by Amy Engel
“What?” I ask, walking into the living room. He’s standing there with a pile of dirty clothes at his feet. I point at the laundry. “What’s that about?”
“I figure it’s not going to do itself,” Bishop says. “The longer we wait, the more we’ll have, right?”
“Yes,” I say, “that’s generally how it works. But I don’t have time to do it today. Maybe this weekend?”
“I’ll do it,” Bishop says, surprising me. Laundry is usually the wife’s job. “But would you mind showing me how?” He palms the back of his neck with one hand. “I’ve never done it before.”
“Really?” I ask, eyebrows going up. “Never?” Most boys on my side of town at least know how to wash clothes, even if they rarely perform the chore.
“Nope. There are maids in my dad’s house. It’s just not something I ever learned.”
Of course it isn’t. He’s probably never had to do a lot of things the rest of us do daily. The spoiled president’s son. I want to be annoyed with him, but at least he’s making an attempt. And I remember what Callie told me at the park: to play nice, to not let my mouth run away from me. I’ve already ignored her advice too many times, so I manage to bite back my thoughts.
I eye the pile of clothes. “Grab the laundry and meet me outside.”
In the backyard is a metal trough, similar to the one we used growing up. I pull the hose from the side of the house and begin filling the trough with water. Bishop’s dropped the clothes on the cement patio and holds a bag of soap flakes in his hand. “Okay,” I say, “sprinkle some of those in here. You want to put them in while the water’s still running, otherwise they just sit on top and don’t lather up.” Bishop nods and proceeds to dump half the bag into the water. “Not so much!” I tell him. “I said sprinkle! Sprinkle!”
“Sorry,” Bishops says. “What do I do? Take some out?”
“You can try.”
He uses both hands to scoop half-dissolved soap flakes out of the water, flinging them onto the lawn. “I don’t think this is working,” he says. “I am clearly not meant for a life of laundry.”
“Well, don’t worry. It’s probably the only time you’ll have to do it.”
Bishop frowns. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m the wife,” I say slowly, “and you’re the husband. And that’s how things are done here.”
“I don’t care about that,” Bishop says. “I mean, you have a job now, right? So it seems fair we should both help out around the house.”
I sit back on my heels, turning his words over in my head, searching for the trap. “Okay,” I say finally.
Bishop gives me a quick nod. “Okay.” He turns his attention back to the trough. “Now I just have to get the rest of this soap out of here.”
A giggle bursts out of me, totally unexpected, and Bishop glances over. “What?” he asks.
“You look ridiculous,” I tell him. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s covered in water and soap flakes from fingertip to elbow, a handful of slimy soap still cupped in his hands. Another giggle escapes, and I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry,” I choke out.
He flings the soap away and wipes his hands on his shorts. “Yeah, laugh it up,” he says, smiling. “What now?”
“Now you put a couple pieces of clothes in. Two or three!” I say when he grabs the whole pile. “Not everything!”
“This is going to take forever when we have a full load,” he mutters as he throws two shirts and a pair of pants into the sudsy water.
“Then you take the washboard.” I point to the wooden and metal washboard next to the trough. “And you scrub the clothes on it. Like this.” I take one of the shirts and run it up and down the washboard, move it around until I’ve gotten it scrubbed and then pull it from the water. “Then you rinse it and hang it and you’re done.”
“Got it,” Bishop says.
I rinse the shirt I’ve already washed and pin it to the line while Bishop gets to work on the rest of the clothes. When I turn back around, he’s washing a pair of pants, scrubbing them like he means to wear a hole through the cloth.
“Umm…you’re trying to get them clean,” I tell him. “Not beat them into submission.”
Bishop looks up at me. His dark hair is falling onto his forehead, and his nose crinkles up when he laughs. It makes him look younger, carefree. For the first time, I can clearly picture him as a boy. We stare at each other for a long moment, and then he begins washing again, gentler this time.
