“The chicken pox!” This time he saw her distinctly frown. “Oh, dear.”
“Don’t start making other plans. I’m taking you,” he said before she could get too broken up.
Her gaze shot to his and she said incredulously, “You?”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Well . . . nothing.”
“Good. I’ll be back at one to get you. I hope you’ll look more yourself.”
Chapter
14
The Glorious Fourth brought out every able body in Weeping Angel to participate in the festivities. There wasn’t a boy who didn’t count the hours until he could shoot off his torpedoes and skyrockets—a high proportion of which were already aimed at the front porch of the dowager widow Thurman. When nightfall came around, the dogs and cats in town would be running for their hiding spots, the noise sending them to far-off places. Only Hamlet wouldn’t be bothered by all the commotion. By dusk, he could be found passed out under the elm by the depot, having overindulged on fermenting melon rinds.
The parade started just after one on Divine Street at the Christ Redeemer, with the Odd Fellows marching in the front of the line. Erhardt Tweed wore his Civil War uniform—still a firm believer in the Confederacy after thirty-three years—while Verlyn Tilghman wore his Yankee colors. Both men had kept their weapons, each gleaming single-shot revolver primed and loaded in case such a cause came between them to start up a skirmish.
Had the town owned a hose carriage, as they did in Boise, the citizens would have decorated it with crepe paper; but having none, they decked out Titus Applegate’s black-lacquered hearse with garlands of evergreens and blue-and-white columbines. A princess had been chosen, Lula Whitman, and she sat on top of the carriage waving to those standing on the boardwalks.
By two o’clock, the entire entourage converged on a stretch of grassland called Reverend’s Meadow on the outskirts of town. The area had been decorated with Japanese lanterns, flags, and streamers. The Odd Fellows got busy cranking the dashers on ice-cream freezers, while boys and girls fished for treasures in a booth sponsored by Beamguard’s Mercantile. The sack races were yet to begin, and there was some talk brewing to get a baseball game going, though no one could agree on who would captain each team.
Parasol poised against the sun, Amelia strolled through the jubilee with Frank at her side, the smell of corn on the cob wafting from big washtubs over open fires. He didn’t offer his arm, but to those who said hello, it was obvious he was with her because he stopped to chat when she did. Not that he chatted. Frank kept quiet mostly, nodding his head or shaking it in appropriate responses.
Though she felt bad Mr. O’Cleary had come down with the chicken pox, she was relieved. Ever since she accepted his invitation, she’d been having second thoughts. There’d been no graceful way out of going with him once she said she would; therefore, she’d been talking herself into it for the past two days. But she hadn’t slept much for worrying about accompanying a man she wasn’t comfortable with as a suitor.
There were many female gazes on Frank, even from the budding young girls accompanying cowboys and lumbermen, and Amelia felt a happiness inside her that warmed her more than the July sun. She recalled the scene in her kitchen earlier in the day. She’d been surprised to see him, and even more so when he’d asked her to the picnic in Pap’s stead. The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t very well have inquired if it had been his idea. She hoped it was.
She’d dressed in a salmon shirtwaist with narrow pleats halfway down the front and intermittently on the long sleeves. Her surah silk skirt was of a matching shade and had a shallow ruffle along the bottom. The fruity color reminded her of the peach Frank had been eating that day at the train depot, and it was by no accident she’d selected this particular outfit.
Smiling, Amelia kept the handle of her basket in the crook of her elbow. As they walked, her arm brushed his once and she felt his solid strength. It was hard to believe she was actually here, with Frank, at the picnic of all picnics.
“Hallloooo!” came Mrs. Beamguard’s cry, and Amelia paused to return the greeting.
“Hello, Dorothea.”
Dorothea’s hat was so full of frilly plumage, Amelia waited for her to take flight. “Well, my goodness!” she said in a tone spiced by curiosity. “Imagine seeing the two of you together. I would have thought you’d tire of being in each other’s company having to be in the same place every day, five days a week.” She gazed at Frank who appeared to be brooding. “I didn’t notice where you were during the parade. You are here together, aren’t you?”
