Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

  "I don't know," Anna answered, but despite her apprehension over testifying against Larry, she seemed excited about seeing her family for the first time in several years. Claire felt a little envious. Anna would be seeing her family. Boyd was heading to Buffalo, probably to see the unfairly beautiful Martha. Claire was stuck in her empty boardinghouse alone.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  "I have two boarders for you," Elizabeth began, standing at Claire's front door with two elderly women. "This is my mother-in-law Mildred," she said, her gaze locked on Claire in silent desperation as if trying to convey a secret message. "And this is her sister Maude. They've come to visit Ted and me for a couple of weeks, but I'm afraid they'll catch their deaths from the frigid drafts blowing through the walls of my daughters' old bedrooms. I'm hoping you have a couple of rooms where they'll be warm and comfortable during their stay."

  With an understanding nod to Elizabeth, Claire drew the women into the foyer. "I have the perfect rooms for you ladies," she said. Elizabeth followed them inside, her relief easing the strain lines around her mouth. Claire intuitively understood that Elizabeth wanted to present a happy home to her mother-in-law, and that two weeks of living together would reveal too much.

  Claire and Elizabeth carried the ladies' valises upstairs to their rooms. Mildred loved the blue room with its calming blue carpet and draperies. Maude preferred the room with the lavender decor and the large cherry bed with the white lace canopy. Both women decided to settle in and take a nap before going to Elizabeth's house for supper.

  Downstairs in the foyer, Elizabeth stopped and quietly thanked Claire for providing the rooms, offering to pay in advance.

  "You're doing me a favor, Elizabeth. You can pay at the end of each week, if that's all right."

  Elizabeth was more than agreeable. "I'll come for them at five o'clock," she said, then slipped outside.

  Mildred and Maude were lovely old ladies, and they loved their rooms in Claire's boardinghouse, but like many of Claire's guests, they hated the noise from Boyd's saloon. Claire complained to the deputy, Levi Harrison, but the noise continued. By the fourth morning, Mildred and Maude refused to spend another night listening to the racket. Claire couldn't blame them, but knew this would put Elizabeth in an uncomfortable situation if the ladies moved in with her. To spare Elizabeth, and to make a point to Boyd Grayson, Claire had Levi put the ladies up in his two best rooms at his hotel—at Boyd's expense.

  It was time that Boyd faced up to the damage his wretched saloon was causing.

  After she'd settled the ladies at the Harrison Hotel, Claire trudge through the rutted streets of town. Eight more days and it would be February, a month closer to spring, and hopefully a month closer to shutting down the saloons.

  The, temperance marches gained considerable ground during the week.

  Bench warrants were served on two billiard rooms for selling liquor without a license; the tables were taken down and the owners fined. The Randolph Board of Excise published notice in the Fredonia Censor that all dealer licenses might be revoked. Two more saloon owners, and one drug store owner, agreed to stop selling liquor.

  Claire was pleased with the success, but her life was unbearably empty with Anna and Boyd gone. She was upset with him over the noise from his saloon, but she missed him. Boyd had hired his friend Pat to cart her wood and run his bar, then he'd taken the first train to Buffalo—as if he couldn't wait to get away from her.

  Would a man propose marriage to a woman, then run to another woman if he was rejected? She didn't want to believe that. She missed Boyd. She missed his friendship. She wanted him to shut down his noisy saloon and be her lover. If only for a few weeks, it would be a glorious escape from her lonely life.

  He didn't want an affair. With her.

  She gave Boyd her passion—and her heart. She thought that would be enough. But he wanted ownership, all or nothing.

  Her freedom wasn't for sale at any price. It couldn't be.

  The icy wind stung her cheeks, and the sign above A. B. Edwards's furniture store blurred as she entered the building. She lifted her chin, refusing to feel sorry for herself.

  She was through living in half measure. Perhaps she'd been impulsive and bold when she slipped into Boyd's saloon—and into his bed—but she didn't regret their night of passion. She had loved it. She wanted other nights with him, more passion and lovemaking.

