She turned just slightly and nodded. "A tall, shy girl with black, curly hair."
He gave a fast nod. "Remember the time we were having a spelling bee and she had need of the necessary? `Mr. Thurston,' she wailed to high heaven, stompin' from one foot to the other. `I got to go!' Her face was blood-red. I remember that."
Emma turned full around, sapphire eyes wide as she put a hand to her mouth, applying a dab of soapsuds in the process. "Did he let her leave?"
Jon shook his head. "Nope. He got that stern look on his face where his mouth turned under, his chin dropped, and his eyebrows crinkled into one long bushy line, and in that all-important, deep tone, he said something like, `My dear, you shall have to wait until the noon break.' Well it wasn't five minutes-I think Howard Fuller was spelling legislature-or maybe it was parliament-when Eddie Hampton pointed at the floor under poor Virginia and shouted, `Mr. Thurston, Virginia Peabody's a goin'!"'
"Oh!" Eninia's hands flattened over her chest, one on top of the other, as the impact of the story dawned in her expression. And that's when it happened. A giggle erupted, not just a tiny, fruitless one, either, but the kind a person can't hold back, bubbling up like a geyser, coming out in lusty bursts, the likes of which he'd never heard. "Oh, dear-little Virginia," she said between laughing spurts, her eyes beginning to water. She clutched her stomach as if it pained her even to breathe.
As if getting the joke, Luke joined in.
In the doorway, Elliott Newman and Harland Collins stood gape-mouthed and sober as judges-as if they'd never heard anything like it either.
What had gotten into her, laughing like a foolhardy child; worse, knowing he was responsible for making it happen.
Emma laid her next-day dress out along with her stockings, petticoat, and underthings. Padding barefoot to the mirror in her cotton nightgown, she gazed at her reflection before yanking free her long, blond braid.
Poor Virginia Peabody, she mused, even now smiling at the silly recollection. My, it'd been a long while since she'd thought about her school days, much less laughed about them, and the notion made her ponder what other events of the past lay buried in her subconscious. She picked up her boar-bristle hairbrush and ran it through her long tresses, gently smoothing out the knots at the ends and working her way up to the top of her head.
"What you doin' up at this hour?"
"I was just brushing my hair, Papa." She lay her mama's hairbrush on the little box beside her bed and tucked her bare feet up under the blankets, a cold chill racing through her spine the closer he came. She was glad she'd stashed her book, Little Women, under her mattress-and just in time, too. Dear Miss Abbott had given it to her just last week, saying every girl should have the chance to read good literature, and already she was nearly halfway through it.
He took a gander around the room, his bloodshot eyes bulging like two gigantic boulders, a bottle of ale in one hand. 'More'n likely you was daydreamin' again, sittin' there brushin' your hair like you was the Queen of England herself. You put out that light now 'fore I tan your li'l hide."
"Yes, Papa," she said, bending forward to blow out the candle and hastening under the covers.
Next week was her thirteenth birthday.
Was that too young to run away?
Von had a full day ahead. Late July heat settled on his shoulders as he moved up the sidewalk. Everyone he passed wanted to stop and talk, slowing his progress and keeping him from his duties. Besides calls to make on parishioners, there was Sunday's sermon hanging over his head, the final architectural plans for the new church to look over, clean clothes ready for hint at Rita's place, a haircut awaiting him at Zeke's Barbershop, a list of supplies to pick up, and, finally, a letter to post.
"You seen the new school lately, Reverend?" asked Clarence Sterling. The elderly fellow had just dismounted his rig and was crossing Jon's path on his way to the bank, a stack of papers tucked under his arni.
Jon paused. "I was just coming from there, Clarence. Matter of fact, I'm running an errand for Ben Broughton, who's over at the site now." He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket and glanced at it, a list of materials he'd volunteered to pick up at the sawmill and mercantile.
"Looks awful near to done, if you ask me. Kind o' nice lookin' up the road apiece and seein' that nice new buildin' takin' shape. Won't be long 'fore we hear them recess bells again. Heard tell they're hirin' Bess Barrington for the teacher job. Ought to be good. Least she won't go runnin' off to get married fore the school year's even up." He chuckled at his own words. "When we startin' that new church, by the way?"
