by Jane Shoup
Jen stopped short and turned to her, a hurt look on her face.
“I’m sorry,” Marie said, “but—”
“Why is everyone against us?” Jen blurted.
“I’m not against you.”
“Well, then you can’t be against him either. I love him,” she declared beseechingly.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt if he . . . I don’t know. Changes or something. Like he was with Anne or—”
Jen stuck her hand in the air and took a step back. “We’re different! In fact, everything is going to be different tomorrow. You’ll see.”
Marie felt an odd pang. “What do you mean?”
Jenny turned and started off, but she was blushing. “Nothing. I can’t tell you.”
Marie grabbed her arm to be face-to-face with her. Jen’s cheeks were crimson and there was guilt on her face. “You can’t,” Marie hissed, her eyes wide. She was talking about letting Ted have his way with her; she just knew it. “Not until you’re married.” Jen tried to walk on, but Marie wouldn’t relinquish her hold.
Jen suddenly looked miserable. She whispered, “He said if I love him—”
“You make him give you a ring first and ask your daddy for your hand. Then he can’t back out.”
“I already told you, he’s doing that the day after we graduate.”
“That’s only a few more weeks. So why does it have to be tomorrow?”
Jenny pulled away from her, still miserable looking. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Jen,” Marie said with a shake of her head.
“No, I mean it,” Jenny said, walking on. After a few steps, she turned back to face Marie. “Just be my friend. All right?”
“But what if—”
“No! I’m done talking about it! One more word and I’m going to turn around and go home.”
“Fine,” Marie said, giving in. “I just hope it’s not a big, fat mistake.” They walked a good way in strained silence before Marie couldn’t help herself. “Are you scared?” she asked without looking at her friend.
Silence.
“Yes,” Jen admitted.
Marie reached over and took her hand and squeezed it as they continued walking.
“He does love me,” Jenny said weakly. “He’s already picked out a ring and everything.”
“I bet it’ll be the prettiest thing ever,” Marie said, although she still had a bad feeling.
A sharp rap at the door made Marie jump.
“Saul says get back to it,” Molly said in her nasal, girlish voice.
Marie seethed at the order. Saul owned the place and made a lot of money, but it was never enough. Greedy bastard. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she called back. She took a few steps into the room, smoothing the front of her dress and composing herself, and then she turned and left the room to get back to it, as ordered.
Chapter Ten
“This afternoon,” Lizzie said to Rebecca and Jake, who were on the front porch swing with her, “that meeting we had with Mr. Rice?”
Rebecca looked at her curiously. Jake had a cloth clown doll in his hand, which Cessie had uncovered, and it was taking most of his concentration.
“That was about getting a house and some land near here,” Lizzie said carefully.
“Did April May and Cessie buy it for us?” Rebecca asked.
“No. Not exactly. They thought of it. They told me about it. But . . . remember that picture of a man with Cessie? She said his name was Lionel and he was her second love?”
Rebecca nodded, and Jake looked up at his mother.
“He passed away but left his house to his daughter. She . . . doesn’t need it and we do, so I’m going to say I’m her.” It was quiet as the children considered this. “It’s what we call a white lie. Remember when we talked about that?”
Both children nodded.
“It doesn’t hurt anyone if I become his daughter, and it helps us a lot.”
“I’d rather live here with April May and Cessie,” Rebecca stated.
“I understand, but we can’t do that. Cessie and April May have been very generous, and we’ll still be neighbors and the best of friends, but we can’t live here. Not for always.”
“I bet they wouldn’t mind,” Rebecca said.
“Even if they wouldn’t mind, it’s just not done, sweetheart. It wouldn’t be right. We need our own house.”
Rebecca thought about it as they swung. Jake went back to the clown doll.
“So you’ll pretend you’re someone else?” Rebecca asked.
“Yes. In a way. I’ll still be me, of course. I’ll still be your mother, but my name will be Elizabeth Anne Greenway Carter. That’s what everyone will think. And your last name will be Carter, too. Rebecca Carter and Jake Carter.” She paused. “Is that all right?”
Jake nodded and then looked at his mother with a guileless smile that touched her.
“Rebecca Carter,” Rebecca said musingly.
“Do you want to think about it for a while?” Lizzie asked her.
“What if I said I didn’t want to?” Rebecca asked earnestly.
Lizzie sighed, searching for the right answer. “What’s happened,” she began, “is a miracle. That we found this place, and these ladies who had a close friend who has a house near here that we can have? It’s a miracle.”
Rebecca looked down at the doll as she pondered. “Can I see it?” she asked Jake.
He hesitated and then handed it over. “Can I go play with the dogs?” he asked his mother.
She leaned over and kissed his head. “Yes.”
He scooted off the swing and hurried into the house.
Rebecca studied the clown doll inquisitively.
“The truth is, we need this,” Lizzie said. “I don’t have much money left.”
“I’m glad we’ll live close to Cessie and April May,” Rebecca said.
“I am, too. They’ve become very important to me.”
Rebecca looked at her. “Can I see the house?”
“Of course. It needs some work and cleaning up, because no one has lived there in a long time, but it will be absolutely wonderful. I promise.”
