by Jane Peart
"I'm a pretty simple guy, Crystal. Maybe if you'd try to explain, I'll do my best to understand."
After that, nothing was real. Time seemed suspended for the rest of that gray winter day. Outside, a chill drizzle fell over the city, but the two were unaware of the weather while they talked endlessly.
At length Kip said very seriously, "I want you to know, Crystal, that your coming to Virginia when you did and being you—with the kind of values and discipline you have, the dedication to your chosen work—has had a powerful effect on me. You may not believe this, but after you left, I took a good look at myself, and I've come to the conclusion—well, I plan to make some changes."
The old teasing quality crept back into his voice. "You might not be able to see the changes yet, but they're real. You see, for a long time I've been floundering. Bringing Luc to live with me has had a stabilizing effect, too. I love that little fellow more than my life . . . and up until now I've let Mattie take over most of his care. But no more. I want to be a real father to him, want him to be proud of me. So . . . I've made some decisions. I just hope you'll consider being part of them."
"What kind of decisions?" she asked warily.
"Becoming a responsible citizen, maybe running for public office." He stopped abruptly and grinned at her. "I'll go over all this at dinner. I'm starved and I can never think well on an empty stomach. Where can I take you for dinner? Or . . ." He cast her a quizzical look—"do you cook?"
She tossed a sofa pillow at him and said with mock indignation. "Yes, of course I cook. But it would be wasted on your Southern palate. I'll take you where the food is good but plain."
They went to one of those restaurants in Greenwich Village, known by word of mouth to "insiders." The dark wood paneling was relieved by ornately carved shelves bearing brightly painted designs, and there were red-checkered cloths on tables centered with candles. They were served a hearty meal of pot roast and potato pancakes, followed by a rich apple dessert in pastry shells, consumed to the music of a trio of ruddy-faced musicians playing folk music and polkas.
It was late when they got back to her apartment, and Kip phoned for a taxi to take him to the Manhattan hotel where he was staying. When he hung up, he turned to Crystal. "I hope you can put everything aside tomorrow and spend the day with me."
She started to protest a busy schedule, but in the end she agreed. When his taxi arrived, her gave her a quick kiss and was gone.
After he left, Crystal was shaken. She hadn't meant for any of this to happen. Kip had walked back into her life out of the blue. No, that wasn't quite true. She suspected that the pictures she had sent him had fanned the spark between them. Well, it was too late now. Maybe Kip's coming here had to be. Maybe she had to face her feelings and decide what to do about them, once and for all.
Crystal did not sleep well that night, and in the morning, she was just as indecisive as she had been the evening before. She felt keyed up, confused, and Kip's arrival at midmorning didn't help.
"What would you like to do today?" she asked, pouring him a cup of coffee and wishing her brain were clearer, her resolution to resist his charm firmer.
He grinned. "Play tourist. Take a Staten Island ferry and see the Statue of Liberty."
The day was crisp and bright, the sea air tangy as the little boat moved out of the crowded harbor. But when the world-famous statue came into view, Crystal and Kip were oblivious to the magnificent bronze symbol, they were too much aware of each other.
Standing on deck and leaning against the rail, Kip gazed down at her. "My real reason for coming to New York was to ask you to marry me," he confessed. "I know you care for me . . . you just won't admit it. And I'm mad about you . . . you're the most interesting, the most intriguing woman I've ever met . . . though I still can't figure you out." He scratched his head, then grew serious again. "I want you to be part of my life . . . part of our lives—Luc's and mine. Please say you'll come to Virginia and marry me."
Crystal could only stare at him. "You refuse to understand, don't you, Kip? My work is here in New York. I can't just drop everything I've worked so hard to accomplish."
"Who says you'd have to do that? You can photograph in Virginia as well as here, can't you? What's the problem?"
Crystal shook her head. "Kip, you're absolutely impossible! I get other assignments. I travel," she spelled out, as if to a very small child. "That's how I came to Virginia in the first place, remember? My next idea could take me anywhere in the world."
"But I admire your work. I wouldn't stand in your way, Crystal."