"Rocky says he's ready to break ground this week, but I'm thinking the men will need a breather between projects."
Clarence moved his aged shoulders in a shrug. "Piddle. Won't take long once the frame goes up. Many hands make light work, Reverend. I ain't helped much with the school, but when it conies time to start that church buildin', I'll be there from morning till night, and I ain't the only one, mark my words."
"Well, I thank you for that, Clarence. We'll need all the hands we can get."
"Speakin' of which, how'd it go over at Ezra Browning's place?" he asked, running a liver-spotted hand over his stubbled face.
"We accomplished what we set out to accomplish, but I'ni not sure Ezra fully appreciated our visit. He spent the day in his chair watching us and coughing up a storm."
Clarence shook his head. "The old fool."
By three in the afternoon, Jon had a fresh haircut and a pillowcase full of clean clothes hefted over one shoulder. He'd delivered the building supplies to Ben, stopped at the Swain house on his way back through town to visit little Ermaline, who was faring quite well despite her broken arm and leg, and was now on his way to the post office before heading back to the boardinghouse to drop off his laundry. Once done with that, he would head out to Sully and Esther Thompson's farm to see how little Millie, their youngest, was doing after her bout with the croup, pay another visit to old Ezra, and then, if it wasn't too late, stop out at Carl and Frieda Hardy's place for a piece of Frieda's apple pie.
"Afternoon, George," Jon said upon entering the post office. The postmaster looked up from his station behind the counter and grinned, presenting the wide gap between his two front teeth. "You got another letter from that professor friend o' yours." George Garner was notorious for reading the postmark on every piece of mail that cane across his desk. It was a wonder he ever finished the job of sorting.
Jon lowered the pillowcase of clothes to the floor. "Thanks, George. And I'd appreciate it if you'd post this one for nie." He retrieved the missive he'd written to his professor from his hip pocket and handed it across the counter.
George adjusted the spectacles that rested on the bridge of his nose to peruse the addressed envelope given him then nodded his balding head. "Oh, and since you're livin' at the boardinghouse perhaps you wouldn't mind deliverin' this to Miss Emma?" He reached under the counter and drew out an envelope. Had he been holding it specifically for her rather than inserting it in her postal box?
"I suppose I could do that," Jon said, somewhat hesitant about delivering another's mail, particularly that of Emma Browning. Ever since their amiable exchange of a few nights ago, she'd been treating hint as if he were a bad rash.
"It's another one of those notes from Chicago," George remarked with furrowed brow, as if Jon held the key to some unsolved mystery and George expected him to hand it over.
"Oh?" He was admittedly curious, but he would be hanged before he'd stoop to George Garner's level and view the postmark. He stowed it away in his breast pocket.
George's frown doubled in size. "Ain't you even gonna look at it?"
Jon lifted one of his brows and slanted his head at the postmaster with a scolding look, doing his best to mask a grin. "George, George, you'd finish your day a whole lot faster if you'd stop reading everyone's mail."
He looked aghast. "I ain't readin' no one's nail. I just check where it's comin' from. No harm in that."
The bell over the door let off a gentle chine, impelling both men to glance at the entrance. Frank and Mary Callahan, Rocky's parents, walked through the door, their two grandchildren, Rachel and Seth, in tow.
"Well, hello there, Jonathan," Mary greeted, tickled. "Aren't you looking spiffy." She circled him as one might circle a prized horse. Any second now, he expected her to order him to open his mouth so she could inspect his teeth.
He grinned. "And good afternoon to both of you-as well as Seth and Rachel. Look at Seth here, growing like a tomato plant." He ruffled the boy's dark brown hair and noted how Seth stretched to his full height. "And Rachel, if you get any prettier, your uncle Rocky might have to confine you to the house." The girl blushed like a rose.
"You just get a haircut?" Mary asked, persisting with her appraisal. Despite the fact that he was the preacher, and thirty years old, to boot, there were some in town who still viewed him as a kid, and Mary Callahan was one of them. Probably because he'd spent so much of his youth hanging with her son, and had even moved in with them for a time after his pa had died.
