Bittersweet Bride

by Denise Hunter

  Mara’s hand stilled in the warm water. Should she tell Beth the truth? Brush over it with no detail? She recalled all the people who had stood near enough to hear the ranting woman. They knew the truth. It was only a matter of time before Beth heard the rumors. And she would rather the truth be passed about than the twisted versions some would think of.

  “Well, I didn’t know this until yesterday, mind you, but”—Mara paused to gather courage—“she’s my mother.”

  “What?” Beth’s brows drew together in confusion.

  “You see, the woman—Edith—gave me to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lawton, just after I was born.”

  “She gave away her own baby?”

  Tears threatened, but Mara gritted her teeth. She refused to shed another tear over this. “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s awful!”

  Mara agreed with that. How could a woman carry a child for nine months and then give her away? She blinked back tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Clay told me it was none of my concern.”

  So Clay had talked about it. He knew about it. She wondered if it had been pity she had seen in his eyes over breakfast. She would rather be laughed at than pitied. “It’s all right. Everyone will find out anyway. Everyone will find out I have nothing.” She scrubbed Clay’s shirt.

  “That’s not true—”

  “It is. You can’t understand—you’re only a little girl. I’ve lost my money, my heritage.” She wrung out the shirt and tossed it in the basket at Beth’s feet. “Even my looks are gone. Look at me! My hair is a stringy mess, my hands are red and callused, and I have freckles!”

  “I think you’re very pretty. And those things don’t matter anyhow.”

  Mara gave a brittle laugh. What did a child know? She had no idea what it felt like to have lost everything, to be laughed at, and scorned by others. “You don’t understand. I had enough money to buy anything I wanted; I had important ancestors—even a queen! What do I have now? Empty pockets and a drunk for a mother. Everyone is laughing at me now.”

  Beth wrung the shirt silently, and Mara thought she had finally made her point with the girl. But after hanging the shirt on the line, Beth returned to her side.

  “Some people used to make fun of me because I’m Indian—especially when we lived in Texas. One time, Billy Joe and his friends threw tomatoes at me when I was walking to the mercantile. I cried all the way home.”

  “That’s awful,” Mara said, feeling a pang of sadness for the girl. What had Mara been thinking? People could be cruel, especially to different races. Her mind prickled with memories of the way she had treated some of the colored folk in town, ignoring them and snubbing them.

  “When I came home, Ma saw how upset I was. Do you know what she used to say?”

  “What?”

  “She used to say, ‘You’re important and special. Why, you’re the child of a King!’ ”

  Mara frowned. Whatever was Beth talking about?

  “You know—Jesus. I don’t have to be white to be special. And you don’t need money to be special. You’re special because Jesus loves you.”

  Mara finished the wash in silence, and Beth seemed to sense her need for quiet. She wondered if it was true. Did Jesus love her just as she was? She didn’t see how. She now had nothing to offer anyone, Jesus included.

  Eleven

  Mara had never been to a barn raising. She stirred a pitcher of lemonade and looked around her at the swirl of activity. Men of all ages climbed on the skeletal frame like ants. Older men stood on the ground handing up tools to the others. She watched an adolescent boy shimmy up the boards as if it were nothing at all.

  “Is the lemonade ready, Mara?” Sara asked from beside her.

  “What? Oh, yes, here it is.”

  Sara filled cups while Mara set about squeezing more lemons. Her hand ached from the task, but it actually felt good to be doing something with the community. And the Farnsworths’ were obviously thankful for the efforts of their neighbors.

  Someone rang a bell, and moments later the men slid down from the frame and settled on picnic tables sprawled across the ground. The women served each man a plate heaping with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and biscuits.

  Mara paused after the last plate had been served, dabbing at the wetness on her forehead. She was thankful for her hat, which shaded her face, but the rest of her body sweltered under her skirts. She looked at the other women in their calicoes and envied their simplistic—and much cooler—dresses.

  An awkward moment had passed when Mara first arrived. She was sure everyone else was staring at her. She even saw two young girls whispering and was certain they were talking about her. But, after that first moment, everyone returned to work as if she weren’t there. She felt like the odd one out. All the other women had friends to chatter with, but Mara had no one except Beth. And she had gone off to play with her friends as soon as they arrived.

  Mara felt shunned until Sara took her under her wing and showed her how to make lemonade. She even praised Mara’s first attempt. Though how the woman could be so nice to her was beyond Mara. At one point she almost asked Sara how she could be so friendly after Mara had tried to ruin her new marriage. But Sara, seeming to sense where the conversation was leading, changed the subject.

  Despite the envy Mara felt toward Sara, she had to admit the woman was virtuous. She wondered if it was because she went to church every Sunday like Clay.

  “Come and sit, Mara!” Beth called from the table.

  Mara noted that Clay and a group of young adults sat at the table finishing their meals. Happy at being included, Mara filled a plate and took a seat beside Beth. Daniel Parnell sat across from her with Lucy Derwin and Peg Hampton. Emily sat on the end of the bench as quiet as the town at dawn.

  “What does your name mean, Clay?” Peg asked.

