The Amethyst Heart

by Penelope J. Stokes

  Home, where Amethyst and Silvie were undoubtedly hard at work on their Thanksgiving dinner. Home, where he felt safe and honored and even loved—but not in the way he wished to be loved. Home, where every time he looked around, he was reminded of what he couldn’t have.

  Silvie put the finishing touches on the corn casserole and slid it into the last remaining nook in the icebox. “Law, hon, do we really need both pumpkin and mince pies? We got that huge coconut cake, you know.”

  Amethyst turned and grinned at her, her arms dusted with flour up to her elbows and a smear of pumpkin on her nose. “Harper likes both kinds. And it’s Thanksgiving, Silvie. We’re not going to scrimp at Thanksgiving.”

  “Whatever you say.” Silvie reached a hand to Amethyst’s face and swiped off the pumpkin. “Who all’s coming?”

  “The two of us, Harper, and Uncle Enoch of course. Pete and Steven, and the Constables. Larry and his wife. Two of the new boarders will be here—Gil and John; the others are going to their families, I think. Oh, and Dinah Johnson, the girl Neta just hired at La Femme. She’s new in town, and nobody should be alone on Thanksgiving.”

  “Is she prepared for this crew?”

  “I think so. I told her it was a very special group of people.”

  Silvie watched as Amethyst worked on the pies. The woman’s face fairly glowed with anticipation. “You just love this, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Doing up big for a whole lot of folks. Puttin’ on a fancy spread.”

  Amethyst laughed. “I always think I love it, until I get about halfway into it. Right now my feet are killing me.”

  “Then sit yourself down and let me finish the pies. I can spice up pumpkin as well as you can.”

  “Better,” Amethyst countered, “but you know I like to do this part myself.”

  Silvie narrowed her eyes and adopted a singsong tone. “Somethin’ special for Harper?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Amethyst sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “Here, now you can finish with the pie crusts. I need a break.”

  Silvie took over and arched an eyebrow at her friend. “When are you going to tell him, Amethyst?”

  “When am I going to tell who what?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, girl. It’s been five years, for heaven’s sake. I ain’t blind.”

  Amethyst kicked off her shoes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do. I’m talking about Mr. Harper Wainwright.” Silvie pounded the rolling pin against the dough with a vengeance. The girl could be so dense sometimes. And so stubborn.

  “What about him?”

  “You’re in love with him, that’s what about him,” Silvie snapped. “Far as I can tell, you have been for maybe four years or more. Don’t you think it’s about time the two of you got honest with each other?”

  Silvie kept on rolling the piecrust, but Amethyst didn’t respond. At last she turned to see Amethyst with her head down on the table. “Look at me, girl.”

  Amethyst lifted her head, and Silvie saw shiny tracks on her cheeks.

  “Are you crying?”

  Amethyst shook her head and sniffed. “Of course not.”

  “You are! Why? Is it something I said?”

  “It’s—it’s everything!”

  “Ah, don’t take on like that, hon.” Silvie abandoned the rolling pin and went to sit next to Amethyst at the table. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “You didn’t,” Amethyst gasped. “It’s just that, well—”

  She paused, and Silvie patted her hand. “Go on.”

  “He’s been here five years, Silvie. And all that time he’s been a perfect gentleman—”

  “And you wish he wouldn’t be quite such a gentleman? You wish he’d just corner you up against the wall and kiss the livin’ daylights out of you?” Silvie grinned, and Amethyst rewarded her with a halfhearted smile.

  “Not that, exactly. I just wish he’d do something—give me some indication of the way he feels about me. If he feels anything at all, that is.”

  Silvie closed her eyes and prayed for patience. When she opened them again, Amethyst was staring off into the distance. “Listen to me,” she said firmly. “That man has been boarding here for over five years. For most of those years he’s had a well-paying managers job at Bainbridge’s. Don’t you think he could afford to live in his own house if he wanted to?”

  “I suppose,” Amethyst answered in a whisper. “But a lot of single men prefer boardinghouses—you know, having their meals prepared for them and all.”