  But she was afraid Boyd was sharing those nights and passion with Martha.

  She closed the door against the cold day, refusing to dwell on her mistakes and losses. She had business to take care of, an apology to make. She moved forward with purpose, but hadn't taken three steps into the show room when she slammed to a stop. A sense of the familiar swept through her.

  Her mind whirled as she stepped back outside to look at the sign above the door. "A. B. Edwards Furniture."

  Was Abe a name her grandmother had chosen at random? Was it a shortened version of Abraham? Or did it stand for the initials of the man her grandmother had loved so deeply?

  Claire's heart thundered with excitement and possibility as she reentered the store. Could A. B. Edwards be Abe?

  A man not much older than herself offered to assist her, but she asked to see the owner. Minutes later, an elderly man with white hair and vivid blue eyes walked to the counter where she was waiting.

  "If you're here to cancel an order or fill my ears with that temperance nonsense, you can leave now."

  His gruff greeting made her nerves jangle with anxiety. "Actually, Mr. Edwards, I came to apologize for the boycott. Would it be possible for us to speak in private?"

  He nodded, then headed into an office a few feet away. After closing the door behind them, he hooked his hands over the top of his walking stick and openly scrutinized her.

  "You look familiar."

  "I'm Claire Ashier. I believe you knew my grandmother Marie Dawsen."

  His fingers tightened on the head of his walking stick. "I built her kitchen cupboards fifty years ago," he said, his voice melancholy. "You have Marie's smile."

  Hearing the longing in his voice, and knowing he'd built her grandmother's cupboards, told Claire all she needed to know. This frail, white-haired old man had to be Abe. Her grandmother's lover. Her grandfather.

  She said a small prayer that she wasn't making a mistake, that she was doing the right thing. "Mr. Edwards, I came to apologize for the boycott that's taking place, but I think I may have something more important to talk to you about."

  His bushy eyebrows lifted in question, but he remained silent.

  "Is there any reason my grandmother would have mentioned you in her journal?"

  His face blanched, and his walking stick fell to the floor with a loud clack. He sagged against the desk and gripped the edge with his gnarled hands. "Marie kept a journal?"

  The desperate hope in his eyes wrung Claire's heart. "Her entries are dated fifty years ago."

  "Don't you dare judge her," he said, his voice so fierce and protective that she could have hugged the old man.

  "There is nothing to judge, Mr. Edwards. What I read was a beautiful tribute to a very special time in her life."

  His eyes welled with tears and he ducked his head.

  Seeing his struggle made her own eyes mist. She wouldn't tell him that she was his granddaughter. Not now. The shock would be too much for him.

  "Can I read Marie's journal?" he asked, lifting his head. Moisture rimmed his eyes, and he looked ready to beg her.

  "Of course, Mr. Edwards. But to protect her privacy, I have to ask you to read it in my home."

  He pushed to his feet, so unsteady that Claire retrieved his walking stick from the floor for him. He caught her hand in a surprisingly tight grip. "Can I go with you now?"

  An air of desperation surrounded him, as if he were afraid he wouldn't live long enough to read the words his lover had written.

  "I don't have a carriage to offer you a ride."

  "I can walk up the hill."
>
  She doubted it, but couldn't insult him by saying so. "If you are certain."

  He nodded.

  "All right then, we can go together."

  It took ten minutes for him to dress in his boots, coat, gloves, and hat, but his eyes glowed with anticipation when he said good-bye to his grandson and walked out of the store.

  Claire held his arm and kept her pace slow as they made their way up the hill. She apologized for the boycott that hurt his business, and promised to talk to his wife and the other ladies about stopping it. He waved away her apology, but she suspected his mind was preoccupied with memories of his long lost lover.

  He was trembling so violently when they reached the house, she insisted he leave his boots on. She settled him in a comfortable wing chair in the west parlor with a hot cup of tea and an afghan. He put up with her fussing without comment, but when she handed the leather journal to him, his hands shook so badly he dropped it in his lap.

