KeepingFaithCole

by Christina Cole

  “What the hell is going on in here?”

  Lucille’s head jerked up. “Tom?” Before she could get up, he disappeared into the bedroom, then returned with Faith in his arms and a fearsome scowl upon his face.

  He stopped in front of her. “Are you screwing around on me, Lucille? Who is he?” Muscles bulged at his neck. “I guess that’s why you haven’t wanted me back in your bed.”

  “Tom, no, it was your mother. Your mother and Abner.” The images she couldn’t blot out returned. Revulsed anew, she shuddered. “I caught them in bed. In the act.”

  Tom drew in a sharp breath, and he peered through the open doorway at the rumpled sheets. “I’m sorry,” he said, slowly exhaling. “I shouldn’t have accused you like that.”

  Lucille swallowed hard. “I threw them out. Both of them.”

  He went suddenly silent. He carried Faith to her play area in the parlor, then got down on the floor with her. Tom picked up one of the tops he’d made and set it spinning. Then another. And another. “It must have been a real shock for you,” he said, glancing up at his wife.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Can’t say that I blame you for throwing them out. I probably would have done the same.”

  Even though he said nothing more, Lucille suspected he was displeased. She blinked back tears. Her temples throbbed, and as she studied her husband’s long, lean form sprawled out across the floor, she thought back to the Red Mule, picturing him stretched out atop some whore’s bed. A wave of nausea swept over her, and she fled from the house, barely making it to the edge of the bushes before she retched uncontrollably.

  * * * *

  Tom set the spinning tops aside and got to his feet. From the doorway, he heard Lucille vomiting. He had his work cut out for him, and he had no idea where to begin cleaning up the mess—not just the mess in the bedroom, but his mess his life had become. Even Leland’s adages about starting wherever you were didn’t help. He didn’t have a clue where he stood.

  “I’ve done all I can,” he told Lucille late that evening. After spending most of the day sick, she’d finally rested a bit in the parlor. “I’ve stripped the sheets, burned them, and I’ve scrubbed everything in the room.”

  It wouldn’t do any good, really. The memories of what his wife had seen and heard would linger.

  “Anything I can do for you?” he asked, bending down beside her. “You want something to eat? Something to drink?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Faith’s sleeping. Poor kid’s all tuckered out. Too much noise and confusion today.”

  “I’ll probably go to bed soon myself.”

  Tom rose, grabbed his hat from the table, and headed for the door. “I’m riding into town. Might be late before I get back.”

  He expected Lucille to say something, but she remained silent. For a moment longer, he waited, but she said nothing.

  “All right. Get some rest.” He headed for the wagon. Earlier, he’d gone through the house and packed up everything that belonged to his mother. Wasn’t much to speak of, but for Lucille’s sake, Tom didn’t want anything left behind.

  He knew all too well what it was like to listen to those awful sounds, those disgusting grunts and the damned creaking springs. Of course, his mother wasn’t whoring around now. Nothing really wrong in what she and Abner had been doing. No different from what he and Lucille had done one night in her little dressmaking shop.

  Of course, his wife wouldn’t see it that way. Tom wouldn’t argue the point with her.

  * * * *

  With Charlotte gone, life for the Hendersons should have settled into a comfortable routine. It didn’t. Tom couldn’t figure out exactly what was wrong, though. Lucille seemed to enjoy keeping house, she adored Faith, and she looked after Tom’s needs—to a degree. They’d begun sleeping together again, and if Tom wanted pleasure, she obliged him. Trouble was, that’s all she did. He wanted the passion they’d shared before.

  Two weeks passed. He hoped that, with time, their relationship might heal itself. Instead, his wife grew more withdrawn day by day.

  “Do you want to call it quits?” he asked one night as they prepared for bed.

  Lucille sat before the mirror, brushing her long tresses with slow, methodical strokes. When he spoke, she paused, glancing over her shoulder at him. “No, of course not.” She returned to the image in the mirror and resumed her nightly routine.

