"Why today?" he asked, disbelievingly.
"Because I wasn't sure I could go on without it."
"You too, Fannie?"
She nodded, bumping his chin. "You smell of life and vitality."
"I smell worse than that. I've been cleaning stalls."
"Don't! Don't pull away! I'm not through yet."
He closed his eyes and smiled against her hair, feeling it catch in his beard, steeping himself in her unexpected nearness, pulling in deep drafts of her herbal scent. He leaned back to watch her eyes while his hands skimmed her sides, caught her waist—like notches in a fiddle, that waist, dainty and curved. He girded her ribs, rode his thumbs in the depression just below them, wanting to touch her breasts but refraining, because these simply acknowledgments were heaven in themselves. How long had it been since he'd caressed a woman this way? He'd lost track of the years. It might have been as long ago as the last time he'd held Fannie. Josie had always resisted open petting. Whatever sexual—even affectionate—contact they'd shared had happened in the dark of night, discreetly, according to her code of morals. He drew Fannie close once again. Ah, how good, how natural it felt to lay hands on a woman in broad daylight, to drop his face to her hair and draw her hips flush to his. He spread his hands and ran them up till his thumbs touched her armpits, fingers splaying behind, as if she were a nut he might crack open and savor. She shuddered palpably and made an enraptured sound against his throat. When he pushed back to see her face a strand of her pale melon-colored hair caught on his shirt button, tethering them together. Their gazes met, filled with love so certain, so ingrained, it could no longer be denied.
"Forgive me, Fannie, but I must," Edwin uttered softly, and claimed her lips and breasts at once, urging her near with his huge, work-stained hands wrapped around those soft mounds, lowering his head to taste her waiting mouth. They were not children as they'd been when he'd first touched and kissed her. What they did, they did with full acknowledgment of its import and significance. They kissed as two who had paid long and hard for the right, tongue upon tongue, mouths open and pliant, while he reshaped her breasts from below and stroked their tips with his thumbs. He backed her against the rough board wall, sending the pitchfork clattering to the floor as he leaned against her, fully aroused and unwilling to hide it. She was all he remembered, sensuous and passionate and inventive with her mouth. She drew upon his tongue and lips, tasting him shallow and deep with deft swirls of her agile tongue, then with eager lips. The kiss didn't end, it pacified, scattered to other areas—necks, shoulders, throats, ears.
"Fannie, I never forgot … never." His words were longing whispers.
"Neither did I."
"We should have been together all these years."
"In my heart we were."
"Oh Fannie, Fannie, my dear, sweet Fan—" Her mouth severed the word, anxious and open beneath his. They kissed with the urgency of time lost—sweet, agitated kisses punctuated by wordless sounds the ardent pressure of their bodies, as if by holding hard enough they might wipe out the long and lapse they'd suffered.
When they paused, panting, he told her, "I'd forgotten how it feels. Do you know how long it's been since I've done anything like this?"
"Shh … nothing about her, not ever. This is dishonorable enough."
He gripped her head, held it as a priest holds a chalice, and drank her—Fannie of the bright hair and insatiable spirit and crushed-grass scent. He cherished her—Fannie of the memories and warmth and dew-kissed days of youth. How had he sustained through all these years without her? Why had he ever tried?
He lifted his head and delved into her eyes. "The dishonor was mine in giving you up. What a fool I was."
"You did what you thought you must do."
His thumbs stroked her cheeks. "I love you, Fannie. I've always loved you."
"And I love you, Edwin. I never stopped either."
"You knew it when I married Josie, didn't you? You knew I loved you."
"Of course I did, just as you knew what I felt."
"Why didn't you try to stop me?"
"Would it have done any good?"
"I don't know." His eyes were pained, his voice regretful. "I don't know."
"Your parents exerted very strong wills. So did hers."
"Isn't it strange then, that when I told them Josie and I were leaving Massachusetts they put up no argument? Almost as if they recognized our leaving as a penance they had to pay for manipulating our lives. I knew it was the only way my marriage would survive—I couldn't live near you and not have you. I'd have broken my vows within the year, I'm sure. My precious Fannie…" He took her in his arms again—a tender repossession. "I love you so much. Will you come up to the loft with me and let me make love to you?"
