“Oh, gracious me, I’m as fine as a silver spoon. Never better. Well, except for this gout, as I mentioned. I presume you’re plannin’ to attend the community picnic this Saturday, hosted by the Paris Women’s Club? It’ll be quite the affair, like always.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” Flora didn’t especially wish to go, but it wouldn’t do for her to skip when folks counted on her delicious cakes, cookies, and pies at the baked goods sale. She always received high praise for them.
“I serve on the plannin’ committee, you know.”
“Isn’t that nice.” Flora could about imagine how their meetings went, too. Once they finished with business, the gossip would begin. That was reason enough not to join the Paris Women’s Club, never mind that she’d been invited only twice. She couldn’t abide their worthless chatter. Besides, what if one of them started questioning her about matters she didn’t care to address—namely, her husband’s sentence? Yes, the courts had closed the books on the case, but she had no doubt folks still talked about it in hushed tones, wondering what really had transpired on that dreadful day. Oh, she kept a number of secrets locked away, secrets of which she alone—and that vile Virgil Perry—had knowledge. No, best all around she stay clear of that talkative, if not nosy, club.
The bank clerk finished with a customer, and those in line took one step forward. Wilma eyed her askance. “Nice havin’ your son for a neighbor! You do know my yard backs up to Mercy’s, don’t you?”
No, she hadn’t known. “Well, aren’t you the lucky one? I mean—how nice for you.”
“Yes, she’s a fine young woman, that Mercy. And your son, my, what a handsome feller. Friendly, too, is what I hear. I haven’t had much opportunity to talk to him over the fence, mind you, but I see him out back most every evenin’, playin’ with those darlin’ li’l boys. I’m sure you must miss him, but you know what they say—you didn’t lose a son; you gained a daughter.”
“Is that what they say?” She didn’t like the direction this conversation had taken, particularly since it seemed to have attracted the attention of the other bank patrons, and one of them, a man, wore a definite smirk on his face.
“How noble of Sam to rescue those boys from that house fire, and then to marry Mercy so she could take custody of ’em. She sure was devoted to the Watsons. Terrible tragedy, their deaths.” The woman wagged her head and frowned, closing her mouth for all of five seconds—probably to catch her breath.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” The bigger tragedy was Samuel’s marrying an Evans, but she’d keep that thought tucked away. She glanced with impatience at the people ahead of her in line. A small child started fussing, and her mother bent to pick her up, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle.
“Of course, I’m sure you weren’t too thrilled by their decision to marry,” Wilma went on, “or perhaps you’ve put that silly feud to rest by now.”
“Silly feud”? How dare she! What did she know about their families’ history? The line advanced one step, and Flora began counting the seconds until she could leave the confines of this building—and, better yet, the presence of this intolerable woman.
“Mrs. Connors?”
She glanced up and saw the bank president, Edgar Landry, standing in the doorway to his office. “Won’t you come in? We can conduct whatever business you have in the privacy of my office. I’m sure you’ll find it more comfortable.”
About time! Mr. Landry always treated her with the respect she deserved. Of course, he had all her investments, so he’d better. With great relief, she left the line, not bothering to return Wilma Whintley’s farewell.
***
Sam’s workday buzzed past with nary a minute to stop for a breather. Over the last month, customer orders had piled up, spiking a discussion between him and his uncle about whether to hire an assistant. “It’d be to our benefit,” Sam had said just yesterday.
“But we’d have to train ’im,” Clarence had pointed out, “and right now we’re too swamped to think about it. Now, if my boys had showed some interest in smithin’, it might be a different story today, but nope, they’re wrapped up in careers o’ their own choosin’. I’m fine with it, o’ course. Can’t live life through my sons.”
He thought he detected a bit of regret in his uncle’s voice, and why wouldn’t he? Just as he, Sam, had shown no interest in farming—much to his mother’s lament—his cousins Peter and John had wanted nothing to do with the family business. It made him question who, if anyone, would carry on the work when he was gone. He thought about John Roy and Joseph and wondered if, as they grew a little older, he oughtn’t to bring them over to the shop and demonstrate the art of blacksmithing. Might catch their interest.