  Beth whispered in Mara’s ear. “Ma taught Clay about meanings of names.”

  “My whole name is Eyes like Clay,” he said. “My ma said my eyes were muddy brown from the moment I was born.”

  “My full name is Margaret. What does it mean?” Peg asked from across the table.

  “It means pearl,” Clay said.

  “My full name is Elizabeth, and it’s Hebrew for Oath of God. Ma named me that because God always keeps His promises,” Beth said.

  “What about me?” Lucy asked.

  “Hmm. I’m not sure about yours, Lucy—sorry.”

  “How about mine?” Daniel asked.

  “I’ll bet I know,” one of the young men said. “Out of the lion’s mouth.”

  Everyone laughed. Mara joined in, finally feeling part of the group.

  “No, but it’s a Hebrew name,” Clay said. “It means judge or God the judge.”

  “How about me?” Emily asked quietly.

  “Emily means beloved.”

  The girl blushed, and Barnaby asked Clay for the meaning of his name, but Clay didn’t know.

  Mara was keenly aware that she was the only one at the table who hadn’t had her name deciphered. She took a sip of lemonade and wondered if she should ask. Maybe Mara meant “beautiful” or “noble.” Surely her parents had picked a good name for her.

  Gathering courage, she peeked around Beth to look at Clay. “What does mine mean, Clay?”

  He paused, stopping his drink in midair between the table and his mouth. He opened his mouth and shut it again.

  “Well, I—uh—”

  Mara watched him expectantly as did the others.

  He leaned toward her, ever so slightly.

  “What? What does it mean?”

  “It—uh”—he nearly whispered the words—“it means bitter.”

  Mara felt heat spread up her neck all the way to the tips of her ears.

  “What?” Peg asked.

  “It means bitter,” Lucy said eagerly.

  Mara heard the muffled giggles. She couldn’t look at Clay or at anything else except the food on her p
late.

  She heard whispers mingling in with the giggles.

  “It figures.”

  “Ain’t that a hoot?”

  “Serves her right.”

  Her stomach churned with humiliation. Why couldn’t she have a nice name meaning like everyone else’s? Why was everything in her life turning out wrong? She glanced around the table. She thought she was fitting in with these people and was finally being considered a friend.

  She should have known better. They were laughing at her, as she had thought they would. They were glad she was no longer rich. They were glad she was born to a drunken wretch. They were glad her name was awful.

  “Excuse me,” she muttered, getting up on legs that felt weak. She hurried from the table.

  “Miss Lawton,” Beth called from the table.

  But Mara didn’t look back. She didn’t have the nerve to look at the group that delighted in her humiliation.

  ❧

  Clay had cringed when the group laughed at Mara. The fact that they were none too discreet about it angered him. He could have said he didn’t know the meaning, but that wouldn’t have been honest. Instead he had supplied all the ammunition these people needed to give Mara a dose of her own medicine.

  What was wrong with them? Hadn’t they ever made a mistake? Weren’t these the same folks he sat in church with every Sunday?

  He slapped his hat on his head and stood with a scowl on his face that no one could miss. Without a word he left to find Mara.

  “Clay,” Beth called out, “can I—?”

  “Let me handle it,” he replied over his shoulder.

  He walked around to the back of the house as Mara had done and stopped at the corner, but no one was there. Just a garden and a bunch of trees way out—

  There—he spotted movement in the grove of trees. He set off toward the trees wondering what he would say to her. Well, first off, he would apologize for his part in it. His heart beat faster. He told himself it was because he dreaded the confrontation, but deep down he wondered if it was the compelling attraction he felt for Mara.

  Entering the grove, he saw Mara sitting with her back against an oak. From the house she was out of view. She was leaning her head against the tree, with her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling quickly. The way she sat, hugging her waist with her arms and her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, Clay thought she looked like a little girl. His heart warmed.

  He stopped, feeling as if he were intruding on her privacy.

  When he cleared his throat, her head snapped around, and her eyes widened. He had expected tears but was relieved to see her face was dry. For a moment their gazes connected, and he saw sadness reflected in the depths of her blue eyes.

  Then she turned. “Go away.”

  He shuffled his feet in the long grass. “I wanted to apologize.”

  “You’ve done it. Now go.” Her words were lifeless.

  He walked toward her and sank to the ground a safe distance away.

  She looked to her other side as if she could pretend he wasn’t there.

  Clay plucked a dandelion and twirled it between his fingers. “I really am sorry.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  She said nothing, just tilted her chin.

  “I never thought they’d act that way,” he said. “I’ve been scorned enough to know it doesn’t feel good.”

  “That’s different. You can’t help being Indian. You didn’t do anything to deserve anyone’s contempt.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She looked at him then, and he saw the full anguish of her heart. “Don’t you know I deserved it? I had it coming from every one of them.”

  “They still shouldn’t—”

  “I’m just like that vine the preacher spoke of—that bittersweet thing.” She laughed grimly. “I was probably named for it. I’ve made a sport of strangling people and relationships. Take Peg. I stole Phillip Druery from her just for fun. He dropped her like a hot coal. And Emily. I used to tease her unmercifully about her appearance. I’ve been stringing Daniel along for two years, and I’ve snubbed Lucy more times than I can recall. Everyone hates me, and I don’t blame them.”

