Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  They parted company at the church, and Olivia looked around for her daughters, but Miranda was the only one she found. The child was still hemmed in by the Chubb sisters. Deeming Miranda to be fine for the moment, if not exactly happy, she left the child there and went in search of the other two. Carrie's absence did not surprise her, but Becky's did. She had told her oldest daughter to watch the other two, and Becky was such an obedient girl. Leaving her sisters was so unlike her.

  She went in search of Carrie first. She had a sneak­ing suspicion that she would find her daughter getting into mischief with Jimmy and Bobby, and when she found the trio kneeling in the dirt behind the church, around a game of marbles, her suspicion was con­firmed. She gave all three of them a hide-blistering lecture about marbles on Sunday, and ended the game, much to Carrie's dismay. "I was on a roll, Mama," she protested, as Olivia dragged her away and left the boys to gather their marbles without her. "I was winning."

  "Caroline Marie, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, no marbles on Sunday. Shame on you for being so blasphemous."

  Carrie tried, she really tried, to look penitent. She hung her head, she shuffled her feet. Olivia sighed. "Have you seen Becky?"

  "She went for a walk down by the creek," Carrie answered, pointing to the nearby woods, "but she said she'd be right back."

  "A walk?" Olivia repeated in surprise. It wasn't at all like Becky to go for a walk when she'd been told to watch her sisters. "Carrie, I want you to go find her while I fetch Miranda and bring the wagon around."

  Carrie turned and ran toward the woods in search of Becky. Olivia retrieved poor Miranda from the clutches of the Chubb sisters, then walked with her across the street to where she'd left the wagon. Miranda climbed into the back, and Olivia drove the wagon to a point just past the church, where she had a clear view of the woods that surrounded Sugar Creek.

  She and Miranda waited about five minutes before Becky and Carrie emerged from the woods and came running for the wagon. Carrie climbed into the back with Miranda, and Becky stepped up onto the wagon seat beside Olivia.

  "Sorry, Mama," she said breathlessly without meet­ing Olivia's gaze.

  "Becky, I'm surprised at you," Olivia chided gently as she snapped the reins and the wagon started down the road, "leaving your sisters alone like that. What on earth were you thinking?"

  "I didn't intend to be gone that long," Becky mum­bled. "And they weren't alone. There were people all around."

  "That isn't the point. I told you to keep an eye on them."

  "Well, how could she?" Carrie piped up. "She was too busy swappin' spit with Jeremiah Miller down by the creek."

  "Carrie! You brat!" Becky wailed as Olivia jerked hard on the reins and brought the wagon to a stop.

  She looked over at her oldest daughter and watched the girl blush to the roots of her hair. "Is that true?" she asked.

  Becky ducked her head and squirmed on the wagon seat. Her embarrassment confirmed her sister's com­ment, even before she mumbled, "It was just one."

  Olivia was dismayed.

  She glanced at the two girls in the back, then over at Becky again. "We'll talk about this when we get home," she said tersely, and snapped the reins, sending the wagon into motion again. The trip home was a long and silent one. Even Carrie had nothing to say.

  Conor noticed tension in the air the moment Olivia and the girls walked in the house. He had finished with his task of pounding nails into the rickety old fence, and was now working on what Olivia called his "home­work," in preparation for his next lesson. He looked up from the slate as they came in, and one look at Olivia's face told him something was definitely amiss.

  "Carrie," Olivia said, "you and Miranda go out to the garden and dig up a bucket of those sweet potatoes while Becky and I have a little talk. And cut me a few bunches of collard greens, too." She glanced at Conor. "Mr. Conor will help you."

  Conor rose and followed Carrie and Miranda out the door, wondering what was going on. It didn't take him long to find out. They hadn't dug more than two sweet potatoes before Carrie gave him all the details, sum­ming up the story with the words, "Becky's in big trou­ble."

  "Mama's not happy," Miranda added.

