Mae & Owen · October 1938

Mae Whitfield had never heard Owen sound so shy, and he was talking to an empty cradle.

“Your mama likes flowers,” he said. “Thought you ought to know that. She might put them on your Sunday clothes if we don’t watch her.”

He stood beyond the workshop door with his back partly turned, one hand resting on a small curved headboard. Late sunlight caught the loose hair at his crown. There were shavings on his sleeve and a pencil tucked behind his ear, and Mae would have known that broad, slightly stooped posture anywhere. It was the way he stood when a piece of work had all his attention. Only his voice was different, low and hesitant, as though the little bed had asked him a question he wanted very much to answer well.

Mae stopped with his mended shirt folded over her arm. Beneath her other hand, their baby shifted. She had been carrying this child for months while Owen followed every movement with wonder. Yet hearing him speak into the space where a small head would someday rest made November suddenly near.

“I don’t suppose you care about flowers yet.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well. There’s time.”

She could have gone away and allowed him to keep his secret another day. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe, smiling so hard her cheeks ached.

“I would be very particular about the Sunday clothes.”

Owen turned. His hand came off the headboard, and the color that rose above his collar delighted her before the tenderness of what she had overheard caught up with it.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear you begin teaching our child to distrust my judgment.”

“Only concerning flowers.”

She went to him. The cradle stood on his workbench, pale and smooth beneath the window. Its sides were finished, its curved ends fitted neatly, and the rockers waited on the bench beside it. Mae set the shirt safely away from the shavings and rested her palm against the wood. She knew how many hours could disappear into a piece this small. He had spent them here while she believed he was mending chairs for the lodge.

“Owen.” Her voice would not quite hold its ordinary steadiness. “You made this.”

“Most of it.” He watched her hand travel along the edge. “Still a little to do.”

The wood was warm where the sun had reached it. She pictured his hands making each surface smooth, checking the corners, returning to a rough place that no one else would have noticed. Then she pictured those same hands lifting a sleepy child from it, and had to stop looking at the cradle for a moment.

He was waiting beside her, the beginnings of uncertainty in his brown eyes. She caught his shirtfront and drew him down to kiss her. He came willingly, his arm finding her waist while she held him there long enough to answer what he had not asked.

“I love it,” she said when she could see his face again.

His smile arrived slowly. She liked that smile, the way it eased his mouth before it reached his eyes. She had spent two years learning how to bring it out of him, and still wanted to linger whenever she succeeded.

“It’s for both of you,” he said.

Mae looked back at the little bed. “I may find it a tight fit.”

He laughed, and she kept her hand against his chest to feel it. “The making of it is for you. Wanted you to know I was getting ready.”

“I know.” She smoothed the place her fingers had rumpled. “Tell me what is left.”

He touched the blank center of the headboard. “Something here, if you’d like. I was going to ask what you wanted.”

Outside, wind passed through the aspens, lifting a dry whisper from their yellow leaves. Mae thought of the flowers beneath the lodge windows: the bright blanketflowers that had come from seeds carried in her mother’s Bible. She had planted them in the first winter of this marriage. Owen had given her the pots before either of them knew how to speak easily about what they hoped for.

“Flowers,” she said.

Owen glanced at her, and his mouth twitched. “I had a suspicion.”

“The blanketflowers. Just a few.” She drew a small circle on the wood with her fingertip. “Could we do that?”

“We can try it on a scrap first.” He reached for the pencil behind his ear, then hesitated with it in his hand. “Will you draw them for me?”

She took it, her fingers brushing his. “Get me some paper.”

Owen brought a chair to the end of the bench and cleared a place for Mae’s paper.

She sat with a sigh of satisfaction, stretched her legs beneath the table, and looked up at him.

“Now you may tell me why I didn’t notice you making a cradle.”

He laid a sheet before her. “You noticed plenty. Asked me twice why I kept sanding the same chair.”

“You said the guests were hard on it.”

“They are.”

She shook her head, smiling, and began to draw. Her first flower had a center so large there was hardly room for the petals. She considered it, erased a little, and tried again. Owen leaned against the bench and watched the pencil move. He had left this place empty for her, but he had not imagined how much he would enjoy seeing her decide what belonged there.

She held the drawing at arm’s length. “That looks more like a fried egg.”

“A fine breakfast for a growing child.”

“You are no help.”

He turned the paper slightly. “Make that middle smaller. Give the petals room.”

“I was coming to that.”

“Thought you might be.”