  Clay grew still as Mara listed her transgressions. He wasn’t shocked by her past behavior, but he was shocked by her brutal honesty. If she hadn’t been before, she was aware now of the hurt she had caused. He tried to imagine Victoria broken the way Mara was and couldn’t. Circumstances were prying away the hardened shell and exposing a surprisingly vulnerable woman.

  Help me, God. Give me the words she needs to hear.

  Neither talked for a few moments. Clay listened to the leaves rustling in the wind. He glanced at Mara. She picked at the frill on her sleeve.

  Finally she spoke. “You probably know my family’s money is gone. All of it.”

  He nodded.

  “Did Beth tell you about my real mother?”

  Beth had told him, but he had guessed it from the scene he witnessed in front of Mara’s house. “Letitia Lawton is your real mother. She’s the one who raised you.”

  She looked at him. “You know what I mean. I come from bad stock! My mother’s a drunk, and there’s no telling who my father is.”

  “None of that matters.”

  “That’s all that matters!” Her brows formed an angry line.

  “That stuff is all fluff and feathers. So you thought you had money and an impressive pedigree.” He gestured toward the people who were helping raise the barn. “Are you any worse off than the rest of us?”

  “Yes!”

  “How so?”

  She opened her mouth and shut it again. Her lips pressed together, and Clay noticed the flush climbing her cheeks. “At least you all can—can do something. I don’t know how to do anything, I don’t have any talents or abilities, and I can’t cook a lick!”

  Clay smothered a chuckle. “Those flapjacks and eggs were downright edible this morning.”

  “And I burnt the roast and ruined the bread for dinner!”

  “They weren’t that bad.”

  She rolled her eyes and huffed.

  “Your worth isn’t made up of what you do or what you have.”

  He saw the skepticism in her tilted head and pursed lips.

  “What—you think it is?”

  “Of course it is. Everyone knows the wealthy are treated differently and looked at with more respect.”

  “Maybe that’s the way some people see it—”

  “That’s the way everyone sees it.”

  “And because you no longer have money or a fancy lineage, you think you have no worth?”

  Her gaze fixed on her frilly sleeve. He could see he had made her think. Was that it? Was that the root of her sadness? The answer struck like a bolt from heaven. She considered herself worthless now. But didn’t she know God looked at the heart and not at outward appearances? Didn’t she know she was formed in God’s image?

  She didn’t. How could she when she and her parents rarely graced the church with their presence?

  “Do you believe in God?” He didn’t know where the question came from.

  Her head jerked around at the question. Her chin came up a notch. Ah, there was the Mara he had come to know.

  “Of course I believe in God. I’m not a heathen.”

  “Then you believe God made you?”

  Her eyes searched his as if wondering where he was going with these questions. “Yes, of course.”

  He paused a moment, seeing the deep sadness in her eyes. “How can you think you lack worth when the Creator of all things made you? Could anything our great God created be worthless?”

  Her brows lowered, this time in thought.

  “We’re all made in His image. That’s why we all have worth.”

  She blinked and studied her sleeve again as if lost in thought.

  “All these people—” he gestured toward the men who were raising the barn and the women who were cleaning up a
fter the meal—“do you think them—and me—worthless?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly affronted. “How can you even ask that?”

  Though she denied it with her words, Clay could see the realization on her face. She knew she had treated others as worthless because they had no wealth or position. And now they were her equal.

  “I want to be alone now.”

  He stood, brushing the grass from his pants. “They’ll come around in time, Mara, if you treat them with respect.” He was silent a moment, letting his words sink in. “What you said about the bittersweet vine is true; I’ve seen it damage and kill trees. But it’s not always that way. My mother used to plant it along our fences in Texas. It climbed up and covered them with leaves and flowers and those bright berries. In the fall she would cut the vines with their berries and fashion them into a wreath for the house. Even the bittersweet can be useful and serve a purpose.” He stopped then, hoping he hadn’t said too much.

  As he walked away, he realized he had misjudged Mara. Perhaps she had been like Victoria, but her heart was changing before him. The vulnerable side of her drew him, but he knew he needed to be cautious. Despite her profession of belief in God, he was pretty certain the belief did not include a relationship with Christ. And until that happened, she was off-limits to him. He hoped his heart could remember that.

  Twelve

  The next few weeks passed in a flurry of activity. With Beth’s help most of Mara’s meals were edible. She even turned out a tasty apple pie. Not as good as Sadie’s, but she felt immense satisfaction over it regardless.

  With Clay she found herself being rocked back and forth between frustration and admiration. One moment he was harassing her, and the next she would remember the gentle side he showed at the barn raising. She didn’t know whether to hug him or slug him with a pot.

  One night, after she had washed the dishes, she was walking through the kitchen door when Clay stepped through from the other side. The door nearly slammed into him.

  “Whoa there, Fancy Pants! What’s your hurry?”

  “Stop calling me that!” she said, wishing the door had slammed into him.

  “But it’s fun.”