As a grown man he’d learned some manners, but as a kid, heady with the smell of her perfume and the sound of that husky laugh, he’d taken a chance. His instincts hadn’t been wrong. She’d kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“We might have to install a few more lights along this passage, but I really think this could be the perfect answer to our problem of space,” Dr. Stroud said. He excitedly opened and closed each of the six little doors, wandering up and down the long hallway. “It will be a much smoother operation, having the nurses do some of the preliminary intake while we examine patients.” He beamed at Jem. “Thanks to this fine young man, the Free Clinic of Tupelo will be serving more of the neediest families in the area. I can’t thank him enough for coming back to his hometown. I know he wasn’t eager to make the move, but we’re sure glad to have him.”
“Well, your family is still here, aren’t they?” Olympia asked.
“My mother has moved to Birmingham.” Jem had moved her away from Tupelo as soon as he’d been able. She loved it in Birmingham, working part-time as a reading tutor in a grade school. His mama had always wanted to be a teacher, and he was hoping to convince her to return to school. She said she was too old for that sort of thing, but she always smiled when she said it, as if she liked the thought.
“Well, it’s always easier to come home than to make your way in a big city. Right, Lucy?” Olympia had a hand on one neon hip, her orange lips turned up in a bright smile. “She’s had plenty of opportunities to move, especially right after she graduated from UGA.”
Jem frowned. “University of Georgia? I thought you went to Harvard.”
Raising her eyes from her shoes, Lucy said, “I did. One year. But I had to . . . I transferred to be closer to home.”
Jem was starting to see that the Crawfords’ financial issues had started a lot further back than a few years. It explained a lot about Lucy’s willingness to rent out the house. He pretended to examine the inside of one of the rooms, forcing himself to keep quiet. He wanted to say how sorry he was, how he’d known how much Harvard had meant to her, how hard she’d worked to get there. Mostly he wanted to tell her that he knew how it felt to be poor, to be choosing the lesser of two evils, and how she would survive it all just fine. But he didn’t. It was something a friend would say, and they weren’t friends.
“What do you think, Jem?” Stroud asked. “Do we tell the board we’ve found the perfect spot?”
“It’s definitely a step up from that little building on Yancey. This is a good location, too. Right on the bus line because of that new cross street.” Jem paused. “It might be a longer ride for most of our patients, though.”
“True, true.” Dr. Stroud stroked his mustache. “But they’ll be more comfortable here. Miss Olympia, you’re sure that Mr. Crawford will agree?”
“Oh, yes.” She laughed. “I can persuade him, never fear. I’m very good at that.”
Jem clenched his jaw. The woman was bragging about her ability to bend her family to her will. He looked up at that moment and met Lucy’s gaze. Her expression was stark. Pain, regret and embarrassment flickered across her features. It gave him a little bit of satisfaction that she felt anything so many years after she’d broken his heart.
“I say we move the clinic, Dr. Stroud,” Jem said.
“Excellent.” He clapped his hands together and smiled at each of them. “I’ll get the paperwork drawn up as soon as possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should probably get back to work. Dr. Harris is covering my appointments, and we’ve still got to get Jem settled in to the routine.”
“Follow me,” Olympia said. “Jem, I admire your commitment to serving the community that raised you. So many young people leave Tupelo and never return, even after receiving so much support from the people here.”
“I was placed here by the Rural Physicians Program.” Jem wanted to add that he didn’t feel a whit of gratitude toward the community that barely tolerated his trailer-trash family.
As they paused in the foyer, Lucy walked past them to the front door. She smiled at Stroud, but didn’t look Jem in the face.
“We’ll see you at the center, Miss Lucy? I wouldn’t miss that presentation on battlefield medical care on the thirtieth.” Dr. Stroud was already headed out.
“I’ll see you there. And come again soon,” she said, but it was clearly just a polite saying. She looked as if she would rather do anything other than head up another Crawford House tour.