"You wouldn't mean to, Kip. But it just wouldn't work. I . . ."
He cut off the rest of her sentence with a kiss.
"Kip!" Crystal remonstrated, looking around her self-consciously. He opened his mouth to say something, but guessing what it might be, she interrupted, "Don't say it, Kip. Please don't."
"Why, Crystal? What are you afraid of?"
They argued all the way back, Kip at his most persuasive, and Crystal protesting every argument he advanced. In the city they caught a Fifth Avenue bus. Kip's arm went around her, and she didn't move away but leaned against him. They passed Central Park and, noticing the still-colorful trees, Crystal pointed, commenting on their beauty.
Kip only smiled. "But they don't really compare to Virginia in the fall, do they?"
Getting off the bus at the next stop, they walked hand-in-hand, window shopping, talking and laughing as if they had all the time in the world. But as they neared Crystal's apartment, they fell silent. The time was short now. They both knew it, began to feel the tension mount. Then it was time for Kip to take a taxi back to his hotel and on to Pennsylvania Station to catch his train.
He stood and shrugged into his overcoat, saying glumly, "I hate to leave you with nothing settled between us."
"But it is settled, Kip."
"Then I don't like the way it's settled. When is your exhibit in Richmond?"
"It's set for April."
"Promise me you'll come to Mayfield then, after the exhibit? Give us another chance?"
Crystal hesitated, and that moment of hesitation was her undoing. Kip took full advantage of it and kissed her, preventing any further argument. The kiss was long and deep, heady with possibilities. Breathlessly she pulled away.
"Then you will come!" Kip said triumphantly.
Realizing it was pointless to deny what her heart was demanding, Crystal sighed and nodded.
Kip smiled, saying softly, "Until spring, darling."
"Until spring," she agreed.
He kissed her again; then he was gone.
Part IV
Mayfield, Virginia
March 1926
chapter
16
IN THE EDITOR'S office of the Mayfield Messenger, Scott Cameron impatiently moved a pile of papers to the other side of his cluttered roll-top desk and swung around in his swivel chair toward the window overlooking the Square. From there he could see the Confederate War Monument—a bronze cannon with its pyramid of balls and a plaque underneath, listing the gallant Mayfield County men who had lost their lives in the Cause that had also been lost.
The octagon-shaped fountain sparkled benignly in the early morning sunshine. Several elderly men sat on the surrounding benches while fat pigeons waddled by in their daily pursuit of spilled popcorn and crumbs. It was the picture of small-town serenity. But Scott knew better. Appearances were deceptive. Behind the postcard impression of this sleepy little Southern community, old wounds that had never healed throbbed beneath scar tissue.
Scott's gaze traveled to a large sign towering over a vacant lot just down the street. In large red modern letters, it read: "Woodridge Construction Company—Part of Mayfield's Past Building Mayfield's Future." A good slogan, Scott had to admit. Ironically, it was currently the source of heated debate. People on either side of the issue were vehement in their opinions. The city council itself was divided as to whether Woodridge should be given more permits to tear dow
n some of the town's historic old buildings and build new ones.
A case in point had been the new Messenger building itself. Construction on it had begun before Scott came home from Army duty in France. Its architecture, replacing the old dark red structure built in 1850, had created a furor, many of the town folks complaining that it looked like a granite corrugated box! Some of them had hated to see the historic building go. During the War Between the States, people had gathered outside, waiting for the casualty lists to be posted. The paper's morgue held copies of the issues announcing the births, deaths, and weddings of the residents of Mayfield for generations back, and everyone had some sentimental reason for not wanting the old place torn down.
Of course, Scott had to admit that this building was much sounder, especially the composing room where the paper was turned out twice a week. In the old building, the floors had been so warped and slanted the Linotype operators had been forced to block their chairs so as not to slide away from their machines. So most everyone who worked at the Messenger had to concede, however reluctantly, that a new building was necessary. Woodridge had made the lowest bid and was awarded the contract. Curious coincidence, Scott rubbed his chin thoughtfully, that so many contracts for new buildings in Mayfield have gone to Woodridge in the past few years.
