"You go on ahead of me, Mr. Swain," Sarah was saying. "I'd like the chance to visit with Emnia."
"Why, sure," Fred said, gladly switching places, drawing out a leather pouch from the back pocket of his overalls and preparing to do business at the window.
All smiles, Sarah squeezed Enema's arm. "How've you been, Emma?" she asked, her luxuriant, red locks falling around her temples, the shiny, turquoise comb at the back of her head not quite sufficient for holding the bulk of her glossy hair.
Emma silently admired her, the poised and polished Sarah Woodward Callahan, former mail-order bride from Winchester, Massachusetts, a Boston suburb. Arriving on a stagecoach last winter with the intention of marrying Benjamin Broughton, she'd wound up instead on the hand of Rocky Callahan. And just as well. The two fit like a hand and a glove, despite Rocky's provincial upbringing. Fashionable and sophisticated, she embodied everything that Little Hickman wasn't and yet somehow managed to win over the entire town. Of course, it hadn't hurt that she'd donated the funds for a schoolhouse. It'd been an anonymous gift, of course, but few doubted the donor's identity.
"I'm fine, thank you. . .yourself?"
"Gracious, I'ni fine as can be," Sarah replied, her oval face simply glowing.
Eninia wondered how she could possibly have looked at her image in the mirror mere moments ago and admired her hand-sewn dress when before her stood a woman of elegance and fine breeding, wearing a store-bought, shimmering satin gown and carrying a handbag to match.
"Have you seen the schoolhouse?" Sarah was asking, completely oblivious to Emma's covetous thoughts.
"What? No, not just lately."
"Oh, you must drive out and see it. I stopped there just an hour ago. The nien were hard at work, painting, hauling debris away from the site, and finishing up on small tasks. It's as pretty as a picture set against those green, lush foothills and lovely trees. I'm so glad the town council voted to move it out a ways. It won't hurt the children having to walk a bit, and it will give the town some room to expand. And I think the name the council's decided on, Oak Hill Schoolhouse, is downright homey, don't you?"
"Yes. Homey's a good word." Actually, she'd stayed away from the council meetings, mostly because she didn't think her vote much counted. She had no children. It didn't matter one way or the other to her where they stationed the new building or what name they chose to give it.
"And the church should stay at the center of town-right where the schoolhouse used to be," Sarah said. "Oh, I know Jonathan must be chomping at the bit to get that project started. Has he said?"
"What?"
"Jon, er, Reverend Atkins." She made a disparaging face. "It's hard for me to think of him as Reverend when he and Rocky are such close friends. You must feel the same-especially now that he's taken a room in your boardinghouse, which, by the way, I think is quite lovely."
Of all the words she'd have chosen for describing the preacher's living arrangements, lovely wasn't one of them. Distracting seemed a more likely word.
-CL 1664 &"
"ell, if it's not Miss Eninia herself. Thought I night be givin' your nail to the preacher again," said George Garner. "But I see you've cone for it." The postmaster emerged from the back end of the building, rubbed his hands on his soiled trousers, and shuffled to the front counter, combing a hand through his oily gray hair. His hatching gray beard still contained the remnants of his breakfast, which seeped to have been toast and strawberry jam. George's eyebrows flicked upward, like an inverted V. "You got a couple more letters from Chicago." He propped an elbow on the marred counter and leaned forward, his stale breath wending through the air. "One of 'eh came in four days ago and another just yesterday."
Eninia sorted through the pieces of mail she'd just taken from her slot; a postcard from Mr. Dreyfus addressed to the boardinghouse residents, an advertisement for a new cookstove, a flyer about November's presidential election, and two letters from the mysterious Grace Giles. She stuffed it all into her leather reticule and pasted on a smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Garner, but, uni, if you don't mind, I'll pick up my own mail after this. No need givin' it to the reverend." She would have liked to have added that he needn't keep checking the return address, either, but knew the futility in that.
He looked only a little contrite. "If you say so."
"You have a good afternoon now." She turned on her heel.
