A Time for Everything

by Mysti Parker

  “I-I’m fine. Just a dizzy spell, that’s all. I’m sorry I scared you.” He righted himself and hugged her gently.

  “You need something to eat,” she said, and her voice had grown stronger. She was a woman who drew strength from taking care of others. And he loved her even more for that.

  He let her take his hand and lead him downstairs to the kitchen. But he didn’t know if he could ever look her in the eye again, or if he could ever forgive himself.

  ~~~~

  Numb. Too numb to cry. Too numb to think. By early morning, Portia looked upon her brother’s casket through the patterned strangeness of a black veil. Death had followed her, leaving its calling cards of covered mirrors and frozen clock hands. She awaited the undertaker, who would be returning soon with the hearse to take her and Sam back to Brentwood.

  She had penned a letter to Ellen as soon as Sam’s body was prepared, though her hand had shaken so much she didn’t know if it would be legible.

  Sam is dead. I am bringing him home.

  It would be delivered by the fastest mail runner Beau could find, he said. Not that it mattered. Her ongoing duty in life was writing news of death. Whether the news reached its destination sooner than later didn’t change anything.

  She had to take Sam back home. She should have never stayed this long. She should have never come there at all. Sam would still be alive if he hadn’t come to find her.

  “Can I get you anything, Po?” Ezra sat beside her in the parlor. He wore a black suit and had no pipe in hand, which seemed very out of place, just like she and Sam had been.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  She had sat up the rest of the night with Sam’s body. Beau didn’t leave her side until the morning’s funeral business had to be dealt with. He had held her close on the ottoman and let her cry on his shoulder. His smell — a mixture of leather, horses, and man — had coaxed her to sleep for a few brief naps between her crying episodes.

  Bessie kept them fed, persuading Portia to eat even though grief’s lead ball had returned to her stomach. The Stanfords had taken good care of her, and for that she would be forever grateful. But her life there had turned into a strange, tangled-up thing that she didn’t have the strength to separate and mend.

  Jonny sat on her other side, solemn and quiet. Beau’s voice could be heard from the foyer, diverting visitors so she could grieve in private. It sounded as if they were leaving tokens of condolences, however, for Beau would end their visits with, “Thank you for the flowers. Mrs. McAllister will appreciate them. She will be very touched to know you thought of her in her time of sorrow.”

  It was probably bad manners to turn people away, but she didn’t care. No one there knew Sam, and they barely knew her. She didn’t feel like playing hostess to gawkers, even though she couldn’t rid herself of Lydia and her father. Oliver sat apart from them, talking to a few of the visitors who did manage to get in.

  Lydia, of course, had staked her claim on Beau and clung to his arm in the foyer, dabbing her eyes with a lacy black handkerchief. Soon as the latest visitor left, she made her way into the parlor and, to Portia’s surprise, knelt in front of her seat.

  “I’m so sorry, Portia,” Lydia said, and her eyes were surprisingly red, her cheeks moist, as though she really felt sympathy for her rival. “I can’t imagine… look, I know it’s not much, but I’ve convinced Daddy to lend you our best coach so you can have a more comfortable ride back to Brentwood.”

  “Thank you,” Portia whispered, though it felt more like Lydia was trying to get rid of her in style rather than offering a gesture of sympathy.

  Jonny stood and gestured for Lydia to take his seat, so she did. “Thank you, Jonny,” she said, patting his cheek. Turning back to Portia, she took her hand and squeezed it warmly. Portia raised a grief-swollen eyebrow and stared at the blonde beauty in black. Who was this woman who looked as sincere as a true friend? Surely not Lydia Clemons.

  But it was Lydia’s voice that emerged, soft and heartfelt as though they’d been fond of each other for years. “I know that you and I haven’t gotten along as well as I intended, and that’s my fault, not yours. But you’ve been good to Jonny, and he admires you so. Would you consider coming back to continue tutoring him? You will be well compensated, I assure you. We could even purchase you your own property and have a nice home built for you.”

