Abiding Love

by Melody Morgan

  "You know me, I'm not going to beat around the bush, Irene." She settled deeper into the cushioned settee. "There's been talk and a lot of it. I'm sure I don't need to tell you about what."

  Winnie raised both eyebrows and dipped her chin slightly before sipping her tea once more.

  Irene ignored her.

  "About the children?" Irene knew she was baiting Clara, but she couldn't help herself.

  "No." Clara frowned.

  Winnie took another sip.

  "About what then?"

  "Not what. Who." Nearly beside herself, Clara practically shouted, dragging out each word. "And that who is one Mr. Hollister, the saloon ownerin case you've forgotten."

  "I haven't."

  "Good. Because I have it on very good authority that the superintendent is not at all pleased with your socializing with that man. You have a standard to set for the children, all children. And if you're not careful, you'll lose your position."

  Irene felt as though the floor were shifting beneath her feet. She loved teaching. She couldn't imagine what else she would do. There wasn't anything else she wanted to do. With the delicate cup held tightly in her hands, her earlier defiance slowly slipped away like the warmth of the setting sun.

  "I can see that you understand now." Clara raised herself from her seat and placed her cup on the tray. "There's one more thing before I go. I think it's important for you to show your support for our cause a little more openly, Irene. You have neglected to take your turn sitting in front of the saloon."

  Irene's head shot up, her attention focused on Clara's every word.

  "We cannot give up our fight to close down each and every saloon in town. Even if it means using force once again."

  Her mouth went dry. She couldn't do that. Jonathan would never understand.

  "I'll be in touch with you later. Don't get up. I'll see myself out." And with a briskly spoken "good day" she left, closing the door firmly behind her.

  "Irene?" Winnie stared at her quizzically. "What did she mean about using force and sitting in front of a saloon?" A slow dawning changed her puzzled frown to a look of horror. "You're not one of those saloon smashers!" The tea cup and saucer slowly rolled from her hands down the front of her skirt, tinkling and cracking as they hit the floor. "No, Irene, no!"

  "Yes, Mother, yes." And she rose from her seat and climbed the stairs to her room.

  Chapter Seven

  Winnie Barrett took to her bed with the worst case of the vapors she'd ever experienced and stayed there until the next morning. When Lydia knocked on her door to see how she was doing, Winnie sent her away.

  What was a mother to do? she asked herself with a groan. If only Andrew were still in town. If only the two of them hadn't had a falling out, or whatever it had been, then she wouldn't have to worry about Irene. And oh, how she worried about Irene!

  Sitting up, she punched her pillow several times, more vehemently than necessary, to rearrange the feathers; then she tried to relax against them.

  Why couldn't Irene have been as fortunate as her sisters?

  A sigh of thankfulness escaped her when she thought of Janie, Mary Ellen, and Rosie, married to husbands who took such good care of them. Oh, Randolph would have been so proud of their choices! Remembering the lovely parlor weddingsthree years in a rowthat she'd put on for her daughters momentarily eased the worry on her mind. Everything had been so beautiful, so absolutely perfect. There had been roses in abundance, and she'd brought out her best china and crystal, of course. And music had floated throughout the house and even out the open windows from the small group of musicians she'd hired.

  She sighed again.

  But Irene! What had the girl gotten herself into? And Clara Wilson, too, for that matter. Hmph! She should have suspected that Clara, with her crisp, clipped talk and always minding other people's business, would be up to something like this. Truth to tell, she'd never really cared much for Clara, and now she knew why. Smashing saloons! Why, it positively sent shudders throughout her whole body. Not that she condoned drinking by any means. But vandalism?

  Winnie rolled over and tossed the covers back, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her vapors long forgotten.

  No daughter of hers was going into any saloon and breaking the law. No sir, not as long as there was breath in her frail body.

  She bustled around the room barely noticing the chilled air or the cold floor, dressing herself while several plans formed in her head. There was no way on God's green earth that she would stand by and let Clara Wilson ruin her daughter's life any more than she would tolerate that roaming saloon owner spending another evening in this house.