In light of how busy they were, Sam hated to bring up the matter of his desire to take off a couple of days so he could travel to Nashville to visit the cousin he hadn’t seen in years. The more he thought about the letter from Persephone, the more he longed to jump on the next train, if for no other reason than to put his curiosity to rest. Besides, the incident with Barney’s going missing and then the peculiar manner in which he’d been returned kept hounding him. He needed to get some answers, and while he couldn’t be sure Persephone truly had any, he couldn’t ignore the things she’d written. Someone was up to no good, and Persephone just might be able to shed a little light on the matter. Even Mercy had encouraged him to go see her, and when he’d said he still didn’t feel comfortable leaving her and the boys alone at night, she’d suggested they could go stay with her aunt Gladys, which had eased his mind a great deal.
His uncle had begun whistling one of his favorite hymns as he paused to inspect one of the dozens of hinges he’d made that afternoon. Sam would be happy with a rate of production half as fast as his uncle’s, but he didn’t want to sacrifice quality, so he kept working at a comfortable pace. Clarence often reminded him that smithing was an art form of which only time and practice and a wagonload of passion could expand his abilities and improve his skills. “When I was a young buck like you, I didn’t have near the finesse that you already have. In a few years’ time, you’ll be workin’ circles ’round me,” he’d said. Sam appreciated his vote of confidence but doubted the accuracy of his prediction. Fortunately, he loved the profession, so it wouldn’t bother him if his uncle remained a hair better at it than he.
“What’s that you’re whistlin’?” he asked.
“‘Standin’ on the Promises,’” he answered, still studying his work.
“Nice tune. What are the words?”
He put the hinge down and rubbed his whiskered jaw. “We sang it at First Methodist last Sunday. Been in my head ever since.” He cleared his throat and broke into song, his rich tenor voice carrying through the room and probably out the windows. “Standin’, standin’, standin’ on the promises of Christ my Savior; standin’, standin’, I’m standin’ on the promises of God.” As he sang, Clarence waved his arm, as if conducting an orchestra. When he finished, they both cut loose with light laughter.
“You have a nice voice, Uncle. Who’d you inherit your musical talents from, your mother or father?”
“Your grandmother Connors had a fine voice. She stopped using it for God’s glory, though.”
“What do you mean?”
A deep line etched Clarence’s already crumpled brow. He lifted his apron and sopped up the moistness gathered there. “She and Pa grew so embittered over fightin’ with the Evans family, she lost all her shine. The song went right outta her.”
“What was there to fight about?” Sam was intrigued, but Uncle Clarence had always been tight-lipped about the feud, so he tried to keep his tone blasé.
“What wasn’t there? A county judge ruled in our family’s favor when it came to property lines and some other issues concernin’ livestock, and you’d have thought they’d have let it rest, but no, the fightin’ continued, especially after Cornelius Evans—that’s Mercy’s grandfather—died of sudden dropsy. I don’t remember the detail
s, but I know his passin’ created an even bigger stir, with the Evanses blamin’ Pa—your grandfather—for Corney’s premature death. I remember Ma and Pa talkin’ some nights into the early-mornin’ hours, even raisin’ their voices. ’Course, I never did learn all the ins and outs of the bickerin’; and, frankly, I didn’t care. Still don’t. It seemed so silly to me as a kid, but I guess it mattered to them as adults. Shortly after Corney Evans died, his wife sold the farm, makin’ all that fightin’ over property lines seem ridiculous. She moved her family to a house in town, and everyone said she took a big loss in the sale. She taught her kids to hate the Connors, and, o’ course, your grandparents did the same with regard to them.”
“But not you. How come?”
Clarence shook his head and shrugged. “I saw what it did to my parents and siblings. No way was I gonna be party to it. Besides, the Lord had His hand on me from a very young age, and I knew hate could have no place in my heart if I was goin’ to serve Him.”
