Next to Miss Bollen and Seymour, Martha Bollen danced with her husband, Isaac.
Isaac’s younger brother, David, danced with Harvey Milton’s younger sister, both of whom managed to step on each other’s toes continually. Both, E.V. noted, were watching Abigail Leonard dance with the newest councilman, who kept glancing at Elizabeth Leonard, who’d recently begun courting Sheriff Phillips and was sitting at the piano moving her fingers above the keys as if she were playing in time with the quartet. At Elizabeth’s insistence, Sheriff Phillips was dancing for the second time with the councilman’s spinster sister, who was probably the most skilled dancer in the room and who, to E.V.’s amusement, occasionally cast admiring glances in Willum’s direction.
The triangles of love in the Whitworth parlor could have populated a Shakespearean comedy.
All that mattered to E.V. was that he wasn’t included in any love triangle, quadrangle, or hexagon. And with Miss Leonard having given him distance all evening, he held hope she’d transferred her affections from earlier in the week to a more suitable bachelor.
With a humph, Willum gave his empty punch cup to a server walking by.
E.V. quickly added his. “Thank you.”
The server nodded and continued on.
“Are you going to ask to marry Larkin tonight?” blurted Willum.
From the corner of his eye, E.V. glanced at his friend. Willum looked … hopeful? “No,” he honestly answered.
“Ever again?”
“No sense to. Whitworth won’t ever agree.”
“Maybe in time.”
E.V. looked at the dancers moving—most of them—effortlessly to the music, the colorful gowns swishing back and forth like Christmas bells. People lived and loved. People died. Heartaches happened to everyone. Life was loss, and life went on. That was the order of things, and he could let reality steal his joy or focus it.
When he didn’t answer, Willum said rather sadly, “You’ve cut your losses.”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve …” E.V. wasn’t sure how to explain. What he couldn’t tell Willum was that last night—this morning, actually—when he was burying the liquor bottles, he realized how his actions had been as misplaced as Larkin’s parents’ were. In order to have Larkin for his wife, he’d been desperately grasping and arranging and worrying over what he needed to do to earn Whitworth’s permission to marry her. He loved her so much that he’d made her an idol in his life. Rather like Mrs. Whitworth and her need to medicate away her grief.
All he truly needed was God. All he really desired was God. God had created him to desire Him, but he’d allowed that desire to be sidetracked with something good but something not God.
The walk back to his lonely one-room apartment had brought him to the place where, once he closed the door behind him, he’d fallen on his knees in worship and repentance.
“No,” he repeated. “When God is in His rightful place in my life, all my other desires fall into place. If God makes a way for Larkin to be my wife, I’m content. If He doesn’t, I’m content.”
This time Willum nodded and said nothing.
The dance came to an end, and several couples made their way to the refreshment table.
“I wonder where she went,” E.V. heard Kathleen Leonard say.
“She’s probably off having a drink,” came her sister-in-law’s loud reply. “Poor thing can’t go a day without imbibing. Anna befriends her out of pity.”
The room silenced.
Kathleen nudged her husband, who immediately glared at his sister.
“Abby,” Garrick chastised, “you know that’s not true. You shouldn’t gossip.”
Though her face flushed, Miss Leonard glanced at the dozen people around the table. Panic flittered across her features. “How come you can say you saw Larkin at the mercantile and it’s not gossip, but if I say I saw her drunk then it is? The truth isn’t gossip.” As she spoke, more of the soiree guests crowded around. She turned to E.V., pointing in his direction. “Just ask Mr. Renier. He was there. He smelled the whiskey on her breath. He saw her stumbling about.”
E.V. nipped at the inside of his cheek, debating his response. When the murmuring quieted, he noticed Larkin across the parlor standing under the mistletoe. Truth was, as he admired how the fitted bodice of her gown with its waterfall of ruffles on the skirt accentuated her lovely figure, he couldn’t quite remember why everyone was looking at him for a response.