Strangely enough, Hal Woodridge had dropped by to see him late the afternoon before. "No special reason," he had said. But the conversation had turned quickly to politics, to the vacant seat in the state senate left by Senator Wilcox's retirement.
"Who do you think would make a good replacement, Scott?"
Scott had shaken his head doubtfully. He wasn't going to be tricked into naming someone that Hal might take as an endorsement before all the players were on the field. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure there will be plenty of candidates before it's all over."
"Well, let's hope it's someone who's looking ahead, wants to put Mayfield on the map, not one of these old fuddy-duddies who's afraid of progress."
In other words, thought Scott, not someone from the Historical Society or the Heritage Preservationist Club who wants to keep Mayfield just as it was before the war—meaning, of course, the War Between the States.
Scott had been noncommittal with Hal, and the man had soon left. But this early "fishing expedition" had given Scott pause. Whoever was elected to the office, the Messenger ought to have some input. He'd have to talk to some people he respected, get their ideas of who would best represent the area in the state capital.
Scott leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms up and clasped his hands behind his neck. He stared out at the familiar scene on the Square. He loved this town. The thought of coming back home, being part of all this place represented, had kept him going on many a day during the war.
Of course, when he did return, he had found many changes—changes he hadn't expected, some he didn't like. To play some part in just how Mayfield developed had been his main motive in buying the nearly bankrupt newspaper, building back its circulation, its impact on the community. When fellows like Hal Woodridge started showing interest in who got elected to the State senate, Scott felt real uncomfortable. What did the man hope to gain?
Before he bought the paper, Scott had given some consideration himself to running for public office. He had thought of the city council. But he had found himself too busy trying to bring the ailing newspaper back to life to become involved in local politics. Still, the thought had lingered in the recesses of his mind. Particularly whenever he heard rumors of graft, or corruption in high office, or a politician taking advantage of the position in which the people had placed him.
Scott believed passionately in the principles of Thomas Jefferson. He loved his country and what it stood for—democracy. "To make the world safe for democracy." Isn't that what they had all fought for? Not only during the American Revolution, but in the more recent conflict of 1918?
Naturally, if he ran for office, he'd have to give up the paper. Scott sighed deeply and whirled around again to face his desk. Maybe it was better to try to shape public opinion by finding a good candidate and backing him. Maybe the pen was mightier than the sword. Well, he'd have to give it some more thought.
A glance at the wall clock told him it was time to go home. He was reaching for his coat jacket when he remembered something else. Today was the day Aunt Garnet was supposed to arrive, bringing with her his young cousin, Bryanne, and her English governess. Scott wasn't much in the mood for entertaining his feisty aunt and her companion. He could barely remember Bryanne. Hadn't seen her since she was practically a baby. Ah, well, there was no way to avoid it.
He got to his feet and, taking a last look at the jumble on his desk, he went out of the office and closed the door firmly behind him.
chapter
17
Cameron Hall Spring 1926
BECAUSE OF SOME mix-up in their reservation, the little party arriving from England reached Mayfield a day later than expected. Lynette had waited at the train station for hours, until the last train from Richmond had come and gone. Upon her arrival back at Cameron Hall, she had learned by telegram that Garnet, Bryanne, and Jillian had been unavoidably detained. With no information as to what time they would arrive, there was no one to meet them the next day.
Garnet hastily commandeered the only available taxicab, and they bundled into it, with much complaining over the amount of luggage by the one crusty, old porter.
"I'd forgotten how provincial Mayfield is!" declared Garnet when at last they were settled in the dusty interior.
But nothing could dampen Bryanne's high spirits. She was finally coming home, her real home. The minute they left the Mayfield station, her excitement rose, mounting steadily as they drove along country roads. But she didn't remember anything. Surely something should look familiar. All she had to go on was the descriptions in Lynette's letters. So her heart was pumping wildly by the time they passed through the gates, over which an arched iron sign spelled out in scrolled letters "Cameron Hall," and rattled up in front of the house.
