Tilda finished cutting and cooking the fresh pasta, then went on to prepare the vegetables, cream sauce, and bass. Minutes later, she pulled the sizzling fillets, white and fluffy, from the flame. “Perfect,” she said, carefully removing them from the frying pan. She knew southerners liked their fried food, which she enjoyed as well on occasion. Hopefully she would not offend the Olivers by cooking the bass in the lighter fashion she preferred.
A glance up at the clock told her she still had a few spare minutes. She should go upstairs and freshen up. But her searching eyes caught sight of some fresh bananas in a fruit bowl. There were plenty of milk and eggs… and a half-dozen vanilla cookies she’d made a couple days ago remained untouched in the cookie jar.
She put a pan on the stove, dropped in a pad of butter, then mixed together some sugar and eggs. After crushing up the cookies, she returned to the egg and butter mixture and added some flour, then some milk, whisked it well, and combined it with the melted butter in the pan. She took a pie tin down and spread it with butter, lined it with the cookie crumbs, and placed the two fresh bananas —thinly sliced—on top of the cookie crumbs. She stirred the sweet pudding in the pan and added some vanilla. Once it thickened, she removed it from the stove and beat up the egg whites into a meringue. She layered the pudding over the bananas and topped it with the meringue, slid it into the oven, and ran upstairs. She changed quickly out of her housedress and into a casual but nice dress to meet Jeffery’s parents.
She glanced in the mirror, poured some cool water into the basin and washed her face. Freshened up her lilac perfume with a tiny dab behind each ear and went down the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, a woman waited for her, looking to be about fifty or more years old, her eyes beaming. Just behind her stood Jeffery and a silver-haired gentleman Tilda took to be the senior Mr. Oliver engaged in conversation. “You must be Tilda,” the woman said, seeming genuinely pleased.
“Yes,” she choked out.
“I’m so happy to meet you.”
As she reached the last step, Jeffery came up beside her and offered his hand. She slipped her fingers into its warm and gentle embrace, and a calm flowed through her. He winked and led her to the parlor and his parents followed. “Dinner is ready,” Tilda offered. “Would you like me to serve?”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Oliver, a trim woman with impeccable taste in clothing and movement, sat down on the sofa and tapped the cushion. “Let us get to know one another first.”
Fear washed over Tilda. She had worked hard to prepare a perfect dinner. This delay would mean the food would be cold and not up to Jeffery’s standards. “But…” her voice trailed off. How do you tell your mother-in-law no?
As if sensing her concerns, Jeffery spoke up. “Mother, Tilda has worked hard putting together our dinner with little notice. If she feels it is best to eat our meal now, we should. There will be plenty of time to visit during and after.”
Mrs. Oliver, who shared the same blue eyes with her son, let her assessing gaze linger for a moment on her new daughter-in-law. “Of course, dear. Shall we go to the dining room?”
Tilda smiled. “It’s a simple fare. One I hope you will enjoy.” Tilda glanced at Jeffery, looking for affirmation in her decision and mouthed thank you. He nodded while offering his elbow to his mother.
“Excuse me.” Tilda hustled into the kitchen and placed the pasta in the water already heated on the stove, warming up the white sauce as she placed the pasta and fish on each plate. Then she placed the vegetables in a serving dish and brought it into the dining room. Without saying a word, she went back to the kitchen, poured the hot white sauce over the fish and pasta, and carried two plates at a time out to the table, serving her in-laws first.
“This looks wonderful,” Mrs. Oliver purred.
Mr. Oliver placed his napkin in his lap. “Smells delicious.”
Tilda caught the hint of an approving smile from Jeffery, who sat at the head of the table. “I’ll be right back with the rest of our dinners.”
Back in the kitchen, she turned the oven off and opened the door a little to let the hot air vent. She returned with the last two plates, placed one before Jeffery, and sat opposite him at the other end of the table.
“Father, will you offer the blessing tonight?” Jeffery asked.
Mr. Oliver cleared his throat. “I’d be honored.” He went into a lengthy prayer, one she sensed was genuine, if not a little stiff.
“Amen,” everyone said after he finished.
“So, tell me about yourself, Tilda. Where is your family?” Mrs. Oliver asked.
