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July 1, 1881
A yawn escaped Sarah's mouth before she could cover it. Trudging into the kitchen, she lit two lamps and placed one on either side of the window ledge. The sun had yet to rise, but she had a very large triple-berry, lemon cake to attend to for her mother's party. So, risen she had.
Tightening the belt of the cotton wrapper covering her nightgown, she stifled another yawn as she set about making a pot of coffee. If she wanted the cake to come out right, she need to be fully awake and in possession of her wits. While the coffee brewed, she went to the basin to wash her hands, and started gathering the items she'd need.
By the time Sarah sat down with a hot mug of coffee, cut with a bit of cream from the icebox, the sun was fully up. Taking a sip of the life-giving brew, she sighed contentedly into the silent kitchen.
Moments later, the silence was broken by the tinkling laughter of her young niece, Emily.
Turning, Sarah saw Mary entering the kitchen, holding her daughter's tiny hand.
"I smell coffee." Mary glided over to the stove, where the still warm pot rested. "Emily, say good morning to Auntie Sarah."
"Ga’ moan’in, auntie!" Emily launched her tiny, gown-clad body up into Sarah's lap, and tossed her tiny arms around her neck.
Sarah smiled. "Good morning, sweetie. You didn't come for coffee, did you?"
Emily frowned. "Mama say coffee for gwown ups."
Shaking her head, Sarah giggled. "That it is, Em." She kissed her tiny brown forehead.
Mary soon joined them at the table, with her own cup of coffee. "Getting ready to make the cake?"
She nodded. "Why else would I be up this dang early?"
Emily began to bounce on her lap. "Cake! Cake! Cake!"
Mary shook her head, placed a steadying hand on Emily's shoulder. "Calm down, darling. Cake is for grandma's birthday tomorrow, remember?"
Her tiny bottom lip shot out, but Emily nodded somberly.
Elizabeth, Kate, and George entered the kitchen then, all headed for the coffee pot. Mother and daughter were still in their bedclothes, but George was fully dressed.
"Going down to the butcher house. Ainsley's got some fine beef for the party." George downed some of the coffee, and then kissed his wife before heading out the back door on the way to town.
Sarah, still seated with Emily on her lap, looked around at the kitchen full of all the women she loved. "You all have to get out. I'll need the whole room to properly prepare my cake."
Emily resumed her bouncing. "Can I help, auntie?”
She shook her head. "No, sweetheart. Not this time."
Mary scooped up her baby girl, hoisting her onto her hip. "Come on, baby. We'll go upstairs and try to tame that hair for the party." Mary eyed her daughter's cockeyed pigtails and shook her head. "These just won't do."
Once her mother and Kate filled their cups from the coffee pot, the other women filtered out of the kitchen, leaving Sarah alone. Rising from her seat, she went to the large mixing bowl she'd set out earlier. Adding a heap of flour, she began the process of making heating the oven for the cakes. With the wood tucked inside and the fire lit, she opened the back door and the window to allow the cool morning air in. Then she turned her focus to her cake batter.
With the coffee flowing through her, she made short work of the batter. In less than an hour, she had the six cake pans full and ready to go into the oven. This cake would be about the same size as the one she'd made for the wedding several weeks ago at the Inter-Ocean, but here at home, she lacked the benefit of a large oven. Therefore, the cake layers would have to be cooked in two batches.
She leaned over to slide the first three pans into the oven. When she stood again, she saw Owen walking up to the gazebo, toolbox in hand. It was the first time she'd seen him in a shirt. It was a simple, soft blue with short sleeves and buttons down the front. He wore the shirt with a pair of denims. While she had to admit her disappointment at having her view of his chest obscured, the shirt did nothing to detract from his rugged handsomeness.
With the first cakes in the oven, she had nothing pressing to do, since she planned to make the glaze when the second batch went in. So, she leaned against the basin and watched Owen work.
First, he attached the last two beams to the main frame of the gazebo, using a hammer to drive the nails. With that done, he fit beautiful lattice panels to four of the five sides of the gazebo, attaching them with nails as well. He disappeared around the house, and returned with a short ladder.
Sarah watched as he climbed the ladder and fit the roof, which he'd already assembled, atop the gazebo. She had to admit, the finished structure was very impressive, and a beautiful gift to celebrate her mother's milestone birthday.
I could watch him work all day long.
There was something appealing about watching a man work with his hands. She couldn’t recall ever being so enraptured by the sight of any other man doing physical labor. He eyed the gazebo with a smile, running his hands over the wood in a way that mimicked a caress. She wondered what it would feel like to have his strong hands slide over her skin that way. The thought made the corners of her mouth tip up into a smile.
Scandalized by the direction of her thoughts, she inhaled deeply, hoping to return to her mind to purer musings.
The smell of the cake touched her nostrils, and she remembered the layers in the oven. Scurrying to retrieve the potholders, she pulled out the three pans as quickly as she could manage. Examining them to be sure they weren’t burnt, she sighed with relief. While the edges were a bit brown and crispy, the main portion of the layers was fine. Resolving to trim away the edges, she set the cakes on the table to cool and slid the other pans into the oven.
When she looked to the window again, she saw Owen slowly dragging a paintbrush over the gazebo. With each stroke, he left a glossy, dark patina, which allowed the color of the wood to show through. He obviously worked quickly, because most of the structure was already covered with stain.