At the sound of the ancient vehicle sputtering to a stop, Lynette and Blythe rushed out the front door onto the terrace, just in time to see Garnet overseeing the unloading of their bags, while Bryanne stood shyly looking up at the house.
From poring over their photographs, Bryanne knew at once that the tall, auburn-haired lady was her father's mother—her Grandmother Blythe—and the young woman was Lynette. Although Bryanne recognized her sister on sight, she'd had no idea how lovely she was in person. She looked so cool and fresh in a light blue flowered dress. Bryanne became self-consciously aware of her own rumpled linen traveling suit. It had been terribly hot in Washington, D. C., even in early April, when they got on the train to Richmond. Accustomed to the more temperate English climate, she had found the warm Virginia weather dreadfully uncomfortable. Now Bryanne touched her hair, feeling the stickiness under the clustered curls at the nape of her neck, and attempted to straighten her limp straw hat.
But her appearance didn't seem to bother Lynette, who was flying down the terrace steps, calling, "Brynnie! Brynnie! I'm so glad to see you!"
At Lynette's exuberant greeting, Garnet turned to see her sister-in-law approaching. "Oh, Blythe, you'll never believe what we've been through! What a time we've had—" She broke off, gesturing impatiently to the mound of luggage being unloaded. "And then the train was late leaving Richmond. Some dignitary was expected . . . a senator, I think . . . and they were holding a private car for him. Such a fuss!"
"Well, you're here now, Garnet, and soon we'll have you all settled, and you can rest," Blythe said soothingly. "Just leave your luggage, and I'll have Jason come and bring it into the house." There was a slight stiffness between the two women in this first meeting after so many years.
Then Garnet took Jillian's arm and brought her forward. "Blythe, I'd like you to meet my companion and Bryanne's governess, Jillian Marsh. And, of course, this is our Bryanne."
At that, Blythe put out her
hand. "Welcome, Miss Marsh," she said, then turned a radiant smile on Bryanne, who was still chatting excitedly with Lynette. "Oh, my dear, it's so good to see you! I've waited so long for this day." Putting both hands on Bryanne's face, she kissed her on both cheeks. "Lynette, isn't it wonderful to have your little sister here?"
"Oh, yes! It is wonderful, Brynnie! A prayer answered!"
"For pity's sake, can't you girls please do your catching up in the house? I'm perishing in this heat," Garnet declared, running her finger along the inside of her lace collar. "I do hope you have something cool to offer us, Blythe. I'm longing for some good old Southern iced tea!"
"Of course, come along inside," Blythe said, somewhat flustered that Garnet had managed to make her feel remiss as a hostess. "If you'd rather go right up to your room so you can relax in private, Garnet, I can have a tray sent up."
"Yes, that might be reviving. It has been a very exhausting trip." Garnet started up the stairs, then stopped, as if remembering that this was not her home any longer. She turned around with an inquiring look.
Blythe anticipated her unspoken question. "Your old room, Garnet. It's been prepared for you."
"Thank you," Garnet replied with dignity and proceeded up the stairs.
Blythe turned to the other travelers. "Would you like to go up now, too? Miss Marsh, you have the guest room across the hall from the one Bryanne will share with Lynette. She'll show you the way."
"Yes, that would be lovely, Mrs. Cameron. Actually, I would like to freshen up and change," Jillian said. "And I'm sure the girls have lots to say to each other and would enjoy a little time alone together."
Charmed by the young woman's sensitivity, Blythe readily agreed. "I'll have some refreshments sent up in a few minutes. You can rest as long as you like. Dinner won't be until seven when my son Scott gets home from his office. Then we can have a real reunion."
They left Jillian at the door of her bedroom, and Lynette, still holding Bryanne's hand, led her across the hall and opened a door. "And this is our room!" she announced with pleasure. "You can't imagine how many times I've longed to have you here sharing it with me. When Grandmother did it over, I insisted she get two beds. I just knew one day you would be here, and it would be like the old days—when we were little girls at Avalon. You do remember Avalon, our real home, don't you?"