Magnolia Summer

by Melanie Dickerson

  A lock of brown hair had fallen over his forehead and hung down over one eyebrow. She considered reaching up and brushing it back.

  He was staring at her again too. “Now, don’t fall backward this time. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Then hold still.”

  Her heart jumped into her throat as he slowly raised his hand to her face. With his palm, he brushed back some curls that were clinging to her sweat-dampened cheek and pulled a beat-up daisy from her hair.

  “You want it?” he asked with a playful smile.

  She shook her head and he dropped the limp flower to the ground.

  She stood on her tip-toes and pulled a dead leaf out of his hair, her fingertips brushing his forehead.

  Truett’s eyelids fell to half-mast.

  Oh no. Her heart hammered against her chest. She quickly pulled her hand away, rocking back on her heels. She looked down at her feet. “I have to go in now.” Her voice sounded breathless.

  She turned toward the steps, which were just beyond Truett’s right shoulder. She waited for him to step aside, but he didn’t. She was so close to him she could feel the heat emanating from his body and smell the dirt they had just fallen into and were probably still covered with.

  “Celia?”

  She lifted her head but found herself closer than she’d expected. In fact, his face was barely two inches from hers. Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his lips . . . the gap closed . . .

  And then they were kissing.

  His lips were warm and soft and firm at the same time. Her heart seemed to melt all the way into her toes. Truett Beverly was kissing her. And she was letting him!

  His hands were on her back, pulling her closer.

  Her first kiss. She never imagined it could feel this way, gentle and eager at the same time, making her knees weak. She shouldn’t like it, should she? A lady shouldn’t allow a man to kiss her this way. She should push him away, run up the steps, and slam the door on him.

  She dismissed the thought as the most disagreeable one she’d ever had.

  Truett poured his whole heart into the kiss, afraid that at any moment she would tear herself away from him.

  Her hands pressed against his chest, and then they slipped up and around his neck.

  The back of her head fit perfectly in his hand. Her lips were warm and yielding, but she wasn’t responding.

  The thought made him pull away and look down at her. Her eyes remained closed and her lips parted. She didn’t move as she exhaled a fluttery sigh.

  His pulse leapt. He bent and covered her mouth with his again. This time, she kissed him back.

  Celia did like him. She did want him to court her. She could hardly deny it after letting him kiss her like this. This moment was perfect. She was everything he wanted—determined, but with a soft, tender side hiding just behind the independent façade she showed the world. And he could save her and her family from their poverty-stricken circumstances, at least in a modest way.

  If only she would let him.

  Truett pulled back. Her eyelids fluttered open, her lips plump and red and more tempting than ever. He murmured, “You’re so beautiful.” He so wanted to kiss her again. The way she was staring at him, with that sweet, dazed look on her face, he didn’t think she would mind.

  He drew her closer, but her eyes opened wide and she pushed against his chest.

  Celia’s mind came back to her when she realized he was going to kiss her again. For the third time. What was she doing? Behaving like a wanton trollop!

  She pushed herself out of his arms, and he let her. He was so sweet and kind . . . generous . . . handsome . . . his blue eyes, his tousled hair, his perfect lips . . . No.

  “I’m going in the house now.” She focused her eyes past him, on the front door. She mustn’t look at him.

  “Celia, wait—” He reached out and touched her arm.

  “No!”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth. Did she want the whole family to hear her? Pointing her finger at his chest, she kept her eyes from straying north. She lowered her voice and hissed, “You stay away from me!”

  “You’re not mad at me again, are you?” There was more amusement than worry in voice.

  “Your behavior was not that of a gentleman, kissing me like that.”

  “But you’re the one who kissed me.” A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Truett shrugged. “I was just standing here, minding my own business . . .”

  Heat stung her face. Her mouth fell open but no sound came out. Finally, her voice returned with a squeak. “Me?”

  Had she really been the one to initiate the kiss? She tried to remember exactly what had happened. She was standing in front of him, saying she had to go inside. When he didn’t move and let her pass, she lifted her face and looked into his eyes—and then they were kissing. To be honest, she wasn’t sure who had kissed whom, but it was sooooo lovely.

  No, she mustn’t think like that! She must stick to the point here, and the point was that she . . . she had melted at the look on his face. She couldn’t resist lifting her lips to his.

  No, no! The point was that she had to get him out of here, tell him his kiss meant nothing, that he wasn’t to ever let his lips come near hers again.

  “Listen, it’s high time you left, Truett Beverly, so stand aside and let me pass.”

  “You’re right. I should go.”

  He sounded so contrite, she couldn’t help but look up at him. But the look on his face was so hopeful and sweet . . .

  “Will you let me court you?”

  “No!” The answer burst from a place of desperation deep inside her. She looked away and stomped past as he stepped aside. “You may not court me.” She hurried up the steps, whispering. “I’m . . . I’m not ready for that.”

  She closed the wooden door and locked it with the key. Then she leaned back against the door. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, where she could still feel his lips against hers. Her heart fluttered at the memory.

  “Oh, what have I done?”