  “Well, I gotta admit my cooking is near to impossible for a man to turn down,” Silvie said with a chuckle. “But I don’t reckon that’s his primary motivation for staying.”

  “You think he’s staying because of me?”

  Silvie rolled her eyes. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know! And you can stop prodding me to confront him with my feelings for him—and I’m not admitting I have such feelings, mind you. When it comes to romance, a lady does not approach a gentleman.”

  “And since when are you a lady?” Silvie tried to keep the derisive snort out of her voice, but she didn’t succeed.

  “You don’t think I’m a lady?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Amethyst. You went all by yourself and confronted the Town Council. You fought for justice for these men, and look what happened. You’re a woman of courage and dignity and strength. Just like your grandmother.”

  Silvie watched as a change came over Amethyst’s face. The tears dried, and an expression of determination filled her eyes. “You’re right, Silvie. I am like my grandmother, and proud of it. People accused her of not being a lady, either.” She hesitated and took a deep breath. “But this is different. What if Harper doesn’t feel the same way about me? What if he only thinks of me as a friend? I do care for him—and I don’t want to lose our friendship over a silly misunderstanding.”

  “It’s a risk,” Silvie agreed. “Maybe you’re right; maybe it’s better not to know.”

  “How can you say that? If I let fear keep me from finding out, I may be throwing my whole future away! I thought you had more gumption than that, Silvie. I thought you, of all people—”

  Suddenly Amethyst looked up into Silvie’s eyes and began to laugh. “You are so bad. You threw out the bait, and I took it, didn’t I?”

  Silvie chuckled. “Like a catfish on a cricket.”

  “All right. I’ll think about it. But no promises, understand?”

  “It’s your life.” Silvie shrugged, then turned back to her piecrusts so Amethyst couldn’t see the smile that would not be contained.

  “That was a wonderful meal.” Harper gave a satisfied sigh and leaned back in his chair. “I declare, you two ladies are the finest cooks this side of the Mississippi.”

  Everyone around the table nodded in agreement. Nearly every bowl and platter had been scraped clean, right down to the tiny little roses on Grandma Pearl’s good china.

  Amethyst got up and began to clear the table. “You all go into the parlor. I’ll clean up a little and then we’ll serve coffee and dessert.” Silvie rose to help her, but Amethyst shook her head. “You did most of the cooking, Silvie. I’ll see to the dishes.”

  Silvie slanted a look at her and winked. “I do believe I’ll take you up on that offer.” She chuckled. “Harper, why don’t you give Amethyst a hand? Earn your keep around here.”

  Amethyst felt a thrill of trepidation run through her, and she impaled Silvie with a withering glance. “That’s not necessary,” she said lightly. “I can handle it.”

  Harper laughed and pushed his chair back from the table. “I’ll be happy to help.”

  “We can all help,” Pete offered, reaching from his wheelchair and piling a stack of plates on his lap. “Most of us lived here, after all, and we know where everything goes—”

  “No you don’t!” Silvie snapped, jerking the plates out of his lap a
nd thrusting them in Harper’s direction. “You’re guests now,” she went on in a more moderate tone. “Just you relax in the parlor, and Amethyst and Harper can take care of it.”

  Amethyst grabbed Silvie by the elbow and hustled her into the kitchen. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You’re drawing blood, girl,” Silvie complained as she jerked her arm away. “I’m giving you your chance—now take it!”

  Just as Amethyst was about to respond, Harper poked his head through the doorway. He looked at Amethyst, then at Silvie, then back to Amethyst. “Should I come back later?”

  “Of course not, silly, come on in.” Silvie steered him toward the sink with his load of dishes and narrowed her eyes at Amethyst. “I’ll be in the parlor if you need me.”

  With that, she was gone, and Amethyst found herself alone in the presence of the man who made her heart pound. She could have throttled Silvie. Couldn’t Harper hear her pulse racing, see the slow flush that she felt creeping up her neck?

  Her reaction made no sense, of course. This wasn’t The Sheik, and he wasn’t Rudolph Valentino. What did she expect, for him to throw down the dishes and sweep her into his arms, then ride away into the desert night on his golden stallion?