  Conor could well imagine. He remembered the first time his own mother had caught Michael in the hayloft with Maud O'Donnell and the furor that had ensued. Michael's punishment had been swift and severe. The willow switch, the questions, and the recriminations, followed by confession to Father Donovan and endless hours on his knees doing penance. Conor remembered how humiliating the questions had been, and how futile the punishments. Michael hadn't stopped fondling Maud, he'd just become better at not getting caught. Had his mother been alive when he began enjoying that particular activity, Conor knew he would have suffered the same fate Michael had. He also knew his mother's punishments wouldn't have stopped him either.

  "Why do people want to kiss anyway?" Carrie asked, interrupting Conor's thoughts. "Seems like a silly thing to do, if you ask me."

  Conor grinned. "Someday, you may not think so."

  Carrie frowned at him, clearly skeptical. "Boys are okay," she admitted grudgingly. "They like to do all the fun things, like marbles and fishing and stuff. But I don't think I'd want to kiss one," she added doubtfully.

  Conor dug up another sweet potato, brushed the dirt off, and added it to the pail. "So you think boys do fun things, do you?"

  She nodded. "Jimmy's daddy built him a tree house last year, but he won't let me go up there. They said that's boy stuff, so I'm not allowed. If I had a tree house, I'd let them go up in it. Why won't they let me?"

  Conor thought about that for a moment. "Maybe they think you ought to be playing with your girlfriends, doing girl things."

  "You mean, like dolls?" Carrie's nose wrinkled with distaste. "Yuk!"

  "What's wrong with dolls?" Miranda asked. "I like dolls."

  "Boring," Carrie stated, dropping another sweet potato in the pail. "I think kissing would be boring, too. I can't understand why Becky would want to kiss

  Jeremiah anyway. Last summer, she didn't even like him. She said he was skinny, and his voice was all weird."

  "Maybe she's changed her mind about him," Conor suggested. "Maybe she likes him now."

  "Guess so. But you'd have to like a boy an awful lot, wouldn't you? I like Bobby, but if he ever tried to kiss me, I'd slug him."

  Conor studied the wee girl on the other side of the sweet potatoes, and he could well imagine the merry chase she was going to put Bobby McCann through someday. He almost pitied the poor lad.

  While Carrie was talking with Conor about Becky's transgressions, Olivia was trying to deal with them. She studied her oldest daughter across the kitchen table, noting the girl's resentful frown and closed expression, and she had the feeling she wasn't dealing with them very well.

  "This is not fair!" Becky cried. "Carrie's always get­ting in trouble, and you never say anything to her."

  "That's not true."

  "Yes, it is. She sneaked up and spied on me, then tat­tled to you. But you didn't say anything about that."

  "I will deal with Carrie later," Olivia answered. "But right now, we are not talking about her. We are talking about you. I asked you to keep an eye on your sisters, and you disobeyed me. What if something had happened? What if Miranda had wandered off and gotten hurt?"

  "Miranda didn't get hurt."

  "But she could have. Anything could have happened, and you weren't there. Becky, I count on you to help me with the girls. I need you to be responsible."

  "Why do I always have to be the responsible one?" Becky burst out. "Why do I always have to be the good girl? 'Becky, watch the girls.' 'Becky, bring in the eggs.' 'Becky, do this. Becky, do that!' I'm sick of it!"

  Olivia stared at her daughter's flushed and angry face, too stunned to be angry in return. Never, not once in six years, had the girl ever raised her voice to Olivia, and she couldn't quite take in the fact that it was hap­pening now. "I didn't r
ealize you felt that way," she managed.

  "Well, I don't want to be the good girl anymore," Becky went on defiantly. "I don't want to be bossed around and told what to do. I'm fourteen, and I'm old enough to think for myself."

  She looked into her daughter's rebellious face, and she knew that this was something they had to discuss. But she was completely at a loss about how to do it. "Honey, you may think you know what you're doing, but you don't."

  Becky's face hardened into even more stubborn lines, and Olivia knew she'd said the wrong thing. She cleared her throat and began again. "Becky, I love you, and because I do, I worry about you. Kissing is . . . "

  Her voice trailed off, and she looked at her daughter with both misery and embarrassment. Lord, this was hard to talk about. How could she explain the facts of life to an innocent fourteen-year-old when she was just as innocent at twenty-nine? How could she caution Becky on matters that she had only the vaguest knowl­edge of herself? Her own mother hadn't been there to talk with her about kissing and boys.

