by Deeanne Gist
‘‘Is it true?’’
‘‘Well, yes,’’ she sputtered. ‘‘And I’m sorry, but I only did it that once. When I went to the jailhouse later for the sentencing, I rode Cocoa.’’
‘‘I want you to give me your bike.’’
She gasped. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘I want you to let me keep your bike in my barn so it won’t tempt you anymore.’’
She glanced toward her own barn, where inside Peg was lovingly draped with a protective blanket. ‘‘I won’t ride her again. I promise.’’
‘‘Then you shouldn’t mind giving it to me.’’
‘‘Her. Her name is Pegasus.’’
For the longest time he said nothing. Just continued to finger her hair before finally urging her again. ‘‘Will you give her to me?’’
‘‘Do you really think that’s necessary?’’ she asked, clasping her hands.
‘‘It’s for your own good.’’
She held her reaction in check. It’s just a machine, she told herself.
It’s not even a real animal, like a horse or a parrot or a snake. And, truly, she probably would be tempted to ride again.
Sighing, she swallowed. ‘‘Yes, Mr. Wortham. I will hand her over to you for safekeeping.’’
He laid his palm on the side of her face, sliding his thumb from her cheek to the corner of her lips and back. ‘‘I missed you.’’
Pushing her thoughts of Peg aside, she considered him seriously for the very first time. The very first time since she’d dismissed Adam from her life and since she’d felt God’s forgiveness for her sin. And she realized that she might never be in love with Ewing, but she could certainly love him. In fact, she was sure she already did.
‘‘I’m glad you’re back.’’ And she meant that. Not just because Harley now had another staunch supporter close by, but because she really did enjoy his company.
He hesitated, then slid his hand to the back of her head and pulled her toward him. The kiss was tender, chaste, and very precious.
‘‘Can I see you tomorrow?’’ he asked, the cold air making their breath visible as it blended together.
‘‘Yes. I think I would like that.’’
He kissed her again, allowing a little intensity this time, but couching it with restraint.
chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
ESSIE ONLY SAW Harley on Sundays when he escorted Mrs. Vandervoort to church. This past Sunday, Mr. Vandervoort’s health had improved enough for the three of them to attend together.
It was clear the older couple adored the boy, and he blossomed under their attention. On Thanksgiving, Mr. Vandervoort asked Papa if Harley could spend the nights at their home instead of in jail.
‘‘He’s so lonesome there,’’ Mr. Vandervoort had said. ‘‘It’s not right. A boy his age, all alone in a cell like that.’’
So Papa relented, and had the elderly man been able to dance a jig, she felt sure he would’ve. She wished she could have seen Harley’s reaction. It must have been something to behold.
Meanwhile, Ewing had pressed his suit to the point that he came by the house every day, sometimes twice. So she had curtailed her visits to the State Orphan’s Home. She didn’t want to accelerate their courtship any further by going out to where he lived.
But it looked as if their connection was gaining momentum regardless of what she did or did not do. He had been very deliberate in his pursuit of her, going to great efforts to ensure the townsfolk saw them as a couple—carriage rides down Main Street, now decorated with a series of berried Christmas garlands spanning its width. Sitting beside her family at church and sharing a hymnal with her. Showering her with flowers, candy, and books of poetry he’d purchased from the Slap Out.
And the town was all abuzz with the news. Just yesterday, Mrs. Lockhart had loaned Essie a novel by Mrs. Bertha Clay called On Her Wedding Morn. A little something she thought Essie might like to read.
However, one of Mrs. Clay’s books was enough. Essie had no intention of ever reading another. But as she stared at its slate blue cover decorated with red medallions, its pages called to her, like a siren singing with bewitching sweetness. She picked it up off her nightstand and opened it to the middle.
How was I to warn Miss Dalrymple? To tell her bluntly that her lover was a scamp, simply would not do. Did she still love him? Had she ever really loved him?
I was inclined to answer no to both questions. I believed that as of yet she had really loved no one.