  “I…” Bewildered, Portia didn’t really know how to respond. Too many emotions rattled against one another like glassware in a crate with no padding in between. Changing her mind now could cause it to shatter, and she had to keep herself together.

  “It’s all right,” Lydia said. “You don’t have to decide anything now. But there’s one more thing I must tell you before you depart. Jonny didn’t destroy your mother’s dress, nor did I. My mother did.”

  “Polly? But why…”

  “For me. She thought you wanted Beau for yourself and didn’t want me to be hurt.” Lydia looked toward the foyer, where Beau had just admitted another visitor. “She confessed it to me this morning. She felt dreadful when we learned of your brother’s passing and couldn’t bear to face you, though I begged her to come. But she was wrong for doing it, no matter her intentions. I hope you will accept my apology on her behalf.”

  Portia wasn’t sure exactly how she should feel about Lydia’s revelation but said what she thought was appropriate. “She has my forgiveness.” For the first time, she saw a kindred spirit in the woman who would marry the man she loved. “I think, had times been different, we could have been friends.”

  “Perhaps someday we will.” Lydia smiled sadly and released her hand.

  At the sound of wagon wheels crunching on the drive outside, Portia stood. Her bags were packed. She just had to retrieve them.

  Isaac met her in the doorway. “I’ll get them, Po.”

  “You can carry the chest if you want. I’ll get my other things.”

  “All right.”

  She hated to be responsible for Isaac’s kind, happy face being filled with this much despair. He followed her upstairs, and she could feel Beau’s eyes on her as she went, but she didn’t look back. Once in her room, she took one last look around. Picking up Jake’s picture, she held it against her chest. Had he only come home like he promised, none of this would have happened.

  “Are you all right, Po?” Jonny asked from her doorway. He stepped aside as Isaac carried out her chest. His eyes were wide and full of worry. “Can I get you something?”

  “No, sweet boy, I’m fine,” Portia said, trying to smile but finding it incredibly difficult.

  Jonny looked past her, his gaze falling on the bags on her bed. “Po?” he asked, lifting his frightened eyes to meet hers. “Are you… leaving?”

  Portia hadn’t found the courage to tell him. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “Yes.”

  “But not for good, right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… your pa’s getting married soon and they will want to find a better tutor for you.”

  He shook his head as tears rolled down his freckled cheeks. “No! No one’s better than you.”

  She tried to smile again as she caressed his cheek. Help me, Lord. “That’s very kind of you, Jonny, but you’re so clever, I don’t think there’s anything more I can teach you.”

  “What about Sallie Mae? What about Lydia — she’ll send me to military school! Please, Po, don’t go!” He rushed forward and hugged her tightly. “I’m sorry about your brother, but please don’t go. Please.”

  Wrapping her arms around him, she rested her chin on his head as they both wept. “I have to, but listen to me.” She pushed him back, holding him at arms’ length so she could look him in the eye. “Your pa promised me he would never send you away.”

  Jonny bit his lip, trying to hold in his tears.

  “You believe your pa, don’t you?” she asked.

  Finally, he nodded, but escaped from her grip to h
ug her tightly again. “I believe him, but I’ll still miss you. Can’t you stay, just for a few more days?”

  Closing her eyes, she rested her head on his and breathed in his little boy smell — like a clean wet dog that had been rolling in fresh hay. She’d miss that and everything else about him, but she couldn’t stay any longer. Losing Sam had been bad enough, but she could never bear seeing Beau and Lydia together as man and wife. She’d have to find a job somewhere and lose herself in work so her heart would stand a chance of mending.

  “I can’t, Jonny. I’m sorry. I have to take my brother home.”

  “I know.” He stepped back into the hallway, sniffling, but did his best to wear the stern face of a grown man. “Will you write?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “All right, then.” He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’ll get your bags, ma’am,” he said and marched bravely into the room.