I take a deep breath, ignore the heat rushing to my cheeks. “That’s better,” I say, walking toward the house. “I’ll just be here, on the screened porch relaxing, while you finish up. You obviously need the practice.”
He flings a handful of soap in my direction and I dodge it with a yelp. Once I’m safely out of range, I realize this is the first time I’ve spent more than five minutes with him where I wasn’t thinking about the plan or what to do next. Which is exactly what my father and Callie want, for me to act natural, to make it seem real. I should be happy. But I remember Bishop’s laugh, his crinkly nose, the warmth in my cheeks, and can’t help feeling I’ve done something wrong.
T
he courthouse is limestone like City Hall, and they sit directly across the town square from one another. My eyes slide over to City Hall as I climb the courthouse steps. Inside I’m sure they’ve dismantled the stage, put all the chairs back in storage until next year. The lives of dozens of children changed in the course of a day and the evidence already whisked away.
The courthouse entryway is smaller than the City Hall rotunda, but it has the same tile floors, the same chill in the air from the limestone walls. Two uniformed guards stand inside the door, guns in holsters on their hips. It’s rare to see a gun these days. They are illegal to own and even the police don’t carry them routinely, making do with batons and martial arts if situations get out of hand, which isn’t very often. I remind myself not to stare. My flats make a loud clacking noise on the floor and already a blister is forming on my heel, making me long for my sandals.
There is an overweight man with glasses that seem too small for his face sitting at the reception desk. He watches me approach but doesn’t speak, even once I reach the desk.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m supposed to meet with Victoria Jameson.”
“And you are?” he drawls.
“Ivy Lattimer.”
For a split second, I relish the look of surprise on his face, the nervous recognition that accompanies his suddenly bright smile. But just as swiftly, I remember the day in the market when the woman gave me the pastry because of my name. I don’t want people to like me or be afraid of me because of who I am. Lattimer doesn’t even really belong to me anyway. It’s just something I put on, like a dress or a pair of shoes.
“Mrs. Lattimer,” he says, standing. “I didn’t realize you were coming here today. If I’d known…”
I give him a strained smile. “I need to know where I can find Mrs. Jameson.”
After a little more fumbling, some of it coming dangerously close to bowing and scraping, the man points me toward the stairs, tells me to go up to the third floor and take a left.
The door to Victoria Jameson’s office is open and I can hear voices coming from inside. I stop outside the doorway and wait for someone to notice me, hesitant to interrupt. There is a man and woman in the room, the woman standing behind the desk and the man sitting in the chair facing her.
“No,” the woman is saying, “she was put out last time. But her parents won’t stop shouting about it. President Lattimer wants it taken care of.”
“Okay,” the man says. “So one more warning?” He shifts forward. “If that doesn’t work, then we charge them with disturbing the peace and—” He breaks off when he catches sight of me in the doorway.
“Can we help you?” he asks, voice brisk.
“Ivy?” the woman asks. I nod. “Is it okay if I call you Ivy?”
“Sure.” It’s a
relief to escape from being Mrs. Lattimer.
She comes around the desk, hand extended. “I’m Victoria Jameson.” She motions to the man. “And this is Jack Stewart.”
As we all exchange handshakes, I take the chance to study Victoria. She’s in her mid-thirties, I’d guess, with cocoa-colored skin and curly hair that falls to the middle of her neck. A pair of glasses is perched on top of her head, and gold hoops swing from her ears. She has a no-nonsense air about her, but her smile is friendly.
“We can continue this discussion later,” Jack tells Victoria. He gives me a nod and closes the door on his way out.
“So,” Victoria says, taking her chair again behind the desk and pointing me to the one Jack vacated, “you’re Bishop’s wife.”
“Yes.”
“And you want a job.”
“Yes.”
I wait for her to purse her lips or give me a disapproving look, but she grins. “I think that’s great! I’ve never been a big fan of the sit-at-home-and-pop-out-babies route. Especially when you’re only sixteen.”
