by Kris Calvert
“Fine. It’s a mustard seed.”
“A what?”
“See, I told you.”
“Then educate me. What’s it for?”
“It’s a reminder.”
“Okay. A reminder of what?”
“A Bible verse. Truly I will tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, move from here to there and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”
“Oh,” he scoffed. “Mathew seventeen, verse twenty.”
I gasped. “How’d you know that?”
“Are you kidding? I have to memorize Bible verses for school. Now, what do you want to do for the next two days? Because the way I see it, we’re stuck together.”
I turned my body to face him. “I’m not stuck doing anything.”
His boyish face didn’t go with his long and lanky body. It was as if someone had sprinkled fairy dust on him, stretching him like a piece of taffy while his face remained childlike. He broke out into a huge grin. “Oh, you’re stuck with me all right.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you hear? A winter storm is moving in. Ice and snow.”
“It’s just the elevation in the mountain, Cecil. It’s not going to snow so much we can’t get home.”
“If you say so. Anyway,” he said, stepping in front of me, nearly pinning me to the log wall at my back. “My mother says I have to be nice to you so, may I get you something to drink, Marilyn?”
“Don’t call me Marilyn.”
“It’s your name.”
“Call me Lynnie.”
“Lynnie?”
“Yes. It’s short for Marilyn,” I said with a nod, finally bringing my attention back to him.
“That’s a horrible nickname.”
“No it’s not.”
He let out a low chuckle and I realized his voice would be changing soon. “It most certainly is.”
Cecil put his hand on the log wall, propping himself up before crossing his feet at the ankles as if he owned the place. It struck me right then that eventually he would. “I tell you what,” he began. “If I can get us both a julep cup of bourbon without anyone noticing, I get to give you a proper nickname.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I know you, Marilyn,” Cecil said with a grin. “Probably the only reason you agreed to come this weekend was because you thought maybe you could steal a little bit of bourbon.”
I narrowed my gaze and didn’t say a word. He was speaking the truth, but I didn’t want to incriminate myself. At least not in the first fifteen minutes of being there.
“I can tell you’re thinking about it,” he said, stepping away from me to lean both shoulders against the wall, his hands tucked neatly behind him.
“You’re so smug, Cecil.”
“But am I correct?” He tilted his head into mine, still staring straight ahead into the crowded room as I was. “Look, if I get us a little bourbon, you’ll let me give you a new nickname. If I don’t, I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the weekend. You have my word as a gentleman. I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
I stepped away, turning my back on the crowd and stared into his eyes. “Cecil. You’re eleven. I appreciate the offer, but I can’t spend my holiday vacation in the mountains babysitting an eleven-year-old boy. Besides, you’re too young to be drinking bourbon.”
“Miss Marilyn,” he began. “I may be eleven, but I’ve already had plenty of bourbon. How would I be fit to run the distillery someday if I don’t understand how good—no, excellent—sour mash is supposed to taste? Not to mention,” he said taking a deliberate pause, “this is a very good deal for you. If I get the bourbon, then I only get to give you a nickname—you still get the bourbon. If I fail, you get my silence for the remainder of your time here at Winter Lodge.”
I pursed my lips and considered his offer. He might only be eleven years old, but Cecil was smart and I couldn’t help but think he reminded me a little of myself. He too was a rule breaker and didn’t seem at all afraid of the consequences of his actions. “Fine,” I said. “But if we’re caught, I’m not taking the blame for any of this.”
A grin broke out across his face. “Give me a few minutes, then meet me upstairs. My room is at the end of the hallway. I’ll leave the door cracked for you.”
Cecil strode away with the self-assurance of a young man—a young man twice his age. I glanced around the room as if someone might have heard us and thought of the best way to leave the party without being noticed.
I formulated my plan as I scanned the room for my mother. When I finally spotted her, I walked to her holding my head with one hand and my stomach with the other.
“Pardon me, Mother” I said, touching her on the elbow.
The gracious smile that was plastered across her face dissipated when she saw me standing next to her. “Yes, Marilyn?”
