang a few lines from her favorite Gershwin song, soft and low, so as not to disturb Charlie: “I never had the least notion that I could fall with such emotion … ’cause I’ve got a crush, my baby, on you.”


At the sound of her mother’s voice, Vivian grew still, and her breathing evened. She stuck one fist in her mouth and sucked. The little smacking sound of her lips made Ritzi smile, and she closed her eyes as well. An owl hooted outside, and together mother and baby drifted off to sleep to the lullaby of cornstalks rustling in the wind.

Some time later Ritzi woke when the blanket lifted from her. And then the weight of Charlie on the mattress. She looked up at him in the moonlight. His eyes were dark and shone like obsidian, and the shadows chiseled the lines of his face. Without a word, he slid next to her, and the heat of his skin against hers quickened her pulse. He smelled of leather and soap and fresh air, and she could feel the stubble of his chin rest against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. It sounded like a gasp, full of apology and grief.

Charlie tucked his legs in behind hers and reached over to play with one of Vivian’s curls. His lips brushed against her ear and he traced callused fingertips up her arm. Gooseflesh rose at his touch and she took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of his desire. “I’m glad you came home,” he said.