Free Morning Glory by Lavyrle Spencer

the screen door.
    Inside the kitchen, Eleanor lifted her head and their gazes caught.
    He dropped the hand and opened the door, taking the risk and finding it easy, after all.
    “Met the animals,” he announced, setting the pail on the cupboard. “Mule’s a little stuck-up, compared to the others.”
    “Well, bless my soul,” Eleanor remarked. “A regular speech.”
    He backed off, rubbing his hands on his thighs self-consciously. “I’m not much for small talk.”
    “I’ve noticed. Still, you might try it out on the boys.”
    The pair was up, dressed in wrinkled pajamas. The older one looked up from where he was entertaining the young one on the floor with five wooden spools. He stared at Will.
    “Howdy, Donald Wade,” Will ventured, feeling awkward and uncertain.
    Donald Wade stuck his finger in his mouth and poked his cheek out.
    “Say good morning, Donald Wade,” his mother prompted.
    Instead Donald Wade pointed a stubby finger at his brother and blurted out, “That’s Baby Thomas.”
    Baby Thomas drooled down the front of his pajamas, stared at Will and clacked two spools together. To the best of Will’s recollection he had never spoken to a person so young. He felt foolish waiting for an answer and didn’t know what to do with his hands. So he stacked three spools in a tower. Baby Thomas knocked them over, giggled and clapped. Willlooked 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 straightedge 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