‘‘Essie?’’ her mother called. ‘‘Ewing is here.’’
Slamming the book closed, Essie shoved it under the bed. Ewing was supposed to take her to Keber & Cobb’s Confectionery for a sweet. Grabbing her cloak, she hurried to the stairs, only to pull up short, halfway down.
Ewing looked absolutely splendid. He wore a brown wool dress suit richly piped with satin. The pattern fit him with meticulous precision, showing off his young, muscular physique. He had a tan cassimere coat tucked in the crook of his elbow and a derby tucked under that same arm. His smile was warm, his gaze possessive.
He’d told her that in between his classes in Nashville he’d worked for a tailor. At first he’d wrapped up the orders, made deliveries, and swept the store. Then, little by little, his employer had taught him how to measure, how to cut, and how to construct their customers’ garments.
He’d had free use of any of their damaged fabrics or spares. She was certain the fine clothes he wore now were of his own making. Otherwise, he’d never have been able to afford them.
He plucked off one of his gloves. ‘‘You are beautiful. What a lovely hat.’’
She smoothed the twist at the nape of her neck. The hat was decidedly dull, but her reservations were soothed by his obvious appreciation.
He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. ‘‘Good evening.’’ His breath was warm, his lips smooth. ‘‘Allow me to help you with your wrap.’’
After draping it over her shoulders, he shrugged on his jacket, set his derby at a jaunty angle upon his head, and escorted her to his buggy.
The drive to the confectionery was slow and easy as Ewing pointed to the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt. Then the two of them made up constellations of their own, connecting some of the brilliant dots God had strewn across the night sky. They discovered an umbrella, a boot, and a sled before arriving at the confectionery.
The bell on its door ting-a-linged as they entered. The aromas of chocolate, nuts, and melted sugar lay heavy in the air. Mr. Keber welcomed them and suggested they look around while he finished serving his current customer.
The glass display cases were lined with every kind of candy imaginable in an assortment of colors. All looked heavenly. She decided on a cherry walnut divinity. Ewing ordered a cream caramel.
‘‘Would you put them in a box for us, please? We’ll not have time to enjoy them here, I’m afraid.’’
Startled, Essie looked at Ewing but said nothing.
Mr. Keber’s eyes held a twinkle as he winked and handed Ewing their order. ‘‘You two have a good evenin’, now, ya hear?’’
When they were back inside the buggy, she slipped her hands inside an ermine muff she had brought with her. ‘‘Where are we going?’’
‘‘It’s a surprise,’’ he said.
He placed his arm along the back of the buggy seat, content to move slowly through town while guiding the horse with one hand.
At Twelfth Street, they left the busy part of town behind and passed Papa’s oil field and cable-tool rig, sitting silent and still in the quiet night. The magnolia tree’s silhouette was barely discernable.
Images filled her. Adam, bandanna around his neck, sleeves rolled up as he hung suspended in the stirrup and kicked down the rig. Adam practicing tricks with his lasso. Adam admitting he had no idea how many children he might have fathered along the way.
‘‘Where are we going?’’ she whispered.
‘‘Just a little farther.’’
She rolled the
muff back and forth against her skirt. ‘‘I thought we needed to avoid being alone.’’
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘‘Just this once I think it’ll be all right.’’
But instead of being reassured, she grew increasingly more alarmed as he turned the buggy off the road and headed toward Two Bit Creek. He pulled to a halt in front of the slope where she’d taught Adam to ride a bicycle.
Ewing jumped from the seat, then reached up for her. Grasping her elbows, he lifted her to the ground, his hands lingering before finally releasing her.
He swiped the box of confections from the floor of the buggy, took her hand and guided her down the slope. The evening rang with sounds of crickets, frogs, and woodcocks. The temperature had dropped with the approach of winter, but Essie loved the crispness of December’s air. Always had.
Beside the giant tree stump where Adam had crashed her bike was a blanket. Open, waiting, and all spread out on the ground.
Ewing lit two lanterns that held down the corners of the cloth. A handful of mums lay on top of it, scattered from the breeze.