Jem said his good-byes and followed Stroud down the steps. He heard the door close behind him and imagined Lucy on the other side, letting out a sigh of relief. They had trooped into her home, scoped out the area, and planned on bringing hordes of poor folk around. Times must be desperate for her to entertain that as a solution to her family’s debts.
Stroud clapped him on the shoulder as they walked down the flagstone path toward the parking area. “Now there’s a fine family for you, Jem. Their history stretches back to before the Civil War. If I remember correctly, they’re related to the Medal of Honor winner Aaron Anderson. Of course, poor man, they spelled his name wrong on it, but that’s how things happened in those days. Even the most honored African Americans weren’t treated with much respect.”
Pausing near the rose-garden entrance, Stroud looked around at the slightly overgrown hedges. “They’ve fallen on hard times, but as long as they hold on to their family history, they’ll be just fine. Everything else can be replaced, but you can’t buy a good family name.”
Jem stared up at the arbor, where red climbing roses sprung out in all directions like broken beads from a necklace. The old doctor was charming, educated and committed to helping the people of Tupelo. But he was blind to his own bias. A person who loved history would always admire the noble heritage of others, of course. That was natural. Stroud didn’t realize how he sounded to someone who barely knew his grandparents, or to someone who had never been invited to the best parties, the nicest houses, or the good ol’ boys’ clubs. Jem remembered the sharp pain of hunger that lasted from the moment he got up, to the free lunch at school. He remembered the sound of his mama crying at night when the electricity was going to be shut off, again. He remembered the look on her face when he asked about his daddy and if he would come back someday.
Jem fought to shrug off the old bitterness. He knew moving back to Tupelo would bring back a lot of bad memories. It was completely expected.
Stroud flashed him a smile, blue eyes twinkling behind his round glasses. “You certainly made a fine impression with the Crawfords. I’d be surprised if you weren’t invited back for dinner.”
He choked and covered it with a cough. He was absolutely certain that was not going to happen.
“And you’ll be coming to the presentation at the interpretive center. You can ride over with me, if you like.” Dr. Stroud turned back toward the parking area, patting his pockets for his keys. “Don’t tell me you’ll be busy. I’ve seen your collection of Civil War medical kits. You wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
But Jem would, if he could. He said nothing. He had planned to spend his evenings working on his Confederate costume and traveling to reenactments on the weekends, but now he wanted to stay as far from Brice’s Crossroads as possible.
Stroud located his keys; his forties-era, red Ford pickup gleamed in the bright sunshine. He paused, shooting Jem a look, before saying softly, “I know you’ve got some history here, being a hometown boy. But good or bad, it is what it is, and there’s no getting away from it.”
Jem opened his mouth to deny he had any such issue, but Stroud was already sliding behind the wheel of his truck. With a roar of the old engine and a snappy salute, the doctor reversed out of the driveway and headed onto the main road.
Jem looked up at Crawford House, three stories of proud Southern heritage and hundreds of years of history. Jem admired a fine antebellum mansion as much
as any other Southerner, but once upon a time this place had meant more to him than architecture or Civil War battles. There had been a girl with a dry sense of humor and beautiful black eyes living here and she had won his heart. Then she’d gone and broken it.
Jem let out a breath and fumbled at getting the key in the door of his Honda. He’d forgiven her for that long ago. They were miles and years away from that summer as teenagers. Hormones and wishful thinking had created a potent brew, leading to what he had thought would be the love of his life. But he wasn’t even thirty and that love was long gone, a distant memory.
Settling behind the wheel, Jem didn’t allow himself another look toward Crawford House. He would be there plenty in the coming weeks and months. Now that the first awkward meeting was over, they should be able to greet each other with distant smiles and murmured niceties. It would be almost easy, really, now that he’d faced the past.
There was so much more to do in Tupelo than to pine after Lucy Crawford. He was determined to keep his head down and put in his time, without drama or complications. Once his school debt was erased, his real life as a fully qualified medical doctor could begin . . . somewhere other than Tupelo, Mississippi.