  She leaned forward, clasping her hands together on the tabletop, and made another attempt to discuss the situation rationally. "Becky, kissing is something a girl of your age should not be doing. It can . . ." Lord, give me strength. "It can lead to other things."

  "How would you know?" Becky lashed out, as if she could read Olivia's own private thoughts. "You never had any beaux."

  Olivia swallowed past the lump of hurt in her throat. "That's true—"

  "Just because you never had any beaux is no reason I can't."

  "I'm not saying you can't have any beaux. I'm just saying that you're not old enough for that yet. You're only fourteen. There's plenty of time. When you're six­teen—"

  "Sixteen?" Becky railed. "That's two whole years! What if there's another war and all the boys go off to fight. I'll be an old maid."

  She sounded so painfully dramatic, it almost made Olivia want to smile. "Honey, there's not going to be another war. And, believe it or not, two years is not that long."

  "Two years is forever!"

  "I know it can seem like it, but it isn't."

  Becky's stubborn expression did not soften, and Olivia decided it was time to be firm. "You are not old enough to go for walks with a boy, and certainly not unaccompanied. That sort of thing can ruin a girl's rep­utation. As for Jeremiah, I thought he was a nice, polite boy, but this incident is forcing me to revise my opin­ion. I think it would be best if you didn't see much of him from now on."

  "What do you mean?" Becky jumped up so fast, her chair went skidding backward. "What about when school starts? Jeremiah and I always go over to the store and have peppermint sticks after school."

  "I know." Olivia also rose to her feet. "I think it would be best if that stopped for a while."

  "And I think you're mean and hateful!"

  Olivia felt her own temper flaring. "That was uncalled for, Rebecca Ann," she said sharply. "This issue is not open for debate. For the time being, you will not be going anywhere with Jeremiah. I intend to discuss the situation with Lila, and make sure this does not happen again."

  "What?" Stunned, Becky stared at her. "You can't. I'll be completely humiliated. Jeremiah will never speak to me again."

  "Under the circumstances, I find that a blessing."

  Becky's face crumpled into misery. "How could you do this to me?" she burst out. "I hate you!"

  She ran out of the kitchen, sobbing, and slammed the door behind her.

  Olivia jumped at the sound. She leaned forward, pressing her fingertips to her forehead, feeling defen­sive, angry, and very worried. There were times when being a mother was a very trying thing.

  When Conor opened the back door and looked in, Olivia was standing at the kitchen counter, with one arm wrapped around a bowl and a spoon in her other hand. She was savagely stirring the contents of the bowl, and she barely spared him a glance.

  "Is it safe?" he asked from the doorway.

  "I don't know what you mean." She slammed the bowl down on the counter and reached for the canister of flour.

  "The way Becky went flying out of here, I thought it might be a war all over again. I sent Carrie and Miranda after her, just to make certain she doesn't do something dramatic and stupid, like run away from home."

  She began measuring flour into the bowl and didn't reply.

  He entered the kitchen and set a pail of sweet potatoes on the pie safe beside the door. He closed the door, then leaned back against it and studied her across the kitchen. He hadn't seen her this angry since she'd found out he was a prizefighter. She got angry about the oddest things. Prim and proper, starchy Olivia. "So, what's to be poor Becky's fate, then?" he asked.

  Olivia shoved the canister of flour back in its place and began stirring the dough in the bowl. "I suppose Carrie told you everything."

  "Every fascinating detail."

  She bristled at that. "I'm glad you find it fascinating. When you have daughters of your own, I pray they give you no end of trouble."

  Conor grinned. "Sure, that's the mother's curse," he said blithely. "When I was a lad and got into mis­chief, my mother always ended her lecture with the words, 'Conor, my son, when you have children of your own, may they give you half the grief you've given me.'"

  She continued to stir the contents of the bowl and did not reply.

  "What are you going to do?" he asked.

  Olivia stopped taking out her anger on the cookie dough. "I'm going to make certain this doesn't happen again," she said, reaching for an egg. She cracked the egg against the side of her mixing bowl with unneces­sary force. "I'm going to talk with the boy's mother."