He gathered them and handed them to her. ‘‘Would you join me?’’
She hesitated. The last time a man had spread a blanket in advance of her arrival, things had turned out disastrously.
But this was Ewing, not Adam. And this was the new Essie, not the old one. Accepting the flowers, she settled onto the blanket. He lifted the lid to the confections and picked up her divinity.
‘‘Open up,’’ he said, his large, tanned hand dwarfing the tiny delectable.
Keeping her hands burrowed inside the muff, she took a bite, her teeth grazing his fingers. The brown sugar dissolved in her mouth, leaving behind candied cherries and walnuts. With his intense gaze on hers, he took the other half of the divinity into his mouth.
Her stomach quivered in response.
‘‘Do you like cream caramels?’’ he asked.
She nodded. They shared it in the same manner, but once she took her half into her mouth, she bit down on something hard and inedible. He handed her a handkerchief.
Frowning, she used her tongue to clean the candy from the object within her mouth before transferring it to the handkerchief. Opening the crumpled cloth, she discovered a gold band.
‘‘Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?’’ he asked.
Her lips parted, confusion gripping her. She had no idea what to say.
Ewing took the ring, handkerchief and all, wiped it off, then tugged on her right hand, removing it from the muff.
It was acceptable for a man whose means were limited to offer a gold band as an engagement ring. It was worn on the third finger of his intended’s right hand until the wedding, at which time it was transferred to her left.
‘‘May I?’’ he asked, holding the ring in readiness.
Her throat swelled. ‘‘Don’t you think you should speak with my father first?’’
‘‘I have.’’
‘‘And he approves?’’
‘‘He does.’’
‘‘He didn’t say a word to me.’’
‘‘I asked him not to.’’
She stood transfixed by the shiny sparkle of lantern light glancing off the gold ring. The gold ring she’d been longing for her whole entire life.
She curled her hand around his and brought it against her waist.
‘‘I’m scared.’’
‘‘Don’t be scared.’’
‘‘Can I think about it?’’
He slowly lowered the ring. ‘‘You have to think about it? Surely you knew I was going to ask you.’’
Licking her lips, she nodded. ‘‘Yes. Yes, I knew. I just, well, I wasn’t expecting this panic, this uncertainty.’’ She pressed his fist more solidly against her stomach. ‘‘Can you feel it? Can you feel the mayhem going on inside of me?’’
He stretched his fingers, freeing himself from her grip, and flicked her cloak open. He pressed his hand flat against her shirtwaist, covering as much of her stomach as he could. The gesture was possessive and terribly intimate.
‘‘All I feel is a woman I want very much. A woman I have wanted almost my whole life.’’
‘‘Oh, Ewing.’’ She clamped her lower lip between her teeth.
He placed a kiss on the palm of her hand, then held it against his cheek. ‘‘Please say yes, Essie. Please. I need you. I love you. Please.’’
‘‘You must give me some time.’’
‘‘How much time?’’
‘‘Two days? Three?’’
‘‘Not a minute more.’’
‘‘All right.’’
Leaning forward, he kissed her. But she did not open her lips or lean into his chest. She knew now where that led and she’d committed to wait. And wait she would.
—————
The next day, Essie sat at the kitchen table, polishing silver fruit spoons, trying to sort out her feelings.
Papa stepped through the back door, a blast of cold air wafting through the kitchen and causing the fire to gutter. He hooked his coat on a peg, along with his hat, then poured himself a cup of coffee from the stove.
‘‘Are you trying to shine those or obliterate their engravings?’’ he asked.
Essie looked up.
‘‘You’ve been working on that same spoon ever since I came in.’’
‘‘Have I? I wasn’t paying attention.’’
Each spoon held on its bowl depictions of the fruit to be consumed. This one was for strawberries.
Papa pulled out a chair and settled himself into its rickety form.
The sound of her rubbing was drowned out by the brisk winter wind whistling past their window and back door.
‘‘Is something wrong?’’ he asked.