"No, Edwin." In typical Fannie fashion, she remained content in his arms, even while refusing.
"Haven't we wasted enough of our lives?" Holding her head, he showered her face with kisses, leaving her skin damp. "When we were seventeen we should have damned the consequences and become lovers like we wanted to. Those consequences couldn't have been any worse than the ones we paid. Please, Fannie … let's not prolong the mistake."
She caught his hands and hauled them down, folded them between her own beneath her chin. Her eyelids closed and trembled while emotions tumbled through her aroused body.
"Enough, Edwin. We must stop. You're a married man."
"Married to the wrong woman."
"But married just the same. And I would never do that to Joey. I love her, too."
"Then why did you come here?" he demanded in near-anger.
She would not be harassed by his understandable frustration. Calmly she flattened his hand upon her thrusting heart. "Feel what you've done to me. My blood is coursing. Inside I'm quivering, and I feel very much alive, with a reason to go on. I took this much of you because I felt Joey would have approved. For now it's enough." She refolded his hands between her own, kissed the tips of his longest fingers, and sought his eyes. "I am restored and so are you. But we would suffer within ourselves if we betrayed Joey. You know that as well as I, Edwin. Now I must go back to the house."
He searched her eyes, feeling his momentary irritation fade. "Fannie, when will we—"
"Silence," she ordered softly, covering his lips with a finger. She brushed the width of his mouth lovingly, letting her eyes follow the path of her fingertip. "We are human, Edwin. What we feel for one another cannot always be held in abeyance. Sometimes, when we are bleak and in need, we may find ourselves seeking one another, as I sought you today. But we will not speak of eventualities, nor will we consign ourselves to deceitful tête-à-têtes. It would only compound our guilt." Her voice lowered to whisper, "Now I must go. Please let me."
She backed away, reaching out, sliding her hands down his wrists, knuckles, and finally from his fingertips.
"I think of you in bed at night, though," she whispered as she slipped away.
"Fannie…“
She turned to her bicycle and mounted while she still possessed a thimbleful of honor.
* * *
During those days while Josephine suffered her final decline, Tom Jeffcoat worked hard to complete the interior of his house. On a night in mid-autumn, after fifteen hours of nonstop work, he dropped his plastering hawk and trowel, braced his spine with two fists, and bowed backwards. Above his head hung a hissing coal-oil lantern that sent shadows arching across his half-plastered kitchen wall. He'd wanted to get the room done tonight—usually he worked till ten o'clock—but his back ached and the shakedown at the stable sounded irresistible.
He scanned the room, its windows set, its floor covered with canvas drop cloths, wondering what woman might reign over it some day. A disconcerting picture of Emily Walcott appeared, standing where the range would be. Ha. Emily Walcott probably didn't know which end of a spoon to stir with. Hadn't Charles confided that she wasn't very good around the kitchen? In spite of the fact, her image remained while Tom stared, glassy-eyed with fatigue.<
br />
Go home, Jeffcoat, before you drop off your feet.
He squatted to scrape the hawk clean, so tired it took an effort to push himself back up. Yawning, he shrugged into a faded flannel jacket, picked up the bucket of dirty tools, and extinguished the lantern. Indigo shadows fell across the room as he paused a moment to reconsider.
It'll probably be Tarsy Fields you'll share this house with. She's about the best this town has to offer.
Outside, a near-full harvest moon poured milky light over the streets, paling rooftops and promising frost by morning. He glanced at the Big Horns. Already their tips were covered with snow at the higher altitudes, glowing almost purple in the moonlight. Turning his collar up, he headed in the opposite direction, toward Grinnell Street. The town was already bundling up for winter. He passed gardens where housewives had cleared all but an occasional pumpkin or a row of carrots left to sweeten in the first frosts. Foundations were ballasted with straw, whose scent mingled with that of freshly rooted soil spiced by old tomato vines and vestiges of gardeners' fires, which marked the end of the harvest season. He wondered what kind of a gardener Tarsy would make. Out here, where tinned goods came by oxcart and cost a modest fortune, housewives had no choice but putting by foods for the winter. Somehow he couldn't imagine her on her knees, weeding. Canning? The picture seemed ludicrous. Bearing children? Not the satin-and-curls Tarsy.
