Marie-Ange spent New Year's eve with Billy too, and she and his brothers and sisters laughed and danced and sang and teased each other until long after midnight. One of his sisters got a little drunk on white wine and asked Marie-Ange when she was finally going to marry Billy. She said that Marie-Ange had ruined him for everyone else anyway, and what was he going to do with all that French he'd learned? Unless he married her, it was useless. And something about the way she said it, though all in good fun and well meant, made Marie-Ange feel guilty.
“Don't be silly,” Billy said, later that night, when she said something to him about it. They were both sober, and sitting on the porch, talking, after everyone else had gone to bed. It was freezing, but they were wrapped up and warm, as they looked up at a starry sky and chatted. “My sister doesn't know what she's talking about. You haven't ‘ruined’ me, Marie-Ange, you've helped me. Besides, our cows love it when I speak French to them. I was going to write a paper about it for school, I swear they produce more milk if I speak French to them when I milk them.” He was smiling at her, and teasing, and they were holding hands as they did sometimes. There was always something warm and comforting about it, although they both insisted it meant nothing.
“You have to marry someone eventually,” Marie-Ange said practically, but there was a tinge of sadness in her voice as she said it. They both knew that one day their lives would move on, but neither of them was ready for that yet.
“Maybe I'll never marry,” Billy said simply. “I'm not sure I want to.” She knew he wanted to marry her, they both knew that, but if he couldn't, he wasn't willing to settle for less than he shared with her. Their friendship was too honest and too deep to make either of them want to settle for less from other partners. And Marie-Ange wanted no one at all at the moment. She liked the life she led, going to school, and sharing all her thoughts and dreams and secrets with Billy. But she was still determined never to confuse or spoil their friendship with romance.
“Don't you want to have children?” Marie-Ange asked, surprised by what he'd said, although she understood the reason for it.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know. I'm going to have a lot of nieces and nephews. They'll drive me crazy enough, maybe I don't need kids of my own.” He looked at her quietly as he said it. All he really wanted was to be with her, and he didn't like the thought of anyone interfering with that. “You'll have kids one day. I'm sure of that. You'll be a wonderful mother.”
“I can't even imagine it,” she said honestly. She could barely even remember what it was like living in a real family, as she had when her parents and brother were alive. Her only taste of it was when she visited Billy. She loved being there with him, and sharing the love and laughter in his family, but it was no longer part of her life now. In many ways, she felt like a very solitary person.
They talked late into the night, and she spent the night at his house, sharing a bedroom with two of his sisters. And she went back to visit her aunt at the hospital again the next morning. Her recovery was long and slow. And it was nearly a month before she left the hospital, and another two months before she left her bedroom. She didn't seem quite as daunting anymore. Her frailty was growing more visible, and even her meanness seemed to have less force behind it. In a way, she seemed to be shrinking. Marie-Ange did what she had to for her, but the two rarely spoke, and the things Marie-Ange did were more mechanical than driven by any feeling for her.
Carole turned eighty at the beginning of summer, shortly before Marie-Ange turned twenty-one, and it was a major blow to her when her foreman Tom announced that he was retiring and moving to Arizona to be near his wife's parents. His wife had been commuting to see them and care for them all year, and it had just gotten too hard for her.
“Old people like that should be put in a home,” Carole growled at Marie-Ange after Tom had broken the news to her. She was obviously upset, although she had hardly said anything to him, and told Marie-Ange that foremen were a dime a dozen. He had recommended his nephew to her for the job, but Marie-Ange knew that Carole didn't like him. And Marie-Ange was sorry to see Tom go. He had always been kind to her, and she liked him.
Marie-Ange worked full time again that summer to make money to pay for her expenses at school, and she nonetheless managed to spend a fair amount of time with Billy, who had yet another new girlfriend. And this time, Marie-Ange thought it might turn serious if he let it. She was sweet and devoted to him, and very pretty. She had been one grade earlier than they in school, and their families had known each other for years. They could have a very nice life together. And at twenty-two, Marie-Ange thought he was ready. He had been out of high school for three years, finished his extension classes the year before, and worked hard on his father's farm. And like many boys who had worked on farms since his early teens, with all its responsibilities and hardships, he had matured early.
It was a sweltering hot day, and Marie-Ange was just pulling out of the driveway in her beloved Chevy to visit him, when she saw a strange car arrive, driven by an older man in a cowboy hat and a business suit, and she wondered if he was a candidate for the job of foreman. She didn't think about it much, and was surprised to find him still there when she returned from Billy's farm three hours later. It never dawned on her that the man had come to see her, but he was just coming out of the kitchen with her great-aunt, when she got out of the car, with some groceries she had bought to make their dinner. And he looked at her expectantly, as Aunt Carole nodded at her.
Carole introduced the man to her, but his name meant nothing to Marie-Ange. It was Andrew McDermott, and he had driven all the way from Des Moines to see them. He smiled when Marie-Ange asked innocently if he had come to talk to Carole about becoming foreman.
“No, I came to see you,” he said pleasantly. “I had some business to discuss with your aunt. Perhaps we could sit down for a little while,” but Marie-Ange knew she had to get dinner on the table, and wondered why he wanted to sit down with her.
“Is something wrong?” Marie-Ange asked her aunt, and the old woman frowned and shook her head. She disapproved of almost everything the man had said, but what he had told her hadn't surprised her. She had known most of it from the beginning.
“No, nothing's wrong,” the visitor said pleasantly. “I've come to see you about a trust your father left you. Your aunt and I spoke of it some time ago, and the trust's investments have done well over the years. But now that you have reached your majority, I need to inform you of it.” She had no idea what he was talking about, and she could see that Aunt Carole looked anything but pleased. She wondered if her father had done something wrong, or cost her some money. She had no understanding of what he was saying. And she thought that trust was something that happened between two people, like her and Billy. “Can we sit down while I explain it to you?” They were still standing on the porch, and Marie-Ange left them for a minute to set the groceries down on the kitchen table.
“I won't be long,” she promised Aunt Carole, as the wheelchair disappeared into the house. She had already heard it, and had no interest in staying with them.
“Miss Hawkins,” Andy McDermott began, “has your aunt explained everything to you about what your father left you?”
Marie-Ange shook her head, looking puzzled. “No, I didn't think he had left anything. I always thought he had left debts,” she said simply, without artifice or pretension.
“On the contrary,” he looked surprised that she knew nothing about it, “he left an extremely successful business that was sold some months after he died. One of his partners bought him out, at a fair price, and all the real estate he had was unencumbered. He had some savings, and of course a few debts, but nothing of any magnitude. He left a will, in favor of you and your brother, but on your brother's death, his share passed to you.” It was the first she had heard of any of it, and she was surprised by what he was saying to her. “You are to inherit a third of what your father left when you turn twenty-one, as you just did, which is why I'm here. And the trust will maintain the rest, and disburse the second third to you at twenty-five, and the balance of it when you turn thirty. He left you a very handsome amount,” he said solemnly, as he looked at Marie-Ange, and realized that she was completely unspoiled and was expecting nothing. Perhaps her aunt had been right not to tell her, he wondered.