Tears threatened to build, but Tilda held them back. “My parents died nearly a year ago in a train wreck. I am an only child.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean.…” Mrs. Oliver took a forkful of the main course. “This is delicious.”
“Thank you. And you couldn’t have known. Jeffery and I don’t have a traditional relationship. There is much we don’t know about each other.”
“Traditional, no. But I’m glad he found someone,” Mr. Oliver said. “My father wasn’t too sure he ever would.”
She smiled. “My father probably felt very similar toward me, as well.”
Jeffery spoke up. “This is very good, Tilda. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” See, I told you I could cook, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. There’s no sense airing our laundry in front of his parents, she told herself and wondered just how much or how little they knew about their relationship.
The evening progressed with simple questions followed by simple answers, and Tilda decided she liked the Olivers, though it seemed they were not as deep or as open as her parents had been with her. Is that why Jeffery had trouble getting to know people socially?
They finished the evening in the parlor over cups of coffee. “Well, it was wonderful getting to meet you, Tilda,” Mrs. Oliver said as she stood up from the sofa. “And I ate too much. I loved that banana pudding you made. I look forward to seeing you at church on Sunday.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Oliver grinned at Tilda’s use of the southern sign of respect.
Mr. Oliver extended his hand. “Thank you again, Tilda. I look forward to getting to know you better.”
“Oh, and don’t forget to start working on those grandbabies.” Mrs. Oliver winked.
“Mother!” Jeffery chastised.
Tilda could feel the heat on her cheeks as her in-laws slipped out the front door without a hug. The most contact she had received was a handshake from Mr. Oliver—another reason, she guessed, as to why Jeffery hadn’t done more than extend his hand and his elbow to her all evening. If she was going to stay in this marriage, there was a lot of work to do.
Jeffery turned and faced his wife. “You’re amazing. That dinner was fantastic—and dessert. … You actually made dessert! How?”
“I told you I could cook,” she responded with an impish grin.
“Consider me reprimanded. Can I help you with the clean up?”
“I won’t say no. The kitchen is a disaster,” Tilda warned, heading that way.
“I’ll clear the table.”
“Thank you.” She retreated to the kitchen, and Jeffery entered the dining area. He picked up a plate and scraped it onto another until all the plates were cleared and stacked. These he carried to the kitchen counter by the sink. A pot of hot water was already heating on the stove as Tilda scrubbed down the counter where she’d made the pasta earlier. “That was delicious pasta. I didn’t know it could taste so good, being fresh like that.”
“Oh, there is so much I could do with it. Have you ever had lobster ravioli?”
“No, I don’t believe I have. It sounds delicious.” He headed back toward the dining room, stopped, and turned back. “You mentioned a pasta machine?”
“Yes, it’s an Italian tool. It helps to knead and thin the pasta.”
“Can you make the ravioli without a pasta machine?”
Tilda laughed, a warm, lilting sound he decided he liked.
“Yes, I can. All we need is the lobster meat to fill them.”
Jeffery smiled. “I’ll speak with George Mueller about Maine lobsters. I presume you would want to use them over southern lobsters.”
“What is the difference?” she asked as she continued to clean.
“The southern variety don’t have claws, and the meat is not quite as sweet.”
She nibbled her lower lip. “I will try southern lobster because I have not had them before. However, if they are not as tasty as Maine lobsters…”
“I understand, and I agree. My preference is the Maine lobster.” He turned back to the dining room and finished clearing the table as fast as possible. To be in the same roomwith his wife, to get to know this fascinating person now sharing his home, became an overwhelming desire.
Back in the kitchen, he found her at the sink, scrubbing away at the dishes as soapsuds worked their way up her arms. For a brief moment, he wanted to be those suds. Jeffery squared his shoulders. He would be a gentleman; he would not be presumptuous with his wife. On the other hand, he didn’t want to end their time together. “I’ll admit I’ve never washed a dish—or dried one, for that matter—but I’m willing to give it a try.”
Tilda’s smile edged up to her eyes. “It’s not that difficult, and I’m glad for the help.” She looked away and mumbled, “and the company.”
Jeffery relaxed and walked up to her. “Tilda, I appreciate your willingness to stay in our marriage.”