  With the bed made up and the room straightened in record time, she hustled down to the kitchen, her mind alive with the details of her plans.

  Irene awoke with a heaviness on her shoulders that couldn't have weighed less than the trunk her mother had brought with her.

  Sunday morning, she thought, and grimaced. She felt far from charitable or Christian. Suppressing a groan, she pushed back the cocoon-like warmth of the covers, stepped into the cold morning air, and shivered. A double layer of goosebumps coated her arms and legs while she dressed. Tossing a shawl around herself, she hurried down to the kitchen to build a fire.

  Inside the doorway Irene stopped as she saw her mother remove a shawl from a peg and wrap it around her shoulders. Reluctantly, she moved into the kitchen. She had hoped to have a little time to herself before having to deal with her mother's advice and admonitions. And truthfully, she was in no mood to listen to either.

  Mechanically, Irene shook down the ashes in the range from the night before, laid the kindling in the small firebox, and tried to adjust to Winnie's presence. Striking a match, she lit the kindling. A weak fire struggled against the cold cast iron of the stove. Quickly she opened the damper to encourage the brave little flames, but the burst of draft extinguished it.

  With a sigh of exasperation, she battled her inability to focus on the simplest task of the morning. Instead, her mind concentrated on the problem of Ross Hollister.

  She struck another match.

  Why had he ever come to town in the first place?

  Once again she lit the kindling, now charred and smoking, then fidgeted with the damper. The minutes ticked by while Clara's words forced their way into her thoughts just as they had into her dreams.

  She could lose her teaching job!

  Or she could alienate Jonathan forever.

  Winnie filled the teakettle while watching her daughter over one shoulder and feeling the added coolness emanating from Irene's stiff, straight back. There was little she could say. They simply didn't agree on this situation and there was nothing she could do about it. Frustrated and a little irritated with her daughter's stubbornness, she plunked the kettle on the stove.

  Now more than ever, Winnie's mind was made up. She sat at the table, patiently waiting for the water to boil for tea.

  The morning stretched endlessly for Irene. Everyone seemed to be upset or nervous. Winnie said nothing. Lydia sidestepped to keep out of their way, obviously sensing the tension between them. And Jonathan pouted, saying he didn't want to go to church. When Lydia quelled him with a look, he defiantly re-stated his opinion.

  Finally, they were ready and out the door.

  The sun was as bright today as it had been the day before, making the walkways slushy.

  All wore solemn expressions, but for different reasons.

  Lydia worried over Miss Barrett and what she would do about Mrs. Wilson's threat. She'd heard every word clear back to the kitchen and disliked Mrs. Wilson even more than before. And poor Mr. Hollister! He was so nice. But nobody seemed to like him except Jonathan, herself and, she thought, Miss Barrett. Actually, she hoped Miss Barrett liked him a lot. Maybe being a saloon owner wasn't the best thing in the world to be, but he hadn't exactly bought the saloon. Even Mrs. Gregg had admitted that Mr. Hollister's brother was the one who'd done that. Oh, she'd heard most of th
e things people said, and she didn't believe anyone was being very fair to him. Not fair at all.

  Ordinarily, Jonathan would have loved running through the wonderfully wet, sloshy snow, but not this morning. He didn't exactly hate going to church. At least it didn't last as long as school, and he only had to pretend to listen, but he did have to dress up more. Even worse, he wouldn't see Ross.

  Irene glanced at Jonathan walking ahead of her all dressed in his Sunday best. The brown pants and matching jacket fitted him nicely, and with the little string tie he looked like a miniature grownup. He was a fine boy in need of a firm, loving hand. Watching him, she grappled with the idea of telling him he could never see Ross again.

  How would he react? She could barely bring herself to think about it.

  With a little more spring in her step than she would have anticipated being possible, Winnie marched along beside her daughter. Her plan was complete. Now all she had to do was set it in motion. She could barely refrain from humming a tune, so she struck up a conversation.

  "Irene, have you seen Emma Gregg lately? Or that fine husband of hers?"