“Me neither,” I say, and she laughs. “What about you?” I ask. “How did you end up working here?” It’s unusual for a woman of child-bearing age to work, especially in the courthouse.
“My father used to be a judge,” Victoria says. “I grew up wanting to roam these halls.”
“Do you have kids?” She probably doesn’t, if she’s working here.
A shadow crosses Victoria’s face and she looks away, out the window overlooking the street. “I never had children,” she says quietly. There is something more than sadness, than disappointment, in her voice. Shame, maybe? Which makes me doubt her earlier easy words about popping out babies.
“Okay,” Victoria says, back to business. “I’m in charge of the judges’ schedules, calendars, dockets, pretty much anything they need to keep both courtrooms running. Plus all the filing and paperwork. There’s always too much work for one person, which is where you’ll come in.”
I still don’t have a good idea of what I’ll actually be doing day-to-day, but it hardly matters. I remember the guards by the front doors, the guns in their holsters, and know I’m in the right place. My father will be pleased.
O
n Friday of my first week of work, I wake early and hop in the shower while Bishop eats breakfast. Victoria asked me to come in before nine so we could get a courtroom set up for trial, and I don’t want to be late. As I’m getting dressed, I hear Bishop starting his own shower, and I wait impatiently until he’s finished before heading back to the bathroom to brush my teeth. “Oh, sorry,” I say, brought up short in the doorway. “I thought you were done.”
Bishop looks at me, the lower half of his face covered in lather, a razor in his hand. He is wrapped in a towel at his waist and nothing else, showing off the lean muscles of his stomach. His dark hair is slicked back with water, his bare chest as smooth and golden as the rest of him. He has a tiny, pale brown birthmark just beneath his ribs. I don’t know what to do with my eyes, can’t find any safe spot for them to settle. “It’s fine,” he says. “There’s room.”
There’s really not, but I sidle in next to him and he moves back a step to make space for me in front of the small mirror. It’s so quiet as I put toothpaste on my toothbrush that I can hear the drag of his razor against his skin. The bathroom smells of soap and mint and something fundamentally male that makes my neck flush with heat.
I keep my eyes on my toothbrush and then on the sink as I brush. But after I wipe my mouth and straighten up, my gaze catches Bishop’s in the mirror. We stare at each other, and my whole body tingles with awareness. I try to think what a wife would do in this situation, but I don’t have a lot to go on considering I grew up in a house without a mother. Before I can second-guess myself, I turn and plant a quick kiss on his bare shoulder. “Thanks for sharing,” I tell him. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my body and my lips burn where they met his warm skin.
I risk a look up at Bishop, preparing myself for what might come next. He is my husband and there are only a few strips of cloth separating us. This may be the moment when he is no longer content to wait. The thought sends both fear and a strange buzzing heat through my chest. But Bishop only stares at me, then barks out a laugh—not a very nice one. He wipes the last remnant of shaving cream off his face with a hand towel.
“What?” I demand, humiliation painting my cheeks red. “Why are you laughing?”
He pushes out of the bathroom ahead of me, and I follow behind him to the bedroom. His hand falls to his waist and he glances at me over his shoulder. “Fair warning,” he says, “I’m about to drop this towel.”
I whirl around and step out into the hall. Behind me, I hear the towel hit the floor, the sound of clothes rustling. When Bishop emerges, he’s wearing shorts and pulling a T-shirt down over his flat stomach. “You didn’t answer me,” I remind him. “What was so funny?”
He pauses and runs a hand through his still-damp hair. “Don’t fake it on my account, Ivy,” he says, his words clipped. “That’s not what I want. And it shouldn’t be what you want, either.”
Frustration ripples through me. “I’m sorry we can’t all be as perfect as you are,” I say. “I’m sorry I don’t always know the exact right thing to do or say at the exact right time!”
Bishop’s jaw tightens. “I’m not perfect.”