  Lizzie tried to pry some information out of her that night in bed. “Are you and Truett courting now?” she asked.

  “No, we’re not courting. Go to sleep.”

  “Why not, Celia? He likes you, I just know it.”

  That’s a fair guess. He probably wouldn’t kiss a girl he didn’t like. “Go to sleep, Lizzie.”

  “And you like him. I can tell.”

  He could probably tell, too—right before I ordered him to never come near me again.

  “You didn’t chase him away, did you, Celia?”

  “Listen, I told you I’m not looking to marry Truett Beverly, or anybody else, so please leave me alone about him.”

  “All right, all right, but you’re gonna spoil everything.”

  No, she was trying to save them—and get them out of the country and back to town. She just had to wait for someone to respond to her ads in the newspapers, someone to make an offer on their farm, and they were leaving Bethel Springs forever—it and every last one of its populace.

  But maybe Lizzie was right. She had spoiled everything. She’d told Truett she wanted nothing to do with him, but it wasn’t true. Part of her really wanted him to hold her and kiss her every day for the rest of her life.

  Celia lay awake long after Lizzie’s rhythmic breathing told her she was asleep. She tried not to ruminate on what Truett must think of her. First she’d flirted with him and made loving eyes at him. Then she’d treated him coldly and rudely for no reason. Finally, she’d let him kiss her. And enjoyed it! She wondered if he could tell.

  But of course he could tell. Her face burned as she remembered how she’d behaved—besotted and wanton! Never would she have thought herself capable of such behavior. But she’d enjoyed his company at the dance. The dancing, the poetry—he had completely befuddled her brain. And as soon as they were alone together, he’d taken advantage of it and kissed her.r />
  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Truthfully, she’d wanted him to kiss her, had even been thinking about it when they were dancing. And then she hadn’t exactly tried to stop him. And as for his teasing accusation that she’d kissed him—it was simply mutual—she as much to blame as he.

  But what was she to do now?

  She could probably go to him tomorrow, when she went to the post office to fetch the mail, apologize for her hot-and-cold behavior, and tell him he could court her after all. Then she’d be able to look forward to more time with him, more hand-holding, and even more kissing. He might even try to steal a kiss tomorrow, in his office.

  Celia’s heart skipped a beat at that exciting thought.

  But then tears sprang to her eyes. No, she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t ever let him kiss her again. Courting led to marriage, and she couldn’t get married. Not now, not until she was able to earn enough money to open her shop.

  Besides, marriage did things to girls. Her mother had only been seventeen when she married her father, and what had she become? Mrs. William Wilcox, not even entitled to her own name. She had to be called Mrs. William Wilcox, as if she ceased to matter and had taken on her husband’s identity. And therefore, who was she when her husband died? Nobody. The former Mrs. William Wilcox, she was so despairing she couldn’t face life. She was quite literally a ghost of her former self.

  But perhaps she was overreactive. No one else she knew seemed to feel this way. Perhaps it was only because she was so distraught at what had happened to Mama. Or because she’d been criticized one too many times for wanting to own her own business. But Celia had seen other girls, soon after their marriage, disappear from society. Sometimes they were too sick from pregnancy to leave their houses, or too burdened with the responsibility of running a home and trying to satisfy the demands of their husbands to even venture out of doors to enjoy a conversation with friends. What was their life for except to cater to their husband’s every desire?

  Celia’s temples pounded. Cold fingers closed around her heart, making it beat erratically.

  Daddy had always treated her like an intelligent person, telling her she could be anything she wanted, be it a teacher or historian or business owner. He seemed proud and flattered that she wanted to own her own business, and he seemed to take it for granted that she would never marry. He had told her that most men wouldn’t want to marry someone with ambitions such as hers. Celia hadn’t minded. She’s always had a fear, a horror, of becoming like her mother.

  Mother had never understood her, never understood her aversion to becoming a wife. If her mother knew how she felt, she would resent Celia’s feeling that “wife” was synonymous with “controlled.” Owned. Beaten down.

  Tears streamed from Celia’s eyes, wetting her pillow. But what good were tears? Action was the answer to her problem. She must stay strong and keep herself from falling in love with Truett Beverly, or anyone else. Although no one else had ever given her any trouble. Truett was far above anyone else she’d ever known, in character, and every other way.

  No. She wouldn’t start thinking about him again.

  She mustn’t.

  Chapter 14

  The next day was Sunday, and they all slept a little late. When Celia went out to the barn to do Will’s chores of mucking the stable and milking the cow, she found that Truett had already been there and done it.

  Celia got dressed for church slowly, not even bothering to try to hurry the twins until Lizzie began to get frustrated with them. Then Celia helped distract them while Lizzie buttoned Harley’s shirt and Tempie’s dress.

  They arrived at church late, just as Celia had hoped, since she wanted to avoid Truett if at all possible. They sat in the back.

  Almira Suggs sat across the aisle from her, fanning herself with a square piece of cardstock. Celia had taken an instant liking to the young schoolmarm, and she hoped to talk with her after the sermon.