Rebecca looked back at the doll. “This is funny looking.”
“Yes, it is, Miss Carter.”
Rebecca grinned. “Mrs. Carter,” she shot back.
“Yes, Miss Carter,” Lizzie said, gently poking her in the side. “Did you call me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Carter,” Rebecca said, tickling her back, which was a good excuse for Lizzie to pull her close and hug her. “I don’t mind,” Rebecca finally said.
“I’m so glad,” Lizzie replied. “I’m so glad we found this place.”
Rebecca nodded against Lizzie’s breast. “Me too, Mama.”
Chapter Eleven
As the sun set on the first day of September, Lizzie sat on the front porch steps and kept watch over the bonfire she’d built, probably the tenth she’d burned. She’d never worked so hard, and she felt it in every muscle in her body. They’d cleared out weeds and undergrowth, swept and scrubbed and cleaned and replaced bad floor boards.
After paying for new mattresses, basic supplies, and a used handgun, she was almost out of money, but they had a home and she had the means to protect them all in the unlikely event that Ethan found them. Their needs were small; they didn’t require much to get by. She would plant a late-summer garden and she’d have a bigger, better one in the spring. April May and Cessie were giving them a few chickens and a rooster, claiming they had too many, and they’d made her promise to come for dinner a few nights a week once they were installed in the cottage. For now, they were still in residence at the Blue farm, and they’d been made to feel truly at home. She’d never felt so at home.
Lizzie had plans for the future, as well. The only bakery in town wasn’t very good, so she was hoping to sell baked goods to the general stores. Of course, they had to get into the house first and she had to learn the oven, but she could picture it
in her mind. She could imagine a healthy, happy life in this place. The cottage was amazing in so many ways. The bathhouse and outhouse were exceptionally built, the most exotically strange places she could have imagined. Lionel had fashioned these necessary rooms for comfort, health, even beauty.
The outhouse was a ten-by-twelve structure positioned some six yards from the house and connected by a vine-covered lattice-top walkway. The room had high, crank-out windows that allowed for light and fresh air, and the porcelain toilet bowl had a levered-trap in the bottom to seal off odors. There was also a tank of water on the wall with a nozzle that allowed a cleaning of the bowl. Rainwater that collected outside the building was somehow transferred to the tank.
Just beyond it was the bathhouse. April May had been right; there was a shower for getting clean as well as a soaking tub. The room had the same high windows for light and ventilation. At one time, there had been large potted plants in the corners. The ceramic pots and the decayed remains of the plants were still there. Eventually, she’d replace them and it would be a small oasis once again.
With less than an hour’s preparation, one could have a warm shower and a hot bath. As hot as one wanted, as there were two separate nozzles that filled the tub, one with cold water and one from a tank of hot water. That was where the hour was needed. You built a fire in the small pit beneath the tank. There were actually two tanks on the wall by the tiled shower area, which had confused Lizzie at first until she’d realized the shower drew from both tanks to be pleasantly warm. It was a place of sheer luxury and she was in complete agreement with Lionel about it being good for one’s health.
Beyond the bathhouse was a laundry area. The hand-cranked washing machine had an attached wringer. It had taken some experimentation, but she’d finally gotten the process down. Laundry had always been her least favorite chore, but this contraption made it dramatically easier.
The winery was a place filled with tanks, barrels, and large baskets. The cellar, what she could see of it, appeared to be filled with more barrels, but the racks that lined the walls were empty. She’d ventured part of the way down, but the stairs had decayed and, with no wine left, there was no point in risking injury. Especially when Cessie had given her several bottles of Lionel’s wine.
Lizzie hugged her shawl closer as an evening breeze stirred. September’s weather was far more pleasant than the late-summer heat, although she wouldn’t complain about any weather. Or anything. Not even the blisters on her hands. She’d earned them for a good cause.
The light from the campfire cast eerie shadows about, but she wasn’t frightened. Not in this place. It was her salvation. When the fire had burned down enough that she could leave without worry, she got back to her feet to return to the farm. They were finishing curtains tonight and she’d be hanging them tomorrow. There were countless projects to get to, but she’d take them on one at a time. And be grateful. “’Night, Lionel,” she said with a last glance around.
At the same moment, Jeremy left the livery. After selling the family farm to pay back the bank that had held the mortgage on it, he’d removed every personal item that meant a damn and stored it all in the old cabin on the only acre he’d kept. It was the acre that contained the secrets that would see him hanged. The same secrets that damned him to the life he had now. The only living thing he’d kept was Dancer, his horse.
Once he knew what he had to do, he’d gone to Joseph Schultz, owner of the livery, and struck a deal to keep Dancer there: he would be charged nothing, and Mr. Schultz would have the use of Dancer. It was a good arrangement since Mr. Schultz was a kind man and took the care of the animals in his protection seriously. Jeremy went each week to see and ride Dancer. He often felt it was the most personal connection he had.
The temperature was pleasant as Jeremy started homeward by way of favorite residential streets. He passed couples sitting on porch swings, chatting intimately while children played. Dogs and cats stretched out on the porch steps, keeping a lookout for intruders. The smell of dinners cooking made his stomach growl and the sights and sounds made him feel lonely and isolated, but maybe that was the point. At least it made him feel something.