“I think the drive was too much for me. May I be excused to retire for the evening?” I asked, batting my eyes and knitting my brow. It was imperative she believe me as not to be caught later in the evening.
“My goodness,” Mrs. Winterbourne said, coming forward to take me by the shoulders. “I’ll have John, the butler, show you to your room. We put you in the guest room near Cecil. I hope that’s all right, darling.”
Mother gave me a stern look and I knew she feared I would react to the news or the mention of Cecil’s name.
“That would be lovely, Mrs. Winterbourne,” I said with a forced smile. “I only wish I was feeling up to celebrating. Perhaps if I lie down for a bit I might be able to enjoy the party later this evening.”
“Of course, darling. You poor thing.” Cecil’s mother was overly kind and gushed with genuine affection. My mother merely wanted to make sure I wasn’t an embarrassment to her.
“John?” she called out to the black suited man walking through the festivities with an air of importance. “Please take Miss Marilyn to her room and make sure her bag has made its way to her quarters. She’s not feeling well.” Turning her attention back to me, she asked. “Is there anything we can get for you? Bicarbonate?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to appear too ill, someone might want to check on me or God forbid find a doctor in the crowded party who would force some horrid elixir down my throat. I needed to keep this as insignificant as possible. “I think a rest will do wonders for me.”
Before I could leave, a handsome young man walked into the conversation, pausing in front of me as if we knew one another.
“Mrs. Winterbourne, Mrs. Richardson,” he said bowing his head to each of them before looking to me. “And whom might this be?”
“Christopher Marshall, this is Miss Marilyn Richardson.”
In my truest awkward style, I hesitated before giving him my hand. Instead of a formal handshake, he brought my hand his mouth, grazing his lips across my knuckles.
“Mr. Marshall is studying medicine at Transylvania University. I blushed and looked away. No man had ever kissed me before and I was all a titter. His blue eyes were disarming, yet somehow empty, like a bottomless well. His smile, confident.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Marshall.” I sputtered through the words only to have my mother step in to assure the gentleman I wasn’t an idiot.
“Please excuse Marilyn,” she said, gaining his attention. “She’s not feeling well.”
Immediately he looked back to me with a smile that reminded me of the man who’d sold Daddy his new car—opportunistic with an edge of artificial sincerity. “Perhaps I could help with that,” he said.
“No. Really.” I nearly gasped the words, my breath now failing at the idea of him attending to me. “I’ll be fine.”
“Miss Richardson?” John, the dark suited butler, held out his arm for me to precede him. I gave them all a quick nod, dropping my chin to stare at the floor.
“Feel better, Marilyn,” Mrs. Winterbourne said as I walked away.
“Yes,” Mr. Marshall agreed. “I do hope
you can return to the celebration.”
I stopped and turned to look him in the face once more before climbing the winding staircase that led to the second and third floors.
“I’m expecting a dance before the festivities are over, Marilyn,” he called after me. He paused, bowing to my mother. “With your permission of course, Mrs. Richardson.”
Batting my eyes, I waited to hear what Mother would say.
“I’m sure she’d love a dance, Mr. Marshall.”
I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks and I knew I was blushing. I gave him a nod, then taking my gaze back to the floor, began to climb the stairs with a newfound skip in my step. Perhaps the Winterbourne Christmas party wouldn’t be so bad after all.
I stared at the enormous moose head that hung over the roaring fire in my bedroom. It was one of many suites I’d been forced to stay in over the years. It seemed that with each Christmas, I found myself in even more beautiful accommodations. I thought at first it had something to do with the increasing number of people no longer making the trip due to financial difficulties, but perhaps it was because I was getting older and a young lady was in need of more room for her necessities.
Lying back on the bed, I looked to the candelabra nailed to the wall on my left made of deer antlers. It was only a decoration as the lodge was fully equipped with electricity and indoor plumbing—something my father called quite a feat for how deep the home was situated in the mountains.
A faint rap of shave and a haircut, two bits came at the door, and I knew it was Cecil. No self-respecting adult would knock on a door in such a manner.
