Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

  She folded her forearms on the desk and put her head down on top of them. Her breathing quieted and she felt the earlier thoughts return. Why did he seem familiar? She closed her eyes and his arms again encircled her. Maybe the feeling was merely an echo of what she knew of Kyle’s embrace. But the moment she considered this answer she sensed it was wrong. There was always a hesitance about Kyle’s touch that seemed to emphasize their individual natures. Whenever they entwined it felt like both of them needed to make accommodation for the other, being careful not to delve too far or too close.

  But with Val she sensed a clicking together like magnets, like his arms being around her was a perfectly natural occurrence. He had smelled of sweat, but she recognized more in his scent—a combination of earth and ocean, flowers and wood, something very alive, indeed akin to life itself. The thought of it brightened her eyes, as though someone had snapped their fingers in front of her face, awakening her. Even now a warmth flowed through her and the skin stretched along the top of her back tingled. This can’t be, she thought. This cannot be right.

  Her hands rolled into fists and she pressed her head against her forearms. She would bury this notion, whatever it was, and she was determined to do it at once. This man was nothing to her. Val Jackson was vile, intolerable, and in a few days she would have written words from Gladys affirming her in this thinking. Really she didn’t even have to speak to him if she didn’t want to for the remainder of her visit.

  Elizabeth repeated these thoughts to herself until they began to whirl in her mind like a vortex. And she used this spinning steel of words to drill into the ground deep. She could feel her notion of oneness with Val tumble into the resulting hole. And now the thoughts reminding her of what he was fell into that hole, again and again, until any thought of being close to him had sunk deep, deep down into her being, never to rise again. She raised her head and turned so her right cheek lay on her arms. Her eyes drooped with the heaviness of her work and the warmth of the room. Soon she fell asleep.

  SHE SAT UP slowly when she heard the quiet knock at the door. She rubbed her eyes and looked out the window. It wasn’t dark out, but the light had shifted enough to tell her it was early evening. A gurgling sound rolled through her stomach and she realized she had missed lunch.

  Annie opened the door enough to poke her head through.

  “Mrs. Townsend, are you ready to get dressed for dinner?”

  “Yes, Annie, come in.” When Elizabeth had first arrived, she’d declined these offers. She could very well dress herself. But when she noticed Annie’s look of disappointment each time she sent the maid away, Elizabeth realized she was keeping her from doing her job. Having company in the house probably meant extra work and extra wages for everyone. So she allowed Annie in and discovered a warm, comforting experience she never expected. Annie who, Elizabeth guessed, was just a few years older than her made her feel as though she were dressing for a party every night. She complimented Elizabeth on her clothes, quickly ironed or mended any item requiring attention, and had the added skill of hairdressing. Elizabeth trusted Annie, the hot comb in the maid’s pudgy brown fingers, to press out the fuzzy tufts close to her temples and the nape of her neck. Considering how much time Elizabeth and Rose spent sweating in the garden under the summer sun, Annie had to perform this task a couple of times a week.

  Annie also chatted freely, and this soothed Elizabeth’s nerves and eased her into the quiet she wanted to have at dinner. Still, she jerked her head when Annie mentioned Mr. Jackson.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, did I burn you?”

  “No, Annie.” Elizabeth pulled the thick white towel closer around her neck and held the ends bunched in a fist under her chin. “What were you saying about Mr. Jackson?”

  “It’s nice he’s here. It’s always so lively when Mr. Jackson visits.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Mrs. Jarreau will miss him at dinner tonight.”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and tilted her head up toward Annie. She could feel the heat of the retreating hot comb just above her left ear. “Mr. Jackson won’t be at dinner?”

  “No, ma’am. He sent word he’ll be eating in his room. The kitchen staff are preparing a tray for him now.”

