“You hard of hearing, boy? I didn’t ask a question.” Clint’s hand rested on a knife sheathed on his belt. Henry hadn’t noticed that before. “Now get up from there and come load the ’shine before I decide to cut your pay—or something else—in half.”
Henry stood, and for a moment he felt like he could muster the strength to tell Clint no. He saw his mother’s car go by out on the dirt road, probably on the way to tend Mayfair. He looked at Clint. How was it that he’d been craving this man’s approval?
Clint nodded after his mom’s car. “Maybe I should step on over there and look in on the ladies. See how that girl’s doing. Sounds like working a healing might have took it out of her. It’d be the Christian thing to show my concern.”
Climbing to his feet, Henry gave Clint a mean look. He might not have much choice in whether he made this delivery, but he could choose not to play Clint’s game.
“I’ll run your ’shine, but I won’t have you messing with my family,” he said.
Clint laughed. And rightly so, thought Henry. He’s meaner than six of me.
They transferred the jugs to the bed of Henry’s truck, laid a tarp over them, and then threw in a chainsaw and a few sticks of firewood.
“You got that fiddle of yourn?” Clint asked. “Seems that crowd out at Jack’s liked your playing the other night. Take it along, and you’ll have a good reason for being out that way.”
Henry got in his truck and swung by what he now thought of as Margaret’s house before he headed out. He let the ladies know he’d be gone for a while but would check back on them before bedtime.
He pulled Margaret aside as he headed back out. “Clint Simmons has been hanging around,” he whispered. “Charlie was at the wedding and gave him the idea that Mayfair might be a healer.” He darted a look at the bedroom door that was open a crack. Did he see Mayfair moving around? “Anyhow, I told him to get on out of here but wanted you to know just in case.”
“He wouldn’t do anything, would he?” Margaret asked a little too loud.
“Who wouldn’t do anything?” Grandma chimed in.
“Clint Simmons,” Margaret said.
Grandma made a dismissive sound. “Oh, I know Clint and Beulah from way back. He’s an old goat, but he’s harmless enough. And Beulah’s a saint for putting up with him all these years.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Why would you even mention him?”
“Henry says maybe we should keep an eye out for him.” Margaret seemed to have completely missed the fact that he was trying to tell her something in confidence.
“Pshaw. You go on about your business, Henry, we’ll be fine.”
After Henry left and Emily went home, the little house seemed to swell with silence. Margaret hadn’t really spent time alone with Perla before. It’s not that she didn’t want to, she simply wasn’t sure how to. Perla always seemed so put together—and so elegant—kind of delicate and dainty. Margaret felt awkward and too tall in comparison.
Margaret looked around the plain room and wished she’d spent more time making it pretty. Maybe some curtains or a cloth for the table. It occurred to her that if her own mother came in, she wouldn’t care what she thought, but she wanted Perla to be pleased.
Perla sat at the table and fiddled with a dish towel. “I’m glad you and I have some time to get to know each other.” She glanced up at Margaret. “I thought maybe we could talk.”
“Well, okay. How about I make some tea?”
“That sounds lovely.”
Margaret bustled around the kitchen, filling the kettle, finding two mugs that matched, and digging out a tin of tea. Soon, the two women sat at the table sipping from steaming cups.
“Did you want to talk about anything in particular?” Margaret asked.
Perla glanced toward the bedroom. The door stood partially open, and they could see Mayfair’s sleeping form curled in the bed. Margaret stepped over and closed the door in case Perla was worried about her sister hearing.
“Actually, there is.” Perla picked up her spoon, then set it down again.
Margaret began to feel uneasy.
“I saw what Mayfair did for that child today. And I saw Henry’s hand after she ‘helped’ him, as she put it. I know what a misfire injury looks like, and his hand . . .” She shook her head. “There’s something special about your sister.”
“I’ve always known she’s special.” Margaret tried not to sound defensive, but she didn’t like where this conversation was headed.
Perla gazed into empty space over Margaret’s shoulder. “I know how hard it can be to have a knack for something. The kind of knack that sets you apart and makes people look at you differently. I think Mayfair may have a knack for healing people.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Margaret stood and dumped the rest of her tea into the sink. She rinsed the mug, staring out the window at the darkening sky. What business did Perla have coming in here and talking to her like this? And so what if she’d thought the very same thing?
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Or afraid of.” Perla finally looked at Margaret, and she felt, maybe for the first time in her life, that someone was really trying to see beyond her abundance of freckles and outward competence to the girl inside.
“The summer I met Casewell, Wise suffered a terrible drought. Somehow the food I cooked saw us through. I’d always had a way of cooking food so that it lasted longer than it should have—fed more people than made sense. But that summer was the first time I saw that God might have given me that ability for a reason.”
“What are you saying?” Margaret turned around and leaned against the sink.
“I’m saying that miracles don’t always feel like it at the time. I’m saying that blessings can be difficult, but they are blessings nonetheless.”
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“No, it’s the sort of thing you never really understand. I just wanted you—and Mayfair—to know you aren’t as alone as you feel.”
Margaret wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the floor. “Well, thanks, I guess. I’m not sure Mayfair is a healer or anything, but I appreciate you wanting to help.” She looked back up at the older woman and saw not sympathy, but kinship there. “And I appreciate you sharing your story.”
