Miss Viola clapped her hands in delight. “Our Lucy has a sweetheart!”
“I only just met him yesterday afternoon.” Lucy tried to quell the rising color in her cheeks. “He’s certainly not my sweetheart.”
“Not yet, perhaps,” Miss Viola said with a satisfied smirk. “Soon, though.”
Miss Maude swooped in with a fresh pot of coffee, and Miss Viola looped her into the conversation about Lucy’s roses, which was not difficult. Lucy listened as she ate her breakfast. She wasn’t going to say one more word. Not one word.
Listening. Watching. Waiting. Such familiar roles for Lucy. So often she felt like a supporting character waiting offstage. Waiting for what? She didn’t really know. She was glad for Cora and her endless tasks for Lucy. Even—and it shocked her to admit so—those arduous trips up into the hills on Jenny. Cora made Lucy feel useful. Purposeful. Being useful was an idea that kept having more and more appeal to Lucy. Maybe, just maybe . . . it was the answer to that clawing emptiness in her life.
Sipping her coffee, listening to the elderly ladies chatter and bicker over her roses, she realized that maybe she had come to Morehead to stop living a life of just waiting, waiting, waiting.
She fingered the card sent by Andrew Spencer. She smiled. No more waiting. She was starting fresh. Act one, scene one.
FINLEY JAMES WAS ON HIS WAY TO TOWN, thinking of ways he could cross paths with Miss Lucy without actin’ like a stupid lovesick puppy. Whenever he caught sight of her, his heart started poundin’ and his palms got all sweaty-like and his stomach flipped and flopped so much, he was certain he would throw up right in front of her. He’d never felt this way about a girl before. She was different from any girl he’d ever knowed. She asked him all kinds of questions and listened for his answers. She had a way of making a man feel smart, plus she was pretty and smelled like a spring flower. On top of all them fine qualities, she was fancy. Heck, it turned out he loved fancy.
Fin wondered if Miss Lucy thought about him as much as he thought about her. He thought not, and it worried him. Jest yesterday, he saw Miss Lucy talking with that Spencer fellow from the lumber company. Laughin’ and smilin’ with him, and it gave him a case of collywobbles.
Sheila slowed as she was nearing Little Brushy School, thinking that’s where they were headed, and they sure as heck weren’t. Miss Norah was ailing again, which suited Fin fine. When he saw Angie Cooper at the open schoolhouse door, yoo-hooing and waving to him, he gave Sheila a light kick in the side to giddy up. “I cain’t stop.”
“Shore you can,” she said, arms on her hips jest like Miss Cora. “You jest hold up. I need a little holp in here.”
Disgusted, he pulled back on Sheila’s reins and turned her toward the schoolhouse. “What?” It came out like a bark.
“I cain’t get no windows to open. They’re stuck shut. Whoever did the painting in here didn’t think about windows needin’ to open.”
That would’ve been him, which she knew full well. He’d done the painting for the new school after the old one burned down last summer. Angie enjoyed tweaking him every chance she could. Well, he could dish it out too. “Then jest prop the door open with one of them books.”
She gasped, like he knew she would. She was crazy for books and would consider it a sin to use one as a doorstop. It’d be like standin’ barefoot on a Bible.
“It’s hot in there. I need an open window to cross-ventilate.” She said it very distinctly.
He scowled, instantly irritated whenever she tossed them big words at him. “Why do ya have to be hanging out in a schoolhouse when there ain’t no school? Something’s wrong with you.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with me. I want an education. The books are kept in the schoolhouse so that’s where I’m gonna be.”
He stomped past her to head into the schoolhouse. “You don’t need no more book learning.”
“Yes I do. And so do you. You’re missing days upon days of book learning.” She hurried to catch up with him, like a little dog nipping at his heels. “I could holp you git caught up.”
“Caught up on what?”
“On learnin’. On readin’ and writin’ and sums. You’re smart, Fin. You could be sailin’ through them exams, same as me, if you’d only give learnin’ the time you give workin’.”
“Don’t need no exams. What I do need is work. My maw needs the money.”