“I want our marriage to work,” she said as she placed another dish in the rack draining into the sink.
“Thank you.” He wanted to sweep her into his arms and hug her. But that would not be appropriate. He’d never seen his father carry on with his mother like that. “Men need to respect their wives and not treat them like a woman of ill repute.” His father’s words resounded in his head. But then images of friends with their wives, holding hands, hugging… Honestly, he didn’t know what was proper.
She banged his side with her hip. “What are you thinking?”
He could feel the heat rise on his neck. “I—I’m not certain whether or not it is proper to speak of such things with a woman.”
Her eyebrows raised, then pinched together in the center of her forehead.
“Forgive me. I was raised to treat a wife with the greatest respect and to protect her from the harshness of life.”
She said nothing at first as she continued to wash and put items in the rack for him to dry. But he could see the wheels turning. Jeffery finished drying a dish, set it down, and grabbed another, waiting. “Jeffery,” she nearly whispered his name, “from what little I saw of your parents tonight, I can tell we’ve been raised very differently. Did you ever receive hugs and kisses from your parents?”
Jeffery leaned back on his heels. “When I was a boy, yes.”
“Ah, I thought that might be the case because your parents didn’t hug me or kiss me. The most contact I had with them was a handshake from your father. In my home, my parents would hug and kiss me all the time. And Mother would welcome just about everyone she met with a hug. Father would slap a man on the back as he shook hands with an old friend and even give an occasional hug. I say all of that because you mentioned feeling socially inadequate. I’m willing to bet that you never had any really deep, personal conversations with your parents—possibly never with anyone.”
Jeffery felt his temper start to flare and fought to keep it under control.
She pulled her hands from the soapy water, dried them off as she turned to face him, and wrapped her arms around him.
The anger dissipated. He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her close, praying he wasn’t being disrespectful to his wife. She rested her face against him, and he wanted to kiss the top of her head but held back.
“I need this,” she mumbled into his chest. “I haven’t had a hug in so long.”
Jeffery held her tighter. He could do this. She wanted and needed this physicalcontact. Yes, he could do this, and it felt too good to not want to hug her for the rest of his life.
She stepped out of his arms. “Promise me to be honest with me always, and we’ll make it.”
“I promise. I’ll admit it won’t be easy. I’ve been raised to hold my thoughts.”
“I understand.” She grabbed his hands, stepped back, and searched his eyes. “Why are we in separate bedrooms?”
Jeffery paled. His eyes widened as round as saucers. “You don’t mean that your parents slept in the same room. Did they?”
Tilda giggled, in part to hide her shock that his parents didn’t but in part to lighten the tension she sensed in him. “Yes, they did, and they shared one bed.”
“Ah, well, ah… I think I better get ready for bed.” His neck reddened. “I mean.” He closed his eyes. “Tilda.” He opened his eyes and focused on her again. “I want us to get to know one another more before…”
“I know. And I do not want to shock you, but I can see that our upbringings will shock one another for a while. I look forward to getting to know you, Jeffery.”
He relaxed. “As do I, my sweet.”
“Sweet, huh?” She reached up and touched his cheek now thoroughly red with embarrassment. “I like that.”
He took her fingers from his face and kissed them. “Then I bid you adieu. I shall try to be home by five tomorrow. Good night, and Tilda, I look forward to getting to know you.”
He stepped away and exited the kitchen as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.
“Jeffery,” she called out to him. “Read the Song of Solomon. My mother said it was a great book of poetry and explained married love very well.”
He nodded and headed out of the room. She could hear his footfalls on the steps. She turned back to the sink and plunged her hands back into the warm soapy water. She thought back on her day. On her anger this morning and packing her bags, to the conversation she had with Jeffery before his parents came to dinner, the dinner, and most importantly, the moments they shared with each other in the kitchen. She was exhausted. Her emotions had run the full spectrum. Yet she was excited about the future. They seemed to connect with one another. Could this marriage really work?
The possibility played on her mind as she finished her chores, washed, and dressed for bed. A smile curled up her cheek remembering the horror on Jeffery’s face when he learned that her parents actually shared a room and bed together. Then the smile slipped. Would he ever be able to open up and be free with her, or would his upbringing prevent them from having a future?