  “Oh.” Elizabeth lowered her chin and closed her eyes tight. Annie brought the comb close to her temple and tugged gently at the tight curls there. While she did so Elizabeth chewed over this new piece of information with some relief. She wouldn’t have to deal with him at all, at least not for tonight. Even as she winced under the comb she could feel the muscles down her back relaxing.

  SUNDAY DAWNED COOLER than the previous days. A fine breeze blew through Mercylands, pushing away the thick, water-laden air that had hampered Elizabeth and all of the mansion’s inhabitants. In the afternoon Elizabeth and Rose were able to sit comfortably out on the terrace for the first time in nearly a week.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Rose said. She lowered herself into her chair and leaned back as though giving permission for the wind to flow over her. “That cool air sure feels nice.”

  “Amen to that,” Elizabeth replied. She sat and looked down the length of the terrace and then over the lawn. They hadn’t seen Val much over the past two days and Elizabeth saw no sign of him now. When he did come to meals, such as breakfast that morning, he stayed hidden behind the newspapers he read. He still spoke to Rose with affection, but only acknowledged Elizabeth when she entered or left the room.

  Was he upset with her? But then she remembered in thinking this way she would be assigning herself an imaginary power—that she could move his emotions with her actions. Val Jackson, she was sure, thought no more of her than he did any other woman. It was more likely that in keeping to himself and staying in his room he was finally settling in, and this was what his visits to Mercylands were really like. She assumed this because Rose didn’t seem to think there was anything strange about his behavior. Elizabeth should be glad she didn’t have to encounter him more than necessary.

  The servant Avery stepped through the French doors, his hands wrapped around the handles of a large wooden tray. On it he carried glasses and a large pitcher of lemonade stuffed with mint leaves. He put the tray on the table and picked up a small blue-handled strainer next to the pitcher. He placed it over a glass and poured the lemonade through. He repeated this with a second glass and when both glasses were full, he handed them to Rose and Elizabeth.

  “Ma’am, Reverend Stiles’s room is ready.” He made a small bow and lowered his eyes.

  Rose reached for her lemonade. “Thank you, Avery. He should be here soon.”

  Elizabeth waited for Avery to go back inside before she asked her question. “Reverend Stiles is on his way?”

  “Yes. Val invited him. Even sent his car to get him.” Rose laughed and shook her head. “The old coot! He has a car of his own, but after riding up here in Val’s Cadillac, I bet he’s already plotting how to get himself one just like it. But the only way he will is if Val gives him that one when he’s done with it.”

  “Would he really do that?”

  “There’s no telling what that boy will do. He can be as generous as an angel, but most of the time he goes around bedeviling people like he doesn’t have anything better to do. If he were still nine years old, I’d probably take a switch to him!” Rose laughed again and nearly spilled her drink.

  Elizabeth smiled and sipped her lemonade. The mint stung her tongue with a cool brightness. She caught a stray leaf in the side of her mouth and chewed on it. She wanted to ask why Rose would take a switch to Val and why he’d invited Reverend Stiles to Mercylands, but she had the sense she was beginning to skirt an unseen boundary.

  The French doors opened and Sebastian walked through, holding them open.

  “Mrs. Jarreau, here’s Reverend Stiles.”

  The minister wore a short-sleeved white shirt and brown slacks and he held a straw fedora in his hands. He smiled widely and warmly.

 
“Here,” said Sebastian, plucking the hat from him, “let me take that for you. I’ll go find Mr. Jackson and tell him you’re here.”

  “Thank you, Sebastian!” Reverend Stiles’s smile grew broader as though it would split his face in two. “Rose! It is such an honor to be here.” He looked at her over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “It’s been a long time! But you look lovely. In fact you’ve never been prettier.”

  “Oh, you hush now with all that! Sit yourself down. Say hello to Elizabeth.” She waved her hands in Elizabeth’s direction.

  “I was just about to do that. Hello, Elizabeth,” he said. He sat in a chair between them. “So happy to see you here. Rose, this is one of my favorite parishioners. Always ready to lend a hand, always putting out the good word about the church and our work.”