The next flower pleased her better. She tucked a loosened strand of hair back into its pins, leaving a faint pencil mark near her temple. He could have told her about it. Instead, he enjoyed the earnest set of her mouth while she studied her work. Mae seldom sat still without finding something for her hands to do. Today those hands were occupied with a small pleasure he had been able to give her, and he wanted the afternoon to last.

After a while she turned the paper toward him. Three flowers leaned together on short stems, one smaller than the others. The drawing was simple enough to suit the little headboard.

“Like these?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t looked very long.”

“Been looking the whole time.”

She lifted her eyes to his, caught the direction of his attention, and smiled. “Then perhaps you should look at the flowers now.”

He obeyed, though it cost him an effort. “I like the little one turned toward the others.”

“The flowers don’t all face the same way outside. I thought it would look more natural.”

“It does.” He found a smooth offcut and set it beside the drawing. “Let’s see what the wood makes of it.”

She moved her chair nearer. He copied one flower lightly onto the scrap, talking with her about the shape until she was satisfied. The carving tool made a quiet scrape. Mae watched the small curls lift, then laid a finger beside the shallow petal he had finished.

“There. That is what I meant.”

Her pleasure warmed him. Work had brought her to him long before she trusted him with anything softer. He remembered the first door they had persuaded into its frame, Mae holding a wedge while she told him exactly where it would catch again. Now she sat beside him with their child rounding her middle, sharing an opinion about a flower that belonged on a cradle. He set the tool down and rested his hand over hers.

“What?” she asked.

“Glad I asked you.”

She looked toward the cradle. “You might not say that when we reach the leaves.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He turned her hand palm up and pressed a kiss into it. Her fingers curled lightly against his jaw. She was smiling when he straightened, but he could see the feeling that had quieted her.

“You thought of everything,” she said.

“Not everything. I hadn’t got beyond bringing you in here and hoping you’d like it.”

“I do.” She kept hold of his hand. “Stay beside me a minute.”

He pulled his stool closer and sat. The window stood open a little, admitting cool air and the faint, pleasant smell of pine from the slope. Mae settled against his shoulder, her drawing between them on the bench. He let his cheek rest against her hair and listened to the wind move beyond the wall.

He had meant to finish a cradle before supper. This seemed a good reason to be late.

Mae had expected Owen to return to his tools. Instead, he stayed on the stool with his shoulder beneath her cheek, rubbing his thumb along the side of her hand. Beyond the window the aspens shone yellow against the pines. A few leaves spun past, and she watched them settle before she remembered the drawing waiting on the bench.

“If we sit here much longer, we may have to ask the baby to help finish it.”

“I’m ahead of schedule. Got until November.”

“You might tell the baby that. I believe someone has begun making plans.”

She moved his hand to the place where a small heel, or perhaps an elbow, had pressed beneath her ribs. Owen straightened, his face intent. The movement stopped at once. They waited together, and Mae tried not to laugh at his injured expression.

“Happens every time,” he said.

“Not every time.”

“Often enough.”

“You may have to introduce yourself properly.”

He gave her a sideways look. “I’ve been here all along.”

“I know. The baby may appreciate being told.”

His hand stayed where she had put it, and after a moment a firm nudge met his palm. His smile made her glad she had waited. She watched him enjoy the small, astonishing answer before she reached for her paper again.

The flower he had carved lay beside the drawing. Mae picked up the scrap and turned it toward the light. A little shadow gathered in each shallow petal. She could imagine them on the cradle, their shapes familiar even after the bright flowers outside had gone to seed.

“Mama used to say they looked like bits of sunshine,” she said. “She always wanted some near the house.”

“She’d like yours.”

“I think she would.” Mae put the carving down. “I wish I knew whether I liked them first, or only liked hearing her talk about them.”

Owen considered that. “You stop to look at them when there’s nobody near enough to hear you.”

She smiled at him. “Have you been watching?”

“Some.”

He had a way of admitting affection as though the plain truth ought to be enough, and it usually left her with more feeling than she knew what to do with. She slid her hand along his forearm, over the old work shirt softened by washing, and let it rest there.

The room smelled of pine and the familiar soap he had used before coming down from their bedroom. She liked having him close in the afternoon, warm and solid beside her while the light changed.

“She used to sing to us too,” Mae said. “When we were supposed to be settling for the night and weren’t.”

“Do you remember the songs?”

“Pieces. There’s one I haven’t thought of in years.” She tried the tune under her breath, found the next few notes, and sang softly, “Sleep, little darling, the long day is done. Rest till the window is bright with the sun.”