  “You don’t seem happy.”

  Again, her hand stopped moving. This time, she quietly placed the brush on the vanity and turned to face him. “Happiness was never part of the agreement, was it? We got married because it was the only way we could be sure of keeping Faith. That hasn’t changed. If we don’t stay together as husband and wife, we could lose her.”

  Something akin to relief washed over him. Not that his marriage was anything close to the blissful state he’d once imagined it might be, but all the same, getting out of it now that they were lawfully wedded could be a lot of hassle. Not to mention the awful fact that, once again, his wife was right. No marriage. No Faith. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that.

  “Are you unhappy because of me?” he asked, getting up from the bed and coming to stand beside her. “Never mind. I already know the answer.” He leaned against the wall and lowered his head. His gaze went to the brush. Almost without conscious thought, he reached for it, then moved behind Lucille. She gasped as he drew the brush through her hair. At first, she stiffened, then gradually her muscles loosened. Her head fell backward, exposing the creamy smooth skin of her throat.

  “That—that feels nice.”

  “Just relax,” he urged, lengthening his strokes. Her eyes closed, and her shoulders dropped as more tension eased from her body. “I’m done a lot of thinking lately, and I can see that I haven’t been much of a husband. I haven’t done much to make you happy.” Her eyes opened, but Tom shook his head. “Truth is,” he went on, “I’ve been a real jackass, haven’t I? You know, I never had a father around to teach me about being a man—”

  She placed her hand on his. “You are a man, Tom.”

  “Right, I am, but what I’m saying is that I don’t know much about how marriage is supposed to work, how husbands are supposed to treat their wives. You grew up in a home with a mother and a father. You’ve seen how a good marriage should be.”

  “Yes, my folks were very happily married.”

  “Tell me about it. I want to know.” He set the hairbrush aside, then drew up a chair so he could sit close to her. Their knees nearly touched, and he saw the light in her eyes as she began to speak about her parents and the love they’d shared.

  “My father was a very kind man, yet he was also very strong. He and my mother worked together in so many ways, raising me and my sister, building a successful business, managing both the store and our home. Whenever my mother had questions about what to do, she turned to him. He was a wise man.” She smiled.

  “Who made the decisions?”

  “They both did. Some decisions were clearly Mama’s to make, decisions about the house, for instance. That was her bailiwick, she called it, her area of expertise. My father trusted her to make the right choices.”

  “What decisions did your father make?”

  “His bailiwick,” Lucille said, leaning slightly forward, “was the mercantile. He had a good head for business.” She reached out and took Tom’s hands in hers. “I think you have a lot of the same skills he did. You catch on to things quickly, and you’ve got a knack for numbers. You’re good with people, too.”

  Hearing such unexpected compliments from Lucille pleased him. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, you know, there were a lot of decisions that neither one felt they should make without consulting the other.”

  “Two heads probably are better than one.”

  “I wish we could have that kind of marriage, Tom.”

  “So do I.” He pulled her toward him, locking his arms around her. “Who’s to say
we can’t? I know I’ve made mistakes, but I can learn to be a good husband.”

  “I probably haven’t been a very good wife.” She rested her head against his chest. “We both have a lot to learn.”

  “Where do we begin?”

  Lucille scooted away from him. “Well, I have a few thoughts on that.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Turning back to her image in the mirror, Lucille reached up and began braiding her dark hair, her fingers working nimbly. “I want to go back to work, Tom, but only if you agree. I want to open another dressmaking shop.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Insurance had covered the loss from the fire. Lucille and Olive had been able to walk away free of debt. It surprised him that she would even consider going back into business.

  “I know how hard you’re working, trying to build something for the future, but you shouldn’t have to do it all on your own. I want to help out.”

