The weight of her belly threatened to topple her as she proceeded down the stone steps with her spine held stiff by her corset, but the warmth of the sun on her face was pleasing, and she went delicately. It seemed easy to forget discontents, on such a lovely spring day, and to remember only hopes and dreams. Soon, her shoes were clicking down the boardwalk, and her steps felt light, despite the ache in her back, the heaviness in her middle. The only sound was the river babbling its way around the rocks. On the hill in front of the houses on First Street, the brown earth was peeking through the melting snow, and patches of purple crocus bloomed. This spring, John had told her, the Pine Rapids Beautification Committee was distributing grass seed to every homeowner in town, and Knute Mickelson had donated money for a stump removal crew to clear the main thoroughfares—as it was, winter was the only time when people could travel easily. Sleighs glided easily over roads packed with snow, whereas in spring, the muddy, rutted, stump-pocked roads became nearly impassable. The drier seasons of summer and fall were only slightly better. Whatever improvements could be made would certainly be a relief, Wilma thought—after having grown up in well-settled Kaukauna in the east-central part of the state, Pine Rapids still seemed to her like an uncivilized frontier.

As she approached downtown, there came on the breeze the smell of thawing horse manure, and the sounds of bells jingling, carriage wheels jouncing through the muddy gravel, horses whinnying, voices calling across the street or down the block—and then it all came into view: the red stone buildings, the throngs of traffic, the businessmen in dark suits and bowlers, the draymen in working clothes, and the women in creations of all colors, many with hats rising from their heads like the plumes of birds. Wilma straightened her own hat and pinched her cheeks. She had been so excited at the prospect of an outing that she had forgotten to look in the mirror to see that everything was in order. She had forgotten that she had an image to maintain, as the wife of one of the most important businessmen in town. No matter what language they spoke—and Wilma could still hardly identify all the different languages that could be heard in Pine Rapids, including but not limited to Norwegian, Danish, Swedish, Polish, Menominee, and a great deal of German—Wilma knew everybody talked about the Mickelsons.

She glanced over at the bank on the opposite side of the street, hoping that John wouldn’t happen to look out his office window and see her pass by. Then she recognized Gust’s horse tethered outside.