Owen’s hand grew still beneath hers. She sang the lines once more, more surely this time. The sound brought back the porch at home, her mother’s skirt against the step, the last heat leaving the ground. For a moment she could hear her sister asking for the song again. The memory held their ordinary happiness, and Mae let herself stay with it.

“I’d like to learn that,” Owen said.

She looked at him. “You would?”

“I may need it. You’ll want to sleep now and then.”

Mae sang it again, and he joined her on the second line. He began too low, ran out of room for the last note, and stopped with a rueful glance at her.

“The window may have to stay dark.”

She laughed, then started nearer his note so he could follow. This time they reached the end together. He looked pleased with himself, and she wanted to hear him try again, just to keep that easy pleasure in his face.

“What about stories?” she asked. “Do you have any of those ready?”

“Know a few about horses.”

“Somehow I suspected you might.”

“And a man who bought a mule that could open gates.”

“Would that be a bedtime story or a warning?”

“Depends whether I get to the end.”

Mae laughed again. The baby shifted beneath her hand, and for once she did not hurry to move Owen’s palm there. She wanted this moment with him: the warm sound of his voice, the amusement he was trying to hide, his knee against hers beneath the bench. There would be a child between them soon enough. Today she could enjoy the man who had brought her here to see what he was making.

She took the pencil from the table and marked the place for a leaf. Then she laid it down and leaned close to kiss the corner of his mouth. He turned toward her, giving her the rest, and she stayed there until his fingers closed gently over hers.

“Now,” she said, “tell me what you were saying before I came in.”

He glanced at the cradle. “You heard.”

“About the Sunday clothes. What came before?”

Owen rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. She waited, giving him the same quiet he had given her when she searched for the song.

Owen looked at the cradle, then at Mae. A few minutes ago the words had seemed easier with no one listening. He had been trying to picture a small face turned toward him, someone who would hear his voice every morning and learn what it meant. Mae’s voice would be familiar already. His might need a little practice.

“I was saying hello,” he admitted. “Or trying to.”

Her smile held no teasing now. “Will you say it to us?”

He shifted his stool so he faced her. She took his hand and placed it over the child they were waiting for, holding it there beneath both of hers. Her wedding ring caught against his finger. He remembered fitting that plain band onto her hand before he had any right to hope for an afternoon like this.

“I’m your papa,” he said, looking down. “Your mama and I have been waiting to meet you.”

Mae’s fingers tightened around his. He stayed where he was, allowing the words to settle before he tried to find more.

“We don’t know what you’ll look like. I keep wondering. Your mama’s got a look she gives me when she thinks I’ve missed something. I expect I’ll learn it on you too.”

He glanced up, and Mae was smiling through a shine in her eyes. “There’s a bed almost ready. I’ll have the flowers done before you need it. And if you wake up wanting company, I’ll be near.”

His throat had grown thick. He laid his other hand over Mae’s and stopped trying to improve what he had said.

For a while she watched him. The light made her eyes bright, and a loose strand of hair lay against the little pencil mark at her temple. He loved her familiar face: the mouth that could grow so firm when she had made up her mind, the softness that came into it when she let him see she was pleased. He had hoped the cradle would give her pleasure. He had not understood how much he wanted to share this part of waiting with her until she asked.

“That was a fine hello,” she said.

“Felt a little foolish at first.”

“It didn’t sound foolish.” Her hand moved over his. “I liked hearing you promise to be near.”

He looked toward the open door. From here the passage led back into the lodge, where they had made a life with rooms to tend, meals to share, and neighbors who called without waiting to be invited. Soon there would be nights neither of them could yet imagine properly. He could begin by being the man beside her when those nights came.

“I want that for you too,” he said. “When you’re tired, or the baby won’t settle. I want you able to look over and find me.”

“I will look.” Her voice shook a little, but her smile stayed. “You may regret offering.”

“I doubt it.”

She leaned forward until her forehead touched his. The nearness quieted him. He could feel the warmth of her hands around his, smell the clean cotton at her shoulder. After a moment he lifted his head enough to kiss her, and she answered with a tenderness that made him forget the workbench at his side.

When they parted, she rested against him. His arm went around her shoulders, and they sat with their hands still joined over the child. Somewhere in the lodge a door closed. A guest laughed in the great room, the sound distant and companionable.

Owen bowed his head. “Thank You, Lord, for Mae. For this little one.” He paused, wanting to ask for something he could mean without claiming to know what lay ahead. “Help me be good to them.”

“Amen,” Mae said softly.

He looked at her. She met his eyes, then rested her head against his shoulder again. He kissed her hair and held her, grateful for the quiet answer and the weight of her hand remaining over his.

After a while she sat up and studied him with an expression he recognized.

