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“You look ridiculous,” I tell him. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s covered in water and soap flakes from fingertip to elbow, a handful of slimy soap still cupped in his hands. Another giggle escapes, and I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry,” I choke out.
He flings the soap away and wipes his hands on his shorts. “Yeah, laugh it up,” he says, smiling. “What now?”
“Now you put a couple pieces of clothes in. Two or three!” I say when he grabs the whole pile. “Not everything!”
“This is going to take forever when we have a full load,” he mutters as he throws two shirts and a pair of pants into the sudsy water.
“Then you take the washboard. ” I point to the wooden and metal washboard next to the trough. “And you scrub the clothes on it. Like this. ” I take one of the shirts and run it up and down the washboard, move it around until I’ve gotten it scrubbed and then pull it from the water. “Then you rinse it and hang it and you’re done. ”
“Got it,” Bishop says.
I rinse the shirt I’ve already washed and pin it to the line while Bishop gets to work on the rest of the clothes. When I turn back around, he’s washing a pair of pants, scrubbing them like he means to wear a hole through the cloth.
“Umm…you’re trying to get them clean,” I tell him. “Not beat them into submission. ”
Bishop looks up at me. His dark hair is falling onto his forehead, and his nose crinkles up when he laughs. It makes him look younger, carefree. For the first time, I can clearly picture him as a boy. We stare at each other for a long moment, and then he begins washing again, gentler this time.
I take a deep breath, ignore the heat rushing to my cheeks. “That’s better,” I say, walking toward the house. “I’ll just be here, on the screened porch relaxing, while you finish up. You obviously need the practice. ”
He flings a handful of soap in my direction and I dodge it with a yelp. Once I’m safely out of range, I realize this is the first time I’ve spent more than five minutes with him where I wasn’t thinking about the plan or what to do next. Which is exactly what my father and Callie want, for me to act natural, to make it seem real. I should be happy. But I remember Bishop’s laugh, his crinkly nose, the warmth in my cheeks, and can’t help feeling I’ve done something wrong.
The courthouse is limestone like City Hall, and they sit directly across the town square from one another. My eyes slide over to City Hall as I climb the courthouse steps. Inside I’m sure they’ve dismantled the stage, put all the chairs back in storage until next year. The lives of dozens of children changed in the course of a day and the evidence already whisked away.
The courthouse entryway is smaller than the City Hall rotunda, but it has the same tile floors, the same chill in the air from the limestone walls. Two uniformed guards stand inside the door, guns in holsters on their hips. It’s rare to see a gun these days. They are illegal to own and even the police don’t carry them routinely, making do with batons and martial arts if situations get out of hand, which isn’t very often. I remind myself not to stare. My flats make a loud clacking noise on the floor and already a blister is forming on my heel, making me long for my sandals.
There is an overweight man with glasses that seem too small for his face sitting at the reception desk. He watches me approach but doesn’t speak, even once I reach the desk.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m supposed to meet with Victoria Jameson. ”
“And you are?” he drawls.
“Ivy Lattimer. ”
For a split second, I relish the look of surprise on his face, the nervous recognition that accompanies his suddenly bright smile. But just as swiftly, I remember the day in the market when the woman gave me the pastry because of my name. I don’t want people to like me or be afraid of me because of who I am. Lattimer doesn’t even really belong to me anyway. It’s just something I put on, like a dress or a pair of shoes.
“Mrs. Lattimer,” he says, standing. “I didn’t realize you were coming here today. If I’d known…”
I give him a strained smile. “I need to know where I can find Mrs. Jameson. ”
After a little more fumbling, some of it coming dangerously close to bowing and scraping, the man points me toward the stairs, tells me to go up to the third floor and take a left.
The door to Victoria Jameson’s office is open and I can hear voices coming from inside. I stop outside the doorway and wait for someone to notice me, hesitant to interrupt. There is a man and woman in the room, the woman standing behind the desk and the man sitting in the chair facing her.
“No,” the woman is saying, “she was put out last time. But her parents won’t stop shouting about it. President Lattimer wants it taken care of. ”
“Okay,” the man says. “So one more warning?” He shifts forward. “If that doesn’t work, then we charge them with disturbing the peace and—” He breaks off when he catches sight of me in the doorway.
“Can we help you?” he asks, voice brisk.
“Ivy?” the woman asks. I nod. “Is it okay if I call you Ivy?”
“Sure. ” It’s a relief to escape from being Mrs. Lattimer.
She comes around the desk, hand extended. “I’m Victoria Jameson. ” She motions to the man. “And this is Jack Stewart. ”
As we all exchange handshakes, I take the chance to study Victoria. She’s in her mid-thirties, I’d guess, with cocoa-colored skin and curly hair that falls to the middle of her neck. A pair of glasses is perched on top of her head, and gold hoops swing from her ears. She has a no-nonsense air about her, but her smile is friendly.
“We can continue this discussion later,” Jack tells Victoria. He gives me a nod and closes the door on his way out.
“So,” Victoria says, taking her chair again behind the desk and pointing me to the one Jack vacated, “you’re Bishop’s wife. ”
“Yes. ”
“And you want a job. ”
“Yes. ”
I wait for her to purse her lips or give me a disapproving look, but she grins. “I think that’s great! I’ve never been a big fan of the sit-at-home-and-pop-out-babies route. Especially when you’re only sixteen. ”
“Me neither,” I say, and she laughs. “What about you?” I ask. “How did you end up working here?” It’s unusual for a woman of child-bearing age to work, especially in the courthouse.
“My father used to be a judge,” Victoria says. “I grew up wanting to roam these halls. ”
“Do you have kids?” She probably doesn’t, if she’s working here.
A shadow crosses Victoria’s face and she looks away, out the window overlooking the street. “I never had children,” she says quietly. There is something more than sadness, than disappointment, in her voice. Shame, maybe? Which makes me doubt her earlier easy words about popping out babies.
“Okay,” Victoria says, back to business. “I’m in charge of the judges’ schedules, calendars, dockets, pretty much anything they need to keep both courtrooms running. Plus all the filing and paperwork. There’s always too much work for one person, which is where you’ll come in. ”