How about Emily Walcott?
The thought of Emily Walcott rattled him, but she persisted in his thoughts almost daily, probably because Charles talked about her so much. Perhaps she disliked domestics, but he could easily feature her bearing children. A woman who could go through anything as unpleasant as the scene at Jagush's could certainly go through childbirth intrepidly.
So Charles was lucky on that score. So what?
Shake her off, Jeffcoat.
Shake her off? She never was on!
Oh no?
She's engaged to Charles.
Tell that to your heart the next time it quakes when she walks into a room.
So, my heart quakes a little, so what?
You'd like to marry her yourself.
The tomboy?
Why have you been picturing her in your kitchen, and having babies? And don't delude yourself that it's Charles Bliss's babies you picture her having.
He was exhausted, that's why his mind kept wandering off on these improbable tangents. Whatever he thought he felt for Emily Walcott would pass. It had to, because there was no other solution. He ambled along, loose-jointed from weariness, the pail thumping his knee, sending out a muffled chime.
He turned onto Grinnell Street, came abreast of Edwin's livery stable … and halted abruptly.
Why was a light burning in Edwin's place at this time of night? Edwin closed up at six o'clock every night—the same as he did—and never came back after dark. And why was the light so faint, as if filtering to the office window from the main body of the barn?
Horse thieves?
Jeffcoat's hair prickled. He slipped alongside the building, flattened his shoulders against the wall, and silently set down his pail. The rolling door stood open no wider than a man's chest. He edged toward it, listening. Silence. Not even a snuffling horse, so no stranger intruded along the stalls. Holding his breath, he peered around the edge of the door into the murky depths of the building. The main barn was black. The light came from the office itself, but so pale it scarcely lit the door rim. If it were Edwin inside, he'd have the wick up. Did Edwin leave his cash here at night, somewhere among the clutter in that ancient desk?
Jeffcoat sucked in his breath and wedged through the door. A sound came from the office—jerky, nasal breathing, followed by the shuffle of paper. He tiptoed along the wall, feeling with his hands, until they touched something smooth and wooden: a pitchfork handle. Silently he slid his hands down to identify the cold, deadly tines. Gripping the fork, warrior fashion, he tiptoed to one side of the office door, tensed to spring.
"Edwin, is that you?" he called.
The breathing and shuffling stopped.
"Who's in there!" he demanded.
Nobody answered.
His chest constricted and his scalp tingled, but he gripped the pitchfork and sprang into the room like a Zambian warrior, roaring, "Raaaahhh!"
The only person in the office was Emily Walcott.
She flattened herself against the back of the desk chair, white-faced and terrified, while he landed with the weapon leveled, knees cocked.
"Emily!" he exclaimed, dropping his arm. "What are you doing here?" But he could see what she was doing here: crying … in private. Her eyes were swollen and tears continued rolling down her face, even as she gaped in shock.
"What are you doing here?"
"I thought you were a horse thief, or somebody rifling the desk for money, Edwin never comes back after six." He set the pitchfork against the wall and turned back to her, distressed at the tears trailing down her wet cheeks. How dismal she looked, in a pumpkin-colored dress with dark blotches dotting her bodice, giving evidence that she'd been weeping for some time. She swiveled to face the pigeonholes, covertly scraping a knuckle beneath each eye.
"Well, it's just me, so you can go," she informed him through a plugged nose.
"You're crying."
"Not for long. I'm all right. You can go, I said."
Her tears were a surprise. He hadn't taken her for a woman easily unstrung, or himself for the kind who'd be rattled by it. But his heart was quaking.
He kept his tone intentionally humoring. "It's too late now, I already caught you at it. So you might as well talk."