  "I'll leave you alone while you read," she said, but he barely acknowledged her as she slipped out of the room.

  She tidied the east parlor where her window was still boarded up because the pane of glass hadn't come in yet, then took the back hall to the dining room. From there, she peeked into the west parlor to make sure Mr. Edwards was all right.

  He sat with the journal angled toward the lamp, his face a collage of joy and sorrow as he read.

  She left the door ajar and went to the kitchen to bake tea cakes for the morning. Though she presently had no guests, she had to be prepared at all times. While she did her numerous chores, she kept glancing toward the dining room, worrying that she was leaving Addison alone too long, then worrying that she would interrupt him too soon if she went to check on him.

  Finally, she tiptoed to the dining room and peeked into the parlor.

  Addison Edwards—Abe—was holding the journal to his thin chest, his wrinkled mouth open as he wept with deep, grief-filled sobs.

  Claire's heart wrenched with sympathy, and she slipped back into the kitchen. She hadn't known that passion could be poisonous, that it could rush through your veins with a thrilling but deadly intent.

  But Abe's torment attested to that. The poor man was dying a thousand deaths as he wept alone in the chair.

  She felt the urge to go to him, but waited a half hour before returning to the dining room. Mr. Edwards was calmer, but tears still streaked his face as he thumbed through the Journal. She hesitated near the door, unsure if she should disturb him.

  He closed the journal and held it against his heart. His eyes shut and he leaned his head against the chair back.

  She would have left him to his memories, but it was growing late and she had no idea how to get him home.

  "Mr. Edwards?" she called softly, not wanting to startle him by sailing into the room unannounced.

  He turned his head and gave her the most peaceful smile she'd ever seen on a person. "Come here, granddaughter." He held out his hand.

  Her heart filled with hope as she rushed forward and knelt beside his chair. He closed his fingers around hers. "You can't know the gift you've given me." His voice was hoarse and edged with emotion. "Marie never told me I had a son."

  "Then you talked to her after you...after her last journal entry?" she asked, hoping they found a way to be together. She could no longer bring herself to condemn them or their love for one another. They didn't mean to fall in love or have an affair. They were just two lonely souls who found each other too late, and risked their own heartbreak to share passion.

  Sadness filled his eyes and he shook his head. "Only to greet each other. We couldn't have said a word more without resurrecting our relationship."

  To think of Abe and her grandmother denying their love for five decades while living only minutes from each other was unbearably sad. "That's heartbreaking."

  He nodded, and his eyes said the heartbreak was greater than she'd imagined.

  "Does your father know about me?" he asked.

  "No. I...I haven't told him about the journal." She couldn't bring herself to admit that her father had disowned her. "He has very blue eyes, like you."

  Sadness cut deep ravines in Addison Edwards' face. "I watched Bennett grow up and never once suspected he was my son. I'd believed Marie wouldn't keep something so important from me."

  "What would you have done if she told you she was going to have your child?"

  He sighed and leaned his head against the chair back. "Probably something foolish."

  "I believe that's why she never told you, Mr. Edwards."

  He rubbed his hand over the soft leather cover of the journal, as if to thank his lover for sparing them more irreparable mistakes.

  "You're welcome to come back and read the journal whenever you like."

  "Thank you," he said. "I might."

  Something in his tone told her he wouldn't read it again, that he was at peace now and had no need to revisit the past.

  "I'm sorry, but I have no way to take you home."

  He waved his hand. "I can walk to Spring Street. In fact, I'd better get home before Desmona starts fretting."

  Claire flattened her hand across her suddenly nauseous stomach. "Your wife knows about the journal."

  The light dimmed in his eyes. "She does?"

  "She saw it during a temperance meeting. She only read the first page, but I'm certain she understood what the diary contained. I had no idea that you were Abe...that Desmona was...oh, how careless I've been."