“Come in, Cecil,” I droned, hoping he’d been able to sneak a taste of bourbon and bring it with him.
I sat on the edge of the bed inspecting a stuffed beaver in the corner of the room, not paying attention to the open and close of the door.
“Your father must truly love to hunt,” I said, unable to take my eyes from the gigantic teeth on the dead animal.
“I beg your pardon?”
The voice was deep and I gasped at its unfamiliarity before turning to face Mr. Marshall standing in front of the hearth. The shape of his body was backlit by the glow of the fire, making it seem he was rising from Hell itself.
Swallowing hard, I gave myself a moment to find words and stood to greet him. “Mr. Marshall.”
“I wanted to check on you. I wouldn’t want the most beautiful girl at the party to feign ill all evening.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come now, Marilyn,” he said, taking a step toward me. “I may not be a doctor yet, but I know a good acting job when I see one. Did you deliberately choose to be sickly tonight on the chance I might check in on you?”
He took another prowling step toward me, the smile on his face widening with each sound of his boots against the pine floor.
“I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Marshall, but I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
I teetered, tripping over my shoes as I took a step away from him and sat back on the bed. He moved swiftly and quietly, pushing me back to lie on the satin covers before laying his body on top of me. Without asking, he pressed his lips to mine, forcing his tongue into my mouth. Grinding himself into my body, I felt a hardness press against my hip as I struggled to free myself from his embrace.
“Please, stop.” I begged him, my breath wheezing in the small space that separated his advances from my refusal.
“Relax.” Mr. Marshall whispered the word in my ear, gripping my wrists tighter.
“Stop it!” Thrashing my face to and fro, I escaped his eager mouth and slimy tongue.
My body tensed and I struggled against his power and weight. Restraining my hands into one of his, he lifted my dress, running his free hand down my leg. Clamping his sweaty mitt to my thigh, he hissed in my face. The bourbon on his breath was strong, but it was the look in his soulless blue eyes that gave me reason to panic.
I took a deep breath, hoping to gain enough power let out an ear-splitting scream. My only hope was that someone would hear my cry over the carol singing downstairs and rescue me. I began to shriek and immediately his hand left my thigh, finding its way to cover my mouth.
“Be quiet,” he hissed. “We don’t want to disturb the party.”
His pressed his hand harder across my mouth, pushing my head into the soft bed. The sting of my tears burned against my chapped face.
“Relax, Marilyn. This will all be over in a moment. For God’s sake, be agreeable.”
Biting his hand as hard as I could, I watched him flinch in pain, holding in his own cry. Still, he didn’t climb off me, or remove his other groping hand.
Then as suddenly as he’d snatched his hand from my mouth, I watched as shock widened his eyes before hearing the crashing sound of glass breaking. Slumping forward, the weight of the heinous Christopher Marshall sank forward, pinning me to the bed before rolling over onto the floor with a thud.
I sat up, frantically pulling my dress down over my knees and found Cecil standing at the foot of my bed.
“You wanted me to do that, right?” he asked without emotion. Still holding the bottom of the shattered vase he’d used to coldcock my intruder, he gave me a reassuring smile.
Abruptly, I rushed to my boy-hero, burying my face in his shoulder as I cried out, “Thank you, Cecil. Thank you! You’re my hero.”
He hugged me tightly. “Shhhh,” he said, trying to calm me. “Christopher Marshall is the worst kind of asshole.”
I couldn’t be bothered to act shocked at his vulgar language. Cecil was right. Christopher Marshall was an asshole.
“I never liked him,” he said, looking me in the eyes as I pulled away and dried my tears.
“Yeah,” I sighed, regaining my composure. “Me either.”
Letting go of me, he walked to the table by the door and picked up two silver Mint Julep cups. The sides were thick with frosty perspiration. “You look like you need a drink.”
I nodded, wiping the last of the tears from my eyes.
“Let’s have a bourbon. Then you can explain to my mother why I broke her Chinese vase.”