"And you, too, ma'am."
When she walked to the door to pull it open, lie called out, "Mighty pretty dress you're wearin' there."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Garner." She slipped out with a smile on her face.
Mrs. Winthrop looked up when Emma entered the dry goods store and forced a pleasant look. "Well, well, Miss Enmia, I see you're wearing a new dress."
Obviously not intended for a compliment, Emma pulled back her shoulders. "Yes."
"Is that fabric from my stock? I don't recall the floral pattern."
"Afraid not. I special ordered it from the mercantile."
Iris's pointy chin shot forward, a hand quickly spreading across her aniple chest. "I see. You couldn't have ordered from me?"
It was a known fact Iris Winthrop considered Eldred Johansson her competitor, even though his inventory varied quite drastically, his store carrying hardware and general supplies, while the Winthrops specialized more in sewing notions and household and kitchen items.
Emma recalled the day she'd left the dry goods store and marched straight to the mercantile to place an order for fabric. "I happened to spot this fabric in Mr. Johansson's catalog." She plastered on a smile. "I simply couldn't resist it."
"Well!" Iris huffed. "It's lovely, indeed, but I'm sure Mr. Johansson and I have the same catalog. Was it Sears, Roebuck, and Company by chance?"
Emma withdrew a list from her pocket. "I believe it was." She unfolded the paper and handed it over the counter. "Now, then, if you'll be so kind as to fill my order?"
Iris adjusted her spectacles and perused the paper. "Hm. Needles, thimble, candle wax, yellow thread, one bar of lemon soap, a pair of shoestrings," she read aloud. Eninia shifted her weight. Without a word, the proprietress began assembling the items in a neat little pile next to the cash register.
Emilia watched as the stuffy woman moved about. "It's another swelterin' clay," she said, feeling compelled to converse. "Almost makes a body anxious for fall."
Iris sniffed. "Yes, well, the cooler weather will be upon us before you know it, and then we'll be wishing for sunnier."
"Isn't that the truth!"
The bell above the door sounded and both women turned. "Afternoon, ladies." Emma sucked in a breath. What in the world would bring Jonathan Atkins to the dry goods store? Apparently, Iris wondered the same, for her jaw dropped.
"Why, Reverend, what a lovely surprise," she gushed. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"
Emma fought down the urge to roll her eyes. She didn't know anyone quite as two-faced as Iris Winthrop. Just days ago, she'd been bad-mouthing the preacher for keeping company with the likes of Ezra Browning and the hooligans living in her boardinghouse, and now she fairly blossomed in his presence.
Charming character that he was, Jon removed his hat and smiled, revealing perfectly aligned teeth. His blue eyes glinted with warmth as they meandered from Iris to Emma and back to Iris, his sandy-colored hair falling across his forehead in its usual haphazard fashion despite his recent haircut. Emma silently instructed herself to pay no heed to his exceedingly handsome face.
"I thought I'd stop by to tell you we plan to start up services in the new schoolhouse the first Sunday in August. As part of the festivities, we'd like to honor both you and Clyde that morning."
Iris clasped her throat with one hand, her other spreading flat across her thick midsection. Her black, beady eyes went round with pleasure. "Well, my goodness!" she tittered.
Jon glanced at Emma, and in that instant, she felt some sort of tenuous connection with him. "There's no getting around the fact that if
you hadn't offered your house as a Sunday meeting place, Little Hickman Community Church would not have had the opportunity for regular worship," he explained. "We'd simply like to show our appreciation. You will promise to come, right?" he pressed, leaning forward.
Iris looked ready to burst. "We wouldn't think of missing."
Jon heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Of course, the ladies are planning a church picnic to follow." Emma earned an extra long glance from him at the announcement. Was he extending her a private invitation? It wouldn't hurt to go this once, she reasoned, even if it would mean sitting through one of his sermons. Besides, talking to Sarah Callahan had sparked her curiosity about the schoolhouse.