  Tom grinned. Maybe they hadn’t been married all that long, but already he’d learned to read Lucille fairly well—especially when she wasn’t being completely truthful with him. “Your little dressmaking shop didn’t exactly bring in a lot of cash,” he reminded her. “Are you sure maybe this doesn’t have something to do with wanting to spend more time with your mother and your friends?”

  Her face reddened.

  “Lucille,” he said, tugging at the braid she’d finished, “it’s all right to admit how you feel. I’ve brought you all the way out here to live, you don’t get into town too often, and it’s a long drive for anyone to come calling on you. I’m sure you probably do feel a little lonesome now and then.” Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Another thought jolted him. “What about Faith? Were you thinking of taking her to the shop with you? Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  To his surprise, Lucille shook her head. “No, I couldn’t possibly have her at the shop with me. She’d be into everything.” Her eyes sought his. “I thought we might ask your mother to watch her.”

  “Ma?” At once, he was on his feet, pacing the bedroom, trying to get a handle on what his wife had just told him. His wife. The woman who hated his mother. “I must not have heard you right.”

  “Yes, you heard me.” Lucille’s breath rushed out as she jumped from the vanity bench and flung her arms around him. “If our marriage is ever going to work, your mother and I have to get along. The reason we haven’t been able to do that is because of me. Like she’s said all along, I’ve never been willing to give her a chance. You’ve told me the same thing.”

  “What about…” His voice trailed off.

  “Catching her and Abner?” Lucille rubbed her forehead. “Throwing them out?” She slumped back onto the vanity bench. “I probably over-reacted a bit. I wasn’t having a very good day. I had things on my mind. It happened so suddenly, and I wasn’t expecting to find them that way—”

  When she bit her lip and began to shake, Tom worried he’d pushed too hard. Maybe he’d lost the chance he’d longed for to set things right. With long strides he crossed the room and swept her up into his arms. “We won’t mention it ever again, all right?”

  “Can we drive into town tomorrow and talk to her? About keeping Faith? Do you think she’d be willing to do that?”

  “I think that might make her very happy.”

  * * * *

  Happy did not begin to describe Charlotte’s reaction when Lucille and Tom visited and shared their plans with her. It would take a week or two to find a suitable location and make all the arrangements which meant Tom’s mother would have a little time to prepare for her role as caregiver.

  On opening day, when Lucille made the long drive into Sunset and dropped Faith off at Charlotte’s, she found the little cottage spick and span. Even so, doubts suddenly assailed her. She surveyed the surroundings with a careful eye, looking for any possible reason to change her mind, but she found nothing to hold against Charlotte. The floors had been swept and waxed, and the dust and dirt had been shaken from the throw rugs. The furnishings, though sparse, gleamed in the morning light, and a faint scent of lemon oil hung in the air. Even the window panes, Lucille noted, had been thoroughly washed.

  After kissing Faith’s cheeks and reminding her to be a good little girl, Lucille reluctantly drove on to her new shop. Tom had seen right through her, she had to admit. Although she looked forward to running her business, she was even more excited by the prospect of chatting with her friends and keeping up to date on the goings-on around Sunset.

  Once again, she’d hung a silver bell above the door. Each time she heard it, she smiled and eagerly welcomed another customer, proudly displaying the fabrics and notions she’d stocked the new shop with from the insurance money. Her past experience had taught her a great deal. Unlike before, she now made better choices regarding the merchandise she carried. She no longer offered goods or services on credit, and she charged slightly higher prices for her fancy stitching and sewing. It paid off, and by the end of the second week, the shop was already turning a nice profit.

  Lucille’s life settled into a comfortable new routine. She was up at dawn, had Faith dropped off at Charlotte’s by nine each morning, then kept busy at the shop until half-past two. She and Faith returned home just in time for her to start supper preparations and have a meal on the table when Tom came in.

  The following Thursday, her routine got a sudden jolt when Betty Gilman bustled through the door of the shop. Even the little silver bell seemed to sense the woman’s unpleasant state of mind. It jangled once, then fell to the floor and rolled beneath a nearby table. After taking one look at Mrs. Gilman’s stern expression, Lucille wished she could do the same.

