Making Hay Read Free Page A

neat braids on either side of her head were precise and perfect.
    The plain calico work dress she wore had been carefully pressed to best advantage, and the sun-bleached apron tied around her waist was as clean and neat as lye soap and a washboard could make it.
    “Morning.” His voice was deep and gravelly.
    Vassar took the pitcher of warm water she offered, and with a nod that he hoped conveyed his thanks, he shut the door. Then he staggered to the washstand. He poured the water into the basin and set the pitcher aside before bracing himself with both hands and leaning toward the spotted shaving mirror. He grimaced at the wavy reflection he saw there. Farming would be a better line of work if it didn’t start quite so early in the morning.
    He closed his eyes once more and almost managed to fall asleep again standing up. His own swaying motion startled him awake, and he looked at his reflection in the mirror with distaste. “Lazy slugabed!” he accused. His tone held real anger and self-disgust. Like most men, Vass had weaknesses. But unlike most, Vass knew that his own failings, his own flaws, had and could cause infinite pain and unending regrets. His own weakness had ruined lives, innocent lives and guilty ones, also. Since coming to the Greens’, he’d determined never to let his weakness show again. So, leaning forward, he scooped a double handful of the warm water and splashed it on his face. Like it or not, the days started early in Arkansas.
    By the time he made it to the kitchen, at least he’d begun to look more like a hardworking farmer than a rounder after a wild Saturday night.
    Lessy was alone, still sweetly singing. Without a word to her, Vassar reached for the pristine bucket that hung by the chum. Lessy glanced over at him, a warmth of pride lighting her face.
    “Oh, I’ve already done the milking.”
    Vassar gave a grunt of acknowledgment before he hung the bucket back on its nail. He looked on top of the cupboard to see the elm splint gathering basket was missing.
    “Eggs?” he asked.
    “Mammy’s gathering them now,” Lessy answered.
    He nodded with gratitude and regret. He was late again. What must Lessy think of the man she’d agreed to marry? Milking was surely his task. And although many women gathered their eggs, his father had always both milked and gathered while Mama cooked breakfast.
    With a mild feeling of failure Vass seated himself at the table, his pride in shambles. Lessy was perfect. A perfect woman destined to be a perfect farm wife. He eyed her as she bustled about. Cheerful and steady, Lessy’s hardworking life and happy disposition shamed him. Leaning his elbows on the table’s edge, he put his head in his hands. He rubbed his eyes to try to dispel the lassitude that still lingered there, but he could easily have drifted off again had Lessy not set a mug of steaming hot coffee in front of him.
    “Thanks,” he muttered.
    He took a sip as Lessy moved to put the biscuits beside him, singing again.
    She had a pretty voice, and Vass was grateful for it. But how could anyone be so dang cheerful at daybreak! The screen door slammed as Nora Green returned.
    “Best get that breakfast on the table, Lessy,” she said before turning her attention to Vass. “I saw a dustcloud out to the west—bet it’s the haying crew coming down the road.”
    Vass made to rise, but the widow stayed him. “You can’t be putting in a day’s work on an empty stomach.”
    Agreeably Vassar accepted the plate of bacon, biscuits, and grits Lessy set before him. “How many eggs do you want?” she asked.
    “Give him a half dozen,” Nora answered for him. ‘That’s a big man you’ve got to fill up, Lessy, and a long day ahead of him.”
    Vass was wide awake when the haying crew led by Roscoe Doobervale pulled up into the yard. Roscoe had been doing business at the Greens’ farm since before Lessy was born. He was a fellow of about Mammy Green’s age and sported a bushy gray mustache that