I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.

Ray and Livy are precious.

The Magic of A Good Man

Sunday Is For The Lord. And Fishing.

Dear Livy,

You in the sunshine, the fresh air.

You on my little boat, floating in our hidden fishing pond.

You free and happy and relaxed.

And me.

Sneaking glances, admiring you.

Falling in love with you.

Even now, I smile.

And feel my body stir for you.

And she gets up and is ready . . .

"Good morning, Livy."

. . . by the time he's ready to go.

"Good morning, Ray."

The next morning.

"Would you like to drive us to church?"

He's trying to reach out to her.

Bring out some of the liveliness that had shone out of her the day he had taught her to drive.

"Oh. No. Thank you."

Only to have his efforts graciously rebuffed.

"You sure? You did really good the other day."

By a completely withdrawn wife.

"No. I appreciate it though."

"Alright. if you're sure."

"Yes."

Who hardly speaks a word she doesn't have to . . .

"Are you alright?"

"Mmmh. Yes."

. . . for the entire drive.

She walks smoothly.

Crunching across the gravel to the church in which they were married on the day they met less than a week ago.

Enters the sanctuary.

Allows Ray to guide them to their seats.

Speaks congenially when approached by . . .

"Little brother! Livy! Good to see you again!"

"Thank you, Martha. It's nice to see you too."

. . . her new sister-in-law.

Holds a mildly pleasant expression stamped across her face when she isn't required to speak.

She sits, stands smoothly.

Sings smoothly, a pleasant alto he can barely hear as they sing along with the small choir.

She closes her eyes smoothly during prayers.

Opens them at the conclusions.

And sits still and silent and attentive throughout the good reverend's sermon.

Ray tries to keep his eyes trained on the service.

Finds himself glancing at her over and over, from time to time.

She never looks at him that he catches.

He wonders if he has done something wrong to her, if she is mad.

Can't think of a single thing.

But of course it isn't always easy to think . . .

". . . introduce us?"

. . . when Sisters Parker and Pratt . . .

"Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Parker."

. . . are around.

"This is my wife, Livy."

And, of course, those glasses-magnified eyes, well-meaning nebby natures barely restrained by proper church propriety.

"Wife?"

"- Parker. I've known Ray since he was this high."

Oh please not the story about the pants in the bushes again.

"And this is Mrs. Pratt."

"-ness me, we never knew."

Yes, ma'am. That was intentional.

"Martha never said a word-"

"Yes,-"

Martha up and abandons them, saving herself.

"-aren't we all blessed."

And Ruth.

"Sweetheart, will you help me with the table?"

But he doesn't really blame his sister.

"You must not be from here-"

"We've been so worried about Ray-"

The P&Ps aren't easy to stop, once they get going.

"-the way things have played out-"

He doesn't bother to mention he can hear them talking about him to her like he isn't even there.

"And not a single young woman to speak of-"

It wouldn't have helped anyway.

"And Ray's such a fine young man-"

And then he swoops in to save his new wife . . .

"How'd you meet?"

. . . and himself.

"I eloped."

Because Livy isn't going to be able to stave them off alone.

"We met in Denver."

By telling these fine, upstanding, rubbernecking, Christian ladies . . .

"How romantic, I never knew you traveled to Denver-"

"-You come sit next to me at the potluck-"

. . . a bald-faced lie.

"Well, we'd like to stay, but we've got to get on."

Right in the middle of the church.

"But we're really going to enjoy your cake, Mrs. Pratt."

Right in front of the Lord and everyone.

"Well, you are most-"

"-welcome-"

And doesn't feel bad about it.

"Bye!"

At all.

He has been about to open the truck door for her, hand her the cake.

Perhaps quip a some sort of lightly inappropriate comment to the effect of, I'll bet you never knew we had the Spanish inquisition right here in Wilson, daring that it might break her solemn mood if only for the moment-

"I just have a letter I need to drop at the post office."

-but he never gets the chance.

"It's Sunday."

Though he tries to be a good husband.

"I could mail it for you tomorrow."

And help.

"Oh, it already has a stamp on it."

Only to be gently rebuffed.

"I'm just going to drop it in the box. To my sister!"

Again.

She certainly is independent.

And he supposes once he adapts to what he thinks a husband should be to a wife. . . .

There's just no stopping her.

. . . he will grow to appreciate the way she is.

In time.

Sunday is rest day.

"I reckon those Japs get a day of rest too. Even if they are damned to hell for bein' a bunch of heathens."

"Guess so, Bill."

So he has some extra time to do with as he pleases.

"Would you like to go fishing, Livy?"

"What?"

"Fishing. There's a nice little pond just off the drive home."

And he wants to spend it with his wife.

"Oh. Alright. That sounds nice."

In the afternoon sunshine.

He offers her his hand on the way down to the boat.

"Here."