  He squeezed her hand. "You've done nothing wrong. Desmona knew about my affair long before she poked her nose in this journal. There's nothing for you to fret over." He patted her hand. "Help me up so I can get home before she comes looking for me. I don't want to bring trouble to your doorstep."

  She helped him stand, but as soon as he had his walking stick in hand, he put his arm around her and gave her a hug. "Thank you for giving an old man back his youth. I'm honored by your trust in me."

  "How could I not trust a man my grandmother loved so deeply?"

  "I'd like nothing more than to openly acknowledge you as my granddaughter, but I have four daughters and a slew of grandchildren to consider."

  "I understand. I shared the journal with you because I believed Grandmother would have wanted me to, and because I felt it was the right thing to do. I'm not looking for anything more than this," she said, kissing his wrinkled cheek. "I'm proud to know you, too, Mr. Edwards."

  When she drew away, his eyes were moist, but she suspected it was tears of happiness and peace. "I'd prefer you call me Abe. Or Addison. Or Grandfather."

  She took his coat from the closet. "How about Grandfather in private, Mr. Edwards in public?"

  "That pleases me." He pulled on his coat, then wrinkled his brow at her. "Are you going out this evening?"

  "Yes." She buttoned her heavy coat, then linked their arms. "I can't give you up just yet, so I'm walking you home."

  He argued, but she insisted, until finally they both laughed and walked out the door arm in arm.

  They walked slowly, but Addison was huffing and trembling so badly by the time they reached his house on Spring Street, Claire walked him right to his front stoop. Desmona met them at the door, scowl lines an inch deep between her gray eyebrows.

  Claire was immensely grateful that she was free of the stifling prison of marriage. She would live with the loneliness and the longing that nagged her. She had learned that she could welcome a night of passion without shame. And why not? She was a grown woman, a widow who had risked her life to win her freedom. Boyd Grayson wasn't the only man in town.

  But he was the only man she wanted. And he was in Buffalo.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  For the fourth day in a row, Boyd banged on the door of the huge white mansion with stately pillars. To his relief, a lanky man with graying hair and brilliant blue eyes answered his knock.

  "Is Bennett Dawsen at home?" Boyd asked.

  "You're addressing him," the man said in an imp
erious voice.

  Boyd ignored Dawsen's arrogance, and held out his hand. He'd been waiting for Claire's family to return home from wherever they'd been. "I'm Boyd Grayson, a friend of Claire's. We need to talk."

  Bennett Dawsen invited him inside, and introduced him to Claire's mother, a fashionably dressed lady with dark hair and regal features. But Boyd was too worried about Claire to be overly cordial to her mother or impressed by the opulent house.

  Claire was treading into a dangerous situation, and he just wanted to get back to Fredonia and make sure she was all right.

  If only she would have agreed to marry him.

  He thought she would have wanted to. Every woman he ever romanced had angled for marriage. They wanted him. They wanted security. They wanted too much. He never considered proposing to a single one of them. Not once. Not until he made love to Claire. Not until he realized that his name could protect her, that he could keep her safe, that he could make love to her every night.

  He wanted desperately to marry her.

  But she wanted an affair. For the first time in his life, Boyd received the same proposition he'd given to countless women over the years, and it stung his conscience. He never realized how callous he'd been.

  "I'll leave you gentlemen to your business," Mrs. Dawsen said, then quietly left the room. She was pretty, but darker and shorter than Claire.

  "If you're a friend of my daughter's," Bennett said, "then you must know we aren't in communication with each other."

  "You'd better change that, Bennett, if you want to keep your daughter alive."

  "Dear God, what's happened?" Bennett's face paled. The starch left his rigid body, and he sank into an overstuffed armchair.

  "Claire has been lying to you, or rather Lida, about her life with Jack." Boyd repeated what Claire had told him about her marriage to Jack and about Jack's death. "She said she would have come back to you on her knees, Bennett, but she was afraid Jack would find a way to hurt you. She stayed away to protect you. Now she thinks it's too late, that you hate her."

  "How could she think that?" Bennett asked, his voice filled with pain.