  She tried to pay attention, but the preacher’s words droned in such a monotone, she found that when her eyes blinked, they didn’t want to open up again. Besides his lulling tone, his message was almost exactly the same as it had been every Sunday since she had been there—and this was her fourth!

  She frowned at the remembrance of her first Sunday. She’d thought the preacher’s message interesting and was impressed with his memory of Scripture. Little did she know that she would also have the same Scriptures memorized herself in four weeks.

  At first she hadn’t even seen Truett anywhere among the congregation. But with some shifting in seats, he was revealed near the front, sitting next to Mrs. Beverly and Griff. She recognized the back of his head instantly. He was as familiar as if she’d known him all her life.

  Where did that silly thought come from? She hardly knew the man.

  A movement caught her attention from the left corner of her eye. Almira Suggs stood up, her face as pale as milk. She made a dash for the door and was gone.

  No one else seemed to take notice. Lizzie had told her that the poor girl’s mother died when she was very young. No one followed her out. Celia quietly went after her.

  Once outside, Celia didn’t see anyone. She stood on the bottom step and listened. The muffled sound of retching came from around the side of the little white church building. She followed the noise and found Almira bent over in the knee-high grass that edged the clearing at the rear of the church.

  She didn’t want to embarrass her, but she wanted to at least offer help. She walked closer. “Miss Suggs?”

  Slowly Almira shook her head. “I’m all right.”

  “Are you sure?” Celia drew closer and put her hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Can I do anything for you? Fetch someone to take you home?”

  “No, I’m well.” Almira stood a little taller and gave a wan smile. “Just a bit of female weakness.”

  “Being sick isn’t ‘female weakness.’” She gently took her arm. “There’s a bench over here. Why don’t you sit for a minute?”

  Celia led her over to the wrought-iron bench and sat down beside her. When Almira didn’t speak, Celia said, “You look awfully pale. Do you need to see a doctor?”

  She instantly regretted her words. The last thing she wanted to have to do was fetch Dr. Beverly.

  “No, please don’t worry about me.” Almira’s eyebrows drew together. “I’m fine. Truly I am. I have a tendency for stomach ailments.” She looked Celia in the eye. “Please don’t tell anyone I was sick.”

  “Of course, if you wish it.”

  “I do. Thank you, Celia. You’re very sweet.” She smiled, but it seemed a sad smile.

  Celia sensed a loneliness in her that she could understand more than she cared to admit. A tug at her heart drew her toward Almira. “I’m still getting to know people around here. Why don’t you come over for tea some time? You don’t live far, do you?”

  “No, just the other side of the Prichards’ from you.”

  “Perhaps we could swap books. I had to leave most of mine in Nashville, but I do have a couple of novels you might be interested in.”

  “I would like that very much.” Almira’s face brightened and most of the color seemed to come back into her cheeks.

  “Then I’ll expect you . . . Thursday?”

  “Oh, yes, I could come Thursday.”

  “Good.”

  The collective sound of voices raised in song told them the church was singing the final hymn before being dismissed.

  “Are you well enough to make it home?” Celia asked.

  “Oh, yes. I am well, don’t worry.” And she did look much better than before.

  “We can take you home in our wagon.”

  She shook her head. “I rode my mare. She’ll get me home. I’m all right.”

  Celia was anxious to round up her siblings as quickly as possible in case Truett wanted to talk to her. Her cheeks grew warm just thinking about coming face to face with him again so soon after their kiss. She watched the door of the church as people
trickled out to shake the preacher’s hand. Truett came out before any of her family. She looked away from him, but still kept him in the corner of her vision. He didn’t even look around for her. He went straight to his horse, mounted, and rode away.

  Her heart sank in disappointment. Ugh. Of all the ridiculous reactions . . .

  He must be respecting her command for him to stay away. But it hurt, in spite of her telling herself it was what she wanted. Honestly, she wasn’t sure what she wanted. No, that wasn’t true. Her irresponsible heart wanted Truett. But she could not let it have him.

  The next day, Celia found two more pigs dead in their pen and the rest, including the sow, swaying unsteadily on their short legs and acting lethargic. Lord, what will we do if they all die? They would have no meat this winter and no money to buy any.

  Celia helped Will dig the holes for the pigs’ graves, then followed through with her plan for the morning, which was to ride to town to check their mail.

  She asked for her mail through the little barred window. The postmaster handed her two letters, one from the Circle W Horse Farm in Kentucky, and the other from the Planters Bank of Nashville.

  Her heart beat in her throat. She tore open the letter from the bank as soon as she stepped outside the train station, which also served as city hall and post office.

  Dear Miss Wilcox, This letter is to inform you that your father, Mr. William Earnest Wilcox, withdrew his assets and closed his account with The Planters Bank of Nashville on the 4th day of August, 1879. We have had no further dealings with him.

  Celia crumpled the paper in her hand. Then it was true. They had no money, except for the seven dollars in the coffee can behind the flour sack. How long could that last them?

  Next, Celia tore open the letter from the Kentucky horse farm. She glanced through its contents, her eye catching “sum of $40 per broodmare and $80 for the stallion” and “a man required to travel on the train with the horses.”