“If you learned to read and write better, you could make lots more money. Miss Cora’s always tellin’ us to read newspapers and keep informed of the world. Of events in the United States and the whole wide world.”
“What . . . ,” he said, jerking the stuck window open, “. . . for?”
“Because it’s important.”
He jerked another window open, then turned to face her, frustrated and annoyed. “Yeah? How so? Why do I need to be like you? Puttin’ my beak in peoples’ business?” He watched her happy face dissolve into something he couldn’t quite define. In a second, however, it changed into something he could define very well. He’d made her mad.
“Because . . .” Her face was turning red and he knew she was riled. “Because if you could read, you wouldn’t have gotten cheated by the fine print in them loblolly contracts. You could’ve protected your maw and your land and your creek, instead of having to do odd jobs to make up for whatcha lost.” Her voice dropped low, became gentle. “If you could read, you wouldn’t be such an easy mark for scoundrels, Finley James. You ought not to be. You’re too smart for that.”
Furious, he stared at her, then brushed past her to leave.
BY NOON, Lucy’s bold resolve had weakened. By half past noon, it had fizzled out. Those terrible self-doubts had returned in full force, and she decided to decline Andrew Spencer’s invitation to lunch. Assuming he might show up at all, which was looking increasingly doubtful. Twelve o’clock had come and gone, with no sign of him.
Cora had ridden up in the hills to have a talk with the elusive Miss Norah, whom Lucy had yet to meet and wasn’t even sure she wanted to—not after seeing the reading material she’d given to Angie Cooper. Even Cora was horrified when Lucy told her about those cheap dime-store novels, and she didn’t shock easily. Cora said she would take care of it, and she was doing just that.
The more time Lucy spent around her second cousin, the greater her admiration grew for her. Cora had dozens of schoolhouses to tend to in the hills, ones just like Little Brushy, each of which had dozens upon dozens of pupils, yet her energy seemed to never flag. She spent at least one day per week visiting different schools, checking in with the teachers, providing guidance and direction. Or, as Finley James would put it, chasing down children and driving them back to the schoolhouse like a shepherd with its sheep.
As the clock ticked to half past twelve, then past one, Lucy sat at Cora’s big desk, tackling a stack of letters that needed answering. She had just finished one letter when Andrew Spencer bounded through the office door, his face flushed from running.
“Hello there, Lucy Wilson. Why, aren’t you as pretty as a picture.”
“Thank you.” She felt herself flush, partly from the compliment, partly from feeling annoyed by his tardiness.
Andrew sat on the corner of Cora’s desk and leaned in, mischief in his eyes. “Did you get my roses?”
“I did. They’re quite lovely.” Mercy! But he was a fine specimen of a man.
“What do you say to a picnic lunch?”
She hesitated, glancing down at the paperwork on the desk.
After a beat or two of silence, he added, “It won’t take all afternoon. Just a picnic. I promise.” He made a crossing sign over his heart with his hand.
She did love picnics. Still, she hesitated. “In Lexington, chaperones are required.”
He grinned. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this isn’t Lexington.”
So true. Social mores didn’t seem to hold much weight here. “I suppose . . . it would be fine,” she said, trying very hard not to be captivated by his irrepr
essible charm.
He hopped off the desk and bowed from the waist with a flourish, waiting until she passed by him, then followed her through the door. They took a path through town she’d not taken before, downstream instead of upstream, following a narrow dirt road until they came to an apple orchard. The trees were all in bloom, flowering in delicate shades of white and pastel pink. She could hear the buzz of countless bees, hovering overhead around the blossoms. Andrew pointed to a particularly beautiful tree; underneath sat a basket on top of a worn quilt. So that’s why he was late! He must have come here earlier to prepare everything. She was touched.
She followed his lead and sat down on the quilt, knees folded under her like she’d been taught in finishing school. She lifted her head to look up at the cover of blossoms. “Oh Andrew, this is a beautiful place!”
“Please. Call me Andy. I’m glad you’ve come to Morehead.” He handed her a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Real white bread, not corn bread. Slices of meat inside. Lettuce and tomatoes! Lucy hadn’t had either since leaving Lexington. She inhaled the orchard air. It was distinctive—soft, sweetly perfumed.
