I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.

Ray and Livy are precious.

The Magic of A Good Man

The Opinions of Others. And Fiesta Omelets

Dear Livy,

I borrowed the baby book from the library because I wanted to be ready to be the father the baby deserved.

The husband you deserved.

The man I wanted to be.

I hid it from you because I didn't know how you would react to my involvement at the time.

But I have always loved you, almost since the day I met you.

And I told you the truth that day in the reverend's parlor.

I could love the baby.

And I do.

When he was just yours.

And when you let him become mine, ours.

I love you.

And him.

And all the rest of them.

For all the days of my life.

". . . -er hug or kiss your children. Never let them sit in your lap. If you must, kiss them once on the forehead when they say goodnight. Shake hands with them in the morning. This will help you avoid raising a little tyrant."

Tyrant?

Like Hitler?

Huh.

That seems excessive.

He has been working his way methodically through the baby book when he thinks Livy won't catch him.

In the evenings alone in the bunk room, at break time on the farm.

Here now in the waiting room of the La Junta Family Medicine practice.

So far, the book has advised him to not give the baby a soft name, to begin her or him on solid foods on day two.

And to treat toothaches with opium or bourbon for a better night's sleep.

Ray's beginning to be concerned about the preparing for baby books offered by the La Junta Public Library.

But he's promised himself he'd read the entire book from cover to cover.

Glean what he can from it.

And decide for himself . . .

". . . in a high rise urban setting, consider purchasing a baby cage . . ."

Cage?

. . . what he'll and not do . . .

". . . and place the child in it to assure proper exposure to fresh air and sunshine . . ."

A baby in a cage?

. . . in regard to his and Livy's . . .

". . . for up to two hours a day."

A baby in a cage for two hours a day?

. . . child.

I think I might have to consider taking this book back early.

And I won't tell . . .

". . . Singleton?"

"Yes?"

"Your wife will be out in a minute."

"Thank you."

. . . Livy.

There's a section on baby names.

Baby food recipes.

Making baby clothes.

Baby development activities.

And that's all well and good.

But there's surprisingly little information on the health and wellbeing of the mother . . .

Did I get the wrong book?

. . . during the actual pregnancy.

He doesn't know if there isn't any written information.

Or if he just needs another book.

There's been mention that women only need to gain twelve pounds during a pregnancy.

Which isn't helpful, since he doesn't know how much Livy weighed to start.

And knows better than to ask in the first place.

There's a suggestion that smoking reduces morning sickness.

And that eating dirt might provide nutrients gestating mothers need.

He doesn't really know what their dirt has in it that would grow a baby.

Even though it does grow beets really well.

And sometimes tomatoes.

So Ray Singleton ignores the looks of the gathered women of the waiting room.

". . . -let training at two months. Building bowel and bladder control is a key part to building baby's character."

And and turns to the next chapter of the book.

His excitement in hearing news in regards to their . . .

Livy's-

. . . baby falters as she strides from the door and, with hardly a glance at him, . . .

Livy?

. . . heads straight for the outer door.

He just manages to catch up with her, open the door for her, a gesture which she does not seem to appreciate in the very least.

And she continues out onto the La Junta Main Street sidewalk.

"While we're in town, I need to mail a letter."

And he has to hurry . . .

"Everything go alright?'

. . . to keep up with her brisk pace.

"Everything's right on schedule."

Both literally and . . .

"Did he say when the baby was coming?"

. . . metaphorically.

"-cember. I could have told you that."

And Ray feels stumped.

I thought women liked babies.

Even if they don't like how they got them, they like them.

And he feels he's somehow missed something.

Right?

Without ever going anywhere else.

He does manage to open the door for her, one of the few times she lets him.

Probably because the postbox isn't close enough to run away to.

He hides the baby book in the back of the truck . . .

Baby cages-

. . . and by the time he opens his own door to get in, . . .

"People will know."

. . . she's ready to talk.

What people?

"People will know the baby's early."

The baby's going to be early?

"What will they think then?"

Oh.

And there it is.

Her worry.

Or, one of them.

What people will think.

What they will know.

That the baby isn't his.

That she has been with another man.

That she had had another life before coming to Wilson.

One that hadn't worked out the way she had wanted it to.

And he speaks the only answer he has for her.

"I don't care what people think."

And it's mostly true.

He doesn't care what most people think.

He cares what his sister thinks.

Hank.

Ruth.

The boys, Chester and Hank, Jr, they don't care about anything that's not a worm or a frog.

At any rate, those are the people whose opinions matter.

And they know, the adults anyway.

And to their credit, and one of the reasons he loves them so, is that they don't treat Livy any different than they would any other woman as pure as the driven snow that Ray might have managed to bring home.

Anyone else?

He really, truly honestly, doesn't care.

But Livy doesn't understand.

"I don't see how you could be immune. People judge, people gossip."

Ah, yes, she has met them.

The Sisters.

Pratt and Parker.

Yes, it is true.

They will chirp, they will chatter.

With each other, with 'trusted friends'.

But that isn't his problem.

And it won't be Livy's.