As the grandfather clock struck nine, Larkin stood in the parlor’s entrance with her parents, holding the basket full of ribbon-wrapped gifts for their guests. Since Mama had abruptly stopped and grabbed the sleeve of Papa’s black frock coat, halting them, Larkin assumed she wanted to say something before they handed out the gifts. Only Mama didn’t talk, allowing them to hear every mortifying word Abigail uttered.
Almost directly across from them, E.V. and Willum Tate stood at the refreshment table, with their other guests forming a half circle.
Not at all fearing what E.V. would answer because she trusted he’d keep her secret, Larkin tilted her head until she could meet his gaze. His attention drifted briefly to something above her. The moment she realized what she was standing under, the corner of his mouth indented into a half smile, which made her give him a look to say—Don’t you dare. Were it not for Mama favoring Victorian Christmas traditions, Larkin would banish the mistletoe from the house, sparing all from possible embarrassing moments.
Papa muttered under his breath, “Why is he still here?”
“Patrick, don’t make a scene,” Mama cautioned.
“Did you send him an invitation?” Papa asked her.
“I was wondering when you would ask.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, I did not.”
To Larkin: “Did you?”
“No sir,” Larkin answered honestly, although she had her suspicions who had. She reached forward with the hand not holding the basket, and gripped Papa’s fingers. “I love E.V., but I’d never dishonor you by marrying him or any man without your approval. I choose our family.” And although she didn’t want to resurrect the pain she’d brought her parents after confessing over breakfast what she’d done with Mama’s liquor, she reminded him, “That’s why I did what I did last night. That’s why I will endure any untruths spoken of me. And that’s why you will be a gracious host to all of our guests. Please, Papa.”
His mouth clamped in a thin line.
Larkin watched his chest rise and fall underneath his cherry jacquard vest that matched in fabric and shade Mama’s gown. Before the soiree began, the photographer had captured their images—Papa sitting in a chair and Mama standing elegantly behind him with her left hand gracefully resting on his shoulder. Pity the black-and-white image couldn’t depict the depth of love they showed when gazing upon each other. Larkin blinked at the moisture in her eyes. Her heart ached with yearning to grow old and in love.
With another deeply drawn-in breath, Papa offered his arm to Mama. He squeezed Larkin’s hand, and they walked toward the crowd together.
E.V. simply didn’t know what to say. It was an unsettling, unmanning, unfamiliar feeling, really. While he never considered himself a fluent conversationalist—he preferred to be known for being a good listener—when times called for him to say the right, wise, or practical thing, he’d always known what to say.
But now with all eyes on him, he was speechless.
Even Whitworth looked at him as if he expected—feared—E.V. would share everything Larkin had told him last night about her mother and brother. Only Mrs. Whitworth’s hold on him seemed to keep him from intervening.
“Mr. Renier,” Kathleen Leonard questioned, “do you have something to add?”
E.V. turned from Kathleen to her sister-in-law, who stood there with a smug grin on her face. And everything became clear. “You started the rumors about Larkin being pickled and about Milton courting her. Why? Because I love her instead of you?”
Everyone’s atten
tion shifted to Miss Leonard. Her mouth twisted into a scowl. “Good gracious, no!” she spat out. “I only wanted to stop her from getting another thing she wanted. Larkin is a drunkard, an imposter, and a thief.”
“A thief?” Larkin pushed through the crowd. “What did I steal?”
“My friend!” The bottom of Miss Leonard’s face trembled. She sniffed. “You stole the only friend I ever had. So I don’t feel bad for telling everyone the truth about your drinking.”
“Oh Abigail.” Larkin answered, in tears. “I wanted to be your friend, too, but you pushed me away.”
“Because I didn’t want to be your friend! You have everything and I only had Anna. Now I have no one.” She broke into sobs and ran from the room.
Garrick and Kathleen took off after her with her father and his lady-friend following.
E.V. looked about the room, seeking the right words to say to break the awful silence and knowing he would never share Larkin’s secret.
