“Since even before the drought, everything that came my way meant a struggle. Calvin wants to take care of me. This wedding is the right move for both of us.”

“You know I loved Betsy like crazy, but even so, I’m not sure that I’m much of a romantic,” Henry said, his voice low. “I’ll tell you this much—if I was Calvin and you were Betsy, and Betsy was talking about me like you just talked about Calvin, I don’t know that I would want that wedding to happen.”

“Henry!”

“You can’t marry a man just because he has the money to buy you a big house. That’s not how marriage works.”

“I’ll have a good life with Calvin,” I said abruptly. “I’m not using him, if that’s what you’re trying to imply.”

“Maybe you’re not exactly using him, but you haven’t once told me that you love him either.”

“I do love him,” I protested weakly. “I just…”

“If you don’t want to marry him, it’s not too late to stop this,” Henry said suddenly. “Calvin is a good man, but I know he’d rather you tell him so if you’re not sure about this.”

I could imagine going inside to my suitcase, still sitting on the dresser, open and still half-full. It wouldn’t take me long to repack. Me and Henry could be back at the bus station within an hour. We could take the first bus out of town.

But then what?

Henry would have to go back to Kansas on Monday, and I’d be adrift and alone again. And Calvin adored me. He was a wonderful boyfriend—considerate, compassionate, respectful. He’d be a generous provider. There were worse things I could do to support myself than marry a man I held in such high esteem, even if I weren’t in love with him. Besides, that might change. I’d never fallen in love with anyone—but maybe I’d just never given a man the chance to win my heart.

“I want to marry him,” I said firmly. “Cal and I are going to have a good marriage. You’ll see.”

33

Lizzie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

I knew something was up when Calvin came home from work one evening and immediately joined me in the garden. The sun was setting on the horizon, and we swatted mosquitoes away as we exchanged pleasantries: How was your day? Yes, mine too. Pork chops. No, I didn’t make dessert. Sure, I can make an apple pie for tomorrow night. I picked up my second watering can and moved to water the broccoli, but Cal followed me, as if he were trying to gather the courage to say something hard.

“What is it?” I prompted.

“The police went to Jürgen’s house.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“They just got around to doing that now?”