  “That’s kind of you to say so,” said Elizabeth. “Here, let me.” She poured a glass of lemonade just as she had seen Avery do it, then handed the glass to Reverend Stiles.

  “Thank you.”

  “How was your ride up?” Rose asked. She winked at Elizabeth.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a car that rode so smooth! I enjoyed it, I’ll say that.”

  Elizabeth smiled into her glass.

  “So what do you and Val have cooking?” Rose peered at the minister over her glasses.

  Reverend Stiles held up his empty hands. “I honestly don’t know, Rose. The boy just said he needed to talk to me.”

  Rose swirled the lemonade in her glass then took a drink. “Well, as long as you don’t talk him into trouble that’s fine with me.”

  “Trouble? What are you talking about, trouble? You know the Good Lord moves me to do no harm and only His will. I’ll go anywhere to stretch out my hand and lift up one of His sheep. I would—”

  “All right.” Rose flapped a hand at him to shush him. “You’ve already done your sermon for today. Remember the Lord also rested on the seventh day.”

  “Amen to that!” He smiled, sat back, and drank his lemonade.

  “How was church today?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It was fine, just fine.” Then Reverend Stiles frowned. “But Mother Harris burned one of the coffeepots when she was getting ready for the fellowship hour. Boiled it bone dry then burned it after that.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Nobody got hurt, but the smell came out of the kitchen and the whole fellowship room stank so bad no one wanted to stay down there. J.D. was still airing it out when I left.”

  They all laughed and were still laughing when Val walked out onto the terrace. He kissed his aunt’s cheek, nodded to Elizabeth, then shook Reverend Stiles’s hand and thanked him for coming. Elizabeth thought there was something muted about him. The tone of his voice didn’t ring as brightly and his smile seemed perfunctory. It was like he was standing behind a screen that filtered out all the glow of him. He didn’t accept a drink and he didn’t sit down with them. Instead he perched himself on the wide stone terrace railing near his aunt. He participated in their small talk but his gaze stayed trained on Reverend Stiles. Elizabeth thought there was something unsettled about his look, something that sat just behind his eyes. She couldn’t help wondering about this while at the same time chastising herself for doing so.

  Finally Val stood up. “Reverend Stiles, come on and take a walk with me. It’ll be good to stretch your legs after that long ride.”

  “All right then.” The minister got up and rubbed his hands together like he knew he was about to go to work. “Excuse us, ladies.” He nodded at Rose and Elizabeth then followed Val down the stone steps.

  Rose watched them go and she chuckled.

  “What is it?” Elizabeth asked. She smiled too. “Why are you laughing?”

  “It’s just funny how sometimes Mohammed will just bring the mountain to him. Any other person would wait and go to church, but Val must have something he wants to get out of his head now.”

  “Well, he can do that, right? Val’s in that position. He can ask for anything he wants.”

  A small cloud dropped down and darkened Rose’s forehead. She leaned toward Elizabeth and pressed her right index finger on the table in front of her.

  “What Val does is no special thing. Anyone in this world can ask for what they want. They just don’t do it.”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Rose, I don’t understand.”

  Rose sat back and crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed until she squinted. “Val asks for what he wants. People envy him because they’re too scared or too lazy to ask for what they want. If you ask me, it’s pure laziness. People sit around thinking the world is going to hand them something, like the world owes them something.”

  Elizabeth stared at her glass and ran her finger around the rim. “I never thought of it that way.”

  Rose leaned toward her.

  “You think Reverend Stiles wouldn’t come to you if you called him? He just sat right there and said you were one of his favorite parishioners. You think he values you less than he does Val?”

  She stared at her host a moment before she shook her head and lowered her chin. “No, I guess not.”