Only slightly embarrassed, he combed a hand through his freshly cut hair and nodded. "Is it okay?"
"Why, it's perfect," she answered, looking pleased as pink punch. "Makes you look mature, the way the ends just graze your shirt collar."
"That's good to know then."
She brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his shirtfront and beamed up at hint. "And quite handsome, if I do say so." Little Seth, arms at his sides, stared open-mouthed, clearly absorbed, whereas Rachel had wandered over to the wall where all the "wanted" posters hung. "Isn't he handsome, Frank?"
"Mary, for goodness' sake, you'll embarrass the boy."
Boy?
"Oh, piffle. He's used to me."
He was still grinning to himself on his walk back to the boardinghouse. In the alley between the post office and Emma's place, Elmer and Gladys Hayward and Bill and Flora Jarvis were engaged in some political debate about the upcoming presidential election. "I say Bryan's Free Silver Movement is a good idea. Might relieve nie and Gladys of some of our debt," Elmer was saying. "We just ain't gettin' enough for our crops these clays."
"You get rid of the gold standard, and we'll see inflation straight across the board," Bill argued. "McKinley's got a good head on 'is shoulders; Bryan's a lot of talk."
Not wanting to involve himself in the controversy, Jon tipped his hat at the foursome and kept moving, thankful no one objected to his lack of sociability.
He found Emma in the kitchen kneading a big batch of bread dough. Four greased bread pans were set in a row on the butcher-block table. She did a double take when he entered the room. Was it the haircut? But then she hastily covered her reaction with a cursory nod, seeming to apply herself the harder to the business of punching the dough. The notion that she envisioned herself pummeling his face in place of the dough gave him pause. What had he done to deserve her wrath besides draw out a burst of giggles the other night? To say she left him flummoxed was putting it mildly.
"Brought you something," he announced, extracting the missive from his pocket. It took every ounce of his willpower not to glance at the postmark or the sender's name in the process of handing it over.
She wiped her floured hands on her apron front and took the letter, inspecting it in haste before positioning it under the sugar bowl beside her-and completely out of sight. Was it his imagination, or had a muscle flicked in her jaw when she first saw it? "Thank you," she replied with definite curtness. "Don't know why George expected you to deliver my mail."
"I don't know, either, but he asked me to do the favor, so I obliged. I hope you don't mind. I didn't look at it, if that's what you think."
She lifted a brow and shrugged. "I wasn't worried that you had. Anyway, it's just some silly...."
He waited for her to finish the sentence, but she left it hanging.
"Some silly..." he prodded, leaning toward her.
She tossed her head, and her blond hair, which she'd pulled into a single ponytail then tied with a green ribbon to match her dress, flopped over one shoulder. Truth be told, he thought her quite a fetching sight. "Nothing," she replied, pinching her lips together as she threw herself back into her task. "Nothing at all."
He stared at her for at least a full minute before her hands ceased and she turned to look at him, clearly perturbed. "Was there something else you wanted?"
He couldn't stop the grin, which he knew rattled her. Without taking his eyes off her mouth, he reached in front of her to snatch a shiny apple from a fruit bowl. She took a full step back. "Nothing," he responded, sinking his teeth into the juicy apple and sauntering out of the room. "Nothing at all."
An hour later, he knocked on Ezra's door.
"What you want, preacher kid?" Ezra asked through a twoinch slit in the door, his bloodshot eyes roving over him with obvious suspicion.
Jon nudged the door open a couple of inches more with the toe of his boot. "Just checking on you."
"Humph. Don't need no checkin' on." He choked on his own spittle and wheezed as if it were his last breath. A trace of blood mixed with the dirt that covered his shirtfront. Jon pushed the rest of the way through the door. As he'd feared, the place was a shambles. He mentally counted to ten, then figured praying was the better route. Lord, give me patience, was about all he could muster.
"Ezra, you're killing yourself, you know that?"
The man glared through glazed and watery eyes. In those eyes Jon read the deepest kind of sorrow, detected a lostness such as he hadn't seen for some time.
"Ain't none of your concern," Ezra grumbled.