He pulled his gaze back to Iris and turned the rim of his hat in his hands, his engaging smile never fading. "I expect we'll have a big turnout, what with it being the first time for opening the doors to the public."
"Well, I'ni sure you're right about that, Reverend," said Iris, cheeks aglow. "And the women will put on quite a spread afterward. I'll be sure to bring my pies."
"You're famous for your apple and blueberry," he remarked, eyes twinkling.
The man had no compunctions when it came to doling out praise. Emma pinched her lips together to avoid a smile.
"As I recall, your fried chicken is the envy of every woman across the county. Why, that last potluck had Flossie Martin and Esther Thompson guessing at your mystery ingredient."
The woman blushed crimson. "I'll be sure to contribute all three then," she exclaimed. "The pies and the chicken."
"How, may I ask, does Clyde manage to stay so fit and trim married to such a fine cook?"
A twittering sound like a warbling bird came from Iris's throat. She took up Emma's list and used it as a fan. "Why, Reverend Atkins, you'll have nie swooning."
Later, Emma held her giggle at bay as she made her way to Flanders' Foods next door, a box of goods under one arni. She heard the Winthrop's screen door slam shut with a thwop.
"Emma, wait!" Jon called after her.
She gave a half-turn but didn't slow her pace.
In a matter of seconds, he was at her side, huffing to catch up. "That's a pretty dress you're wearing. Isn't that the one you were working on the other day?"
His memory impressed her. "It is. Thank you."
"You look pretty as a picture in it. You're an amazingly talented wonian, Emma Browning. Lovely, too, if I do say so."
She halted in the middle of the sidewalk and stared him square in the face. "Reverend Atkins, you are a clever man thinkin' you can wheedle the same reaction out of me as you did Mrs. Winthrop. I do not charm easily, sir."
He tossed back his head and laughed. She managed not to react. "I have known that about you for some time, Emma, but I've always enjoyed a good challenge."
Emma shook her head and resumed her step.
"You have to admit you came close to smiling back there," he said.
Yes, she had, but she wouldn't admit it. At the door to the grocery, she paused to look at him, a tiny grin even now tickling the corners of her mouth.
"For a preacher, you sure can be a scamp."
She heard his low-throated chortle even after the door closed behind her.
The first letter simply said,
Dear Emma,
I am praying for you. If you have a Bible, please read the entire book ofJohn. (I happen to know that Clara Abbott gave you one.) It will only take a week if you commit to reading three chapters a day.
I eagerly await a reply from you as to what you think after you've read it.
Your heavenly Father loves you with a love you cannot begin to fathom.
Yours very sincerely,
Grace Giles
What did this woman know about Clara Abbott? And how would she have learned of the treasured Bible given to her just before the woman's passing? She thought of the leatherbound book tucked safely beneath her lace handkerchiefs in the top drawer of her bureau. It had been lying there for many years-completely untouched.
The second letter read,
Dear Emma,
Have you started reading John's Gospel? Don't you find it quite fascinating reading about Jesus' life on earth? Please don't hesitate to write me with any questions you might have. You have my return address, and every day I hope to receive a letter from you.
Have you settled matters with your father? I pray for you often.
Yours always,
Grace Giles
Outside, a gentle breeze drifted past Eninia's bedroom window, flirting with the lace curtains. A full moon added light to the glowing candle at her bedside. She strained her eyes to read again the letters she'd received earlier that day but only now had found time to read. After perusing them a second time, and then a third, she carefully folded them up and tucked them back into their envelopes, running her fingers over the meticulously written return address in the upper left-hand corner of one of them.
With a tiny frown, she rose from her wicker chair and padded across the room to her bureau, her nightdress tickling her ankles, her long tresses falling over her shoulders. Pulling open the top drawer, she laid the letters atop the others she'd received, noting the growing collection.
Grace Giles, who are you?
When she would have closed the drawer, she suddenly found herself digging to the bottom, pushing aside handkerchiefs, pillowslips, and doilies until her fingers finally clasped hold of the small leather Bible.