  The image almost made her laugh. Romance—at least the kind of romance they showed in the movies, with Douglas Fairbanks as Robin Hood rescuing his Maid Marian—didn’t happen to people like Amethyst Noble and Harper Wainwright. The two of them would never be a silver screen hero and his lovely damsel. They were what they were—a spinster landlady and a scarred ex-soldier.

  “Something funny?” Harper put the dishes in the sink and turned to her.

  Amethyst shook her head, then raised her eyes to meet his. He didn’t flinch or turn to one side. His gaze held hers, and he smiled—that endearing, crooked, one-sided grin. She didn’t see his scarred cheek, or his bent leg, or his twisted hand. Just his eyes, soft and blue, looking at her with an indefinable expression.

  Amethyst didn’t know how long the moment lasted. She was caught there, trapped in his gaze, unable to speak a word.

  “If you’ll hand me a bowl, I’ll pull what’s left of this turkey off the bone,” he said in a low voice.

  She didn’t move. When he reached around her to open the cabinet, his hand brushed her arm. A flame shot through her.

  “Harper—” she began, barely able to catch her breath.

  His hand stopped in midair. “Amethyst—”

  “I—I don’t know how to say this,” she stammered.

  He looked at her again, intently, then his eyes widened. “You, too?”

  She leaned against the stove. “Yes.”

  He blinked at her. “For five years,” he managed, his voice quiet and husky, “I’ve hoped, dreamed—even prayed—that you might come to feel something for me other than friendship. But I never thought I could be worthy—”

  Amethyst laid a trembling finger across his lips. He flinched a little and shut his eyes as her hand moved to the scarred side of his face, exploring the tight, drawn skin, caressing the crevices left by the burn.

  His skin felt cool under her fingers—not hard and brittle, the way it looked, but smooth ridges of scar tissue that gave a little under the pressure of her touch.

  “You avoided me,” she murmured. “For so long you wouldn’t even look at me.”

  “I was afraid,” he admitted in a ragged voice. “Afraid of my own feelings. Afraid you’d reject me. Afraid of being hurt again, with a pain that would have been so much worse than any physical wound.”

  He put an arm around her shoulders, and Amethyst leaned in toward him. It wasn’t the ladylike thing to do, an inner voice reprimanded her, but she couldn’t help it. This was the moment she had waited for, and if she let it pass her by, she would never forgive herself.

  “God willing, there will be no more wounds,” she whispered. “At least not from me.”

  His other arm went around her and drew her close. “We’re supposed to be doing the dishes,” he murmured into her hair.

  “The dishes can wait.” Amethyst raised her face to him. “Promise you won’t hide from me ever again.”

  “I promise.”

  He tilted his head, and Amethyst felt his warm breath against her cheek. When their lips met, she could have sworn she heard the pounding of hooves and the call of night birds in the desert.

  What she really heard was Silvie’s voice through the kitchen doorway.

  “Well, thank you, Jesus! It’s about time!”

  30

  The Wedding Gift

  March 1924

  Amethyst strolled casually through the aisles of Hartwell’s Grocery, glancing at Silvie’s list and doing a quick mental calculation. Forty or fifty guests, she figured. The ham and turkey were already baking—one in the new oven Silvie complained about all the time, and the other in the old wood stove on the back porch. By this afternoon, the layers for the wedding cake would be cooled and ready to frost, and the bread would be finished. All she needed was a sack of sugar, a good selection of fruit for the salad, and some of those little pastel-colored candies to decorate the table.

  “Gordon,” she called as Hartwell passed by in his stained apron, “is there any chance you’ve got some strawberries?”

  “Local ones won’t be in till later in the season, Miss Amethyst,” he said. “My supplier brought me some from down in Florida yesterday, but they’re not cheap.”

  She smiled and patted him on the arm. “I only plan to do this once, Gordon; cost is no object.”

  “Yes ma’am!” He grinned at her. “They’re in the cooler out back. I’ll go get ’em for you. How many do you need?”

  “As many as you’ve got.”