Sam considered that. “My reasons were similar to yours, but I don’t think they were spiritually driven. I just wanted to take the road opposite the one my mother chose for me. She was always so hard to please, and downright pessimistic, so I determined early on not to be like her.”
Clarence chuckled and scratched his head, making several thin gray strands of hair stand on end. “Can’t blame you for that. Still, I wouldn’t rule out the spiritual aspect. I believe God’s been preparin’ you from the time you were this high”—he extended his palm at table height—“to marry Mercy. He knew it wouldn’t do for you to hold a bunch of antagonism toward her family, or you never would have married ’er. In my opinion, He kept your heart soft.”
“You really think so?” The notion that God had been working in his life from an early age gave Sam something else to mull over, even made him more anxious to get home and crack open his Bible for his daily reading.
“I’m sure of it. You asked the Lord into your heart when you were but a boy, and from that day forward, God’s kept you safe in His care…even in your strayin’ years.”
He laughed. “Polite way to put it, Uncle—‘strayin’ years.’”
Clarence grinned. “I remember you comin’ into the shop when you were but a boy to tell your father you’d asked Jesus into your heart. Pardon my sayin’ so, but my brother could be quite a dunce. Said you were too young for such decisions. I told him I disagreed, and then I encouraged you, which got your pa’s dander up. He didn’t like my interferin’.”
Sam smiled, conjuring a vague recollection. “I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, and you’re right, that man could be a dolt sometimes. Never was the nurturin’ sort. Shoot, you treated me more like a son than my own father ever did.”
Clarence gave his head a slow shake. “I s’pose I did. Never could abide him treatin’ you with anythin’ less than kindness. You were a good kid. Shoot, most of my nieces and nephews are good kids, or at least started out that way. It’s their parents what went wrong, bringin’ ’em up to be so hateful toward the Evans clan.”
“You and Aunt Hester did right by your kids.”
The older man’s chest puffed out with his hefty sigh, and he looped his thumbs behind his suspender straps. “They turned out fine, if I do say so, and I’m proud they’re all servin’ the Lord. Raise your kids up in the way they ought to go, and when they grow up, they won’t depart from it, is what the Bible says. Well, maybe not word for word, but that’s the gist of it.”
Outside, the trees made a rustling sound as a pleasant cross breeze wafted through the windows and counteracted the heat coming off the shop’s ever-glowing furnace. A chipmunk scampered up the oak tree trunk just past the window and took to scolding a blue jay that’d come too close. Sam decided to take advantage of their unscheduled work break and broach a new subject.
“What do you know about my cousin Persephone Greve?”
The question didn’t seem to faze Uncle Clarence. “Gil an’ Ella’s youngest?” He scratched his temple. “I’m sorry to say she’s one I failed to get to know as well as some of my other kin. She came along a little later; don’t think Gil an’ Ella were quite prepared for ’er. Why’d you ask?”
“Oh, I was just curious. I’ve been thinkin’ about goin’ to visit her.”
Clarence’s silver brows shot up. “That so? What brought that on?”
Shoot, he might have known he’d ask. “Just thinkin’ about the cousins I don’t know very well. She’s probably the one I know the least. I guess I’d like to connect with her—and meet her husband. I didn’t go to the weddin’.”
“Few did. It was a small affair, was what I heard. I’m not even sure Gil an’ Ella went. They seem to be estranged from her, which I’ve never understood. It’s not somethin’ they choose to talk about, though, so I don’t bring it up.” He left his station and walked to the small wooden icebox in the corner, opened the door, and took out a Mason jar filled with water. He unscrewed the lid, took several swigs, then wiped his mustache. “When you plannin’ to go see Persephone?”
Sam let out a long-held breath. “I was thinkin’ soon.”
Clarence sniffed. “Mercy and the boys goin’, too?”
“No, they’ll go stay with Mercy’s aunt Gladys.”