  Instead, she rose to her feet and mustered a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Gilman. What can I do for you today?”

  As always, Betty’s hair was pulled back in a severe bun, giving the tall, rail-thin woman a harsh, judgmental air. She crossed her arms over her bony chest. “You can begin by explaining why we no longer see you at church on Sunday.”

  “It’s a long drive, and I need to spend a little time at home with my family.”

  “A long drive?” Her eyebrows shot up. “You don’t seem to have any trouble making that long drive each day to come into town for business. But you don’t have time for church? You’re not willing to give a little time to God?”

  “I—” Lucille folded her hands in front of her. “Honestly, I’m exhausted at the end of each week, Mrs. Gilman. Sundays are meant to be days of rest, and that’s how I choose to use them.” Thankfully, the woman didn’t chastise her for being flippant. “I do spend time reading the bible. Tom and I read the scriptures together.” It filled her heart with pride to speak those words.

  “Yes, well, maybe it’s understandable that you can’t always come into town on Sundays. I suppose the Lord might be willing to forgive.” Her face softened momentarily, then the sharpness took over again. “I do want to be sure you’re not allowing that awful woman to influence you.”

  Lucille bristled. Of course, she’d called Charlotte far worse names before, but hearing them come spewing out of Betty Gilman’s mouth gave them an altogether new dimension of ugliness. No good Christian should speak such unkind thoughts aloud.

  “If you mean Tom’s mother, you can set your mind at ease. She’s clean, she’s sober, and she’s got her house in order.” Set to deliver the final blow to the self-righteous woman’s holier-than-thou attitudes, Lucille lifted her chin. “In fact, she’s keeping Faith for us each day while Tom and I are working.”

  “She’s doing what?” The crisp, staccato words were punctuated by frantic gestures. “How can you allow such a thing?” Her expressions always looked pained and now appeared even more so than usual. She rushed toward Lucille and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know we’re supposed to love one another, even our enemies, but it’s wrong to trust someone like Charlotte Henderson. It’s wrong to let her be around that sweet, innocent child.”

  “Tom and I—”


  “This was his decision, wasn’t it,” she interrupted. “Of course he’s going to stand up for his mother. I swear, he’s no better than she is.”

  “My husband and I made the decision together, Mrs. Gilman.” Lucille took a step forward, all but shoving the woman away from her. “Now, unless you have a bit of sewing or mending to be done, I’d suggest you be on your way. You’re keeping me from my work, and you know what they say about idle hands being the devil’s workshop. In fact,” she added, “I believe your husband preached a stirring sermon on that verse from Proverbs one fine Sunday.” She smiled and tapped a finger to her cheek as if in studious thought. “What is the rest of it? Oh, yes, idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and idle lips are his mouthpiece.”

  “How dare you spout scripture at me. I came here in good faith, inquiring after your spiritual welfare, and instead of showing the slightest gratitude, you fling insults at me. Well, young lady, it goes to show, that’s what happens when you turn away from the Lord, and you can’t tell me that you haven’t fallen under that awful woman’s influence because it’s obvious you have.”

  She’d gotten herself wound up like one of those spinning tops Tom and Leland Chappell had made for Faith. There’d be no stopping her now.

  “Mrs. Gilman, please, calm down.”

  She charged forward, shaking a long, skinny finger. “I’m going to put a stop to your nonsense.” Faster than Lucille’s eyes could follow, the woman wheeled around and darted through the door. In her haste, she collided with Lucille’s mother who happened to be coming up the stairs at that precise moment.

  “Mama. I am so glad to see you.” Distraught by her encounter with the pastor’s wife, Lucille hugged her mother. Her knees felt so weak she could barely stand.

  “What on earth was that all about? I’ve never seen Betty Gilman in such a tither.”

  “She’s upset. About Charlotte taking care of Faith.”