Free When Henry Came Home by Josephine Bhaer

you?"
                  "Five exactly. Fairly pricy, them things. Surprised me. Hope you ain't put out."
                  Henry slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his vest. "Not at all." He attempted for a moment to finger out the bills with one hand, but set the thin leather wallet down on the counter a moment later. "Take it out of that," he said, quiet.
                  "All right."
                  He nodded and took back his wallet, minus five dollars. He scratched at the purchases a moment, flat to the counter.
                  "Here, son, and good luck, whatever you're doin' with them things." The grocer picked up the books and, leaning across the counter, slipped them under Henry's arm.
                  Henry nodded again, and departed.
                  Mary was outside with a small brush and a tin can of paint. She heard the soft thu-thud of two feet and a cane and looked up, grinning. "I missed a few spots," she said in answer to his glance at the tin can. She stood up. "Oh—don't touch me!" she warned, stepping back. There were spatters of paint all over her apron.
                  "I don't mind." There were little flecks of white in her hair, looking like baby's breath.
                  Mary laughed. "All right then, I think the paint's dried anyway." She put down the brush and can and kissed him, hugging him with hands splayed out so as not to smear his suit. "Mmm," she said, "you smell good." When his arm did not go around her, she stepped back and saw the books in his arm. "Oh—they came! Come inside and let me look." Leading the way into the small office, she wiped her hands on her apron, pulled around a chair for him, and held his arm as he sat down.
                  Henry handed her one of the large books. "That—that's just sketches," he said. "This other one's got other things, like supports and water pipes."
                  "Water pipes!" She laughed and sat down on the arm of his chair, fingering through the first few pages of blueprints, careful not to get paint on them. "Well, I kinda see. I can see the sense in it—I can see the house—but I know I ain't skilled enough to read one like it was a book."
                  "I can't either—or not yet," he said, opening his copy. "It's how they're built up in the cities. I reckon I'll figure it out."
                  "I'd guess so, too." She smiled at him and ruffled his hair. "Barber done a real nice job. You look even handsomer than you did this morning, with it sticking out all over."
                  He reddened slightly. "You can have a try, next time, if you want."
                  "And have a husband looking like a drowned chicken?" She grinned, mostly at the laugh the comparison elicited. "I know my limits, and I'll stick to them."
                  "Well—all right." He fingered the little book in his lap for a moment, and then offered it to her. "This is for you," he said.
                  "Oh, Hen, thank you!" she exclaimed, caressing the leather binding. "Who is it?"
                  "Morris. I know you like him." He wondered for a moment if she might be one of the poet's beautiful ladies, somehow emigrated from Europe, from a castle in England or France.
                  "I do, and I'll read to you tonight!"
                  "I'd like that."
                  She smiled again and pulled him up, wrapping herself around his arm. "Come on in the kitchen. I've got it all sorted out now, and I'll show you where everything is." She led him into the little alcove and began opening cupboards. "Plates here, glasses next door. Silver goes in there, in those little slots, and the pans get stacked here. 'Course I'll probably get them all mixed up by next week, but—" she stopped herself, shrugged, and hugged him