“Well, it’s kind of hard for us mere mortals to tell,” I say. “Don’t you ever get upset or angry or embarrassed? Do you feel anything?”
He blows out a breath, takes a step toward me. The hallway is so narrow that I’m pinned between the wall and his body, heat rolling off him in waves. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I feel things.” His green eyes burn. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from him so far, and I have trouble taking a full breath, my lungs compressed with tension. “That’s the whole point, Ivy. I want you to feel them, too.”
I open my mouth, close it again, not sure how to respond.
“Forget it,” Bishop says. The last thing I hear is the front door slamming behind him.
W
hat do you wear for a dinner with your enemy? I stand in the middle of the bedroom, every article of clothing I own forming a pitifully small mountain on the bed. The only real dress I have is the one I wore on my wedding day, and I never want to put it on again. Just the slide of the material against my skin makes me wince. But somehow I think Mrs. Lattimer would not appreciate me showing up in shorts and a T-shirt. What I want is to curl up with one of the books I borrowed from President Lattimer’s library. But I have to face the Lattimers sometime. It won’t do me any good to pretend they don’t exist.
President and Mrs. Lattimer summoned us for dinner yesterday, more than two weeks after the wedding. Perhaps they couldn’t stomach the thought of me in their home before that. We were told to be there at eight, and Bishop said they always dined late, even when he was a boy. There is something unsettlingly pretentious about it.
I finally decide on a black skirt, short but loose, with flat black sandals and a pale purple tank top. I leave my hair down, where it falls to the middle of my back in crazy waves I long ago gave up trying to tame. It will have to be good enough. I’m not interested in spending any more time trying to impress them.
Bishop is waiting for me in the living room, wearing jeans and a black dress shirt, the collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up.
“You look nice,” he says to me.
“Thank you,” I say. My eyes are drawn to his bare forearms, and against my will I remember how he looked without his shirt, all smooth skin and lean muscle. A tiny pulse beats low in my belly. I raise my gaze up to his face, find him watching me.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. “I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “I’m trying. I just…I don’t always know what I’m supposed to do.” The understatement of my life.
“There’s no supposed to, Ivy,” he says. “I don’
t have a checklist.”
Ah, but I do, I think. And the fact that this boy knows when I’m faking affection, trying to force a connection, makes everything so much more difficult. Why can’t he be like a normal eighteen-year-old? The kind who would take a kiss from a girl no matter why it was offered? Instead, Bishop wants authenticity, which is the one thing I cannot give him.
It is still light out when we leave the house, although the sun is starting to sink in the sky as we walk, our footsteps keeping time with each other on the empty sidewalk.
“How was your first week on the job?” Bishop asks.
“Good. I mean, so far I’m not doing anything too exciting. Mainly organizing files. But it’s nice to have somewhere to go every day, something to do.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “I know the days can get long if you don’t have a purpose.”
Is he talking about himself? He leaves the house every morning, but I never have any idea where he’s going. And most days he comes home smelling like sunshine, which is probably in short supply inside council meetings. Maybe he’s been going to the river, while I’ve been at the courthouse. He hasn’t told me and I haven’t asked.
As we get closer to his parents’ house, my heart begins to pick up speed, thumping twice as hard as it needs to, sweat beading along my hairline even though the night air isn’t particularly hot.
“Want something to hold on to?” Bishop asks. I’m not sure what he’s talking about until I glance down. His hand—tan skin, long fingers—is held out. My eyes fly back to his face and he’s giving me a half smile, waiting to see what I’ll do. Not forcing, just asking. My first instinct is to say no, although this feels less orchestrated than the kiss in the bathroom, more natural somehow. But I’ve never held hands with a boy before and while it’s hardly intimate, my stomach is still sick with nervous butterflies. I know I should accept; Callie would want me to.
I slide my hand into Bishop’s, and he laces our fingers together. The warm pressure of his palm steadies me, spreading heat from my hand up my arm where it seems to pool in my chest, calming the mad pounding of my heart.