  "Not since last Sunday. Why?"

  "No reason. It's just that I always did think a lot of Howard Gregg; I don't mind admitting that I'd hoped if you were interested in another man it might be him."

  "Mother!" Irene came to a dead halt. "He's a married man!"

  "I know that. I meant before Emma came along."

  "Emma didn't come along, as you put it, she was always there. They belong together." And Irene sincerely meant it.

  "Mmmm. I suppose you're right. Anyway, I guess that's water under the bridge." When Irene continued to stand, still gaping, Winnie tugged pleasantly on her arm and resumed walking.

  They rounded a corner and climbed the hill to the Presbyterian Church, which overlooked the town below. There were a number of other churches in Grand Rapids, but since Irene had been raised Presbyterian, and so had Andrew, it was only natural that this was where they attended.

  Inside, all four took their seats halfway up the aisle on the right-hand side. Rays of light beamed through the tall windows. Irene inhaled deeply, feeling the first moment of peace since Clara had come to call. Glancing to her left, she nodded to the parents of some of her students. Then Emma and Howard made their way into the pew ahead, sitting directly in front of Irene.

  Everyone rose and the singing began.

  The familiarity of the hymns washed over Irene, and she put from her mind the hard decisions she was forced to make. Later she would have to think about them, but for now she accepted the reprieve.

  Ross stood in the cold, narrow room above the saloon, looking out the only window facing Front Street. From this vantage point, his eye caught the crowds of people emerging from the different churches up on the hill. He watched as they made their way through melting snow-banks, going in varied directions, sometimes in lines, sometimes three abreast or two by two. All separate yet drawn together in one purpose.

  After a while he found himself following the progress of a set of two-by-two's. Something about the gliding walk of the tall woman drew his attention. She reminded him of Irene with her hat, the tilt of her head and . . . He smiled. Only Irene could walk like that. No wonder he'd picked her out of such a large group of people.

  Ever since the night she'd smashed his mirror and then his big toe, she'd been on his mind. He'd wondered even then about her involvement with a temperance group, since she was obviously out of place in their midst. And now that he'd gotten to know her a little better, he felt sure her presence in the saloon had not been her idea.

  He continued watching until they moved from view, blocked by a series of houses, then appeared again. Concealed, he was able to observe them unabashedly as they descended the hill and turned onto Front Street.

  After yesterday's trip to the woods, he found he couldn't quit thinking about her, with her quiet, reserved ways that she wore like a protective shawl and movements that were careful and studied as though she'd thought each one out before carrying it through. Then there was her concern about the kids, especially Jonathan. But more than any of those things was the loneliness. He sensed it, recognized it because he lived with it too.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a group of young boys dashed along the street, making a wide berth around Irene, her mother, and the children. Their laughter and calls of hello greeted Ross's ears even at this distance. On their shoulders they each carried a pair of skating blades.

  Skating. On the canal.

  From the recesses of his memory flashed a vivid picture of himself and Harry playing tag on the ice, accompanied by a crowd of townspeople, young and not so young, sliding, gliding, and slipping along the glistening surface of the frozen waterway.

  Why hadn't he thought of that before?

  Turning, he quickly crossed the room with its unfinished walls and clutter of empty crates. Two steps at a time, he descended the back stairs, hoping Irene and the children wouldn't get too far up the street before he could reach them. He strode through the saloon, crossed the street, and arrived on the boardwalk seconds before their path crossed his.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Barrett," he said to the older woman, touching the brim of his hat. Then, giving Irene his full attention, he smiled and nodded. "Irene."

  Winnie stiffly allowed a slight return nod of her head, although she barely glanced at him, obviously wishing Irene would do the same. Her posture told him she was not pleased to be standing on the same street with him.

  With unleashed glee, Jonathan bounced around while chanting, "Ross! Ross!"

  But it was Irene's response that interested him most.

  "Good morning, Mr. Hollister." Her voice was distant, cool.

  He decided to pay no attention to that; after all, her mother stood close by with disapproval sticking out all over like the quills of a porcupine. "Do you mind if I walk with you?" he asked.

