by Tracy Sumner
She needed to have her amusement now.
"I'll do it," Sallie surprised her by saying, quite clearly and without additional arm-twisting.
Lydia clapped her hands and giggled, giddy to the tips of her patent leather boots. "That is fine news. I'm thrilled and relieved. Gracious, now that that's settled, I must tell you what else happened at the jail. I shouldn't, but I simply must."
Sallie vaulted to a rigid position, eager for gossip.
"I really shouldn't say—"
"Oh no, please do! It's been so dull around here since Noah Garrett ran off with that crazy Elle Beaumont."
Too true, Lydia thought. The entire town had hungrily monitored the antics of Zach's youngest brother and Elle Beaumont, who, eccentric as she seemed to be, had snared the man she'd wanted since long before anyone could remember differently. It made her think of... well, today, at the jail, the way Zach had looked at Savannah, just for a hint of a moment when he thought no one was looking.
Not with interest, no, no, no. More as though he had been wound up like one of those new-fangled toys she'd seen in the window of Dillon's Goods in Raleigh.
Agitated was a good word for it. Which was all well and fine because women often roused men to a fever pitch.
Everyone knew that. It was just the way life operated.
Except it never seemed to operate like that for Zachariah Garrett. Even when his beloved wife was alive, he'd been calm and capable and strong. Why, if Lydia felt half a heart in love with him it was because she'd never witnessed anything but calm, capable, strong Constable Garrett.
She had never seen him agitated. Never.
Lydia wouldn't have guessed he had it in him.
Maybe there was something to this independence craze if it made a man sit up and take notice.
"Of course, this cannot go any further than this parlor," she finally said, tucking a wisp of damp hair beneath her bonnet. "And again, I shouldn't say, but I have to tell you that I've never seen such fire in Constable Garrett's eyes as I did today."
"Fire? Zach Garrett?" Sallie swallowed a bite of iced fruitcake too quickly and choked. "Are... are you sure? Why, he's so collected."
"Without a doubt. Fire," Lydia assured her friend. "And Savannah Connor lit the match."
2
Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could.
~Abigail Adams
Having dinner at Constable Garrett's home the day after her detention, as he so elegantly referred to it, was the last thing Savannah wanted to do.
The very last, she amended as she leaned her bicycle against the front gate and did a quick review to make sure her clothing was in order. Damp from the ride, certainly, but in order. The evening promised to be awful enough without realizing midway through dinner that a bunched-up jacket had exposed the waistband of her bloomers to the constable's critical eye.
She lifted the covered plate from the bicycle's basket and started up the brick path, the front door looming before her. She halted at the bottom of the porch stairs long enough to record the sound of crickets in the bush beside her, and in the distance, the rhythmic slap of waves against the shore. A peaceful place, Pilot Isle, beautiful and serene. If she didn't know herself better, she might imagine settling down in a town like this.
She sighed, and stood straight and tall. It made no sense to wait for a measure of comfort that clearly wasn't going to show.
Her first knock was more forceful than necessary. The second sounded about right.
"Ma'am?"
She looked down as the door swung wide... and her heart dropped.
Constable Garrett's son. The boy was thin, towheaded, and smiling fiercely. The kind of smile that spoke of capturing fireflies and dipping your toe in muddy puddles. Innocence of a kind Savannah didn't remember and felt supremely uncomfortable being around.
"Coming in?"
"Why, yes, I am," Savannah said and edged around him. "Rory, isn't it?"
"Yep," he replied around a mouthful of what looked to be yellow taffy. A scruffy-looking dog stood idle guard just behind him. "Everybody's here already, in the kitchen. Smell that? It's collards. They're good, but they stink." He closed the door and gave her a little nudge down the hallway. "Pa said I could have a piece of candy before supper if I promised to eat all my string beans. Don't you reckon that's fair?"
Savannah halted beside a glowing gaslight. In return, Rory paused, tilting his head back and gazing at her through eyes identical to his father's. "Don't you reckon, huh?"
"Yes, well...."
"Pa said you don't fight fair, but you sure look like you do to me."
Savannah laughed softly, not bothering to cover it behind her hand.
And surprise of surprises, Rory laughed with her. When of course he had no idea what she found so amusing.
It felt, for the moment, somewhat comfortable. A new experience for a woman who had never had the opportunity to be around children.
The kitchen was warm and sweet-smelling, even with the underlying sour odor of cooking greens. The windows were open, yellow curtains with tiny daisies sucking in and out like a deep breath. Savannah stood on the threshold as long as she dared, letting Rory take the dish from her hands.
The scene shattered quite a few preconceived notions, starting with the revelation that her best friend, Marielle-Claire Garrett, a dedicated activist, was happily married. To a man unrelated to the cause. A professor of marine science, no less.
In fact, Elle lay sprawled on her husband's lap, his arms wrapped round her waist as she struggled to rise. She laughed and punched his shoulder, fairly glowing with love. He grabbed her apron as she got to her feet and tugged, forcing her to bend for a light kiss.
So it was true: she was happy.
