Forgiving

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Orangest?”

  “Or should that be orangiest?”

  They’d begun whispering.

  “My mother says when she first met him she told him he looked like a frying pan that had been left out in the rain.”

  She giggled, suppressing the sound behind her fingers, then took a gulp of cold coffee.

  “Oh yuk... this stuff is terrible.”

  “Drink it anyway.”

  She grimaced and followed orders, then shuddered and wiped her mouth with the back of one hand.

  “You’ll live through it,” he said, grinning.

  The room grew quiet. Their eyes met. Hers dropped.

  “I like your hair that way... loose.”

  Her blue eyes lifted, wide and somewhat surprised. Selfconsciously she hitched a wisp of hair back behind one ear.

  “I’ve got awful hair.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Addie’s the one with the pretty hair. You should see it when it’s blond. You never saw anything so shiny or bright.”

  He sat calmly studying her, an elbow on the table, his fingers twined loosely before him, his silence a gentle rebuff for her belittling herself in favor of her sister. Another lull fell and she groped for a topic of conversation.

  “You have a nice family,” she said, no longer whispering, speaking very softly. “I envy you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Again came quiet, She filled it. “The cold air and the coffee helped. I feel much steadier.”

  “Sarah, could I ask you something?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you to Baysinger?”

  “A friend.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes. I told you that before.”

  “The two of you are together a lot.”

  “Yes. We talk easily, and both of us are interested in Addie’s welfare. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’m considering doing something.” He got up from his chair, took her empty cup and deposited it in the empty dishpan beside the water pail. He crossed his arms and ankles and leaned his backside against the dry sink, regarding her from across the room. “I’ve actually been considering it for some time, but I thought it Was only fair to warn you before I did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Kissed you.”

  Her jaw went slack and her eyes forgot how to blink. She couldn’t think of one darned thing to say.

  “Would that be all right?” Noah Campbell asked.

  “I guess so.”

  He boosted off the dry sink and came across the wooden floor, stopping beside her with a shuffle of his boots. Leaning one hand on the back of her chair and one on the tabletop, he bent forward and tipped his head so the brim of his Stetson would miss her head. He kissed her once, quite dryly and briefly on the lips, so dryly and briefly neither of them bothered to close their eyes. He straightened his elbows and their eyes met. “I thought I should ask first,” he said. “Knowing how you felt about me in the past.”

  “Yes. That’s all right. It’s... uh...” She cleared her throat. She was not a woman given to stammering. “How long have you been thinking about it?”

  “Since the day you took the cat to Eve.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well...” He straightened fully and began buttoning his jacket. “It’s late.”

  “Yes. I should get to bed.”

  “And I should get back uptown and make sure the night ends peaceably.”

  He picked up the lantern and waited for her to rise and move before him through the kitchen doorway into the dining room to the foot of the stairs.

  “Good night, Sarah,” he said, without a smile.

  “Good night, Noah.”

  “See if the lantern is on up there.”

  She climbed to the landing and saw that the hall lantern had been left burning on its bracket.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Good. See you in the morning.”

  He went out and she went up and sat on the edge of her bed in somewhat of a daze. What did it mean when a man considered kissing a woman all that time and finally did it with as much thought as if he were taking a test. Or giving one?

  CHAPTER

  12

  In the morning Sarah was relieved to find the marshal did not appear at breakfast. She’d heard him come in near four o’clock and imagined he, as well as several others of the meal’s absentees, was still asleep.

  Sarah seated herself gingerly at the breakfast table and accepted a cup of coffee but declined eggs and toast. Her head buzzed and her neck ached. Food sounded repulsive. Not only had she been imprudent at the punch bowl, she hadn’t slept any more than Noah Campbell. Instead, she’d lain awake thinking about that kiss.

  It hadn’t been particularly romantic, but she supposed Noah Campbell wasn’t a particularly romantic man. Still, for a prosaic kiss, it certainly had lingering power.

  She thought about it a good half dozen times that day—while she and Patrick laid out an extra issue of the Chronicle announcing the arrival of the telegraph and telling about the celebration at the Grand Central; while she ate an enormous dinner at Teddy Ruckner’s and reminisced with Teddy about what a good time last night had been, and declined his invitation to the Bella Union for that evening; while she limped back to the newspaper office on her poor tired feet and tried to keep from nodding off at her desk during the afternoon; while she waited for the marshal to pop into the newspaper office and he didn’t.

  They met at suppertime.

  Sarah had changed to a clean shirtwaist, combed her hair and used a touch of rosewater at her throat. She was dismayed to find Noah acted as if the kiss had never happened. He was friendly, but no friendlier than to the men. They all talked about last night’s party, but his eyes never once passed her any ulterior message, nor did he speak to her any more directly than to the others.

  She supposed she’d failed the test.

  Christmas was approaching. Jack Langrishe came into the Chronicle office one day three weeks before the holiday. He was a dapper man with a dark goatee and mustache, and always wore a square-crowned black silk hat.

  “Good morning, Miss Merritt.” His voice held the rich tenor of distant thunder, and his elocution was flawless.