He couldn't stop them even if it was.

And the thing Livy doesn't know, the thing she hasn't yet learned living here is . . .

"They won't say a thing."

And she doesn't, she doesn't believe.

"And why is that?"

She doesn't understand.

"Well, . . ."

Not like Ray does.

They're not like whatever you experienced in Denver, Livy.

Those people that didn't help you.

Your father. The sister you write to, I assume.

"They want the best for us."

And then, even though he's sure she still doesn't buy his pie-in-the-sky mentality . . .

"Come on."

. . . she doesn't say anything else.

"Let's go home."

For the rest of the way . . .

You'll see, Livy.

It'll be alright.

You and me and our baby-

-your baby-

-will be alright.

. . . home.

And it seems to help, it seems to work.

As much as anything can.

They go home.

He farms.

Livy keeps house.

They sleep in their separate bedrooms.

Keep civil, quiet company.

And he hopes . . .

Time.

She just needs time.

And that's something I can give her out here.

Time.

And space to keep it in.

. . . that she'll be able to be okay.

Be like she was on the boat on the pond that day.

Eventually.

With time.

She must feel lonely, missing her home, Denver.

Because one late morning, after feeding Franklin and preparing for the surprise he has in store for the woman he cannot deny he is falling in love with, he comes in to find his wife up and at-em.

Livy? You're up already? It's only nine-thirty.

And making . . .

Eggs?

But they don't smell like the eggs he's ever smelled.

He's come in through the sidedoor, hopeful and eager that today will be a turning point in the marriage . . .

I had a dream last night.

. . . he has been working so very hard . . .

I don't feel right telling you what it was.

. . . to make right with his wife.

He removes his hat, washes his hands, folds the drying towel carefully.

And turns to behold . . .

Livy-

. . . his beautiful wife.

She's standing with her back to him, pushing eggs around the cast iron skillet.

And he is so taken with her . . .

I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you.

. . . he can barely breathe.

Her apron is tied neatly around her waist, accentuating what a fine figure.

Her hair is up, as she so often wears it.

Revealing her smooth, white neck, tendrils of dark hair escaping their pins, curling in the heat from the stove.

The sight of her, standing there in their kitchen makes him feel proud.

Admiring.

And well, . . .

He steps forward, letting his footfalls alert her to his approach.

She turns her head, just a little.

Just enough that he can see the small smile upturning her pretty bow mouth.

Which welcomes and emboldens him all the more.

"Something smells good," he mutters as he reaches within touching distance.

"I thought I'd make you something special, as a way of saying thank you for being so patient with me these past weeks."

He dares to reach out, brush his fingertips against the soft skin on the back of her neck.

"You don't ever have to thank me," he mutters gently, catching a whiff of flowery perfume as she turns to face him. "I'm your husband and you're my wife. We take care of each other."

Her beautiful brown eyes are warm and welcoming as she gazes up at him.

"I know that now. You're a good man. The best I believe I've known."

And steps to him, stepping into his embrace as his heart pounds and blood rushes to a very specific place on his body.

"And I believe I'm beginning to fall in love with you, Raymond Singleton. If you don't mind . . ."

She hears his approach, freezes in her cooking, stiffening almost imperceptibly.

And though she doesn't speak words or move hardly at all, . . .

"Smells good."

. . . he reverses his approach.

And backs away from her personal space.

Taking himself to the table.

So that she may approach, she may come to him, if she so likes.

And she does.

Proudly, if somewhat still reservedly.

Setting a plate down before him.

"A fiesta omelet."

And expectantly awaiting . . .

What in the world is a fiesta omelet?

. . . his no doubt glowing . . .

Are these . . . peppers in here?

. . . culinary review.

And Raymond Singleton loves his quietly glowing, expectant, new wife.

And he is eager to please her.

So he scoops up a considerable bit of the concoction she has put down on some of the fine blue and white flatware his mother had cherished since receiving them years ago.

And begins . . .

Oh . . . that's uh . . . that's . . .

. . . to chew.

. . . whew . . .

She's watching him, watching him like a hawk.

A hawk that's immediately anxious and apologetic.

"Maybe I put too many jalapeno peppers in it."

"No, it's . . ."

I'll lie to her.

I'll lie straight to her face.

" . . . real good."

That's how much I love her.

"Real good cookin'."

And she doesn't buy it, she's clammoring on about cheese and Ray's guzzling water like a thirsting man in the desert and then there's sound from outside that catches both of their attention . . .

"What is that?"

. . . away from the tongue-searing travesty . . .

I don't know what a fiesta is or what jalapenos are.

. . . his sorely misguided wife has decided eggs are . . .

But I think you could kill me with them.

. . . and redirected them to the thing . . .

And inherit the farm.

. . . he has procured just to make her happy.

"The Claw."

And that was how Raymond Singleton spent the majority of his day that day.

With a fiesta jalapeno-ed tongue in his egg-seared mouth.

". . . lever! Left lever!"

"What?!"

Digging a big hole in the ground for his sorely misguided chef wife.

So that . . .

". . . in the summertime, you and the children can go swimming."