She takes it with her white gloved hand, somewhat reluctantly, he might feel.

"It's slippery here."

If he allowed himself to feel.

"Oh. Alright."

Which he does not.

"Thank you."

Or so he tells himself.

And it is perfect.

He thinks.

Exactly what they both need.

He thinks.

The water.

The boat.

The clouds.

The afternoon sunshine, the breeze.

Livy.

Olivia.

Mrs. Olivia Dunne Singleton.

". . . swim here?"

Hmmm?

Oh.

"It's right shallow for swimming. Two feet of slit down there."

Not that it'd stopped them when they were kids.

Swimming.

Cannoning.

Even skinny dipping.

Ahem.

"You like to swim?"

And he watches her face lighten.

Then grow sad.

"I used to."

Watches her just dip her ungloved fingers into the water.

"I used to love to swim."

And he can imagine her swimming, can imagine a woman as capable as her able to swim like a fish.

And he finds himself idly wondering what sort of swimming gear she prefers . . .

If any at all-

. . . when she leans back into a relaxed recline.

And Raymond Singleton . . .

I wonder what made her stop swimming.

. . . takes in a secret, admiring gaze . . .

Such a very, very . . .

. . . at the woman who had been 'receptive'. . .

. . . fine woman.

. . . to being his wife.

And she is beautiful, very much so.

He takes her in slow, trying not to leer.

But captivated.

Delicate, arched stockinged feet atop one another, shoes discarded in the bottom of the boat.

Ankles and legs modestly together.

Dress she had married him in draping her slender frame.

Belly still so flat there is no indication of the baby growing within.

Head tilted back to catch the sun's warmth, eyes closed.

Porcelain skin so smooth, so inviting.

Livy, . . .

Completely unaware . . .

. . . I, uh, . . .

. .. of how stunning she really is.

. . . I'm not entirely sure . . .

Brushing away an errant dragonfly.

. . . if I should be looking at you like this so soon . . .

With a lazy, graceful wave of her hand.

. . . after Sunday church.

But he's happy for her, for the moment, seeming so peaceful and relaxed.

Even a small smile upturning the beautiful bow of her red-lipped mouth.

Before she raises her head.

Opens her eyes.

"Thank you for lying to Mrs. Pratt."

And speaks to the man who brought her here.

A good husband takes care of his wife, Livy.

But he doesn't say it, not then anyway.

Instead opting to change the topic.

"Middle of the day's not the best time for fishin'. Bein' out here's the point."

Away from everyone.

Prying eyes, craning necks.

Curious questions.

Forced conversation.

"Fishin's just an excuse, I suspect."

And this seems to interest her.

"You like to be away from everyone?"

He nods, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

"I like the peace and quiet."

And he guesses they're still having that same conversation as before.

"Do you want to feed some of the cake to the fish?"

"I don't know. Might invite a whale into the boat."

With a few small caveats.

"Ray, Livy, I'm so glad you decided to come for supper!"

"Thank you, Martha. You have a lovely house."

"Well, thank you, thank you. Would you like to help me and Ruth in the kitchen?"

"Oh. Yes, ma'am. Of course."

"So, Ray, how are things?"

"Good. As well as can be expected."

"Weather was awful nice today."

"Yeah, yeah. Just perfect for a little fishin'."

He's laying in bed staring at the ceiling that night, after coming home from Martha May's weekly Sunday evening supper.

Replaying the vision of Livy reclined on the boat, eyes closed, relaxed, content.

When the thought presents itself to him with simple and dreadful clarity.

Church.

Reverend.

Prayers.

Sins.

Forgiveness.

Absolution.

Her father is a minister.

The father who sent her away.

Sent her away because she sinned.

Sinned and had been caught.

Sent her away.

And had not forgiven.

And Ray . . .

Oh, Livy.

I'm so sorry.

. . . is filled with regret at what he realizes must be her sorrow.

Her regret.

Her isolation.

Which follows right back to the boat again.

Only this time . . .

She liked it the way I like it.

Not being seen.

Not being pressured.

Just being free.

Just for a little while.

And Raymond Singleton decides right then and there, before drifting off into sunshiny, swimming-filled dreams . . .

"You look beautiful this afternoon, Livy."

. . . that he will make sure their fishing excursions . . .

"Thank you, Ray. You're looking quite dapper yourself."

. . . become their weekly Sunday afternoon . . .

"Think it'll be alright to have a swim?"

"I think it'll be alright to do whatever you want."

. . . luxury.

". . . can I do for ya, Ray?"

"Well, Hank, I wanted to know if I could borrow The Claw."

"Sure, what for?"

"Well, I'm thinking about digging a swimming hole for Livy. She says she likes to swim."

"Sure. When were you thinkin' of breaking ground?"

Thanks to Aeryn Levia for so kindly reviewing the previous chapter! I'm so glad you're enjoying. :)