  "What?" Conor stared at her back in disbelief. "Have you no heart at all, Olivia?"

  She tossed aside the broken pieces of eggshell, and whirled around. "What?"

  "Talking to his mother." Conor shook his head. "How embarrassing for the lad. Talk to him, if you must, but leave his mother out of it."

  "He should be embarrassed," Olivia replied hotly. "He should be ashamed."

  "Why? The lad was only stealing a kiss from a pretty girl behind the church. 'Tis harmless enough, I'm thinking."

  "Kissing is not harmless," she shot back. "It can lead to—"

  He folded his arms across his chest, and looked at her with one raised eyebrow, waiting for her to finish.

  She pressed her lips together and turned away. "Becky's too young for that sort of thing," she said, crack­ing another egg into the bowl. "She's only fourteen."

  "It was just a kiss. How old were you when you got your first kiss, Olivia?"

  She began stirring again and didn't answer. He stud­ied her rigid back and thought of that morning when she'd rubbed that liniment into his skin, and how his response to her touch had shocked her. He thought of last night when he had touched her lips and she had looked at him with wide, dazed eyes. He wondered if Olivia had ever been kissed in her life. Suddenly, he wanted an answer to his question. He wanted it badly. "How old, Olivia?"

  "I don't think that's any of your business."

  "And I don't think you've ever been kissed."

  "I have, too." She picked up a bottle of vanilla and yanked out the cork. She dumped a spoonful of the brown liquid into the bowl. "Twice," she added, slam­ming the bottle down. A spray of vanilla spilled onto her hand and across the wooden counter.

  He laughed out loud. "Twice? Two whole times?"

  The egg came flying at him before he knew what was happening—but Conor was a prizefighter. He had quick reflexes, and he knew how to duck. The egg sailed over his head and hit the door with a splat.

  White, yolk, and broken shell slid toward the floor. He whistled, then straightened, and grinned at her. "Good aim, but too slow. Care to take another shot?"

  "Must you always be so mocking?" she demanded, her voice shaking with anger.

  He began walking toward her, watching as she took a step back and hit the counter behind her. He stopped a foot in front of her and spread his arms wide.
"Well, go on, then. I'm ready."

  "What?"

  "You've been kissed twice. Give me the benefit of your expertise. Show me how it's done."

  "I will not!"

  He studied her shocked and outraged expression and nodded slowly. "Just as I thought. Not a single kiss to your name."

  She lifted her chin and scowled at him. He responded with a wicked smile, and waited.

  "All right, then," she said, unexpectedly rising to the challenge of that smile. She stood on her tiptoes, touched her lips to one corner of his, and moved back again, so quickly that he almost missed the whole thing. "There."

  "You call that a kiss?" He shook his head. "Olivia, I don't know what that was, but it wasn't a kiss."

  She flushed pink, and a pained expression crossed her face. "There's no need to make fun of me. Not all of us have your . . . your . . ."

  "My what?"

  "Your capacity for sin," she snapped.

  "Kissing is a sin, is it?"

  "I'm sure it would be, the way you would do it."

  He threw back his head and laughed. "God, I hope so."

  She didn't share his amusement. "You know all about it, of course. No doubt you've kissed lots of women."

  She started to turn away, but he lifted his arms to brace them against the counter, trapping her. He leaned closer, inhaling the scent of vanilla. "My fair share," he murmured. "Would you like me to show you how to do it properly?"

  Her face took on a hint of panic, but she tilted her head back and met his eyes. "No, Mr. Branigan," she answered primly. "I would not."

  He grinned. No woman could stick her nose in the air better than Olivia. "Afraid my sinful ways might corrupt you?" He bent his head until his mouth was an inch from hers. "After all, you might like it."

  "I doubt it."

  That was too much. He couldn't let that comment pass unchallenged. "'Tis doubting me, you are?" He touched his lips to one corner of hers. "I'm not sure you know enough about it to judge."

  He tilted his head slightly and kissed the other cor­ner of her mouth. "The main thing about kissing," he said, his lips brushing lightly over hers with each word, "is not to think about it too much."