How wonderful to be alive on this Easter Sunday and to have found an exciting new friend. She hoped Jacqueline stayed forever.
*
Jaq decided to let Molly entertain her; Mrs. Russell could sit there and fidget all she wanted. Sinking into the velvet cushions she opened herself to the music, and soon the bouncy rhythms and catchy tunes almost had her tapping her foot, as Molly played and sang “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” and “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here.”
War songs like these provoked memories she didn’t mind of last spring in France and Belgium, when she’d joined a bunch of adventurous Englishwomen heading to Europe. After they nervously crossed the Channel swarming with U-boats, they’d had to ride in boxcars that usually carried horses. What a stench, but she hadn’t minded. She was seeing the world, though she hoped she never had to be cooped up in something like that again.
It sure had felt good to walk the last leg of the trip. The road was muddy, but she and the other women marched toward camp like they were strolling through an English garden. Carrying their kit bags full of personal belongings, they gulped the fresh air and cracked jokes. They were bursting to do their bit against the Germans, but they didn’t have any idea what they were heading for.
She stretched out one leg, as she sat safely on the plush loveseat, then sank back into her memories.
She’d taken off her gloves while she marched, and when she’d swung her arms by her sides, the heavy wool of her long blue overcoat scratched her bent fingers. She’d jammed on her round blue felt hat and cocked its wide brim, feeling as jaunty as she hoped her hat looked.
There she’d been, actually in France, and the mud of her ancestors had felt very real under her walking shoes. Slinging her tight shoulders back she’d smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. She’d been that proud to be part of the first troop of British women allowed to serve near the front lines.
She clutched the lace throw pillow beside her and noticed that a button was missing from the loveseat. She was back in America now. That’s all that mattered. She just wanted to let Molly distract her. Molly was safely married, even had a kid.
Molly’s fingers skimmed the keys, and her eyes shone as she played one song after another.
Was Molly trying to help? She had no idea how much her bad memories pestered her, not just at night, but all the time. On her drive over here, she’d almost forgotten she wasn’t in Europe. She’d nearly had to pull off and rest, afraid a bomb would drop or a shell fly overhead and she’d see dead and dying soldiers in the neatly plowed fields.
She’d like to listen to Molly all afternoon, but Eric and Angus would be home soon. She needed to go see about them. They’d suffered a lot more than she had.
*
I’d give one of my best laying hens for a dip of snuff, Mrs. Russell thought. Pshaw. It’s too late to go walk the fields now.
She needed to feed the chickens and rustle up some supper. But Molly just sat there playing that piano, lost to the world.
That big stack of magazines on the round table at the end of the sofa sure needed weeding. James and Molly read every copy of The Saturday Evening Post to rags, and Molly swore by The Etude. Some hogwash about teaching music. No money in that. Next time she built a big bonfire she’d sneak in here and grab a bunch of the old magazines to start it with.
Why, everybody in their right mind knew Farm and Ranch was the only fit reading material for landed gentry. She kept all her old ones to thumb back through.
What in tarnation was going through James’s head when he up and married Molly? He’d wasted almost every weekend for near ’bout three months courting her, when he should’ve been home helping out. After these eight long years, surely he’d figured out what was what. Molly would never be fit for life on a farm.
She was just about to get up and leave Molly to her silly piano playing, but Jacqueline stirred, like she was rousing out of a stupor, and Molly stopped making all that infernal racket. Mrs. Russell jumped up, ready to get rid of their company.
Molly was simpering at Jacqueline and saying foolish things. And Jacqueline looked like she didn’t want to be getting on down the road but believed she oughta. Finally they quit their palavering.
Jacqueline said, “Mrs. Russell, I appreciate you letting me spend the afternoon with you and your family. And Molly, I’ve enjoyed our conversation and your music. You have a real talent.”
What a bunch of lies. She didn’t trust the Frenchies, even if they were America’s allies. She rocked from one foot to the other, feeling as restless as a billy goat in rut. “It was right kind of you to stop by and socialize, Jacqueline. I ’spect we’ll see you at Sunday school next week? We only have a preacher once in a while.”
Of course she had to try to get the last word in. “By all means. Thank you again for your hospitality.”
After another month of Sundays, she headed for the front door. “I’ll tell James you said good-bye,” she informed Jacqueline. “And he said for you to tell Eric not to be a stranger. He’s itching to discuss his war experiences. He and Patrick are out back feeding the livestock. Bet the milk cow’s wondering where Molly is. Never get much rest down here on the farm.” Humph. Unless they were a lazy good-for-nothing like Molly.
Molly chimed in. “Drive carefully. I hope to see you soon.”
She walked Jacqueline to her car and hung around her forever. Probably trying to persuade her to spend the night.
She’d almost given up hope of Molly milking the cow, but when she peeked out the kitchen window she spotted the T-Model creeping down the driveway. Molly ambled back toward the house just as slow.
The little sluggard made her see red.
*
Molly strolled past the sweet-smelling purple wisteria and hummed “Good Night.”
