Free The Storm by Shelley Thrasher Page B

dirty plate and sighed. Would she ever finish washing this stack of dishes? Would she ever be able to leave the farm?
    If only she hadn’t accepted Mr. James’s proposal. She’d always preferred music to marriage. And her mama had even encouraged her to try a different way of life, to get her education. Education would give her choices, her mama had said. Molly heard her mother’s voice as if she’d just spoken: “Choices are sweet. Not all women are meant to be mothers.”
    Why hadn’t she listened to Mama?
    As she washed the remnants of cream gravy out of the black skillet, she dreamed of how she would compose light, happy pieces as well as play them. But stuck on a farm, she had to milk the cow and do a hundred other chores before she could take time for her piano. She dried the heavy skillet carefully and rubbed some bacon grease into it so it would retain its hard crust of burned-on grease and not rust. She certainly was rusting on this farm.
    Eric’s new wife Jacqueline seemed as bright and shiny as a new copper kettle, exciting and irresistible. Jacqueline magnetized her, galvanized her, and—oh, she didn’t know what else. Made her tingle in places she’d forgotten she had.
    Then it came to her. Jacqueline reminded her of Tish, a character in the short stories she loved to read in The Saturday Evening Post . Tish and her two unmarried women friends had such exciting adventures and so much fun. They could always find something to laugh about, even when Tish involved them in the most outlandish situations. Completely independent, she did what she wanted. Of course her wealth helped.
    Molly finished washing the last pan and stacked it on top of the plates and silverware, then covered them with a clean dishtowel to keep the flies off. Wiping her hands on her green gingham apron, she hurried to the front door to retrieve Patrick.
    A low, slightly familiar voice stopped her. Could it be…what was Jacqueline doing here? She had just been thinking about her.
    â€œPatrick, it’s time for your schoolwork. No more excuses,” she said, as she entered Mother Russell’s sacred space, less hesitantly now.
    As she greeted Jacqueline and took Patrick firmly by the shoulder, their stunning visitor rose. “I’ll help him if you like,” she said and smiled.
    Well, she could smile, and it was most becoming. Molly continued inside with Patrick, and Jacqueline followed like an old friend. Land’s sakes, inviting herself in like that. Mother Russell was most likely fit to be tied.
    As they escorted Patrick to his room, he kept saying, “Mama, Miss Jacqueline took my picture with her camera. And Pa’s too.”
    Jacqueline helped him with his arithmetic and watched him practice his handwriting, and then Molly assured him that the preacher would leave soon and that she and Miss Jacqueline would go sit in the parlor and talk. She kissed him on the cheek and ran her fingers through his curly red hair before they left. Leading Jacqueline to the parlor, she felt like butterflies were dancing on her head.
    She tried to view the familiar room through a stranger’s eyes. Of course, her piano passed muster, since it and the one at the church were the only two in the community.
    The tufted red velvet loveseat that Jacqueline slumped onto was in fairly good condition, even with its missing button. A lace-covered throw pillow hid that flaw, so perhaps she wouldn’t notice. The matching chair, where Molly now sat on its edge, was tolerable. Add the large couch that completed the red velvet set and a hanging framed print of two horses, one black and one white, in a storm, and the parlor might serve.
    What could they talk about? She struggled to find a suitable topic of conversation. “If I may be so bold, how did you like the preacher’s sermon this morning? He’s a fine Christian man.”
    The woman toyed with the pillow and glanced out the front