Rosa especially liked the days that Joshua would work in the shop in the barn. She would bring him lunch and cool drinks in the stifling heat of the day. Rosa liked to linger in the doorway watching him, his shirt tossed aside and the dark hair on his torso glistening with sweat, heave his great hammer with fluid, masculine grace. Joshua usually blushed, just a bit, when he caught sight of her but Rosa would ignore that and just give him a drink. She would sop up the sweat from his brow, his shoulders, and his chest with a towel she always remembered to bring with her from the house. Sometimes after she dried him, Joshua would kiss her, lingering in the moment, but most often he would shoo her away with feigned gruffness and a playful swat on her behind and then return to his work with a sly, shy smile on his face.
On Sundays, they went to Preacher Brown’s church and listened to the old man’s fiery sermons with a small portion of the town’s populace (many more women than men.) Joshua wasn’t much for religion…he believed in God but that was about as far as it went. He didn’t really see much use in wasting a perfectly good day like Sunday, a day that could be put to better use getting some work done…but he went because Rosa found comfort in the church and in the words of the man of God. After the sermon…and sometimes Preacher Brown could go on for what seemed like hours…they might take supper at the home of one of Joshua’s friends or customers…or, on occasion, they might invite some folks over to supper at their home.
Rosa had known little about cooking for Americans but Mrs. Henry, a genial widow who lived in town and who never missed a Sunday in Preacher Brown’s church, had taken it upon herself to teach Rosa the ins and outs of cooking for an American male palate. Rosa had proven to be a quick study whose prowess at the stove became something of a feather in her cap that quite admired by the other ladies in town. As a result, invitations to supper at Joshua and Rosa’s house were very rarely turned down.
On every other Tuesday, Joshua and Rosa took the wagon into town to get supplies. Joshua would invariably slip off to make sure things were going okay in the shop while Rosa did the shopping in the general store.
More often than not, Joshua would roll up his sleeves once he got to his shop and get personally involved in one project or another. Rosa, who very quickly recognized the pattern, would finish the shopping and, after the storekeeper’s assistant had loaded up the wagon, she would drive the wagon to Joshua’s shop and wait outside, patiently knitting or exchanging small talk with ladies who happened by.
At some point…often hours later…Joshua would emerge from the great doors of the shop looking both satisfied and chagrined. He would wipe the sweat from his brow, perhaps give a last order to one of the hands, and then climb up on the wagon and spur the horses back towards their home.
On some warm nights, Joshua and Rosa sat on their porch steps looking up into the starry sky. Joshua would smoke his pipe, its fragrant smoke dancing slow circles in the still night air, and talk about the dreams he’d had when he was a boy…talk about life in the east…sometimes, in shaded tones, talk about his mother. Rosa would talk about Mexico…about her parents and her brothers and sisters and her hometown. After talking this way they would look into each other’s eyes and without words tell each other that where they came from didn’t matter as much as where they were…that home was right where they were sitting.
Rosa often would sit behind Joshua on the steps and massage his neck…as she did so she would begin to hum and then softly sing the songs she had heard her mother sing. Joshua would close his eyes, draw slowly on his pipe, and shyly put his hand on one of Rosa’s legs, and everything would seem absolutely right with the world in those moments.
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