One delightful aspect of Andy she was discovering was that he was easy to be with, easy to talk to, and—unlike the mountain people—volunteered much about himself. Where he’d been raised—Tennessee. His family—two sisters, one older, one younger. “I started in the timber as a teen, then worked my way up to foreman. That’s when I met your father.” Apparently, Lucy’s father had heard of Andy’s diligence and offered him a job as sales agent. “It’s been over a year now,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Valley View Lumber is back on top. I hope to get out of this one-horse town soon and get transferred to company headquarters.”
“Lexington?”
He nodded. “That’s the plan.”
Swallowing the last bite of sandwich, she said, “So when do you expect the creek on Barbara Jean Boling’s land—”
Andy gave her a look of mock horror. “No business talk now! It’ll give us indigestion.” He leaned toward her. “On Sunday morning, I’m going to take you to Limestone Knob. Highest point in Rowan County.”
“I . . . can’t. I plan to attend church.” When he looked disappointed, she added, “You could come. If you’d like to. Brother Wyatt invited me to come.”
He shook his head firmly. “Had my fill of those as a boy.” He stretched out his long legs, one ankle over the other. “Limestone Knob will have to wait for another time, then.” He took a deep breath. “Besides, can you imagine a more romantic setting than this one?”
Frankly, she couldn’t. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. He was perfect.
LATER THAT NIGHT, as Fin lay in bed staring up at the roof rafters, he thought about what a terrible day he’d had. Arthur Cooper didn’t need his help at the livery, and he couldn’t scrounge up any other odd jobs. The only glimpse he caught of Miss Lucy was watchin’ her disappear down the road with Andrew Spencer.
And then his thoughts bounced to Angie Cooper and her big ol’ mouth. Mostly, he wondered if she could be right. If’n he had more schooling, could he have better protected his maw? Could he make more money? Would it improve his chances to court Miss Lucy?
Heck. What did Angie know about real life, anyhow? He hated school. He hated reading and writing and ciphering numbers. Hated how it made him feel, like he was dumb.
Eventually, he drifted off; when he woke, his head ached and he was in a foul mood. Then his spirits brightened. He recalled that he’d overheard Miss Cora tell Arthur Cooper she needed her horse and Miss Lucy’s pony saddled and ready to go early Sunday morning. Fin grinned, all cheered up. That meant they’d be goin’ to the brush arbor. Plenty of fried chicken and plenty of time with Miss Lucy.
Nine
LUCY HAD BEEN WAFFLING on attending the brush arbor until Cora insisted on it, and then there was no chance of backing out. Early Sunday morning, Cora’s horse led the way up the trail, with Lucy and Jenny, as usual, struggling to keep up. Cora kept up a steady stream of conversation as they rode, using the time to “talk shop,” as she phrased it.
“Whenever I get the chance to hear Wyatt sing, I jump at it,” Cora said. “I like hearing from the circuit riders too.”
“Father is quite critical of itinerant preachers.”
Cora slowed her horse, waiting for Lucy to catch up. “That’s because they’re Baptists or Methodists, and your father, true to his Scottish roots, thinks being Presbyterian is the only approved means to get to heaven.”
“Why aren’t there any Presbyterian circuit riders?”
For this, Cora pulled her horse to a stop. “The Presbyterians didn’t have enough educated preachers to send to the unchurched, but the Baptists and Methodists did. That’s why they’re the most prevalent churches in Appalachia.” She looked up at the blue sky, peeking through the treetops. “When I was a child, I used to love attending camp meetings under the sky. They were filled with white and black and red faces, and so many souls were converted.” She dropped her chin, eyes laughing. “People did all kinds of things to show they had the Holy Ghost in them. Once, during a particularly rambunctious revival meeting, a man climbed a tree and barked like a dog.” She laughed. “True story. Your father witnessed it too. Ask if he remembers.”
Lucy would rather not. “Was the man inebriated?”