“Well, isn’t Jem just the tomcat’s kitten? I don’t remember him being so handsome,” Aunt Olympia said. “I think that went real well. I’m going to call your daddy. I know he’s out golfing, but if I can get him to answer his phone, I’ll tell him what we’re doing.” Aunt Olympia didn’t wait for a response and headed back to the kitchen.
Lucy leaned against the door and let out a long, slow breath. It was fine. Everything was fine. The sick feeling she had in the pit of her stomach was because Crawford House was now slated to host the Free Clinic of Tupelo. Nothing more.
She squeezed her eyes closed, unable to resist bringing up his image. His suit wasn’t fancy, but it fit him well. The coal-gray vest was striking against the white, button-up shirt and had a timeless feel, as if he could have been from any era. He had always been handsome, in a lanky sort of way, but it was that quiet demeanor that made her mouth go dry. He wasn’t like Dr. Stroud, grinning and slapping men on the back and showering the women with compliments. Jem was watchful, considerate, forming his impressions and tucking them away somewhere inside.
Lucy pushed away from the heavy oak door and smoothed back her hair. He had hardly looked at her, so who cared whether she’d had her hair straightened recently. Janessa always said Lucy was letting herself go, and Paulette made noises over Lucy’s complete lack of style, but none of it mattered. It had been years since she’d worried how she looked, and even longer since she’d had the disposable income to spend on her appearance. All of her tiny curator’s salary went into keeping Crawford House afloat.
For all that, there was a hot, little coal of regret lodged somewhere in her throat. He had looked much as he always had, so handsome, and she must have seemed an older, scruffier version of the girl he had once loved. She didn’t always wear makeup, so she was naturally only wearing a bit of mascara, but lifting her hands to her cheeks, she wondered if her skin looked dry. It would have been nice if she’d been wearing something other than jeans and a T-shirt. Maybe that pretty shirtdress she’d found at the thrift shop, with tiny red and yellow flowers and the pearl buttons down the front. She looked down at her ancient running shoes. A pair of leather flats, or even some flirty summer sandals, would have been better. Holding out a hand, she frowned at her nails. Short, plain, and a bit dry around the cuticles.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, as if to keep all her emotions from tumbling around inside like shoes in a dryer. This deep, dark hole of self-pity had no bottom. She refused to let herself be drawn into an endless recital of things she could have done differently when it didn’t matter at all what he thought. The hardest part was now over. They would be able to greet each other with no awkward pauses on either side.
At least, that was what she prayed could happen. If all else failed, she would do her best to stay as far out of his way as possible.
“If there is anything disagreeable going on, men are always sure to get out of it.”
—MARY MUSGROVE
Chapter Three
Lucy looked up at the knock on the door. Alda Huggins stood in the crack, an irritated look on her face. Her coworker’s long, blond hair was pulled back and tinted pink and blue. Her style could best be described as couldn’t-care-less, and her attitude hovered between sassy and downright frightening. “The Dramavore called and she’s fixin’ to come see you.”
Lucy sighed. She should probably correct Alda and have her use Janessa’s actual name, but that definition of a person who fed off emotional conflict was pretty accurate. “Okay, thanks for letting me know. Are you headed to lunch?”
“Sure am, and you’re comin’ with me.”
“I can’t. The diary arrived today and I need to get this display sorted.” Lucy gestured to the pile of papers on her desk. “You go on, I’ll hold down the fort.”
“It’s not a fort. It’s a battlefield,” Alda said. “It’s because I ate that big burger last time, isn’t it? It just looked so good, with all those grilled mushrooms and Swiss cheese. It probably smelled like a dead carcass to you, but it was delicious. Mmm, just thinkin’ about it makes me want another one.”
Lucy shook her head. “It’s nothing to do with your carnivorous habits, my friend.”