  “Mr. Langrishe, how nice to see you. You’ve come for the new theater programs. They’re all ready.”

  “Not specifically. I’ve come about Christmas.”

  “Christmas?”

  “I decided to approach you first because you’ve been the most outspoken citizen of Deadwood regarding our lack of a church and a minister.”

  “Have I offended you, Mr. Langrishe?”

  “Not at all. Quite the opposite. I feel as you do, that this town needs both. Since we have neither, and since the holiday is upon us, I propose to offer my theater for a Christmas Eve program and pageant which might stand in lieu of an official church service.”

  Sarah smiled. “What a marvelous idea. How generous of you to offer your facilities once again.”

  “I want to include the children.”

  “Of course.”

  “And as many adults as we can charm into taking part.”

  “I believe we’ll have more luck with the children.” She chuckled.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Still, their mothers are more than eager to see anything organized for their benefit. We might entice some of them onto the stage.”

  “I hope so, and fathers, too. We’ll use the theater troupe, of course, but I’d like to see the other members of this town become an integral part of the production.”

  “How can I help?”

  Jack Langrishe touched a corner of his mustache and inquired, “Can you sing, Miss Merritt?”

  She laughed self-deprecatingly. “Not as well as I can write.”

  “I need someone to organize the children and direct their musical renditions.”

  “I can try.”

  “I knew you’d come through!” He emph
asized with a fist.

  “We’ll need to announce it in the paper.”

  “Yes, that was going to be my next request.”

  “I’ll have Patrick lay out the announcement right away.”

  Jack Langrishe was a magician. He charmed not only Sarah into directing the children’s choir, but Elias Pinkney into carting his thirteen-stop organ down to the theater to join the piano already there, and a blacksmith named Tom Poinsett into constructing eight large triangles out of drill steel. He found a xylophone musician named Ned Judd to practice playing several numbers on the triangles, and talked Mrs. J. N. Robinson, the mother of the only infant in town, into playing the part of the Madonna and allowing her baby to represent baby Jesus. (As luck would have it, the Robinson child was a boy.) From the Langrishe troupe’s supply of costumes came angels’ gowns, shepherds’ crooks, kings’ crowns and more.

  It was Sarah’s idea to use the occasion to appeal for money for the construction of the church/school building, and to incorporate its collection into the pageant. (What better time to ask men to open their purses than when their ears are filled with the sounds of children’s voices, their heads are full of memories of home and their hearts are brimming with holiday charity?) Though the gulch had no frankincense and myrrh, it had more than its share of real gold. They would collect it in a replica of a gold casket which Jack found among his theater props, and the three “kings” would offer it to the infant “Jesus” as part of the pageant itself.

  Word spread that Jack Langrishe and Sarah Merritt had some lavish plans for the Christmas production, and sixteen children showed up to be in the choir. So many adults came that Jack actually had to audition and select from among them.

  Rehearsals were held in the early evenings to allow Jack time to prepare his troupe for their regular nine o’clock performances of the current play, Othello.

  On the evening of the first practice, Sarah excused herself from the supper table early. Noah Campbell glanced up and said nothing. The second evening he said, “Rehearsal again?”

  “Yes,” she replied and hurried away.

  The third evening he stopped by the theater shortly before eight o’clock. By now the building had a wooden roof and two cast-iron stoves. The door squeaked as he entered. He inched it shut behind him, closed the latch soundlessly, removed his hat and stood at the rear to listen. Sarah was up front, her back to the door, directing the small fry of the town as they sang “Oh, Come, Little Children.” She wore a dark green skirt and white shirtwaist with a string tie gathering it into a ruffle on her spine. Her hair was done in a tidy chignon. She stood very straight, directing with tiny movements of her arms, occasionally nodding her head to encourage the children not to lag. Their voices—a mixture of clear and off-key—carried through the room and touched a soft spot in Noah’s heart.

  Oh, come, little children

  Oh, come, one and all

  Draw near to the cradle

  In Bethlehem’s stall

  They sang the verse while Noah’s eyes remained on Sarah’s back. He imagined her mouthing the words, bright-eyed and enthusiastic for the children’s benefit. The verse ended, her arms stilled, and she said, “Very good. Smaller children, stay where you are. Older ones, circle to the outside and get the candles. No whispering now while Mr. Langrishe reads the verse.”

  They all followed orders—for the purpose of rehearsal, small wooden spindles were being used for candles. While these were being distributed, Jack Langrishe read the Christmas passage from the Bible in his resounding voice, and townspeople drifted onto the stage—uncostumed tonight, but clearly playing the parts of Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and wise men. Mrs. Robinson laid an empty rolled-up blanket in a wooden cradle and stood looking down at it. On the opposite side of the cradle stood Craven Lee, equally pious. Three men left a rear row of chairs and moved up the aisle; the last, Dan Turley, placed a small gold box at the foot of the cradle. A chime sounded, slowly, three times (one of the steel triangles), and Sarah raised her hands. As the last reverberation faded, she gave the children the downbeat for “Silent Night.” They sang one verse alone, then she turned as if to direct the audience to join the second verse, singing herself.