  Amethyst stood there, inspecting the apples and bananas, while she waited for Gordon to return with her strawberries. The market was nearly empty, and from behind her, she could hear the whispered voices of two women, hidden from view on the other side of a display of oranges.

  “Can you believe it? She’s really going to do it. She’s going to marry that . . . that man.”

  “That monster, you mean. Do you suppose she’s . . . kissed him? I couldn’t stand the thought.”

  Amethyst felt a knife twist in her gut. After all this time, she should be accustomed to people gossiping about her, but to hear the man she loved called a monster—

  “You don’t suppose they’ll try to have children, do you? Can you imagine?”

  “I know. Even if the poor babies did turn out to be normal, what kind of life would they have, looking at that and having to call him ’Daddy.’”

  “Well, what else would you expect, Edie? She must be nearing thirty, and she lives all alone in that big house with that colored woman and those deformed boarders. Who else would have her?”

  “Twenty-four,” Amethyst corrected in a firm voice.

  The voices fell silent.

  “Twenty-four,” she repeated. “I turned twenty-four years old last week.”

  Amethyst stepped around the grocery display and found herself looking into the weak, watery eyes of Edith Layton, the mayor’s wife. Edith’s companion, a shriveled little woman named Beatrice Manning, stood with her gaze fixed on her shoes.

  “My husband-to-be, Mrs. Layton,” she said with ice in her voice, “is not a monster. He is a kind, gentle man with a loving and tender heart—qualities you must find impossible to comprehend, given your own marital status.” She let her eyes rove up and down Edith Layton’s frame and thought briefly that the woman reminded her of a sausage stuffed a little too generously into its casing. At last her gaze came to rest on the woman’s floury, pockmarked face. “If it’s any of your business, we love each other deeply, and that love is not dependent upon physical appearance.”

  Edith Layton’s eyes bulged out, and a vein in her neck went rigid. “Well, I never!”

  “No, I don’t suppose you have,” Amethyst countered. “But I sincerely hope you do, someday.”

  Gordo
n Hartwell had returned with the strawberries, and he stood there with a look of terror on his face, as if he feared a catfight might reduce his store to rubble. “I’ll—I’ll just charge this to your account, Miss Amethyst,” he stammered. “Want this stuff delivered?”

  “That would be lovely, Gordon. Thanks so much.”

  Edith and Bea gaped at Amethyst as she pushed past them.

  “The wedding is tomorrow at four-thirty,” she called over her shoulder with a smile. “You’re both invited, if you’d care to come.”

  When she had put on fresh sheets and sprinkled them with the fragrance of lilacs, Amethyst smoothed the quilt on the ancient four-poster and smiled. She had spent her last night in this bed alone. And contrary to convention, she was not the least bit apprehensive about sharing it with Harper Wainwright.

  She gave a little chuckle and plumped up the pillows. A real lady, she thought, would show some trepidation about her wedding night—or at least pretend to be nervous. But then, as Silvie had pointed out to her on numerous occasions, she was not and never would be a real lady. She was Pearl Noble’s granddaughter after all.

  Amethyst went to the tall wardrobe, took out her wedding gown, and hung it on the door. It was a beautiful dress—white satin, with a high neck and simple lines, a touch of lace, and seed pearls sewn into the bodice. The only thing missing was—

  She took in a breath and stifled a rush of tears. She had told herself she would not get emotional about the thought of Grandma Pearl’s brooch. After all, the brooch had been gone for years. Yet despite her best intentions, she felt saddened by its loss, especially today. This was her wedding day, and she knew from Pearl’s journals that on the night of her birth, her grandpa Silas had pinned it on her baby blanket and prayed a blessing upon her. That blessing had been fulfilled in a hundred ways, and she was grateful. Still, she wished she could walk down the aisle with the heart-shaped amethyst at her throat. . . .

  She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was 3:15—time she started getting ready.

  But she couldn’t seem to settle down to the task. She wandered into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She rearranged a shelf, went back into the bedroom and smoothed the comforter for the second time, then finally left the room altogether and went upstairs.