I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.

Ray and Livy are precious.

The Magic of A Good Man

Martha May and Her Secret Romance Novels

Dear Livy,

Martha May secretly read romance novels as a teenager.

Along with Journey to the Center of the Earth and The Sun Also Rises.

I didn't understand what it was about them that she had to keep hidden.

So I took one and hid in the barn and read some of it.

And then I couldn't talk to her again for three whole days.

And now that you know that about her, maybe you understand some of me a little better.

And how your farmer husband could have a whole other world inside his head.

And romance in his soul.

Both his stomach and heart feel very full driving home that evening.

It's hard to keep his eyes on dark road in front of him.

His wife is sitting next him, actually sitting next to him.

Not pressed up against the door in an effort to keep space between them.

They don't speak, he doesn't know what to say and she isn't saying.

But she is gazing at him with an expression he's never seen from her before.

But one that's making him feel, well, things in his body and mind he doesn't know how to talk about.

But are extremely pleasant and abiding.

She's smiling at him, actually smiling at him, soft and sweet and fond.

At him.

And he can not, can not, stop the small smile that keeps finding its way across his own face.

And he doesn't want to.

Because this, this drive, is the best he's felt between them.

She looks so happy.

Since the day he met and married her.

And I think she might actually like me now.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you . . . could you stop the truck for second?"

"Yeah. Sure."

And he eases the Beet Box to a stop in the middle of the road.

There isn't anything between here and the house; they won't be in anyone's way.

And he turns to her.

"Are you alright? Is something wrong?"

And sees that nothing . . .

"Yes, I'm alright."

. . . is wrong. . .

"No, nothing's wrong."

. . . with his gently smiling wife.

"Thank you. For today."

He nods, smiling at her smiling at him.

"You're welcome. I know you've been wanting to talk about other things."

And she crinkles a wrinkle between her eyes in curiosity at him.

"How did you know? About Troy and the excavation?"

And he can feel himself blushing.

"I checked out a book at the library. I've been reading it."

And she looks surprised, surprised and pleased.

"You did?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, you mentioned it. You seemed to really care about it. I wanted to understand it. So I could better understand you."

And she smiles, wider than before, she's beautiful, she's so beautiful here in the dim truck, the moon rising over the fields beyond the road.

She's smiling and her gaze is moving, from his eyes to his mouth and back again.

He wants to kiss her, he wants to love her, be allowed to show her love.

And . . .

"It's okay, Ray. I want you to."

. . . with her consent, he leans over and kisses-

"Well, we're here."

- his wi-

"What?"

"I said we're here."

"Oh. Mmmh."

And then he stops the truck in front of the homestead.

Turns off the engine.

And gets out of the truck.

The daydream is still lingering behind his eyes and in his heart as they go up the steps and into the house.

Livy puts away the plates Martha sent with them; Ray goes out to check on the animals before bed.

Feeds them, milks the cow.

Then he comes back in, washes his hands.

And meets his wife . . .

"Well, good night."

"Good night."

. . . at the bottom of the stairs.

They do this many of the nights she has been here.

Shut down the house for the evening.

Meet at the bottom of the stairs.

Say goodnight.

And then she goes up.

He follows, few steps behind.

And they go up the stairs.

To their own separate bedrooms.

And shut their doors.

It's alright. He understands.

These things take time.

And she is with child.

She may never grow to love him, desire him with her.

He will accept it if that's what she wants.

He's not a man to force an issue, especially this one.

Still, tonight seems different.

She doesn't turn away the moment they've spoken.

Does not move away from him.

On the contrary, she stays turned toward him.

Looking up at him, that look she's had for him on her face since the Troy conversation.

And he thinks . . .

Livy . . .

. . . she wants him to come to her.

Lay a gentle hand to her cheek.

Press his lips to hers.

Perhaps not to bring himself to her bed tonight.

But just to-

She flinches away from him at the last moment, small sound coming from her throat, face going down and away and-

Oh-

The moment is broken between them.

It is gone and it will not return tonight.

She flees up the stairs then and he's left, rejected, there at the bottom, again.

He feels the fullness in the chest and general body replace itself with hurt, a constricting ache.

He takes a deep breath and looks up, tracking the ceiling of her tapping footsteps.

He doesn't know what he did, if there even is something he did wrong.

Or . . .

I guess she doesn't like me as much as I thought.

. . . if she's just not ready yet.

It's been a late night for him.

But he's not tired. He's wide awake.

He's laying in his bed, laying awake in the dark, listening to the quiet.

Knowing she's there across the hall.

Knowing he loves her, knowing she does not love him.

Or perhaps isn't ready to love him.

He's feeling rejection, he's feeling hurt.

He's feeling frustration.

And he's feeling . . .

Livy.

I love you, Livy.

And I can't stop loving you.

. . . an aching, yearning need for release.