Savannah glanced around the room and zeroed in on her nemesis. Zachariah too had an apron tied around his waist, one lined with pink rosettes and yellow stitching. In his hand he held a spatula, which he used to flip cornbread cakes and accentuate every third word or so. Hair a shade too long flicked his collar as he looked down when Rory slid Savannah's apple pie along the counter at his hip.
Zach glanced back then and caught her staring.
And stared back.
He had a smudge of flour on the tip of his nose, a streak of it on his cheek. His clothes were pressed; Sunday attire, she guessed. His hair, black as night, shone from a recent combing. Had he actually dressed up for this evening? He must love Elle something awful, Savannah surmised.
She shifted from one foot to the other, hating to acknowledge what the sight of him, surrounded by his family and standing in a kitchen that smelled so wonderful it made her yearn, did to her insides.
"Constable." She moved toward a table scattered with an assortment of pots, pans, and toys, making sure to keep her distance and her composure.
"Miss Connor," he said, the twist in his smile letting her know what he thought of their spending an evening together. In his home, with his son.
No more than she thought, which she would thoroughly enjoy telling him. Except that Elle had planned this evening to introduce Savannah to everyone in her new family, and as a friend, Savannah must follow through.
She glanced in Elle's direction, discomfited to find all eyes trained upon her.
And upon Constable Garrett.
The town gossips were obviously hard at work.
"Dinner smells delightful," Savannah forced herself to say, with an affable nod in his direction. She would make it through this night or die trying.
Zach turned back to his cooking with a grunt.
Savannah felt her temper spark and begin to blaze. Of all the rude—
"Oh, I'm so thrilled to see you." Elle crossed the kitchen in record time, pulling Savannah into a fierce hug. She would not let her brother-in-law and her best friend, people she loved with all her heart, remain enemies. It just wouldn't do in a town the size of Pilot Isle. They could argue all they wanted at the jail or in front of the oyster factory; they could tear each
other apart for the sake of independence and jurisdiction; but they would not at the first supper Elle hosted after her return from her honeymoon.
"You look wonderful, Savannah."
"You, too," Savannah said, stepping back. Elle had noticed before that her friend didn't like being held; it made her wonder what Savannah's life had been like as a child.
"I'm happy. Noah makes me happy." Elle looked over her shoulder, found her husband standing at his brother's side, teasing Zach about his flowery apron.
After a brief series of introductions, Elle slipped her arm through her friend's and said, "Let's take this outside."
She led them out a back door and onto a wide porch, to a table set with blue and white dishes, many of them chipped. "Happy, Vannie. Can you believe I'm saying that? A man has made me happy! A man. One of those uncompromising, inflexible beasts."
"I always believed a fruitful union was possible," Savannah said, seating herself across from Elle. "Many of the women working for the cause have wonderful marriages." Pouring a glass of water, she sipped slowly. "Others, well, not so wonderful."
Elle propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. "But not you?"
"Me?"
"Don't you want to love someone, Vannie? And have him love you?"
"Ah, I recognize this. The stage where you're so blissfully delirious that you want everyone to have what you have."
Elle laughed and slid a saltshaker in a wide circle. "Would you think me demented if I agreed?"
"No, of course not. I'm delighted for you. You've spoken of nothing but this man since we met at university. On the quad near that old dogwood tree. Remember the conversations we used to have about your life here? Anyway"—she waved her hand to shoo away a persistent fly—"it isn't for me. Marriage isn't for me. It's not as if I haven't been courted. And experienced all the nonsense that goes along with that charming ritual."
"You can't mean Henry Bolton Finch the Third?"
Savannah smiled. "He had all the necessary equipment, didn't he?"
"Vannie, you were engaged for all of two days before he ran off with his bulter's son."
"I was relived, truth be told."
Elle sat back with a sigh. "I know. That's the problem. Suffering cats, I bet you never even kissed him."
"Kissing is vastly overrated, if you ask me."
A deep laugh sounded behind her. "Depends on who's doing it, Miss Connor."
Savannah tilted her head back, embarrassed, but damned if she'd show it. "I think I'd prefer to heed the testimony of a more reliable witness, Constable."
Zach shrugged and sat a pan of biscuits on the table. As she watched him walk back into the house, she noted that his apron was absent. And that his trousers fit extremely well. "Ohhh, that man. What I wouldn't like to enlighten him about. Depends on who's doing it, my eye."
She swiveled to find a wide smile crossing her friend's face. A glow of discovery lit Elle's cheeks. "Oh no, you don't. Don't go getting any crazy ideas. I despise the man, and he despises me."
"You think he's attractive."
Savannah pleated the tablecloth between her finger and thumb. "Well, yes, I suppose. A little. He's not the ugliest man I've encountered. So what?"
"So, every woman in town has been trying to get his attention since his wife passed away. Over two years now without a dash of success."
"He's capable and fair-minded. A leader, without doubt. Why wouldn't they try?"
"They're not interested in his mind, Vannie. Or his leadership skills, unless you mean the ones he'd use in bed."
Savannah looked across the table, into her friend's mirthful green gaze. "Is it good?" she whispered.
Elle nodded, humming beneath her breath. "Very."
"Worth all the trouble? The mess? The bother?" She had read about it, and in literal terms, it sounded a touch distasteful.