Alda dropped into the chair near the door. “Then what is it? You haven’t gone to lunch with me for weeks. I hardly ever see you.”
Lucy snorted. “You see me every single weekday.” Alda was the only other full-time staff member. She handled tour appointments, sold tickets, fielded phone calls, and made sure Lucy came out of her cave every so often.
Alda frowned at her slacks, picking off a bit of lint. The interpretive center didn’t have a dress code, but Alda always wore subdued clothing that mostly covered the mermaid tattoo on one bicep and the flowering dogwood on the other. She’d mentioned her piercings once, but Lucy couldn’t see any and certainly didn’t want to ask for the details. “Sure, I see you when I come deliver a message or tell you that someone is waiting, but it’s not the same.”
Lucy rubbed her forehead. She missed chatting with Alda, it was true. But everything that had happened at Crawford House had made her shrink inward, pulling herself tight into a ball. It was hard to chat and make lighthearted conversation over lunch when all she wanted to do was lie in bed with the covers over her head.
“Give me a few days and we can go anywhere you want.”
“Promise?” Alda stood up, skeptical look on her face.
“Cross my heart and all that jazz.” Lucy put on a bright smile.
“I’m holdin’ you to it.” Alda closed the door behind her and Lucy let out a soft sigh.
It had been a week since she had seen Jem standing in her foyer, and the promise of the arrival of this little book was the only thing that had kept her sane.
Lucy opened the archival museum box and ran a gloved finger over the small leather diary. Now part of the museum’s collection, the diary of Hattie Winter was one of the few first-person accounts of a woman joining the battle for the South while disguised as a man. It was a bright spot in her nerdy curator’s life, and she was going to shove all her anxiety aside to focus on the treasure. During the days, she had managed to keep busy with projects around the house or organizing displays at the museum, but her dreams had turned into emotional minefields. She hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time before she would wake in a cold sweat, heart pounding painfully in her chest, visions of Jem fading in the darkness.
Every day she came home to face more changes at Crawford House. The receptionist’s desk, examining tables, waiting-room chairs, and the smell of bleach all spoke of the impending arrival of the Free Clinic. And Dr. Jeremiah Chevy. She could only hope that seeing him on a daily basis might be less torturou
s than waiting for the moment they would meet next. As it was, every day she drove down the tree-lined drive, pulse thudding in her ears, fingers numb on the steering wheel, waiting to see if his car was in the parking spot. Every time it was empty, she wondered if he had come to Crawford House with someone else and might be waiting inside with his somber demeanor and quiet voice.
Gently spreading the brittle pages of the diary, Lucy inhaled deeply. Here, in her office, she felt at home. She hadn’t been very happy at Crawford House, but it had been a place to disappear. Now only the interpretive center was left for her, and even that wasn’t completely secure. In a few weeks, Jem and Dr. Stroud would come to listen to her talk on Civil War medical kits.
She dropped her head onto her palm. She couldn’t avoid Jem, and it was impossible to try. The best she could hope for was never being in a small space with him or having to have an actual conversation. Meanwhile, she would do her job, just as she always had, forgetting her own trouble by falling into the story of someone who lived long ago.
Most curators had a special fondness for one area of their collection. For Lucy, it was the handwritten diaries and letters. The accounts of long-dead soldiers were a comfort to her, their words like a guide in the confusion of modern life. Some kept a diary during the war but some only poured out their thoughts and fears at the end of their lives, as if to purge themselves from the memories. Most wrote in a diary without ever considering that anyone would read their words. They made inside jokes, referred to loved ones with simple initials, and abbreviated everything to the point of near illegibility. Her favorite moments were discovering a treasured bit of verse, a chorus of a folk song, or even a silly limerick. The soldiers never knew their words would be read hundreds of years later, and she usually loved the idea of private musings becoming immortal. But not today. Today she only wanted to touch the pages and remember that all things pass with time.
Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread Page 3