“Not with moonshine. At least, not during the meetings.” She gave her horse a little kick to start moving up the trail again, but she shifted slightly in the saddle to continue the conversation. “As soon as the meetings ended, someone would always bring a few jugs along and start passing them around in the shadows. We knew when it happened, because the menfolk would get happier by the minute.” Cora turned to face forward again. “Oh, Lucy, it gives me great pleasure to ride into the hills on a beautiful Sunday in spring and see the tent meeting tradition live on. So much easier to worship the Almighty up here than in town where I’m often the recipient of a wagging finger.”
Lucy wasn’t sure how to phrase her next question, but she didn’t need to. Cora seemed to read her thoughts. She held up two fingers in the air. “Two reasons. For one, I’m divorced. Thrice. And I have a career that traditionally belongs to men.” She stopped her horse and turned around again in her saddle. “Lucy, you’re going to discover, if you haven’t already, that there are some who oppose me in Rowan County. They think I’m a bad influence on womenfolk.”
“But you won the election to become superintendent.” Won by a large margin!
“So I did.” She grinned, then faced forward. “But each time I introduce something new or progressive, I know I’m in for a battle.” She shrugged. “I have found in life that there are some things that are worth the fight.”
Cora was quiet after that.
Not much later, they arrived at the site of the brush arbor, and it was quite a sight to behold. A large lean-to structure made up of tree limbs, tightly tied together with twine. The brush roof protected the very rustic pews: chunks of tree logs topped by benches of sawed lumber. A pulpit stood up front. Finley James saw them, waved, and bolted over to meet them.
“Yor here! I been lookin’ for ya.” He took hold of Jenny’s reins to help Lucy climb down.
Lucy couldn’t stop gazing at the brush arbor. “It’s . . . like a plein-air sanctuary.”
Fin’s face wrinkled in a question. “Huh?”
“She means an outdoor church,” Cora said. “And I can help myself down, thank you, Finley James. Not that you were concerned about me.”
He colored slightly at her gentle scold. “I was gonna holp you next, Miss Cora. It’s jest that Miss Lucy still ain’t sure which side of a horse to get herself down off.”
Cora was already down by the time he finished his apology. “Finley James, how many times do I have to remind you to stop saying ain’t?”
“One more time, I reckon.” He shielded his eyes from the sky. “It’ll be time to start soon. Better go claim yor seat. It’s already fillin’ up.”
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Lucy marveled again at how he seemed to tell time by looking up at the sky. Her childhood home in Lexington had clocks in every room, and the bells never synchronized, despite Father’s conscientious and determined efforts. Cora made her way to the brush arbor, stopping every few feet to greet people.
“Best keep goin’ and not wait on Miss Cora,” Fin said, “or there won’t be no seats left.”
Fin was right about that. Cora seemed to know everyone and everyone knew Cora. Lucy walked over to the brush arbor to find a place to sit as Fin led the horses to a makeshift pen. Up front, Wyatt stood next to a man with a fiddle. Engrossed in conversation, he took no note of Lucy. She watched him for a while, noticing details. Black hair curled over his neck collar, and he kept pushing back a few strands that fell across his forehead, which Lucy found, for some reason, oddly endearing. He needed a haircut, and she wondered if there was a woman in his life—a sister, an aunt, a sweetheart—who looked after him. Who in his life would tell him such an ordinary thing as needing a haircut? He seemed to be a solitary soul.
Then he glanced up and noticed Lucy. He took a first slow step, then another, coming toward her in the aisle, eyes never wavering from her.
“So you came,” he said, as he took her elbow to escort her to an open bench.
“Well, you said something about fried chicken,” she said with a grin.
“Best you’ll ever have,” he said, grinning right back.
Fin stuck his head between them. “Brother Wyatt, they be wantin’ you up front.”
Seemingly unhurried, Wyatt went back to the front, gave a nod to a man with the fiddle, who picked up a bow and ran it along the strings to provide a note. People hurried to find a free spot on a bench, and Cora joined in, squeezing Finley James closer to Lucy. Excitement was nearly palpable, as if people were waiting for something to happen.
Wyatt closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. His mouth opened in a round O, and his voice filled the little makeshift sanctuary, soft and mellifluous, as if it had been dipped in honey. His mouth opened wider, lifting the notes to the sky.
The Moonlight School Page 10