He usually made a specific circuit before heading back to his small rented house, but tonight he continued to Crooked Tree Road. He passed the Blue farm, where the lights glowed brightly in the encroaching darkness, and continued, curious about the Greenway cottage.
There were no lights from within the cottage, but embers glowed from a bonfire that had mostly died out. He walked over to a shovel leaning against the porch and shoveled some dirt on the embers to kill them, since there was enough of a breeze to cause a breakout fire. Setting the tool back where it had been, he looked over the cottage. The moon, just breaking free of cloud cover, didn’t provide a lot of light, but it still looked like a fine place. Lizzie Greenway Carter and her children would fit well here.
Chapter Twelve
Marie accepted another glass of wine, because she was going to need it. The despair she felt was so overwhelming, she increasingly fantasized about fading away to become invisible. She ought to have been able to do it spontaneously, she’d wished for it so often. She smiled at Tucker Armstrong and Bryant Smith, just like she was supposed to, but she despised them for what they wanted. In her opinion, men who needed an audience or wanted the participation of a friend were nothing but pathetic. Unfortunately, the bottle was empty, which meant the time was at hand. At least she was half drunk as she led the way back to her room.
When it was over, after she shut the door behind them, her shaking hand stayed poised on the key. She longed to turn it, but she didn’t want them to hear the click of the lock. After a few moments, she twisted it and slumped against the door.
Eyes shut, her forehead pressed to the cool wood, her thoughts of Jeremy were bitter because this was all his fault. Her becoming a whore was his fault. She’d loved him her entire life and she’d wanted to marry him more than anything. But then Jenny died, and he’d withdrawn and done nothing but work the farm. Then his mother passed and his pa began drinking his health away. They lost the farm, Mr. Sheffield hanged himself in despair, and Jeremy had gone off to work in the mine.
She hardly saw him then, and her ma had let her know in no uncertain terms that she had to get out—either get married or get a job. “Done supported you long enough, girl,” her ma had declared. “There’s four others behind you to raise.” Her mother had once been a stunning beauty. Not only did everyone say so, but Marie could see the remnants in the now tired face. Hard work and too much childbearing had aged her, made her shoulders droop and her breasts sag. Settling for her lot in life had given her the perpetual frown lines at her mouth and the crease between her brows. It was responsible for the cool, dark shadow in her gaze.
Her ma suggested going into service as a maid, but Marie loathed the thought of waiting on other people. Her ma had declared she was too pretty for her own good and too big for her britches, but the truth was, she wanted marriage. She wanted Jeremy. So she’d tracked him down one afternoon and told him she either had to find work or a husband. When Jeremy just looked at her as if wondering why she was telling him, she blurted that she was thinking of going to work in the saloon.
He’d blinked with surprise. “What do you mean?”
She already regretted that she’d said it. She’d said it to shock him. “You know what I mean.”
“You’re talking about being a prostitute?”
“It’s either that or be a maid.”
“You can’t be serious,” he scoffed. “Men using you all the time? Being a maid would be a hundred times better.”
She’d frowned mightily. “I’d rather be a wife. That’s what I’d rather.”
“Then go marry someone,” he’d retorted.
The words stung.
“What about Frank?” Jeremy asked. “He’s always been sweet on you.”
“I don’t want Frank,” she practically spit. “I’d rather be a whore.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “Why did you have to come tell me?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You know why.”
He shook his head slowly. “I can’t marry you.”
The words were terrible to hear. They made her stomach ache. “Why not?”
Silence fell between them before he answered. “I don’t love you like that. I’m sorry.”
They were the worst words she’d ever heard. “Then I’ll go be a whore,” she threatened, hoping it would spur him to action.
But he only turned and started walking away.
“I mean it,” she cried.
He didn’t stop or turn back, and so she’d done it. She’d become a lady of the night, although lady was quite the stretch. She’d become a prostitute. A whore in waiting. Forever waiting for the man she loved to realize he loved her too, waiting for him to come to her rescue. But it had never happened and it never would. At least she’d had the consolation that his family tragedies had ruined him and he was no longer capable of love. That was, until he went and took an interest in old man Greenway’s daughter. A woman with children, no less. It made no sense. She drew back with a dark frown as someone quietly rapped on her door. “Who is it?” she asked warily.
“Donna.”
Marie unlocked and opened the door.
“You okay?” Donna asked.
Marie shrugged.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Donna commiserated. “Too bad they favor you so much.”
Marie nodded in agreement. What they paid was not worth what they took out of her.
“Anyway, Walt is here and he’s asking for you.”
Marie sagged at the thought of returning to the floor. “I’m not coming back down tonight. I made my quota.”
“Marie—”
“I know what you think,” Marie replied irritably. “You don’t have to say it again.”
“It’s not what I think; it’s what I know. And what I know is that Walt loves you. God Almighty, let him get you the hell out of here while you still got your looks and your health. Now, get washed and dressed again, and come back down. Just spend some time with him. You don’t have to come back up here.”