She shook her head stubbornly, but dropped her mouth against a handkerchief while her shoulders shook. He stared at her dress, buttoned up the back, drawn tight across her shoulder blades, at the prim white collar and the disheveled black hairs on her nape. He fought the inclination to spin the chair around and pull her into his arms, hold her fast, and let her cry against him. Instead he asked, "Do you want me to go get Charles?"
She shook her head vehemently but continued sobbing into the hanky, her elbows splayed on the desktop.
He stood, disarmed, wondering what to do while she doubled forward, burying her face in an arm, sobbing so hard her ribs lifted. He felt his own chest tighten and a lump form in his throat. What should he do? Mercy, what should he do? He watched until he felt like bawling himself, then dropped to a squat, swinging her chair to face him. "Hey," he urged gently, "turn around here." Her skirt brushed his knees but she refused to lift her face from the hanky, abashed at breaking down before him. "You can talk to me, you know."
She shook her head fervidly, releasing a series of muffled sobs. "Just g—go away. I don't w—want you to see me like this."
"Emily, what is it? Something with Charles?"
She shook her head till a hairpin fell, bouncing off his knee to the floor.
He picked it up and folded it tightly into his palm while studying the part in her hair, only inches from his nose. "Me? Did I do something again?"
Another passionate shake.
"Your little brother? Tarsy? Your father? What?"
"It's my mother." The words, distorted by the handkerchief and her plugged nose, sounded like by buther. Her devastated eyes appeared above the limp white cotton, which she pressed against her nose. "Oh Tom"—Tob, he heard—"it's so hard to watch her die."
A bolt of emotion slammed through him at her pitiful plea and her unconscious and distorted use of his name. It took a superhuman effort to hunker before her and not reach, not touch.
"She's worse?"
Emily nodded, dropping her gaze while gustily blowing her nose. When she finally rested her hands in her lap, her nose was red and raw. "I took care of her today while Fannie went off b—by herself for a wh—while," she explained choppily, the words broken by residual sobs. "Poor F—Fannie, she's with her all day long. I guess I never r—realized before what a terrible task we gave her, seeing after Mother during these last w
eeks. But today Fannie asked me if I could—could—" Emily paused, battling a fresh onslaught of emotion. "Could find something to help her bedsores, and I—" Trying her utmost to complete her recital without another breakdown, Emily lifted brimming eyes to the top of the doorway. "I saw … them."
She blinked: her eyes remained shut while she pulled in an immense breath, then opened them once more and struggled on. "Fannie gives Mother her baths and changes her clothes and her bedding. I hadn't realized how b—bad her bedsores were till today. And she's so … s—skinny … there's n—nothing left of her. She c—can't even turn over by herself. P—Papa has to do it for her. But wherever he touches her it leaves a bl—black-and-blue mark." Her tears built again, in spite of her valiant effort to contain them.
On his knees before her, Tom watched helplessly as she again wept brokenly into her hands, her entire frame shaking. Damn you, Charles, where are you? She needs you! His heart swelled while he watched, torn and miserable. Aw, tomboy, don’t cry … don't cry.
But she did, torturously, trying to hold the sound within, only to have it escape her throat as a faint, pitiful mewling. He felt the pressure in his own throat and knew he must either touch her or shatter.
"Emily, hush, now … here…" Still kneeling, he drew her to him, and she came limply, sliding off the chair without resistance. He folded her tenderly in his arms and held her, kneeling on the bumpy concrete floor of the cluttered little office. She wept on jerkily, limp against him, her arms resting loosely up his back while her sobs beat against his chest.
"Oh, Toooom…" she wailed dismally.
He cupped her head and drew her face hard against his throat, while her tears seeped through his shirtfront and wet his skin. She wept to near-exhaustion, then rested weakly against him.
He dropped his cheek against her hair, wishing he were wise and clever with words and could voice the consolation he felt in his heart. Instead he could only cradle her and offer silence.
In time her breathing evened and she managed to offer chokily, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," he chided gently. "If you didn't love her you wouldn't feel so grieved."
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