Overcast. Low on sugar, flour, eggs.
Eliza gauges her mood by the weather, and she often laughs at herself because of it. The weather in Washington leaves much room for improvement.
Why not live in a tropical paradise where every day dawns splendidly?
Eliza reads about such magical places in the various women’s magazines, and she can but imagine them, faraway locales with exotic names like Bora Bora, a near-heaven in the South Pacific, or St. Croix, a sultry wonderland in the Caribbean Sea. But the argument runs aground, especially in summer, and often in September, when the San Juan Islands bloom as a paradise, with a plethora of salmon and clams and mussels and oysters, all for the taking, and rich, black soil that yields every variety of vegetable and berry. The creek streams clear and cold, and twilight lingers deep into the evening, often past ten o’clock, when the night sky bruises a purplish grey.
If anything is missing, missing at all, she thinks, it is a man.
Eliza is not surprised to see Steiner rowing toward Smuggler’s Cove the following Saturday, as if by design. Her arms, covered with flour, fly to untie her stained apron. She throws the apron under the sink, and pulls the curtain closed. She peeks out the window through a slight opening.
He will be here in five minutes.
She hurries out of her soiled skirt and changes into her second skirt and a fresh blouse. She straightens up the cabin, a ten-minute tidy, she calls it, but she has now less than five minutes to do so. Steiner runs aground on the beach, his skiff grinding into the small stones that line the cove. Eliza hears the distinctive scrape, scrape as Steiner heaves the skiff up the beach. She checks herself in the cracked mirror, moves to the side to see herself fully. She smoothes her skirt, her hastily pinned bun.
Am I ready for this?
She straightens up, moves toward the cabin’s front entry, and opens the rickety door. She stands on the uneven stoop, her eyes wide.
Steiner stops a few yards from the waterline. They stare at one other, an elongated second.
Steiner tops his hat, then strides toward the cabin. Eliza descends the crooked steps and meets him halfway between the shoreline and her home. Her steps are sure, and rapid. Steiner opens his arms to enfold Eliza. Without hesitation, Eliza walks headlong into the embrace. They stand enclosed in each other’s arms, the beating of Eliza’s heart evident through her blouse, a quickened th-thump, th-thump.
Eliza feels unfamiliar warmth. She smells Steiner’s body, his familiar whiskey-laced breath. Her mind explodes with excitement and fear. After a full minute of the wordless embrace, Eliza starts to disentangle herself. Steiner stops her, turns her face upwards and bends down to offer his lips. Eliza turns her head just as his lips brush the corner of her mouth, an awkward exchange of breath and saliva.
“I’ve been waiting for this day,” Steiner says.
“Will you come in for tea? I have blackberry scones hot out of the oven. Please, come.”
Eliza turns toward the cabin. Steiner follows Eliza closer than before. He notices her wide hips swaying as she mounts the stairs. He glances at her ankles as she lifts her skirt to cross the threshold. He catches his breath, steps over the doorsill. He closes the door behind him. His arousal mounts, but he sits at the offered chair, wobbly under his full weight.
Eliza busies herself with the tea, filling the kettle, reaching for two bone china cups from the highest shelf above the counter, pouring milk into a white enamel pitcher. Steiner sits at the wooden table, removes his coat, and surveys the sparse interior: a closet, a mirror, a bedside table, a bed. He appraises Eliza as her back is turned, her hips, her waist, her shoulders, and as she turns to face him, her slender neck, arms, breasts. He feels another rush of arousal.
“I heard you garnered the blue at the Orcas Fair.”
“Why, yes, how did you know?”
“Small talk at the store, we hear it all. Don’t know if you heard that Old Jennie passed.”
Eliza scrapes the second chair out from its space under the small table and sits across from Steiner. He notices tears welling in her eyes.
“When?”
“Last week Tuesday. My uncle went to Whatcom, stayed two days there to make all the arrangements, and then stayed a few days more. Went upriver to be with her people, Nooksacks, I believe. I’ve been tied to the store, or I would have come sooner.”
He hesitates, and their eyes meet across the table.
“You know the reason I’m here, Mrs. Stamper.”
Steiner reaches into his coat pocket and feels for the brown box. He extracts the box and places it on the table in front of Eliza.
“Here.”
Eliza stares at the box. She looks at Steiner, looks at the box again. The kettle whistles on the stove and Eliza startles. She looks again at Steiner, then gets up, pours tea. She brings the tea to the table, this time not making eye contact. Returns for the milk, and spoons. Sits again, her right hand shaking. She reaches for the small box and holds it in her hand.
“Why, Mr. Steiner. I don’t know what to say.”
Eliza feels each of the four sharp corners before she opens the box. A small gap reveals the surprise inside. She cocks her head to the left and looks closely as she pries the box open. Her eyes flare wide as the box snaps fully open. Inside, a large garnet ring sits propped on a small off-white cushion. Two dainty diamonds on either side offset the rectangular red gemstone. A thin gold band circles the stones. Eliza stares at the ring and then looks over the tea things toward Steiner.
“You need to say yes, that’s what you need to say.”
Steiner rises and moves to the opposite side of the table. He stands behind Eliza, his hands on her slender shoulders. He desires to move his hands toward her collarbone and down over her small breasts. She moves her hands to her shoulders and he holds her shaking hands.
“It’s been ever so long.”
He strokes her hands, and feels an unusual tenderness, like he might feel toward a child.
“Please say you’ll think about it.”
She nods, silently. He kneels beside Eliza’s chair, and slowly lowers his head onto her lap. Eliza’s hand hovers over Steiner’s head. She wills her shaking hand to move downwards. She feels a rush of warmth as her fingers descend into his freshly washed hair. She strokes his head. They sit this way, in silence, for the next half-hour. Their teacups remain full, and turn cold.