  She saw Noah and missed some words.

  He nodded and her cheeks took on a slight flush before she resumed singing. He took a deep breath and joined in.

  Shepherds quake at the siiiight...

  He sang full-out, experiencing an unexpected accord with Sarah Merritt as he did. It was the strangest thing he’d ever done with a woman, but it felt good. Mighty good.

  Christ the saviour is born

  Christ the saviour is born...

  The song trailed into silence and their gazes dovetailed for a moment before Sarah turned to attend the children. Jack Langrishe’s voice returned. Noah remained at the rear of the theater, watching the woman in green and white, jarred by the realization that he was, in all likelihood, falling in love with her. She touched a blond head, bent and whispered an order in a child’s ear. For a moment he imagined the child was his and hers: she was good with the children, he could see that. She was educated and bright and brave and moral. What a mother she’d make!

  What a mother?

  Whoa there, Noah, you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.

  He’d kissed her once, and sung a Christmas song with her and already he was imagining her as the mother of his children? That was Arden’s fancy, always talking about having a wife and a family, not Noah’s! The idea of being so abruptly swayed to that way of thinking brought him a backwash of denial tinged by panic.

  Nevertheless, he waited until the rehearsal ended, following Sarah Merritt with his eyes, dissecting his newfound feelings. She raised both palms in the air, calling for attention. “Children, you sounded like angels from heaven. You may go home now, and the next time we’ll practice with our costumes and the lighted candles.”

  She came down the aisle, retrieving her coat and a small bonnet from a chair near the rear. He smiled and waited for her.

  “Good evening, Marshal.”

  “Hello, Sarah. Here, I’ll help you with that.”

  “You have a very fine voice,” she said, slipping into her coat while he held it for her.

  “So do you.”

  “So if we cannot dance together, at least we can sing,” she said, smiling, closing the button at her throat. He handed her the bonnet, watching as she tied it beneath her chin. How amazing: he had difficulty tearing his gaze away from the curve of her throat and jaw while she tied the ribbons. She finished and began drawing on gloves, suddenly lifting her head and flashing him a full smile that seemed to catch him beneath the ribs. He struggled to recall exactly when she’d begun to change in his eyes, when her tallness had become elegance, her plainness purity and her ordinary face his ideal.

  “I’ve come to walk you home.”

  “All right. But I need to stop by the newspaper office on the way.”

  “Fine.”

  Outside it was cold and windy. He wanted to take her arm but refrained. What had come over him? He’d done tens of things more personal with tens of women in his day, yet he was wary of taking her arm.

  “The children need wings. I’m going to see what I can do with some newsprint and flour paste. Didn’t they sound wonderful?”

  “Angelic. They certainly like you.”

  “I like them, too. I’ve never worked with children before. It’s a surprise how responsive they can be.”

  At the newspaper office she lit a lamp. He waited while she gathered a roll of paper, then helped her tie it with string.

  “I wish I could think of some way to make the wings glitter,” she said.

  “Mica,” he suggested.

  “Mica... why, of course, that’s it!” she exclaimed.

  “A mortar and pestle would break it up fine enough, and if you sprinkled it on while the flour paste was wet it should stick.”

  “What a wonderful idea!”

 
; “If you want I’ll go out and find you some.”

  “Would you really?”

  “Sure. I won’t have time tomorrow, but I’ll do it the next day. I’ll even break it up for you.”

  “Oh Noah, thank you.” Her blue eyes sparkled with genuine gratitude.

  He smiled and nodded, pleased with himself and with the glow created by her approval.

  “Ready?” he asked, picking up the roll of paper and reaching toward the lantern.

  “Ready.”

  He lowered the wick and followed her to the door.

  As she opened it, he said, “Sarah, wait a minute.”

  She paused and turned, pulling on her gloves. “What is it?”

  With his free hand he pressed the door closed, sealing them inside the dark, quiet newspaper office.

  “Just this...” he said, tipping his head and moving toward her. His hat brim bumped her bonnet. They chuckled while he backed off and removed his Stetson. “Could I try that again?”

  She answered quietly, “Please do.”

  His second aim was perfect, and their mouths joined lightly, remained so while the pendulum clock ticked away ten... fifteen... twenty unhurried seconds. With his hat in one hand and the roll of newsprint in the other, he had no means of holding her. She might easily have slipped away after a brief touch of their lips, but remained near, tilting her face in compliance. In the dark, their sense of touch became magnified. Soft became softer. Warm became warmer. His breath fanned her cheek, hers fanned his. They waited, in counterpoint, to see what the other would do. He opened his lips and touched her with his tongue and she met it with her own. They sampled each other, still somewhat surprised, with their mouths slightly open. The kiss ended as cobwebs break, with a reluctant drifting apart.

  The clock ticked several times before Noah spoke.

  “Something happened tonight when I was singing with you.”

  “It was such a surprise when you did it.”

  “It was a surprise to me, too. I’ve done a lot of things with women, but that was the first time I ever sang with one. Did you know you blushed when you turned around and saw me standing there?”