  Rose sat up straight again. “No, he doesn’t. He’d be right on your doorstep or anyone else’s. But Val is the one who asked. People don’t think to ask for anything. They don’t want to be told no. Then they sit there and stew because somebody like Val has the nerve to do what they won’t do. I get tired of the way people act sometimes.”

  Elizabeth sipped her lemonade. How much of what she heard about Val Jackson grew from the roots of jealousy? Rose was speaking of a pastor’s visit, but Elizabeth wondered how much of Val’s lore might stem from those same emotions. They could easily generate from a man who felt spurned because Val won the woman he didn’t approach; a woman scorned because she wasn’t the one he sought; anyone who coveted his wealth and position, though it was dubious because of his clubs and other dealings. She had no way to assess the truth of all this. Her conjectures circled aimlessly in her mind.

  What was a man? Was he his thoughts and deeds? Was he the way he treated others? Was he the way he treated her, Elizabeth? Was he his reputation or perhaps some combination of all these aspects? Was he the things he said to her or was he the boy who kissed his aunt’s cheek with such affection? For her own part Elizabeth thought he behaved poorly just once or maybe twice. She supposed she would need to observe him, even talk to him more, if she was to arrive at her own right conclusions. What harm could come of it? Both Rose and Reverend Stiles regarded him well. If she had something to fear wouldn’t they be the ones warning her against him?

  Besides, she thought, why should she allow faceless rumors or even Gladys’s caution to tell her what to think? She, like Rose, often tired of the way people behaved. It was too much like what she read in The Street—people acting out of their own interests with no thought to kindness or grace. But what did it mean to extend graciousness to Val Jackson? What would it look like?

  OVER THE NEXT two days she watched and waited. Val and Reverend Stiles continued their private talks. At first she was grateful to have Val’s attention focused elsewhere. She relaxed and didn’t worry about what to say to him or how to say it. They exchanged easy pleasantries at meals. His meetings with the pastor intrigued her. Whenever she came upon them on the grounds Val was not smiling or laughing. He walked with his hands behind his back and wore a thoughtful look on his face. She would nod in their direction but she didn’t want to interrupt their talk.

  Was Reverend Stiles counseling Val? Was he on his way to making some sort of change in his life? That would explain his posture, his contemplative attitude. If this were true, what did it mean? And why was it happening? She wanted so much to talk to Reverend Stiles herself, she could chew through her fingernails as she thought about it. But she also knew such a conversation was impossible. It would be interference, even a betrayal of confidence. She would never do that.

  Her eagerness, she knew, grew
from her recognition of a clear path. She was on familiar ground. She knew how a person might seek a place at God’s table and she had counseled many a friend looking for spiritual guidance. She could help Val. In fact she considered it her Christian duty to encourage him. If a man of his means could change his life, it would affect so many people for the good. A changed Val Jackson might make different decisions about what to do with his money. He could help fund the pastoral missions of the church. He would inspire others—he could be a real light to behold. Thinking of the possibilities made her more self-assured. If you save one soul it’s as if you’ve saved a whole universe. There would be nothing wrong about befriending him if she could steer him a little toward good. She decided she would pay closer attention and look for small ways she might gain more insight on his intentions.

  REVEREND STILES RETURNED to Harlem on Wednesday. Elizabeth thought this would mean she and Rose would see more of Val, but he still kept to himself. This confused her more than ever because he wasn’t isolated in his room. He seemed to be out and about more, leaving the house at different times. What was he doing? She couldn’t ask Rose.

  Rose’s maid, Annie, finally presented her with the chance to talk about Val. She felt something spin in her stomach when the woman laid out Elizabeth’s dress for the evening and mentioned Val while she did so. Again, she said how wonderful it was to have him at Mercylands.

  “He’s always so busy,” Annie said. She put the dress, a dark blue silk decorated with silver embroidery, on the bed and ran her hands over the skirt to smooth it. “He makes it so lively here.”

  “Busy?” Elizabeth pulled a slip down over her head and adjusted it around her hips. “What do you mean?”