Free Morning Glory by Lavyrle Spencer

spools in a tower. Baby Thomas knocked them over, giggled and clapped. Will looked up and found Eleanor watching him, stirring something on the stove.
      "I laid out Glendon's razor for you, and his mug and brush. You're welcome to use them."
      He rose to his feet, glanced at the shaving equipment, then at her. But already she'd turned to her cooking, giving him a measure of privacy. He'd been shaving with a straight edge and no soap, hacking his skin all to hell; the mug and brush would be as welcome as the hot water, but he paused before moving toward them.
      He'd just have to get used to it: they were going to share this kitchen every morning. He'd have to wash and shave and she'd have to comb her hair and cook breakfast and tend her babies. There were bound to be times when he'd have to brush close by her. And she hadn't jumped away so far, had she?
      "Excuse me," he said at her shoulder. She glanced at the mug and shifted over without missing a beat in stirring the grits, letting him reach around her for the teakettle.
      "You sleep all right last night?"
      "Yes, ma'am."
      He filled the cup and the washbasin, whipped up a froth of shaving bubbles and lathered his face, back to back with her.
      "How do you like your eggs?"
      "Cooked."
      "Cooked?" She spun around and their eyes met in the mirror.
      "Yes, ma'am." He tilted his head and scraped beneath his left jaw.
      "You mean you're in the habit of eating 'em raw?"
      "I been known to."
      "You mean straight out of some farmer's hen house?"
      He shaved away, avoiding her eyes. She burst out laughing, drawing his reflected glance once again. She laughed long, unrestrainedly, resting an arm on her stomach, until his eyes—black as walnuts above the white shaving soap—took on a hint of amusement.
      "You think it's funny?" He rinsed the razor.
      She sobered with an effort. "I'm sorry."
      She sounded anything but sorry, but he found her amusement did pleasant things to her face. Outlining a sideburn, he said, "Farmers tend to blame it on the foxes, so nobody comes lookin'."
      She studied him a while, wondering how many miles he'd drifted, how many hen houses he'd raided, how long it would take him to lose that distance he maintained so carefully. For the moment she'd created a crack in it, but inside he was rolled up like a possum.
      She found herself enjoying the smell of shaving soap in the house again. His face emerged, one scrape at a time, the face she'd be looking at across her table for years to come, should he decide to stay. She was surprised to find herself fascinated by it, by the shape of his jaw, the clean line of his nose, the thinness of his cheeks, the darkness of his eyes. When he glanced up and found her still studying him, she spun back toward the stove.
      "Fried soft, hard or scrambled?"
      His hands fell still at the question. In prison they were always scrambled and tasted like damp newspaper. My God—to be given a choice.
      "Fried soft."
      "Soft it'll be."
      While he washed up and combed his hair, he listened to the spatter as the eggs hit the pan, a sound he'd seldom heard, living in bunkhouses and boxcars as he had for much of his free life. Sounds. In his life he'd heard a lot of rumbling wheels and other men snoring. Clanging bars, male voices, washing machines.
      Behind him the boys jabbered and giggled, and the wooden spools clattered to the floor. The stovelids clanged. The ashes collapsed. A log thudded. The teakettle hissed. A mother said, "Time for breakfast, boys. Jump up on your chairs now."
      The smells in this kitchen were enough to make a man drown in his own saliva. In prison the two prevailing smells were those of disinfectant and urine, and food there seemed to have as little smell as it did taste.
      When they sat down to breakfast, Will openly stared at the wealth of food on his plate: three eggs—three!—done to a turn. Grits, bacon, hot black coffee and toast with boysenberry