“What?” he asked.

“I came to bring you a shirt.”

“So you did.”

“The seam is mended. I thought you might try it on.”

“Is that why you’re looking at me?”

Her smile deepened, and she smoothed his collar, taking her time about it. “No.”

He laughed quietly. The pleasure of being looked at by his wife had yet to wear thin. He drew her hand away from his collar and kissed the inside of her wrist.

“There’ll be a time,” she said, “when you can talk to the baby without me hearing every word.”

“Looking forward to that?”

“Not particularly. I’ve enjoyed this conversation.” She moved nearer, her hand settling against the back of his neck. “But I should like a few words meant only for me.”

Owen set his hand at her waist and let himself look at her, at the welcome in her smile and the way she had stayed close after the kiss. He wanted her to know she was still the woman who could stop him halfway through an ordinary afternoon simply by coming into the room.

“I like being your husband, Mae,” he said. “I like seeing you come through my door. Sometimes I hear you on the stairs and go to meet you before I’ve thought of a reason.”

Her fingers moved into his hair. “You don’t need a reason.”

“Good.”

This kiss was slower. She welcomed him with a small, contented sound, and he held her close while the late sunlight warmed the boards beneath their feet. When she drew away, he followed just far enough for one more brief kiss before letting her settle comfortably against the chair.

“I believe,” she said, looking toward the cradle, “you still have some flowers to finish.”

“I do.”

“Then I will leave you to them for a while.” She took his hand once more before standing. “Come find me afterward.”

He watched her go along the passage, carrying his mended shirt. At the turn she glanced back, and he smiled because she had caught him looking. Then he picked up the little drawing and laid it beside the headboard.

He knew where each flower belonged now.

That evening Mae found the cradle beside their bed.

Owen had brought it up while she was seeing the last of supper cleared. The rockers were fitted, the wood smooth and pale, and three small flowers leaned together on the headboard. Lamplight gathered along their carved edges. She went to it, setting her hand where the smallest flower turned toward the others.

“You finished.”

Owen stood by the window with his sleeves rolled down, his hair still damp from washing. He had changed into the shirt she mended. The sight pleased her almost as much as the cradle. She had told him to come find her, and he had come upstairs to wait where they could have the rest of the evening together.

“Wanted you to see it here.”

She gave the empty cradle a gentle push and watched it move, then settle. Beyond it lay their bed, the quilt turned back, his book on the table beside her mother’s Bible. So much of her happiness lived in these unremarkable things: the place he left for her, the lamp he kept burning when she came up later, his shirt hanging beside her dress.

Her fingers rested on the flowers. She could remember them in Oklahoma without wanting to leave this room. Mama would have liked the carving. Mae liked imagining the day she could tell their child where the flowers came from, and how its papa had made them while he waited.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Owen came to stand beside her. She leaned into him, and he laid his arm around her shoulders. For a while they simply looked at the little bed, enjoying what was ready.

“Have you practiced anything besides hello?” she asked at last.

“That mule story.”

“You had better let me hear it before you frighten the baby.”

He guided her to the bed and sat beside her. “There’s a man with a good field of oats. Bought himself a mule. Put the mule in the next field and shut the gate.”

“That was his first mistake.”

“You know the story?”

“I know mules.”

“So did he. Or thought he did.” Owen leaned back against the bedpost. “Next morning he goes out and finds the mule in the oats. Takes him back, shuts the gate, ties it fast.”

“And the mule?”

“Watches him. Very interested.”

Mae began to laugh. She could see the solemn animal studying the knot, and the man congratulating himself on it. Owen’s own amusement grew when she supplied a name for the mule: Governor, on account of his taking charge of both fields. By the time he described the third morning, she had leaned against him, laughing into his shoulder while he tried to insist that no one had ever proved which animal opened that gate.

“You must tell that one at bedtime,” she said when she could speak properly.

“Might wake the child.”

“Might wake us both.” She looked up at him. His face had grown softer in the lamplight, the unruly hair at his crown already beginning to dry. She wanted to keep him here talking, to hear the next story and the one after it, with his arm around her and the small bed beside theirs.

He bent and kissed her. She turned toward him, enjoying the familiar warmth of his mouth, and let the next story wait.

“Before you have an audience for all those stories,” she murmured, “I hope you’ll save a little time for me.”

“I’ve got some now.”

“Then come closer.”

He did, and Mae reached to turn down the lamp. Their door was already shut. Outside the window, wind moved the dry aspen leaves along the sill; inside, Owen drew her gently into his arms.

Beside their bed, the little flowers waited for morning.

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