“Yes we are,” Amelia replied when Frank didn’t. “We’re looking for the picnic table. I’d like to put my basket down.”
“Of course, dear. It’s over by the gazebo.” Then to Frank, “Are you going to bid on her dinner, Mr. Brody?”
Frank scowled from beneath the brim of his straw hat, and Amelia waited just as anxiously as Dorothea.
He simply nodded.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” she said, but she sounded hypocritical to Amelia. “Forgive me if I’m in a hurry, dear. I have to find someone.” Then she dashed off.
Amelia knew she’d be ferreting out the other ladies to tell them every word that had been spoken by the three of them. Though she’d been hopeful he’d bid on her basket, she wasn’t sure. This was the first time she’d ever made up a box to be bid on.
She looked at Frank. He watched the feather-hatted Mrs. Beamguard retreat, then he let his gaze slip to the watermelon stand where Elroy Parks was spitting seeds at anyone who had the misfortune to walk by.
“Come on,” Frank said. “Get rid of your basket, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“All right.” She really wasn’t thirsty for something hot, but she suspected he needed a drink to wake up. He was looking a little tired to her, and she wondered what time he’d gone to bed last night.
They came upon the New American, which she’d decorated this morning. Amelia angled toward the table designated for the box suppers, but Frank held back while she set her basket down and was assigned the number five. She’d just turned to meet Frank when Viola Reed and Luella Spivey came charging up to him, panting and threatening to expire in their corsets. Their cheeks were flushed, and they had overextended themselves to get a look at Frank and Amelia. Apparently, they’d gotten an earful from Dorothea.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Amelia said, her chin high. She wasn’t at all ashamed to be seen with Frank, and she wouldn’t be made to feel out of place by two of her so-called friends.
“Hello, Amelia,” Viola replied, her dress appearing too tight around her middle from an overindulgence of sweets.
“Amelia, dear.” Luella’s red hair was poofed on top of her head in a loose style with a smart felt hat over the frizz.
Both women stared at Frank as if they’d never seen him before. “Dorothea tells us you’re here with Mr. Brody,” they said in unison, then gave each other an exasperated glare.
Viola went first. “We mean, we didn’t expect to see you with him. After all, he does own a saloon.”
“Yes,” Luella hastened to add. “We didn’t picture you consorting with a man of his calling.”
For the first time that afternoon, Amelia opened her mouth to speak, but it wasn’t her voice she heard. Frank had taken hold of her elbow and broke in with, “Yeah, ladies, I’m the owner of a saloon. The same saloon you bring your children to each week for lessons. That fact doesn’t much bother you when you’re looking around the joint, sniffing the air for signs of booze, and hinting for me to slide a glass down the counter. And as for consorting with someone of my calling, at least I’m not trying to sell her a Bible before I run off without her.”
Both ladies gasped.
“So maybe,” Frank continued, “consorting with me isn’t half as bad as you think it is. In fact, I think she might just have some long overdue fun.”
He put pressure on her elbow and pulled he
r along. Amelia was at a loss over what to say. No one had ever spoken about her in such a way—especially to her circle of lady friends. And how exactly did he know about Jonas Pray? What had he heard? When did he find out she’d been made a laughingstock? He could have heard it from anyone.
She couldn’t ask him now, not with so many people milling around. Amelia caught a glimpse of Narcissa and Cincinatus Dodge. The mayor was decked out in his best suit, this being the more important holiday in town at which he officiated. Narcissa was more radiant, more lovely than Amelia had ever seen her.
Amelia had dashed over to Narcissa’s as soon as she pulled the rags out of her hair and wiped off her face to tell her about the change in plans. Narcissa had been concerned over her going with Pap O’Cleary, and her fears weren’t quelled by the announcement she was now attending the picnic with Frank. She cautioned Amelia not to enter into anything with blinders on. Amelia had reassured her she wouldn’t.
Narcissa gave Amelia and Frank a cordial smile, then kept walking through the crowd with her husband.
“I don’t see any coffee to be had,” Frank remarked, pulling Amelia from her thoughts. “You’d think they would have some.”