She turned around, intent on trimming the first three cake layers of their overcooked edges.
A moment later, Owen swung open the back door, and stuck his head inside.
"Morning, Sarah. Can you tell your folks to stay away from the gazebo until the stain dries?"
She nodded. "I will."
He looked as if he was going to go back out, but stopped, inhaling deeply. "What is that heavenly aroma?"
The compliment brought heat up into her cheeks. "It's my present to Mommy. Triple-berry, lemon cake for the party."
He eyed the cake layers on the table, easing farther into the house.
She could feel his unspoken request flowing between them. "Yes, you can taste the trimmings."
Clapping his hands together, he fully entered the kitchen, letting the door shut behind him.
***
Amazed by his good fortune, Owen moved closer to Sarah and the offered pan of cake trimmings. They were a little burnt, but if the cake tasted anywhere near as good as it smelled, he felt sure it wouldn't matter.
He picked up a bit of the cake and pressed it into his mouth. Instantly, a groan escaped him. "My Lord, Sarah. Everything your father said about your baking skills is true."
She blushed, directing her eyes toward the floor. "Oh, go on, Owen."
"No, really. This is the best cake I've ever tasted." He went back for another bit of the heavenly confection. "Just don't tell my mother I said that and we're square."
"Thank you for the compliment." She looked up then, mirth dancing in her dark golden eyes. "I'm flattered."
He let his gaze sweep over her, taking in her attire. She wore a thin wrapper of blue cotton. The hem of a matching gown peeked from beneath the bottom of the robe, nearly covering her bare feet. To some degree, he felt as if he were intruding. After all, it wasn’t proper for a man to see a woman who was not his wife in her sleeping attire. Nothing about her demeanor communicated discomfort, so he didn’t bring it up. As he swallowed a mouthful of the sweet, crisp cake trimmings, he forced his mind away from thoughts of what she might have on beneath her nightgown.
Setting down the empty plate, he took a step nearer to her. "You have flour on your face."
She tensed a bit. "Where? It may be confectioners’ sugar."
It would be easier to just brush it off than try to explain it to her. Before he could stop himself, he reached out. Using his fingertips, he brushed the white dust dotting her jawline away.
She trembled at the contact, her eyes closing.
"It's gone now," he said softly. He knew he should move his hand away, but he couldn't. Instead, he drew his fingertips along her satin jawline once more.
Another tremble. Her eyes slowly opened, and she looked up at him. "Owen, what are you about?"
Still touching her face, he shook his head in wonder. "I'm not entirely sure. All I know is it feels natural to touch you. It feels...right."
Her lashes fluttered in a very endearing way. "Owen, I...we..."
"I'm not going to hurt you. I would never." He took another step, placing his body flush against hers. His free arm draped loosely around her waist.
She didn't back away, didn't show any sign of protest. Her expression only communicated wonder and a bit of virginal trepidation.
Still, he would not let this encounter rest solely on his assumptions. "If I'm making you uncomfortable, I'll leave. Just tell me."
Her answer came with a slow shake of her head. "No. It's like you said. It feels...natural. What does that mean?"
The innocence in her eyes, and in her question, made his heart pound in his chest. "I don't know. But I can't wait to find out."
He dipped his head, readied his lips to touch her cheek.
"Auntie Sarah?!" A tiny voice shouted from the depths of the house.
Owen released Sarah abruptly, and they had only a moment to put space between them before the youngest member of the household raced into the kitchen, peals of laughter coming with her.
She ran right up to Sarah, clutching her wrapper. "Auntie, help now?"
Sarah seemed to think it over for a moment. "Okay, honey. Help Auntie make the glaze, okay?"
The little one nodded and clapped in delight.
Owen smiled at the scene. Once day, Sarah would make a fine mother to the child of some very lucky man. Thinking that man might be anyone other than himself made him very annoyed.
Returning to the door, he announced. "I'll let you attend to your work. Please remember to tell everyone about the stain."
She looked his way. "I will see you at the party tomorrow."
"See you then." With a nod, he left the house. As he gathered his tools and started home, he wrestled with his inner questions of what might have happened between him and Sarah, had the little one not appeared when she had. He'd been about to kiss her, and he'd sensed she was agreeable to that. Now that he'd missed the chance, he had no idea when the next opportunity would present itself.
Sarah was untried; she wore her virginity on her sleeve and he would not be the sort of man to take advantage of that. He would, however, seek to court her properly. Her father had already expressed his desire that Sarah marry and move back to Fayetteville to settle down. Owen could sense something growing between the two of them, something that might get George Webster his wish.
There was still the matter of Sarah's views and her work for women's suffrage. He wasn't sure he could abide by those things. She thought women ought to be able to vote, but he disagreed. Women wanted too much, in his mind.
They wanted the franchise, wanted to work outside of the home, and more. And when women sought employment, they wouldn’t be content with being nurses or teachers. If women were to do everything men did, what was to separate the sexes? He didn’t know the answer to that, nor did he have a solution. All he knew was that he wanted to see Black men able to cast a ballot, without fear of reprisal.
Sarah was much more headstrong than the women he usually found appealing, but she appealed to him just the same, in a way no woman ever had before.
Thinking on Sarah, and the conundrum she presented, he set his feet to the road and headed toward home.