Those two words had been so painful when she graduated from college. She’d been inseparable from several of the girls during their four years at boarding school and spent all her free time with each of her favorites in turn. How she’d loved to stay up after hours and whisper with them. They’d cried and laughed together.
While she attended the university and until she married, she exchanged passionate letters with one of the girls, Esther Harris. They’d pledged everlasting love and devotion, but now they wrote each other about everyday affairs. Then, they’d dreamed, even talked about spending the rest of their lives together, but now things had changed.
When Mr. James proposed, she finally persuaded herself that loving a woman like Esther had merely prepared her for life’s real purpose—marriage and devotion to a worthy man. Preachers stressed that a woman and the right man would truly become one in body and spirit and share every thought and feeling. Her papa and mama clearly adored and respected each other, so she would follow their example.
But Mr. James evidently hadn’t expected such a union. He wanted someone to make him look good in public, give him lots of sons, and help his mother on the farm. When she’d eventually understood that most husbands were like hers, who was probably better than most, she’d tried to reconcile herself to the reality of marriage.
Being with Jacqueline this afternoon, though, had stirred the remaining ember of her grand dream and made it glow.
Maybe she and Jacqueline would become close friends. That would be so much better than the emotional wasteland she lived in now.
She wanted to always feel alive inside—like she did before she married and as she had this afternoon.
Chapter Twelve
“Do you have to chew so loud?” Eric glared at Jaq, dark purple pouches under his eyes. At least he didn’t need his eye patch any more.
She murmured something to keep from biting back.
“And quit slurping that milk. I had to get up early, and now I have to go milk—” He drew back his hand as if he might hit her.
She slammed down her glass. “That’s enough! I’m not your mother or your maid or—”
“Or my wife.” Eric snatched a biscuit and dipped i
t in his egg yolk like a farmhand. Some of the runny stuff dripped on the front of his blue work shirt, which she’d have to wash.
“No, I’m not. And I can’t wait to get an annulment. In fact—”
“Sorry, but everything gets on my nerves lately—the clock ticking, the birds singing, the coyotes howling.” Eric swiped at the spot on his shirt and grabbed his coffee cup with a shaky hand.
“It’s no wonder, as little sleep as you get.”
He took a sip and glared at her like she was the enemy. “Have you been spying on me?”
“Spying? If you call having to close my door and put my fingers in my ears sometimes so I can block out the noise you make when you come in late and stumble up the stairs, I guess I have. And even when you finally make it to bed, you sound like you’re wrestling with the sheets. That’s how they look every morning, when I make your bed.”
Eric placed his cup on the table more gently than he’d yanked it up. “I’m afraid to sleep. I can’t explain it.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“That something will hurt me if I let my guard down. I know that sounds silly.” He looked genuinely puzzled, and his pupils were dilated.
“But you grew up here, you’ve known these people all your life—”
“You never can tell. The minute you turn your back on even something you’ve done routinely, it can all blow up in your face. Damn it. What’s wrong with me? I need to find somebody to help Pop, not be more of a burden. He’s got enough problems. I’m afraid I’ll let him down like I’ve done with everybody else, including you.”
She really studied Eric. He wasn’t a big-shot pilot any longer, but she liked him better now that he was finally leveling with her.
“Don’t worry. You’ve given everybody more than you can imagine. Your dad told me just the other day how proud he is of you. And you aren’t responsible for how I feel about women.”
For the first time since they’d been in New Hope, he seemed to actually want to communicate with her. He’d been acting strange since he showed up in New Orleans. Something was tearing him apart inside, but what? When they were in London he was so optimistic, so much fun. Hell, he was as serious as a funeral now. He had to be missing his mother more than she’d thought.
He shook his head, as if making an effort to stay focused on her. “So, Jaq, are you okay? Do you need anything? How do you like playing the busy housewife?”
She shrugged. “Having servants most of my life hasn’t exactly prepared me for farm life. I’m trying hard not to kill you and your father with my cooking.” Maybe her teasing would improve his mood.
His grin looked forced. “It’s okay. Just fine.” Then his eyes clouded over again.
What was eating at him? Having an injured eye and being half-crippled right now were bound to give him nightmares. Maybe he missed the excitement of the War even more than she did or thought the locals would call him a lazy coward. How ridiculous. He was braver than most men and had the medals and scars to prove it.
He seemed to want to be left alone almost all the time. And she had no idea how to help him open up like he just had. She really didn’t know him very well. Most men, except her brothers, were as foreign to her as the Boches—and just as much of a nuisance.
She didn’t know what to say or do, so she just sat here. Eric ran his fingers through his shaggy blond hair and looked like he was about to say something else. Then he pushed back his chair, tightened the laces on his heavy work boots, and headed for the door. He paused.
“I got a letter from my pal Dick the other day. If you want to read it, it’s on the counter. I glanced at it yesterday. I don’t want any reminders of the War, but I want to keep in touch with him.” Again, he started to leave, but turned around.
“By the way, why have you been staying here so much lately? Cleaning out my mother’s closets, scrubbing the floors. I appreciate all you’re doing, but you don’t have to isolate yourself just because I don’t feel sociable. You haven’t even gone back to the church for three weeks.”