“Why don’t we get strawberry frappés instead?” she suggested.
“I’ve never had one of those.”
“You haven’t?” She laughed. “Why, my goodness. You’ve never had shrub nor a milk shake. Where have you been?”
“Here and there.”
She smiled. “You’ll have to tell me where exactly here and there are.”
“I might.”
Just within eyesight of the ice-cream stand, Amelia wished she’d never made the suggestion. Emmaline Shelby stood at the corner of the table with Orlu Blue, and she looked up at precisely the same moment Amelia noticed her. The woman’s face turned white with astonishment.
Too late to steer in the other direction, Emmaline was coming right for them, leaving Orlu behind. “Well, as I live and breath, it’s Frank Brody,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? With her?”
Frank gazed over Emmaline’s shoulder. “You forgot Orlu, Em.”
“Orlu Blue?” She shrugged. “I didn’t really come with him. He met me here.” She shot Amelia a withering glance. “Is that what happened with you two? You ran into each other?”
Amelia would have set the woman straight if Frank hadn’t intervened and said, “Circumstances brought us here together.”
“Well, then it wouldn’t be imposing for me to steal him away from you, Amelia.” She hooked her arm through his. “Why, Frank, honey, there’s this darling bisque doll in the fishing booth you’ve just got to hook for me.”
Frank didn’t budge, and Emmaline tripped. She gazed at him with a frown worrying her lips. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m with Miss Marshall, and it wouldn’t be polite if I just went off and left her, would it?”
From the look on her face, Emmaline would have disagreed if not for the fact Cobb Weatherwax chose that moment to step up to the group. He’d prettied himself up in a scarlet linen shirt with neck lacings and frontier trousers made out of buckskin. He wore a fringed bag at his waist, and a stovepipe-shaped top hat made out of beaver felt on his mane of hair. He cradled his long Kentucky rifle.
“I seen you acrost the way thar, and I come to say howdy.” Lowering the barrel of his gun, Cobb nodded at Amelia. “Miz Marshall. Yore looking fitten for the day.”
“Thank you, Mr. Weatherwax.”
Amelia noted Emmaline didn’t hide the wariness on her face when it came to staring at Cobb. Her eyes roamed over his figure, pausing on the silt brown hair that covered most of his head. She stifled a shiver of revulsion, and it angered Amelia. Cobb may not look fashionable or handsome, but underneath all that hair was a true genius.
There was a moment’s silence before Frank made the necessary introductions. “Miss Shelby, this is Cobb Weatherwax. Cobb, this is Miss Emmaline Shelby.”
“Pleased t’metcha, Miz Shelby.” He doffed his hat. “Didje know the base of that perfume yore wearing comes from beaver’s castoreum?”
Emmaline took a step backward so Cobb couldn’t get close to her. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, it is. Beavers are good for many things. Most of ’em yore not aware of, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure.” Emmaline kept backing away. “If you’ll excuse me . . . Orlu is waiting.”
Amelia watched the woman retreat, glad Cobb had come when he had. Emmaline wasn’t giving up on Frank, and her gall put Amelia in a dour frame of mind.
Amelia said nothing further as Frank and Cobb purchased the strawberry milk shakes. She waited for Frank under the shade of an alpine larch, feeling good he hadn’t gone off with Emmaline when she invited him. Whatever had been between them was apparently over—at least in Frank’s eyes.
Frank returned, handed her a glass, and the three of them sipped the cool confections while watching the events around them.
Amelia’s attention was pulled toward a group of men who’d converged next to the beer barrel, hotly debating the subject of baseball team captains again. It was fairly clear since Oscar Beamguard owned the mercantile, and he was donating the flour bags for the bases and the lines, he would be in charge of one team. Up for grabs was the leader of the opposing side, and thus far Wendell Reed was in the running, seeing that he had a healthy amount of recruits from his sawmill. In contention with him was liar Stock, owner of the Tumbling T ranch.
The two men shouted at each other, then suddenly Wendell punched liar in the nose hard enough for blood to dribble out of his nostril. Before anyone could blink an eye, liar got a lick into Wendell’s bread basket.