Straightening my dress, I composed myself and carefully fingered my mussed hair, giving him another nod. “Okay.”
“You’re sure you’re fine?” he asked again.
“Yes. Thank you, Cecil.”
“The pleasure was mine, Mimi.”
Cecil was so young but already more of a man than most would be in their lifetime. He’d done for me what no other man had—he was my hero. With a bourbon in my hand I raised my silver julep cup to him. I had a new friend. And I had a new name.
December 27, 1931
Marilyn
Dear Diary,
Christmas is over and a new year is upon us. Upon me. 1932 will surely allow me to be a new person. At least I hope it will. This past year was filled with many things: parties, school, music and reading—my favorite was John Galsworthy’s, Maid in Waiting. An all-together completely swoon-worthy romance. Unfortunately, I learned just a week ago that all romance isn’t swoony. Some of it is downright dreadful.
After being left alone while at Winter Lodge for the annual Christmas party, I was attacked by a heinous man who kissed me and laid his body on mine. I’ll admit I’d often wondered what it would be like to kiss a boy, or even to know the feeling of the weight of a man on top of me. Ever since reading the signed copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence I found in my aunt’s writing desk last summer, I’ve had a hard time not thinking about it.
A hero did emerge from the event. Little Cecil Winterbourne, who is no longer little, saved me from my would-be attacker. It was a good thing too. I was thankful for him. Especially when he validated the story I told to Mother and the others. Christopher Marshall lied to everyone and said Cecil attacked him unprovoked. That I was asleep and panicked when I saw him in my room. Why couldn’t Cecil be my age? He’s handsome, he comes from a well to do family, he’s funny and most of all, he likes me. Wh
y did he have to be so young?
When it was all said and done, Mother of course, believed Mr. Marshall and not me. But Cecil and I knew the truth and I’m certain Cecil’s mother knew too.
I can’t wait to get out of this town, out of this house and away from Mother. I told her I was going to send Cecil a thank you note and all she could say was, “for goodness sake don’t mention the incident in your room with Dr. Marshall.”
I quickly reminded her that he wasn’t a doctor, only studying to be and what I said to Cecil was private and between us. She inspected my Christmas thank you notes which she forced me to write just yesterday and I just know she put my note to Cecil in the rubbish heap.
Anyway, I’m looking forward to 1932 and all that it has in store for me. Whatever that might be. This is me, Mimi (the new nickname Cecil gave me) moving onward and upward.
December 10, 1939
Dear Mimi,
I just got word you won’t be attending the annual Christmas party at Winter Lodge. I must tell you I’m sorely disappointed. I was hoping to regale you with stories of my football triumphs this past season whereby you’d be properly impressed with me as you always are this time of year.
I hear you’ve had a wonderful year at school. Mother tells me she had the good fortune of seeing you at tea not long ago in Alabama. She informs me you’re more beautiful than ever. Too bad I won’t be able to see that firsthand. You know Mother’s eyesight has been going for a while now and I probably need to see you myself to know just how well you’re getting along.
All jokes aside Mimi, you will be missed in Asheville this holiday season. Please know I’m always thinking of you. I’m sending you best wishes for a joyous Christmas and a prosperous New Year and hope to see you in 1940.
Until then, I remain yours truly,
Cecil
December 23, 1941
Marilyn
Glenn Miller’s, Chattanooga Choo Choo blared on the radio as I drove my new Packard 120 convertible around the twists of the winding road. Too cold to drop the top, I had the heater on full tilt—the rag top no match for the howling Carolina wind outside. It was nearly Christmas and time for my family and others to gather at the Winterbourne place. For the past few years I’d been given a reprieve from the annual affair, always citing final exams and even last minute trips to visit friends before the twenty-fifth, but this year I was happy to oblige my parents. A young man in Shadeland had been writing and I knew my mother was chomping at the bit to make a bride of me. The last place I wanted to be this Christmas was home. I wanted there to be no chance of a proposal from a man I had no intention of marrying because Mother felt he came from the right family.