"I've made it ny concern."
Jon kicked the door shut with his foot and walked across the room to pick up a chair. On his way, he bent to retrieve a number of other items-a tin bowl; a slice of bread, half gnawed; an empty can; wads of paper with scribble marks across them, and other waste. All the while, Ezra followed him with curious, wary eyes.
"What you want?" he asked for the second time.
Ignoring the question, Jon sat down on the chair, the back of which was missing a couple of spindles. "Have a seat," he invited, pointing at the only other chair in the room. Amazing as it was, Ezra shuffled across the floor and dragged the chair over to the table. Keeping a cagey eye on Jon, he took a seat.
"I ain't got any coffee to offer ya," he said. "Used up the last of it two days ago."
"I don't need any coffee." Jon scooted closer to the table, clasped his hands together, and rested them in a pile of crumbs on the marred, wood surface. "What brought you to Little Hickman all those years ago, Ezra?" he asked.
A cold, congested expression passed over hard features. Ezra swiped a grimy hand down his face. Jon waited, wondering if he'd get an answer.
"Ain't nobody ever asked me that before."
And was it any wonder? Why should anyone inquire after an unapproachable old geezer who'd spent the better share of his life tanked?
Jon pulled back his shoulders and offered up a silent prayer. "I'm asking."
Ezra leaned forward and sucked in a winded breath before speaking. "Lydia and me wanted a fresh start away from her parents."
"Lydia. And where was she from?"
"Danbury, Illinois. I was wanderin' around back then. Come upon a huge farm. Her daddy give me a job, never guessin' I'd fall for 'is daughter." A sour chuckle rumbled up. "That was a long time ago."
Desperate to keep him talking, Jon remarked, "I bet she was a pretty thing."
Sunken eyes gleamed with some kind of proud yet faraway sheen. "Pertiest ya ever seen. Golden hair, blue eyes, the smoothest skin."
So Emma's fair looks came from her mother. "And you loved her," he pressed.
Jon's trained eye detected unspoken pain, and as if Ezra sensed it, he quickly yanked his head up to glare at him. "Course I loved 'er. We eloped eight months after we met." He harrumphed. "Her folks was madder than two sick dogs, threatenin' to undo the marriage, so
we left Illinois and come to Little Hickman. Didn't even tell 'em where we was for awhile. Land was cheap back then, and we had us some big dreams for the future, figured we could make do on our own. But Lydia was deep hurt. She finally wrote to her folks when she was carryin', thought they'd want to know, but by then they dint want nothin' to do with either one of us. Said she threw 'er life away when she married me and they was washin' their hands of 'er. Guess they thought I married 'er for 'er money." He scoffed, as if the notion itself were utterly detestable.
"After she died, they found a way to blame me for it. Said I'd never get a red cent from them. Wanted nothin' to do with Eninia neither."
"So Lydia died just after-Emma...."
Ezra screwed up his face in a sour scowl. "Givin' birth was hard on her. She'd been sick the last half of her bein' in the family way, so she was already weak and frail, then to have to go through all that pain.... It took its toll. There weren't nothin' I could do for 'er."
His gaze traveled to the shiny new windowpane and beyond. "Buried 'er that very night up in those hills. Doc Randolph was the only one what knew us back then, so lie helped dig the hole. Emma slept in a box beside the grave."
Hardly daring to breathe, Jon gave a slow nod, terrified the fellow would stop talking, terrified he'd continue. While he allowed the privileged information to settle in his brain, they sat for several seconds in utter silence, save for the highpitched blather of two cardinals outside the window. "Waa- cheer! Waa-cheer!" they chattered between them.
"Must've been hard, raising a little one on your own. What about Emma's grandparents-your folks, I mean? Couldn't they have lent a hand?" To his knowledge, not one relative had ever paid the two of them a visit.
He might have known the question would push him over the edge. It was a miracle he'd wrung this much out of him. Like a bank vault, the old guy clamped his mouth up tight and sent a glowering look across the table. Jon stared back, nervous energy precipitating the tapping of his fingers on the table. "I meant no offense," he offered. "I'm just trying to understand, Ezra."
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 9