  ~~~~

  Beau, Pa, and four men from town served as pallbearers and carried Samuel’s casket feet first out the front door and into the waiting hearse. Isaac loaded her trunk in the coach. Jonny came down the porch steps carrying her bags. He struggled to haul their weight, but his face wore the mask of a strong young man. Beau started to help him, but stopped short. Jonny wanted to do his part to help Portia, and he wouldn’t dare take that privilege from him.

  Sorrow washed over Beau in dizzying waves. She was leaving them for good, and even though he’d known this day would come, he didn’t want it, and he sure didn’t want it to happen under these circumstances. Sam’s death and the uprooted memories of Jake would remain an invisible barrier between him and Portia, like the enormous chasm in the west he had heard about.

  Lydia clung to him as Portia said her farewells. Pa gave her a tin of pipe tobacco to take back to Frank. He hugged her tight and said, “I’ll miss ya, my girl.” Bessie couldn’t stop crying and held her for a long time before letting her go. Jonny took her hand and shook it, trying hard to be a little man while his jaw trembled and tears clung to his eyelashes. She bent down to his ear, whispered something, to which he nodded, and kissed his cheek. She kissed Sallie Mae and handed her the book of Psalms she had put together for her.

  “Thank you, Miss Po,” Sallie Mae said. “I’ll keep it forever.”

  Portia smiled and caressed her cheek.

  Then it was his turn, but his mouth couldn’t form any words, not that he could say much with Lydia there. All he could do was look at her, but he didn’t want to remember her like that — dressed in black and grieving. It was his fault her brother died. He should have never saved Harry. What was done was done, and he couldn’t change the past.

  Her voice sounded so flat, as though all her emotion had soaked into the dry earth. “Thank you for the opportunity to teach your son. I know he’ll be fine, won’t he?” Beyond her veil, her eyes locked on his, seeking confirmation that he would uphold his promise.

  Fighting the lump in his throat, he finally found his voice. “He’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Good,” she said with a nod.

  She started to turn toward the coach when he added, “I’m sorry. I never wanted…”

  “I know,” she said. “Farewell, Mr. Stanford.”

  Jonny ran to her and gave her one last hug, as did Sallie Mae. Just before she stepped into the coach, Lydia cleared her throat.

  “I pray you’ll have a safe journey. Please write and let us know when you’ve arrived.” She sounded more mature and sincere than she had ever been. Beau was proud of her for once. Perhaps, as Portia said, they could eventually be happy. Perhaps they would survive, but he couldn’t help wanting so much more than that.

  “Thank you. I will.” Portia offered a tired smile, and that was it.

  She was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They gathered together on a blustery Sunday afternoon at Samuel’s grave. Portia had him buried close to Jake and Abby. She didn’t want him lying next to their daddy, the man who, beyond helping to bring them into this world, had only caused them torment. Samuel’s twenty-two years had been nothing but strife. He deserved some peace.

  A few neighbors and friends had joined them. Frank and Ellen stood next to Portia, grim and silent, as the preacher read from the Bible. The wind took his voice and slapped them with it.

  “There is a time for everything… a time to be born and a time to die… a time to weep and a time to laugh.”

  When the service was over, Portia took baby Jake from Ellen and bounced him gently on her shoulder. He did indeed resemble his namesake, for which Portia was glad. She had little left to remind her of the past now that the home she and Jake and Abby had shared no longer existed. The land it had occupied was scraped clean, and the frame of a new tobacco barn had been raised in its stead. Beyond that, where her vegetable garden and the cornfield had once been, lay neat rows of tender tobacco shoots.

  The builders had stopped working when the small funeral procession arrived. They stood there by the barn across the road in silence, with their hats off and heads lowered. Portia would have to thank them for their show of respect and invite them to Ellen’s house for the meal she had prepared.

  The preacher, undertaker, and the guests dispersed, each heading to their own conveyances. Isaac left too, having stayed overnight to attend the service with Portia. But before he got in the coach, he took her hand and squeezed it gently.