“I’ve been everything Larkin has been accused of being,” he confessed. “And worse. Thanks to Jesus, who I was isn’t who I am today. Who Larkin is, is what you know her to be, and that’s not anything she’s been accused of. Trust what you know of her character and not any rumors you hear, because that’s what you would want others to do for you.”
“Renier!”
The crowd separated like the parting of the Red Sea.
E.V. swallowed what little moisture he had left in his mouth.
Patrick Whitworth motioned to one of the members of the string quartet standing outside the library entrance. “You, play something lively for my guests to dance to. Larkin, Renier, you two come with us.” He swiveled around then grabbed his wife’s hand and walked to the empty front foyer.
Feeling uneasy, E.V. stepped to Larkin’s side, and taking care not to step on the train of her gown, he touched the small of her back and nudged her forward before dropping his arm to his side. “Does he know about—”
“Yes,” Larkin interrupted. “And he knows who my accomplices are.”
Somehow E.V. managed to find a little more moisture to ease the tightness in his throat. In this moment, he’d prefer fisticuffs to a lecture.
They stopped in the foyer. Standing at the end of the staircase, Whitworth rested his right foot on the bottom stair and his right elbow on the handrail, the fingers on his right hand tapping his chin.
“You’ve been cavorting with my daughter,” he stated.
E.V. nodded.
Still holding his wife’s hand, Whitworth drew her close. Gently he turned their enclosed hands, raising them so he could place a kiss on her knuckles in what seemed to E.V. to be a comforting manner. “Renier, you pegged me accurately that day in the rain. You missed one thing, though. I can admit when I’ve been wrong.”
E.V. stared in silence.
“I’ve been wrong about you.” Whitworth’s eyes narrowed, yet the corners of his mouth pinched upward. “In some things. Others I’m still deciding. What you did last night helping Larkin—” He cleared his throat. “Your faithfulness to her then and now is why in about thirty seconds I’m going to give my wife the dance she’s been asking for, leaving you two alone here in the foyer. If my daughter so happens to stand under the mistletoe and you so happen to kiss her a little longer than decorum permits and Reverend Bollen happens to see, well, considering you admitted you’ve been cavorting with Larkin, you’ll have to marry her. You understand?”
For a moment E.V. was struck dumb. But then his mind started processing exactly what Whitworth was suggesting—was granting permission for. No wonder Larkin had such a tender spot for cantankerous ol’ Mrs. Ellis. The woman was a female version of Patrick Whitworth.
Trying not to smile, E.V. nodded again. “Yes sir.”
Whitworth inclined his head. “Merry Christmas, son.” Holding his wife close as she blinked away her tears, he stepped toward the parlor, pausing long enough to brush a kiss on Larkin’s cheek.
Wordless, Larkin walked with E.V. to the mistletoe. A struggle of emotions graced her face as she stared at the suddenly intimidating red berries and green leaves. He knew exactly how she hated to be the center of attention.
“What are you thinking?” he whispered.
“If I really want to throw caution to the wind, now that the opportunity is before me.” Her gaze shifted to the guests dancing and lingering about the parlor. She released a ragged breath. “I vowed to Anna that we’d be married before her baby is born. Jeremiah sent word that her labor began a few hours ago.”
“Far be it for me to let you to break a vow.”
“We’d have to marry tonight.”
E.V. nodded in agreement even though she was more focused on her fears than on him. “If we gave proper cause, Reverand Bollen could arrange a wedding. One good kiss should do it.”
“Everyone will be watching.”
“I love you.”
She met his gaze. “What did you say?”
“I love you?” he repeated.
“Are you not certain?”
He grinned and she grinned, and all E.V. saw was her.
“I’m quite certain, sweetheart.”
The dimples in her cheeks deepened as her smile chased away her fears. In a movement that stunned the breath from his lungs, she drew him close, far closer than decorum allowed, and her lips found his. She kissed him. She kissed him until he forgot everyone was watching. She kissed him until he was sure she forgot everyone was watching, because when Reverend Bollen tapped E.V.’s shoulder and E.V. reluctantly drew his lips from Larkin’s, the look on her face was exactly how he felt.
