With the self-centeredness of youth always sure of a welcome, he walked past his father and over to Veronica. “If you’re ever in the market for a car, I’ve got connections. I can get you something really sweet.” He flipped his bangs.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Veronica said dryly.
“Want to go for a spin?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got work to do.”
“Not me. I’m on vacation. Take a rain check on that ride, okay?” Connor persisted.
“We’ll see.”
“Right. Let’s plan on checking out Wyberg this evening.” Brashly assuming he’d just made a date, Connor headed toward the front door. “I’m starved. Got anything to eat?”
“Connor, don’t you have any bags?” Ben asked. Maria blinked at the dark tone of Ben’s voice, but the boy didn’t seem to notice.
“They’re in the trunk. I’ll get ‘em later. Or let the help bring ‘em up.”
“Connor!”
All eyes swung to Ben as his voice thundered out, and Maria found three children pressed close against her legs.
“All right, already. I’ll get the bags.” Connor loped back off the porch and pressed the trunk release on the car, lifting out a bulging duffel bag and a backpack. “Lighten up, Dad. You’re going to have a heart attack. You probably have a cholesterol count through the roof with all those eggs you eat.” With a toss of bangs, Connor bounded up the stairs and into the house, leaving the door hanging open behind him.
Maria felt sorry for Ben as she saw him take a deep breath to try and regain control. A contrast of anger and embarrassment chased across his face, but his eyes—his eyes remained constant. His eyes were bleak.
“Those weeds are growing inches while we stand here, kids. Better get back to work.” Maria tried to sound as if the scene she’d just witnessed was nothing out of the ordinary. She gave the children little pushes in the direction of the garden. “Go with Aunt Veronica and let’s see if we can finish up before afternoon cartoons come on.” Glad to get away from the tension they didn’t understand, the children ran, shouting and whooping around the corner of the house, followed by their aunt and very disapproving-looking grandmother. Maria was left alone with Ben.
They looked at each other for a moment. “I guess we’re staying, then?” Maria asked quietly.
“Please.”
One word, but said so fervently, Maria couldn’t help but wonder as she watched Benjamin Calder turn and walk into his house, closing behind him the door his son had left gaping open.
Ben stood at the stove, ladling out a bowl of soup. The plate of sandwiches had disappeared. Maria entered the kitchen and, without comment, went to the refrigerator, took out a plate of sliced meat and calmly began to fix more sandwiches.
Ben appreciated the silence and he appreciated the calm. He appreciated the two big sandwiches Maria sat on the table beside him a few moments later. He appreciated the way she went about gathering ingredients from the pantry and set to making what appeared to be the crust for a peach cobbler, her movements quick and efficient and without fuss.
“Do you know how to can?”
Maria seemed surprised by his sudden question. She made a moue of distaste while she worked at removing the ring from a quart jar of home-canned peaches. “I know how.”
“But you don’t like it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that—” She paused, holding her breath while she exerted pressure once again on the jar, twisting at the circle of metal.
“Just what?” He got up and took the jar from her, closed a broad hand around its neck and twisted. “There.” He handed it back to her. “We do a lot of canning here.”
“Thanks.” She dumped the golden halves into a bowl and began to slice them. “Have you ever heard of gleaning?”
Ben shook his head and leaned against the countertop beside her, watching her fish the peaches from the thick syrup and deftly slice them into the waiting pan.
“In Phoenix, they have this government program where they let us go into the fields after the picking machines have gone through. You can have—free—whatever is left, the too-small vegetables, the imperfect stuff, as much as you can carry out. Doesn’t matter what it is—green beans, pumpkins, tomatoes—you fill as many bushel baskets as you can fit in your car, then you drag them home and you can nonstop for however many days it takes before the stuff begins to spoil.” Maria stopped and searched in the cupboard above her head for the cinnamon. “So, anyway,” she continued, measuring into a spoon, “it’s not that I don’t like to can, it’s more that I have unpleasant memories of the process.”
“Umm.” Ben nodded, showing his understanding without comment. But he thought about what it must be like for a woman like Maria to have to stand in the middle of a field in the Phoenix sun, probably surrounded by those same children out in his garden right now, to lug somebody else’s leftovers into that old station wagon, to know that you had days of canning over steaming kettles to look forward to. To know that you had to do it if you wanted to feed your children during the upcoming winter.
“I’m afraid the cherries will be ready any day,” he told her apologetically.
But she merely nodded. “I’ll be ready, too, then. What other chores are there?”
“Well, have you ever gathered eggs?”
“You mean those salmonella-free eggs that you can eat raw? I’m afraid not.”
Ben laughed out loud and, with a conscious effort, let his worries about Connor slip to the back of his mind.
“There’s not much to it. It’ll take about a week to figure out all the hens’ hiding places, then all you do is check every morning and gather up what you find.” “Sounds easy enough. The kids will probably get a kick out of doing it.” Maria unfolded the waiting crust over the fruit and began pinching the edges. “What else?”
“Mostly normal household chores, cooking, cleaning-you seem to have no problem with those things. Then there’s the garden—which you’re on top of. We’re pretty self-sufficient with most things. The freezers are full of Calder Ranch meat and we have our own milk cows.”
Maria looked up at him doubtfully. “Milk cows?”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “Harvey takes care of the milking morning and night. But you will have to skim off the cream and we do make our own butter.”
“You’re kidding!” Maria looked around the kitchen as if searching for anything resembling what she thought a churn might look like.
But Ben pointed to the food processor shining powerfully in a corner of the counter. “You pour it in there, hit the button, go do a load of laundry or something and when you come back, presto! Butter. You add a little salt, pat it into shape—” Ben made a snowball-making motion with his hands “—wrap it in some plastic and throw it in the freezer.
That’s all there is to it.”
“Hmmm.” Maria still looked skeptical. “I don’t have to bake bread, do I?”
“Do you know how?”
Maria nodded.
“Well, as much as I love fresh-baked bread, I don’t expect that.” He pushed away from the counter. “Follow me.” He waited while Maria slid the cobbler into the heated oven, then led her into the large pantry off of the kitchen. “I don’t know if you had a chance to explore in here yet, but I think you’ll find enough to feed