“Oh, my!” Amelia gasped, horrified as all parties involved broke out in fisticuffs. “Someone should do something!”
“Like what?” Frank asked, obviously unaffected by the brawl. The tone of his voice suggested he’d witnessed such spectacles many times.
“I don’t know,” she answered just as a spry sawhand jumped on liar’s back for a ride. “Something!”
“Hyar.” Cobb Weatherwax shoved his glass at Frank and strolled toward the scuffle. He raised his Kentucky rifle to the air and kicked off a shot of black powder. The explosion tore up a Japanese lantern, and tiny pieces of colorful paper littered the air.
All those tangled-up men froze, and Cobb in his calm voice recommended, “I think there ought to be a better way to settle this hyar fight, gentlemen.” When no one objected, he continued. “I don’t think thar’s a dispute as to who’s going to head one team. It’s t’other we got to worry over, but I cain’t see no problem on that. I know yore man. He’s Frank Brody.”
Frank cursed under his breath, and while holding both his and Cobb’s glasses, raised his hands. “Hell, no. I’m not playing ball.”
By now, the fracas had collected a fair share of onlookers, one of them being Daniel Beamguard. “Come on, Mr. Brody. I want to see you knock the cover off the ball.”
A few others joined in with their agreement, even those who were involved in the fight. The crowd pressed Frank to the point where he started glancing around for an easy escape.
Amelia couldn’t understand his reluctance to play a harmless game of baseball. She didn’t know much about the game other than the haphazard way the men of Weeping Angel ran around a square after swinging at a pitched ball, gave off mild oaths when they didn’t hit the ball, and got dirty when they caught the ball.
Cobb said, “Frank, I really think you ought to show them ezactly what you can do.”
“Please, Mr. Brody,” Daniel begged. “It’s the Fourth of July picnic, and it just wouldn’t be the same without a baseball game. I’ve just gotta see you hit a ball. I won’t hardly stand it if I don’t get the chance.”
A few of the other boys chimed in as well.
“Please!”
“Come on, Mr. Brody!”
Frank shook his head in resignation. “All right. One game.”
&n
bsp; “Hooray!” Daniel Beamguard exclaimed.
“If we’re going to play, we’ll play serious.” Frank turned to Amelia after passing off the frappé glasses to the twins, Walter and Warren. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He left and she followed the easy way he moved with her gaze. He had a tall grace to his stride, making him stand out from the other men. She wondered where he was going, but soon the crowd got moving, and she didn’t have time to miss him.
While Frank was gone, the men set up the diamonds by laying a series of flour lines and using the remaining Pink Label sacks with just enough inside to be plump bases. Chairs were set up in a half square around the playing field, and the chalkboard from the schoolhouse was brought in. Reverend Thorpe was designated as the scorekeeper—he being the only trustworthy one in the bunch, while Daniel Beamguard complained about having to be in charge of his father’s bats. He wanted to field for Frank, but Oscar wouldn’t hear of that.
Teams were drawn up, most of the sawmill workers opting to play with Frank; the cowboys from the Tumbling T hooked up with Beamguard’s Mercantile after Oscar promised each man a free month’s supply of canned beans if they played for him.
Then the sides were named: the Moon Rock Warriors and the Mercantile’s Majors.
Frank was back in a matter of minutes. Amelia stared at him as he came toward the diamond, not prepared for the change in his attire. He wore a pair of blue, round-lens glasses—the kind the catalog sold for weak eyes—and a flannel cap that said Chicago rested on his jet black hair. He carried a uniform bag and had put on a funny pair of lace-up shoes. He hadn’t given up his white shirt and the fine red brocade vest or his black linen trousers.
“Holy smoke!” Daniel said in awe. “He’s wearing a Chicago White Stockings hat.”
“What’s the glasses for?” Oscar asked, scratching his head.
“So I can see the ball.”
“You got eyesight trouble, Brody?”
“No.”
“You’ll cut your eye out with a shattered lens if you get hit in the face with the ball.”
Weeping Angel Page 22