Help Wanted: Husband?. Darlene Scalera

it on the table, but as she moved back to the stove, she muttered, “Thank you.” She slid the eggs onto a plate, angled the toast beside them and set the plate on the table. “I’ll be going into town later to do some shopping. Tomorrow there’ll be bacon or ham.”

      “Why, this is just fine,” Julius assured her in his exaggerated way. She regarded him as if trying to determine whether he was sincere or sarcastic.

      “Sit,” she ordered, and turned back to the stove as if she’d reached a conclusion.

      He sat down in the worn but clean kitchen smelling of coffee and baked bread on this clear, cool morning with sudden promise. He stared at the butter melting across the freshly toasted bread. It’d been a long time since anyone had cooked for him. He never stayed for breakfast. He looked up at the stern-faced woman. A few strands of hair had missed the rubber band and hung free and delicate along her elegant neck. “This is just fine,” he said once more, softer.

      She faced him, arched a brow. “You’re not cutting back on proteins, too, are you, Mr. Holt?”

      He grinned at her, then dug into his breakfast like a starving man. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a small smile on her face before she turned away.

      “Aren’t you going to join me?”

      “I think not.” She looked at the cup of coffee he’d poured her. Usually she had two to three cups, black, strong, relishing the bite of the bean. Now just the smell made her queasy.

      He shoveled half an egg into his mouth. She felt her stomach roll. He waved his fork at her. “You’d better eat something or you’ll be swooning in my arms once more.”

      “Excuse me.” She bolted from the room. He chewed thoughtfully, then shrugged his shoulders and picked up another piece of toast.

      He wiped traces of egg clean from the plate with the last triangle of toast, pushed the plate away, leaned back and sighed happily as he lifted his coffee cup. He’d had dreams as great as most men once, but he’d learned the luxury of a good meal and the freedom to get up and go when it was over was great happiness. Lorna still hadn’t returned. He carried his dishes to the sink, considered them a second, then shrugged and washed and rinsed them. He grabbed the frying pan off the stove, filled it with soapy water but left it to soak. Can’t make her completely happy, he thought, drying his hands on a paper towel. He considered pouring a second cup of coffee, but with his stomach full and the early morning contentment still flush upon him, he was anxious to get out to the land with its kind old roll. He looked to the doorway through which Lorna had fled, waited another second, then went to find her.

      He walked down a hallway of scuffed bird’s-eye maple to the first closed door. Beyond he heard labored breaths, then, with surprise, he recognized the liquid spill of retching.

      “Mrs. O’Reilly?” He rapped on the door. “Are you all right?”

      There was only silence, punctuated seconds later by another attack of illness. He winced, laid a hand to his own full stomach. He’d known such moments himself, but they were always preceded by a worthwhile night of hard drinking. He knew Lorna didn’t at least have the satisfaction of a good night’s drunk to take away some of the current situation’s unpleasantness. He doubted Lorna had ever had a drink in her life, let alone gotten drunk. He doubted she’d danced much either or rolled in the hay for no reason other than she liked a man’s look. He listened to her retching and couldn’t help but feel bad.