  A small gasp escaped Winnie, and she cast a furtive glance around her.

  "Yeah! Sure, Ross! Come with us!" Jonathan yelled, even though the still air surrounding them held nothing but awkward silence.

  Winnie cleared her throat. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll drop by Clara's for a visit."

  Irene shot her a look of warning.

  "I won't be long." With a quelling look of her own, Winnie added, "Don't you be either." Then she turned and walked away.

  Ross watched the play of emotions on Irene's pinkening facesurprise, repressed anger, then controlled composure.

  As if there hadn't been any interruptions, he asked again, "Do you mind?"

  She saw a glimmer of a twinkle in his gray-blue eyes. Was he offering a challenge to her? Did she dare accept it? Should she accept it?

  "If you'd like," she answered noncommittally, then proceeded walking past the businesses whose closed signs hung in the windows.

  Jonathan wedged himself between them, happy to have Ross along. "What're we gonna do today, Ross?" he asked.

  "Funny that you should ask," he began, staring down at the boy, "because I happen to have something in mind." He looked over at Irene, whose eyes never left the snow-covered road before them, giving him the opportunity to study her profile. He liked what he sawher smooth cheekbones, not too high, a perfect nose, and especially her proud chin.

  "What? What have you got in mind?" Jonathan tugged on his coat sleeve.

  "Skating."

  At that, Irene turned to stare at him.

  "Do you skate?" he asked.

  She stopped walking. "Skate?" she answered, as if she'd never heard the word before.

  He nodded, his face in the semi-shadow of his hat. "On the canal. I thought maybe we could go across the river this afternoon.''

  Irene scrutinized his expression. "You're serious, aren't you?" She tried to picture this man, who always wore a cowboy hat and boots, on skates. A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. He was such a surprise. She'd never met a man like him before.

  "Why not?"


  Her light laughter filled the air. "I really don't skate very well, Mr. Hollister. As a matter of fact, I haven't been on skates since I was Lydia's age."

  Ross grinned, pleased that he'd made her laugh. "So?"

  She laughed again. She couldn't explain why except that the idea was so preposterous.

  "What about skates?" Lydia asked.

  "Yeah. We don't have any," Jonathan added, suddenly downhearted.

  Without taking his eyes off Irene, Ross ruffled Jonathan's hair and replied, "We'll find some." To her he said, "What do you say?"

  She didn't know what to say. It was tempting; it was also a little frightening. But it did sound like fun.

  Fun. It was a new word in her personal vocabulary, and Ross was the man who had introduced it. Now wasn't the time to analyze it, but he added exhilaration to her life, made her feel younger and lighter of heart than she ever had before.

  "Where will we find skates?" she asked, realizing that she'd just said yes.

  "Leave that to me," he answered, beginning to walk in the opposite direction. "I'll stop by your house around two o'clock. Okay?"

  She nodded, still smiling.

  The children and Irene hurried through the noon meal, barely noticing when a disgruntled Winnie entered the kitchen through the back door. Nobody mentioned their plans for the afternoon. Not even Jonathan.

  In record time, the dishes were washed and put away, the wood box was filled, and a fresh bucket of water was brought in. Then Irene saw to the selection of warm outer wear for each of them. In her wardrobe, in a hat box with cedar-wood chips, was a beautiful muff that she'd used as a girl. It was perfect for Lydia.

  Stroking it as though it was alive, Lydia felt its deep silky fur. "Oh, Miss Barrett! I've never held anything so . . . so . . ." Unable to come up with an appropriate word, she put her hands into the tunneled ends, enjoying the texture and the fit.

  "It's yours. I want you to have it."

  "Mine?" Lydia asked, disbelieving.

  "Yes."

  Without warning, Lydia threw her arms around Irene, hugging her tight.

  "I love it. Thank you!" And I love you, too, she thought. Her throat constricted and she had to work her chin to keep from crying. This was going to be the most wonderful day, and she didn't want to ruin it by bawling like a baby.