"More than you can imagine."
"But wouldn't it, I mean, couldn't the situation be unpleasant in some cases?"
"I'm sure. If you got the wrong man."
Smoothing the tablecloth with the heel of her hand, Savannah said, "But I don't like him."
"You like him enough."
"He doesn't like me."
Elle laughed softly. "He likes you enough."
Savannah glanced over her shoulder just to make sure no one was observing them, her stomach dancing. "What do you mean?"
"Vannie, let's speak plainly. I didn't wait until I got married. Noah's proposal came late in the day, do you understand? And I wouldn't change anything I did because it was wonderful."
"But you loved him."
"I do. And I did, yes. But love doesn't have to be there. For centuries, people have been experiencing passion without being in love. In fact, in this case, it would be a detriment. You don't want to get married, and Zach will never marry again." Elle nodded her head, fully convincing herself. "Why should two beautiful, loving people be lonely because of society's dictates when they could come to a reasonable agreement that would benefit them both?"
Savannah paused, never one to rally around society's decrees, especially when they hampered a woman's progress. "Do you honestly think sexual relations might aid my growth as a woman? Will I be stronger? I certainly never imagined I would need it."
"Mercy above, it's changed my entire outlook. I understand men much better than I used to, I can tell you that much. It simplifies the mystery."
"Truly?" Savannah finished the rest of her water and tapped the glass against the table. "That would be very helpful in my line of work."
"Plus, my grandmère always told me I needn't be married to experience passion."
"Ah, yes." Savannah nodded. "You're French. I sometimes forget."
The men stumbled out the door just then, their hands loaded with plates and tins, the smell of freshly baked biscuits drifting along behind them. They laughed, Rory dogging their heels.
All at once, Savannah was surrounded by men. Surrounded by new and liberating visions of what she could do with them.
"You'll think about it?" Elle whispered.
Yes, she thought, noting the way Constable Garrett's shoulders flexed beneath his pressed cotton shirt. The way he smiled at his son, a flash of white teeth and firm lips.
She would.
The glass of wine had gone straight to her head.
A thick, sultry flavor colored her vision. The candles, sputtering in pools of wax and casting obliging shadows across the faces of those at the dinner, didn't hurt, either. In the balmy darkness, the sound of crickets chirping and waves rolling into the shore a soothing distraction, the people surrounding the table looked beautiful. Elle and Noah, who touched with increasing frequency; Rory, who had long ago fallen asleep in his father's lap.
And Zachariah, most of all.
Savannah drew a deep breath, finishing the last of her wine. She needed to leave before she made a grave error and considered her friend's words too carefully. Before she could rise, Elle and Noah did, in one fluid movement, their hands linked.
"Let me get him to bed," Noah said, lifting Rory from Zach's arms and into his own. "Good night, Savannah."
Zach nodded, an amused tilt to his lips. "Fine. 'Night."
Elle grasped Savannah's hand as she passed. "I'll see you at the school in the morning. Zach will see you home."
"Of course," he murmured, the smile still in place.
The tablecloth flipped in the breeze, the gentle snap filling the awkward silence. For a moment, the murmur of Rory's sleepy voice drifted from an upstairs window. Then it faded away.
"He's a bright child," she offered.
"Interesting observation from someone who doesn't like children."
She paused. The man didn't miss much. However, it sounded terrible to admit the truth. "I like them; who doesn't like children? I simply am not inured to them. I was the youngest and have obviously never been married. Opportunities to fraternize with children have been limited."
"Fraternize. Inured," Zach repe
ated, draining his wine glass. "More of your substantial words."
"Is there something wrong with speaking well, Constable?"
Zach laughed, a lock of hair dropping across his brow, his gray eyes almost lost to the shadows. "About as much wrong with it as there is with enjoying kissing."
"I didn't say I thought there was anything wrong with enjoying it. I merely stated that I thought it is overrated."
"It being kissing, I take?" He leaned in, his elbows sliding onto the table for the first time that evening. She could have taken the man to a presidential dinner and he would have fit in.
"Yes. Kissing. Overrated."
"I could change your mind," Zach said, surprising the hell out of them both. Why would he take something as simple as this banter as a challenge? "I don't know that I want to, but I feel right sure I could."
"How arrogant. How typically male."
"I suppose." He shrugged and reached for the wine bottle. "More?"
She nodded, frowning now. "How do you know you could change my mind? It's been a long time since you... well—"
"Over two years." The pain was there, an ache in his chest he imagined he would feel every time he thought of Hannah.
And he thought of her every day. Dreamed of her about as often. But lately, maybe only in the past week, he'd begun to realize that his life had not ended with his wife's.
He either had to die or start living again.
Because of Rory, there really was no choice at all.
"Were you happy?" she asked.
Glancing across the table, he watched the flickering candlelight wash over Savannah. A soft glow highlighted the mass of chestnut curls she was not capable of controlling. Long lashes brushed her fine-boned cheeks as she blinked slowly, watching him watch her.
With those looks, it was no wonder the men in town were buzzing about her.
"I was happy," he said, letting the wine trickle down his throat, hoping it would dull his heartache.
"What was she like?"