She shot him a quick glance. ‘‘Why do you ask?’’
‘‘Because you seem distracted. Quiet. You shut yourself in your room last night—’’ ‘‘I was reading Robinson Crusoe.’’
‘‘And Ewing hasn’t come by all day.’’
‘‘He had some things he needed to do.’’ She dipped the spoon she was working on in a bowl of water, swishing it around before drying it off. ‘‘What do you think of Ewing, Papa? I mean what do you really think?’’
‘‘I think he is an excellent young man with a great deal of potential. Always has been.’’ He paused. ‘‘What do you think of him?’’
‘‘The same, I guess.’’
He took a sip from his cup. ‘‘You guess? You don’t know?’’
‘‘He’s asked me to marry him.’’
Papa nodded. ‘‘Well. I had wondered. He’d requested my permission nearly a week ago.’’
Essie picked up the next spoon. This one had peaches on it.
‘‘What did you say?’’ he asked.
‘‘That I had to think about it.’’
‘‘I imagine that wasn’t the answer he was hoping for.’’
‘‘No. I’m afraid it wasn’t.’’
‘‘Do you have some objection to him?’’
Essie sighed. ‘‘That’s just it, Papa. There is nothing wrong with him. He is perfect. He is a man of God. He has forgiven me for giving myself to Adam. He is nice-looking. He has a good heart.
What, then, am I waiting for?’’
‘‘Perhaps someone you are in love with? Someone who isn’t trying to mold you into being something you are not?’’ His words were quiet, gentle, yet very potent.
‘‘But I’ve been waiting for this opportunity my whole life. Ever since I was a little girl, all I ever wanted was to grow up and be someone’s wife, the mother of someone’s children. Now here is a perfectly fine man being handed to me on a silver platter, and I am hesitating.’’
Papa set down his cup. ‘‘Sounds like you are trying to convince yourself that if you could just marry Ewing—any man, really—you would be fulfilled. But you won’t, Essie.’’
‘‘But if Ewing had asked me this past summer, I’d have said yes without a moment’s hesita
tion. It’s what I want and what I’ve been praying for.’’
‘‘You’ve been praying for something you thought would make you happy. But God may have something else in store for you. Remember, an ‘eye has not seen, nor ear heard . . . the things which God has prepared for those who love Him.’ ’’
Essie nodded and picked up another spoon. ‘‘But I could easily make my life with him. I could. We have been friends for years. I’m sure that over time my feelings for him would grow.’’
‘‘You’re still justifying. Is it because you’re trying to convince me— and yourself—that a man and marriage will make you complete and happy?’’ He placed his large hand over her delicate one, halting her ministrations. ‘‘They won’t, you know. Nothing can truly fill you other than Christ.’’
‘‘Can’t I have both? A man and Christ, I mean?’’
‘‘Not if you prefer marriage above all else. God must come first.
He must be even more important to you than marriage.’’
‘‘But God’s not flesh and blood.’’ She felt her eyes pool. ‘‘And I’m lonely.’’
Papa removed the cloth and spoon from her fingers, then clasped her hands. ‘‘Essie, my girl, there is no aloneness like being married and alone.’’
‘‘How could that be?’’
‘‘It is that way for many, many couples, I’m afraid. There is no rapport between the partners. Or the man makes decisions the woman can’t walk in. Or the woman henpecks the man to death. Or the man spends his time east of Beaton Street while the woman is left at home and alone with the children.’’
‘‘None of that would happen to Ewing and me. And many folks say that friendship is the very best basis for marriage.’’
‘‘Friendship is important, very important, I’ll grant you that. But am I wrong in my estimation when I say that Ewing is trying to press you into some mold that you don’t fit into very well?’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘I mean, why have you quit bicycling? Quit practicing on your wheeled feet? Quit hunting and fishing? And why have you quit wearing those hats that suit you like no others?’’
‘‘Ewing is afraid the church will rescind their offer if I don’t maintain the strictest of standards in ladylike behavior.’’