Read A Fireproof Home for the Bride for Free Online

pray. Amen.”
    Though she was used to far longer devotions, when Emmy opened her eyes she had to blink against the sudden brightness of the white tablecloth set with white dishes and napkins, the good silver, and the crystal glassware filled with fresh milk. She took her seat and watched her own hand lift the glass and felt the cool liquid as it passed her lips, but for the rest of the meal she neither relished the food nor attempted to interject her thoughts on the rumbling conversation, which centered mostly on the sugar beet harvest that had only just wound down from its early winter frenzy. How they could enjoy such endless minutiae on an annual topic—yield gains, soil astringency, labor contracts, upgrading of the discs and drills and tractors—bewildered Emmy, but it also made it easier for her to concentrate her efforts on chewing and swallowing. It became increasingly clear to her that the strange visitor’s arrival had taken precedence over her own affairs, and as the ticking of the clock became ever louder in her mind, she felt a curdled mixture of relief and dismay that the day was no longer about her betrothal. The minute the last bite of food was eaten, three of the men stood and moved off into the parlor, which Maria went toward, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. Christian lagged behind and turned to the foyer, pulled on his coat and walked out the front door. As the other women took the food into the kitchen, Emmy stood, stretched the nerves in the small of her back, and held still for a moment, trying to hear the men’s conversation drifting through the open parlor doors, wondering what they were talking about instead of her and Ambrose.
    “This new mayor over in Fargo,” Mr. Davidson said in a deeper, less polite tone than he’d used at the dinner table. “Is it true that he’s a Semite?”
    Emmy stilled further, the tone of Mr. Davidson’s voice raising the flesh on her arms.
    “It is,” said Mr. Brann. “We always said it would happen, but no one would listen.”
    “Emmaline!” Karin said, grabbing Emmy’s arm hard and spinning her around. “You’re needed in the kitchen.”
    Emmy’s hands shook as she quickly lifted the emptied plates and utensils and retreated to the overheated kitchen with a well-practiced resignation settling over the uneasiness that was simmering in her soul.

 
    Two
    The Bloom of Youth
    “Pay attention, girls. Today we will be learning about the various cuts of beef.” Mrs. Hagen stood at the front of the home economics room, a roll-down map of dissected cow draped behind her. “This is the rump.” She tapped on the lower right portion of the drawing with a long wooden pointer, the snaking silver rivulets of her permanent wave clawing at the peaks of her pale pink horn-rimmed glasses. Her dress was nipped in at her nonexistent waist to a degree that made Emmy worry for the metal teeth of the zipper that strained to hold everything together. “You can cook this wonderful section many creative ways, most commonly in the densely flavored German sauerbraten, but the best, to my mind, is the classic Sunday roast.”
    The words made Emmy slowly close her eyes, sleepy with the memory of how tediously the day before had stuttered to an end, punctuated with a chaste kiss on the forehead from Ambrose: an apologetic promise. Now that she was back in the routine of school, the idea of marriage paled.
    “Wake up,” Bev Langer whispered under Mrs. Hagen’s lecture. “Don’t let old Brillo catch you napping.” The girls sat two to a table and worked on their projects in pairs. Bev was everything Svenja Sorenson was not: sophisticated, sharp, and attractive in a way that was almost handsome. Her jet green eyes were framed with a tight cap of tamed curls, a chestnut shade of brown that she combed as smoothly as mink on the crown. Sometimes it was hard for Emmy to look at Bev directly without a spike of unwelcome envy rising up and threatening their curious bond.