Then he was gone.
He could be so sweet. That’s one reason she hated whatever was happening. Yet he’d been so irritable lately. She didn’t know how much more she could stand.
She had to stick by him until he and Angus straightened out their lives. He just needed to readjust after all those years of fighting and now losing his mother. She could spend a while supporting him, even if she couldn’t be his wife in the bedroom.
She scanned the letter that described some of the adventures Eric’s friend had been having. Sounded exciting, if you were several thousand miles away from the action.
Being in the air was a whole different thing from fighting on the ground. Eric probably missed being a pilot a lot, though he wouldn’t talk about it anymore. When they’d first met, he’d described one close call after another.
In closing, Dick wrote, “I’ll always appreciate you taking time out from flying with the Frenchies to teach me how. You gave me the chance of a lifetime. Every time the boys and I score a round of drinks, I hold up my cup to you.” He talked about the other fliers as if they were his brothers. Eric had to be longing for that type of companionship.
She and Eric were both alone now, but living around people she had so little in common with bothered her. It was like being in a foreign country and not understanding a word of the language. If Molly wasn’t here, she might break her promise and drive back to New Orleans or head straight to Washington and join the suffragists.
She noticed more than several dirty glasses on the countertop. Eric had evidently brought them downstairs from his room earlier this morning. My God, he’d been drinking more than she’d realized.
In New Orleans, he’d visited the liquor store every day. And he’d spent most of his time in a bar near her parents’ house. On the drive up, she hadn’t had much room for luggage because of his stash.
Eric had held his liquor well while he’d stayed those few days with her and her parents. When they’d introduced him to their friends, they’d stressed his wartime service but didn’t mention hers. It evidently embarrassed her mother. And she’d never even mentioned Jaq’s brief suffragist activities.
She lifted the heavy kettle from the wood-burning stove, poured hot water into the dishpan, and sprinkled in some Ivory Flakes. Eric had bought a box for her when she’d asked and seemed glad to do so. They were a lot easier on her hands than the farmwomen’s harsh lye soap.
As she swished through the warm soapy water, her shoulders loosened. She’d wanted to go to the church the past three Sundays, but she refused to spend more time with Molly. Molly was so damn innocent, like she’d been before Sister Mary. Hell. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she took advantage of her. Since their shared revelations about the Storm, she just wanted to know Molly at a distance, to remind herself the world wasn’t completely ugly.
Helen had been different—friendly to everyone but singling out no favorites. And Helen always kept her in check. It didn’t matter that she was in love with Helen. Actually, being able to put Helen on a pedestal had made her comfortable. She could feel as infatuated as she wanted and not worry Helen would take her seriously, like Sister Mary seemed to—that one time. But if Helen had responded at all…
Molly, though, had practically stood on the running board of her Model T and ridden away with her that Sunday night. Molly seemed to need someone to share confidences with, but damn it—she couldn’t be that person.
Her life was too complicated, and she was too susceptible to women like Molly, who’d seemed to understand her feelings about the Storm, played a handful of songs, spent ten minutes saying good night—and penetrated her defenses.
After that afternoon, she’d hummed the songs Molly played and felt warm inside. But the feeling faded in a few days. She didn’t need to want what she’d never have. She wasn’t a teener anymore.
Molly would always be faithful to her marriage vows, and Jaq refused to be a substitute for
a man, a second choice, merely a dear friend. Besides, Molly would never leave her son and sometimes acted like a child herself. Jaq needed an equal, someone to share her adventures, not tie her down.
She couldn’t be the kind of friend Molly wanted or needed. She’d eventually taint Molly, like she tainted everyone else she cared for.
No, she didn’t want to hurt Molly. But most of all she didn’t want to hurt herself.
She wanted the sexual excitement she’d enjoyed with Sister Mary. She craved it. But she wanted to enjoy it more than once, like she had with Willie. Maybe she should have stayed in New Orleans with her, but they were even more different than she and Molly were. Willie was much more independent than she was. She was definitely her own woman and had said something about going to France, alone, as soon as the War ended.
After breakfast, kneeling in the flower bed under the side windows, she watched the swollen white clouds that billowed like smoke. A faint breeze made the pines sway. Her mind went almost blank as she squeezed the moist loam—so soft, so sensual. The red earth, the color of Molly’s hair, yielded when she touched it and moved where she urged it, responded to her caressing fingers—
The telephone sounded, three long peals, then a short one, their ring on the party line. Who could that be? She dashed into the house.
“Four-three-one. Mrs. McCade speaking.”
“Jacqueline. We’ve missed you at the church. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sure you have no idea who this is. It’s Molly Russell.”
The speaker on the other end of the crackly line finally took a breath.
“Of course, Molly. I recognized your voice.” How could she forget it? “So kind of you to call.”
“I wanted to make sure you’re not ill. And if you’re not, would you like to come over tomorrow? The roses are blooming, and I plan to make rose water.”
She hesitated, but looked at the moist earth still on her hands…and gave in. “I’d be honored. What time?”
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