It’s Monday, so I’m doing the washing today. I love the smell of sheets when I bring them in from the clothesline late in the afternoon.
I’m very grateful for all of this ... for everything. But I just ... I don’t know. It’s hard to realize that the pattern for the whole rest of my life is already set. Right here, right now, at age 19. Washing clothes, cooking food, having babies, taking care of Dickie. This is my life for the next ... 60 years or so.
It’s strange, but I feel a little bit erased now that I’m married. The country club membership Daddy gave me when I turned 18 is in Dickie’s name now, not mine. Dickie also has the title to the car, and the deed to the house, even though my father bought them for both of us. And now that we’re married, Dickie has access to my checking and savings accounts too.
He and Daddy and the bank just went ahead and did all these things without asking for my opinion, much less my permission. And I was too naive to ask in those early weeks after the wedding.
I know that if I ever need money or anything else, Daddy will be there. But ...
I’d just like to have something of my own ... something to remind me of who I was before I got married.
Even my name isn’t mine anymore. It’s an odd practice, when you think about it, referring to a woman by her husband’s name with the word Mrs. tacked on the front. Sometimes I feel like an appendage, rather than a person.
But I have lots to keep me busy. I guess I should be grateful for that.
Dickie suggested I use this time before the baby to learn how to become a better cook. I think I’m already a pretty good cook because I took over all the cooking after Mother died.
But I only know how to make normal meat and potatoes style food. Dickie wants me to learn fancy French dishes like that lady on TV. He wants us to host dinner parties. He’s even given me a deadline. I have two weeks to learn to make boeuf bourguignon from Julia Child’sMastering the Art of French Cookingcookbook and it’s awfully complicated. He also wants me to learn to make Lemon Chiffon Pie for dessert. Then he wants to have a banker and a state senator and their wives over for dinner.
He says it’s important, and I need to get all the details right, which makes me even more nervous. I never realized it before, but Dickie is awfully ambitious. He says he wants to run for public office.
Which is fine, I guess. I just never thought I’d end up as a political wife. So I’ve been working on the boeuf bourguignon.
But what I really want to do is work on Dickie’s car. It’s making an odd sound and I’m pretty sure it’s the fan belt. On Saturday, I’m going to drop him off at the club so he can play golf all day, and then I’m going to drive the car back here so I can sneak under the hood and poke around.
I don’t have all the tools I need, but our garage is a good size. It’s a little bigger than normal because Daddy paid the developer extra to build a nuclear fallout shelter underneath. He even outfitted it with shelves and cots and blankets. I use it as a root cellar and keep my tulip bulbs and all the canned goods down there.
There’s an extra door, too, on the backside, facing the yard, so I can come and go without anyone knowing the lady of the house is out in the garage changing spark plugs.
Anyway, time to bake buns and bread and pineapple upside down cake. Dickie likes a dessert with his evening meal. He says it keeps him sweet.
I sure wish that were true.
Chapter Twenty
Piper
A hushed silence fell over the room when Rosamund stopped reading.
“This is amazing,” Piper whispered.
“And terrifying,” Kiersten added. “Doesn’t her husband soundawful?”
“It’s like someone speaking to usfrom beyond the grave,” Rosamund said in an ominous voice.
Piper resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s definitely a period piece. Do you know anything else about her?”
Kiersten shook her head. “Just their first names, Dottie and Dickie. But I’ve only read the first few entries. Hopefully as I read more, I’ll be able to figure out who they belong to so I can return them.”
“But do you think it’s right to read someone else’s diaries?” Rosamund asked.
“Well, no.” Kiersten reached for another slice of pizza. “But it doesn’t feel right to keep them either. And I can’t return them, or the money, if I don’t know who wrote them.”
“True,” Rosamund conceded. “I wonder which house she lived in?”
“Beaverbrookissort of a time capsule.” Piper took a thoughtful sip from her red Solo cup. “People who live here rarely sell.”
Rosamund wiped her hands on her napkin. “I think it’s because our yards are so huge. They’re way more valuable than our houses.”