Clutching it in both hands, she first stared at it as if it were a menacing object. Soon, though, a jumble of emotions grabbed hold of her-curiosity, eagerness, surprise, and panic. Sucking in a tight breath, she flipped open the cover. This Bible belongs to Clara Abbott was carefully penned on the front page.
For some reason she'd thought she would find a clue as to Grace Giles' identity by simply opening the book, but it wasn't there. She thumbed through the first few pages, Births-Family Record-Deaths, but found each page void of any entries.
The next page listed every book of the Bible from the Old and New Testaments.
Without forethought, she traced her finger down the length of the feathery page until it landed on the book of John. "Page 1088," she whispered.
She told herself it was simple curiosity and nothing more that prompted her to find the designated book. But it was something altogether different that had her walking across the room, flopping down into her chair, and propping the book open on her lap. Deep, unsettled hunger?
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God," she read aloud from the first verse in chapter one.
Outside, the tinny sounds of off-key piano playing drifted up from Madam Guttersnipe's Saloon.
She settled back and continued reading.
mma guided the rented horse down the dusty trail. It had been several months since she'd found the need for a horse, so when she'd walked into Sam's Livery the next day announcing her request for a gentle horse, there had been a few stares from Sam, Sully Thompson, and Edgar Blake. Even Elliott Newnan had emerged from his wheelwright shop at the back of the livery wearing a look of surprise.
"Where you headin', Miss Eninia?" Elliott asked.
Not wanting to divulge her destination, and somewhat perturbed with the nien for their curiosity, Emma merely shrugged. "Can't a body enjoy a horseback ride for no particular reason other than it seems like a good day for one?"
The men gawked, obviously not swallowing her reasoning. "You want I should send Luke with ya?" Elliott asked. "It's not all that proper for a lady to be out ridin' these hills on her own, even if it is just a pleasure trip."
This was hardly a pleasure trip, she might have said. "No, I'll be fine." This was Little Hickman, for goodness' sake. Yes, there'd been a few problems in the past, the schoolhouse fire namely, but Clement Bartel, the boy who'd started the fire, was dead as a result, and since then very little had transpired in this tiny coniniunity-with the exception of Ezra Browning's drunken shenanigans.
Direct
ing the horse down the hillside, she held on to the saddle horn to steady herself, not nearly as adept a rider as most women she knew. Having spent most of her life cooped up in the house with Ezra, and then running the boardinghouse from age eighteen on, there'd been little reason for riding.
At a flat, grassy patch, she reined in the horse named Lester and surveyed the familiar countryside spread out before her: the dilapidated barn and old sheds, the acres of wasted farmland, the tottering one-room shack. A row of flowers blossomed along the west side of the old house, a contrast of color against the ancient boards.
Whether she would even find her father at home was a matter of debate. She knew he worked at the saloon several afternoons a week and spent a good share of the rest of his time there. Giving the horse a gentle nudge with her boot heels, she guided him the rest of the way down the hillside. Pansy, the ancient old goat, raised her skinny head to check her out, then went back to pulling up what few blades of grass she could find around the yard. Emma reached behind her and yanked a couple of apples and an overripe pear from the saddlebag. "Here you go, girl," she called, tossing the fruit to the ground. The animal meandered over, took a moment to sniff out the offering, then gobbled it down with fervor. "Thought you'd enjoy that," she said, jumping down from Lester and leading him to a newly repaired fence post.
Some chickens waddled over. "Sorry, I've got nothing for you," she murmured. They gathered round her and clucked, angling their relatively long bodies at her, their rose combs on the tops of their heads wobbling back and forth. A Rhode Island Red variety, these chickens were known for their egglaying properties, and because of that, her father had rarely decapitated one for its meat. And when he had, she'd never partaken, for they were the closest things she'd ever had to pets.
They parted for her as she made her way up the beaten path toward the front porch. She glanced about, impressed by how neat the place looked, all thanks to the team of volunteers Jon had scrounged up. A tiny pang of guilt for not having helped in the efforts struck a spot in the back of her conscience.
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 11