The next morning she found a note on the table informing her that he had hired Mercy to help around the house and any other tasks that Tilda needed help with. He signed it “affectionately, your husband.” Tilda smiled.
“Good morning, Miss Oliver. How can I help you this morning?” Mercy said as she dropped a tray of fresh-cut flowers on the table.
“Good morning, Mercy. Please, call me Tilda.”
“No, ma’am, it ain’t right. I calls you miss as a form of affection rather than Mrs., but I can’t use your first name.”
Tilda puckered her lips. “All right, I understand. Miss it is then.”
Mercy’s brown eyes sparkled. “Thank you, miss.”
“The first thing we need to do is stock this kitchen. Let’s make a list, and I’ll speak with my husband about the budget to fill the cupboards.”
“I’d be happy to. Every good kitchen needs its herbs.”
“Amen to that,” Tilda said. She pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “Let’s get started.”
They worked until noon going over all the details of the kitchen, taking stock of what Jeffery had purchased and what he hadn’t. Amazingly, the cookware and dishes were fairly well planned and stocked.
“Mercy, I need a dozen eggs and some cake flour. Where is the best place to get them? Oh, wait. Mr. Oliver said he opened an account at—what was the name?” Tilda nibbled her upper lip up under her teeth.
“Maciel’s?” Mercy asked.
“Yes, that’s it. Maciel’s Fresh Foods.”
“They’ll have the eggs, but the cake flour you will find at Barnes Grain Market. They have all the grains you want to cook with. You can have them milled there, as well. Of course, you might ask at the bakery where they get their cake flour.”
Tilda nodded. “Shall we go shopping at Maciel’s?”
“What about your laundry? I really should get started on that.”
“Oh. You’re right. Tell me how to get to Maciel’s.”
Mercy did, and Tilda ventured out toward the business section of the city. From the way Jeffery had eaten the banana pudding last night, she knew he had a sweet tooth. Personally, I would love a good angel food cake. But that required eleven egg whites… And I could use most of the yolks to make more puddings for Jeffery!
Tilda spent the next couple of hours going in and out of shops. Fortunately, Maciel’s provided a delivery service, saving her the trouble of carrying around the purchased items. She stepped into a small shop near the river’s edge where a fine variety of trinkets and other items were available for sale. Tilda fingered the quilts, her thoughts focused more on the various skills she could put to work. A middle-aged woman with graying hair and an unusually wide hip span came up beside her. “How may I help you?” she asked.
“I’m just browsing. I’m new to Savannah.”
“Oh! What brought you to our fine city?” she asked in her rich southern accent.
How does one answer that? I’m a mail-order bride? “I recently married, and this is my husband’s hometown.”
“Congratulations! Who is your husband? Perhaps I know him.”
“Jeffery Oliver.”
“I know of the family, but I’ve never met the son.” The woman smiled. “In either case, it is a pleasure to have you in Savannah. I trust you will find it suitable.”
“I love history, and there is so much here to explore.”
“My name is Mrs. James,” she offered, her hand extended, “and there is plenty of history here. From the American Revolution, and before there were pirates who made their homes here. The Savannah River has helped make our city prosperous. Not to mention Sherman didn’t burn our city down, thanks to some creative thinking by our townsfolk atthe time. The War of Aggression was a bad time, but we’re recovering. Did you know the first steam-powered boat to cross the Atlantic left from Savannah?”
“I didn’t know that.” She smiled, appreciative of the woman’s friendliness. “My name is Tilda Gr—I mean Oliver.”
“Does take some getting used to, doesn’t it?” Tilda nodded as Mrs. James continued on. “The S.S. Savannah left here in 1818. She was both sail and steam ship. She sank in 1821 off the coast of Long Island. But she was from here and made history from here.”
Tilda looked to the wall clock. If she was going to get the angel food cake done in time for dessert, she would need to get started. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. James.”
“Ya’ll come back and see me sometime. I also love history and can tell you a tale or two.” Mrs. James winked.
“Thank you. I might just do that.” Tilda hurried back to the house, all in a sweat as she rushed through the humid air. She made a mental note: Plan more time and a slower pace for errands, or else plan time to bathe after each trip.