“That’s a good idea, considerin’ that strange incident with your cat. Never can be sure what folks’ll do these days. We live in some crazy times.”
“Yes, we sure do.”
“Well, I, for one, think it’s a good idea, you gettin’ to know your long-lost cousin.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
“We’ve got a lot of orders to fill.”
Clarence swatted the air. “Won’t hurt folks t’ wait a few extra days. They’ll get their orders in due time.”
“You sure?”
“O’ course, I’m sure. Go.”
“Well then, I’ll probably leave in the next few days, maybe Monday.”
“Fine by me. You plannin’ on stayin’ awhile?”
“No, just overnight.”
Relief seeped out when Clarence didn’t comment further. Out front, a horse whinnied, and a woman’s voice gave a commanding “Whoa.”
Sam peeked out the window and saw a familiar horse and buggy parked out front. Scowling, he turned to his uncle. He did not have time for this. “It’s my mother.”
22
Mother? What are you doin’ here?” Sam stepped outside and closed the shop door behind him.
“Is that any way to greet your mother? Come help me down from this buggy.”
“Sorry.” He crossed the space between them and lifted his arms to assist her. “How are you?”
She settled herself on the ground and put a hand to her back. “How do you think? My back and neck are aching something fierce. I can barely stand, after riding into town on that hard, bouncy seat. Since you moved, I’ve had to do all the driving myself.”
He braced himself for her usual whining fest. “Why don’t you ask Virgil or one of the hired hands to escort you?”
She wrinkled her nose and adjusted the flowery contraption on her head, the fancy leaves and feathery branches doing a fine job of shading her entire face. “I don’t like asking Virgil to do me any extra favors, and as for the hired hands, most of them smell like horse dung. I could not abide sitting next to them for a journey of two blocks, much less two miles.”
“Like I’ve said, you ought to sell the farm and move into town. You’d like it much better, I’m sure.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
She raised her chin. “I just can’t, and that’s all there is to it.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
She gave a loud sniff and looked skyward. “My, it’s a hot day, isn’t it?”
“Not exceedingly, no.”
She fanned her face with her white-gloved hand. “Well, it is when you’re standing directly in the sun. Take me over there in the shade.” S
he pointed to the lone wooden bench situated under the large maple tree at the corner of Jackson and Park streets.
“I can’t take much longer than a few minutes to visit. Uncle Clarence and I still have a lot to do before closin’ up for the day.”
“Well, surely he’ll understand the importance of you spending time with your mother. After all, I did go out of my way to come and see you.”
He might have told her she shouldn’t have bothered, but that would be boorish of him. Besides, he did want to discuss something with her. He took hold of her bony elbow and escorted her across the street. She walked with a slight limp, something he hadn’t noticed the last time he’d seen her, and the notion that she’d manufactured it just for today rankled him. Was she that starved for attention? He ought to feel sorry for her, but after years of dealing with her theatrics, sympathy for her just didn’t come naturally.
They sat down, and he decided to get the niceties out of the way. “You look very lovely today, Mother.” It was true, actually. She could be a striking woman when she put her mind to it. Sure, she looked all of her sixty-two years, but she still exuded a classic beauty, with her fine facial features, slender frame, and fashionable garments. Even her hats, big and gaudy though they may be, were in vogue, if the front covers of the latest fashion magazines were any indication. Last winter, she’d put one under his nose while he’d been reading the Paris Post-Intelligencer in front of the fireplace. “You see?” she’d said, a finger on the photo. “My hats are very much in style.”
“Purple suits you well,” he added.
“Humph. You’re the second person to tell me that today.”
“Is that so? Who else told you?”
“That busybody Wilma Whintley. I saw her in the bank a while ago.”
“Ah, Wilma Whintley—or, as Uncle Clarence refers to her, Wilma Windbag.”
She actually laughed, although with her gloved hand to her mouth to cover her glee.
“Why don’t you smile more, Mother? It becomes you.”
Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) Page 18