  “We’ll all miss ya,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”

  “I’m sure. Thank you for driving me home and for all your kindness.”

  “You ain’t never been no trouble, Po. You take care now, you hear?”

  “I will, and same to you.”

  It was just a short walk, not even half a mile, to Frank and Ellen’s house. Before they left the cemetery, she kissed the tips of her fingers, and touched Jake’s then Abby’s gravestones in turn. She would take flowers there tomorrow. Ellen had the prettiest gladiolas by her front porch.

  “I’m so sorry, Po,” Ellen said through her tears.

  “Thank you. I’ve missed you all.” Louise took her hand, and Portia smiled down at her sweet chubby face. With baby Jake in one arm and little Louise trotting alongside her down the dusty road, she remembered what it was like to have a family. The pain in her chest repeated its old refrain. For you, it’s not meant to be.

  “I know it’s not easy to talk about, but where did this Mr. Franklin go?” Ellen asked. “Is the law on his tail?”

  “Beau notified them, and they’re on the lookout, but they suspect he’s miles away by now. And that’s fine by me. I don’t want to ever lay eyes on Harry Franklin again, or I just might kill him myself.”

  “I wish you’d stay at our house instead of in town. I mean, it’s nice of the hotel giving you free board because of your loss, but…”

  “I love you like a sister and Frank like a brother, and I love these babies of yours, but I don’t want anyone to feel the need to take care of me. I saw a pamphlet from the Freedman’s Bureau at the hotel. They need teachers in Kentucky and Indiana. I’ll make my way north.”

  What surprised her most was the confidence she felt behind those words. Despite her losses, she didn’t want to curl up and die. She wanted to live, to test her limits and see what she could accomplish. Anywhere but there. Being there meant living under grief’s unyielding shadow. Though it didn’t last, she had tasted the light of happiness in Lebanon. She wanted more of it.

  Frank grunted his disapproval. “Po, you’re the stubbornest dang woman I’ve ever met.”

  She laughed a little. “Jake used to say the exact same thing.”

  ~~~~

  Beau’s pocket watch ticked past one-thirty as he lay sleepless on his bed. Silvery light from a crescent moon flickered through the window. He heard his door open and turned his head.

  “Lydia? You shouldn’t be out this late. Who drove you?”

  “No one. I rode here myself. L
et me comfort you.” She closed the door and walked to his bedside then leaned close to his face. Her warm, mint-scented breath caressed his cheek. She wore that filmy dressing gown that showed enough of her silhouette to rouse him into temptation.

  “No… not yet,” he protested, but she straddled him, pressed herself against his bare chest. Her kisses left a hot trail down his neck and collarbone, and God he wanted what she offered, but he caught her wrists and gently pushed her aside until she landed beside him on the mattress. “I can’t. Not like this.”

  “You mean not until we’re married.”

  “Yes.”

  “But even then, I’m afraid your heart will always belong to someone else.”

  He threw the sheet off him and got out of bed. Standing by the open window, he let the night’s cool breeze calm his heated body.

  “Why did you ask me to marry you?” she asked with a tremble in her voice. “Was it for my dowry alone?”

  “No.”

  “Then you must care for me in some small measure.”

  “I do.”

  “But you want her.”

  He leaned on the window sill. “Why are you here? We’re getting married in less than two weeks.”

  “Because I love you, even if you don’t feel the same yet. I think someday you might. And I don’t want you to be alone, hurting like you are. Will you let me lay beside you, if nothing else?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He looked over his shoulder. Lydia’s voluptuous body was as alluring as Venus on his bed.

  “You know why,” he said with a smile, tearing his eyes away from the temptation.

  “What would be so wrong with that? To take comfort in me and forget your sorrows for a while?”

  He rested his palms on the window sill again, letting his head fall back with his eyes closed. How easy it would be to accept her offer for tonight. No one would know but he and Lydia, and damn, it had been a really long time. The bulge in his trousers demanded relief, but…