Content.
Gina Welborn worked in news radio writing copy until she took up writing romances. As a member of RWA and ACFW, she’s an active contest judge and coordinator. This Oklahoma-raised girl now lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her youth-pastor husband, their five Okie-Hokie children, and a Sharpador Retriever who doesn’t retrieve much of anything.
A CARPENTER CHRISTMAS
Mary Davis
DEDICATION
To my son, Ben, who loves to
build and create with his hands.
Every wise woman buildeth her house:
but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.
PROVERBS 14:1
Chapter 1
June 1891
Natalie Bollen tried to pick out the solid areas of mud, if there were such a thing. But everywhere she stepped her boots sank in at least an inch, if not three. She balanced herself with an umbrella in one hand and held her skirt up in the other. Rain tapped on the fabric of the umbrella like a soft symphony. She loved how a shower cleaned the air and made everything smell so fresh.
She stopped in front of the big house under construction. It had been in such a state for a year now. The builder not in a particular hurry to complete it. It wasn’t as big and fancy as the Whitworths’ mansion, but clearly it would be one of the larger houses in Tumwater. The owners must be people of importance to need such a fine home.
The hammering told her the carpenter was present, and a giddiness rippled through her. The noise came from above. He wasn’t foolish enough to be up on the roof in this downpour?
As she tipped her head back to look up, her hat loosened. She dropped her skirt and slapped her hand on her hat. “Mr. Tate?” She would prefer to call him Willum, but Papa forbade it. He said it wasn’t proper for a young lady to address a gentleman outside her family by his first name. Most people would think a logging town like Tumwater to be a simple backwoods place where decorum wouldn’t matter. To many, it didn’t. But to Papa, the town’s only religious influence, it did. When decorum went, he said, so did society.
The pounding stopped, and Mr. Tate peered over the edge of the roof, hanging on to a rope tied around his waist. Sandy brown, shoulder-length waves hung in dark, wet tendrils from beneath his worn hat. He shook his head then proceeded to climb down.
Rain poured from his hat brim. He narrowed his pine green
eyes, dark on the outside and lighter on the inside, like the varying shades of the forest. “Miss Bollen, you shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
As proper as Papa. “And you shouldn’t be climbing around on the roof like a monkey.”
He shook his head again. “Come inside where it is drier.”
She released her hat and collected up her skirt again. Mr. Tate guided her by her elbow up the three steps and in through the front door. He took her umbrella and set it against the inside wall.
Natalie smoothed her hands down her pink-striped dress. She looked best in pink, and today was a special day. But even after all her best efforts, mud still managed to get past the hem’s mudguard around the bottom of her skirt. Papa would say that this was where vanity got a person. She had just wanted to look her best.
Mr. Tate took off his hat and shook the water from it. “Does your father know you’re out in this?” He pointed to the window with his still dripping hat.
She tugged at one finger of her glove then the next and next. “Papa is out visiting members of the flock.”
Mr. Tate shook his head again. His wet waves swung gently.
She pulled her hand free of her right glove. Wasn’t he the least bit pleased to see her?
Across the room, Mr. Tate’s orange-colored dog appeared in the kitchen doorway on her three legs and wagging her feathery tail.
Natalie smiled at the dog. “Hi, Sassy.”
Mr. Tate held up a hand to the dog. “Stay, girl.”
Sassy’s body shook with her obedience, and she whined.
Natalie crossed the room to her and scratched the dog’s head around her silky ears.
Sassy sat, and her feathery tail brushed the floor. Mr. Tate had Sassy when he arrived in town three years ago, and said he had found Sassy wandering and hungry. He had no idea how the furry orange canine had lost one of her back legs. But she got around fine on three. She’d taken a shine to him and become his faithful companion.
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