Perla nodded once and tapped the table. “Speaking of cooking, what’s for supper around here?”
Margaret smiled. “Emily brought egg salad sandwiches from the wedding, and I think there’s a good-sized hunk of cake, which I think you might have baked. Guess that means it’ll be more than enough?”
Perla smiled back. “That sounds just right.”
The run went smoother than Henry anticipated. All the way to Jack’s place he kept imagining police cars and deputies hidden down every side road. Any car that pulled out behind him struck a chord of fear. Once he arrived, he caught a glimpse of Barbara inside the makeshift bar but ducked on out before she saw him. He’d thought he might like to play some music, but the itch to slide his bow across the strings faded the longer he was away from Mom, Grandma, and even Mayfair and Margaret.
Guessing his mother might still be with the girls, he drove over to Margaret’s house. He hoped they’d have something to eat. He was ravenous.
Henry’s tires crunched over remnants of snow in the yard at the gray house. Light poured out the kitchen window, warm and inviting. Henry suddenly felt good. He was glad to be there.
Laughter greeted him when he knocked on the door, then stepped inside. His mother and Margaret were at the table eating wedding cake.
“Oh, Henry, you’ve caught us having seconds,” his mother said.
Margaret grinned—something Henry couldn’t recall seeing before. “But when cake lasts like this one does, why not?”
That last statement mystified Henry, but he let it go as his mother pulled out a chair and fetched a plate of sandwiches from the refrigerator.
“Are you hungry? We’re just eating leftovers fro
m the wedding, but they’re delicious.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Henry said, plopping down in the chair.
Margaret stood and fetched him a glass of iced tea. His mother added a dish of pickles to the plate of sandwiches. Henry thought he could get used to being waited on like this. He tossed one of the little sandwiches into his mouth and chewed. He tried to speak, but the egg salad muffled his question.
“What was that?” Margaret asked as his mother said, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
The two women looked at each other and smiled. Henry felt left out. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “I said, ‘How’s Mayfair?’”
“She’s sleeping. I think that seizure or whatever it was really wore her out.” Margaret looked at the closed bedroom door. “But maybe I should check on her. She ate a bit earlier with her shot, but I’d love to see her eat something more.”
She walked over and eased the door open. She peered inside and then eased the door shut again.
“I hate to bother her,” she said. “She can eat in the morning.”
Henry released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. What had he been thinking? That Clint might have spirited her away? The old man might be a crook, but he was no kidnapper. He relaxed and ate another sandwich. Maybe things would work out okay after all.
16
THE NEXT MORNING the shrill ring of the phone wakened Henry. He sat up in bed and stretched. He’d probably slept too late anyhow. He heard Mom answer on the second ring. After a moment her voice changed, and she sounded upset. He slipped into yesterday’s clothes and padded out into the living room.
Mom stood with her hand over the receiver. “Mayfair’s missing,” she said. “We need to get over there. Margaret is beside herself.”
Henry felt his stomach flip. Swallowing hard, he tried to think of a plausible explanation. Anything but the idea that sprang to mind as soon as Mom spoke.
When they walked into the gray house, Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen working her hands and shifting from foot to foot. Grandma was already there, looking more worried than he’d ever seen her. Mom moved to put an arm around Margaret and gave her a sympathetic squeeze.
“Any chance she went out with somebody?” Henry asked.
Margaret gave him a withering look.
“Yeah, stupid question. Do you think—”
“What? Do I think what?” Margaret’s voice held a tinge of hysteria.
Henry ran a hand through his hair. “Seems like word might be getting around that she’s a healer. You don’t think, well, that anyone would—”
“Would what? Take her? That’s stupid.” Margaret stomped her foot. “She isn’t a healer. She isn’t.”
“Stories are getting around about some of the things that have happened—my hand, the little girl with the bee sting.” He reached toward Margaret. “I’m not saying she is or isn’t, but I can see how people might get that idea. Might put ideas into folks’ heads.”
Margaret whirled and went into Mayfair’s room. “There has to be a clue,” she said. “Help me find a clue.”
Margaret dropped to her knees and crawled under the bed. “I see something. There’s a piece of paper.” She emerged with a sheet of lined notebook paper in her shaking hand. “It must have blown off the nightstand when I opened the door.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and fumbled at the paper. Mom took it and read it aloud. “Margaret, I need to help someone. I’ll be back soon. Love, Mayfair.”
Tears welled in Margaret’s eyes. She looked utterly defeated. “What do I do?”
Henry squared his shoulders. “You stay here with Mom. I have an idea about where to look.”
“You tell me right this minute, Henry Phillips. Is it that Clint person?” Margaret spoke sharply, but she didn’t move.
“Just give me until noon.”
“We should call the sheriff’s office,” Mom said.
“They won’t do anything. She left a note, and there’s no reason to think anything bad has happened. Hang tight.” He grasped Margaret by the shoulders and looked straight into those honey flecked eyes. “I’ll bring her home. Don’t you worry.” He grabbed his hat and coat and hurried out to the truck.
Margaret thought she might explode. How could Henry expect her to sit here and wait? How could she do nothing? What if Mayfair had another seizure? It was already past time for her insulin shot. Mayfair was essentially defenseless. It had always been Margaret’s job to care for her little sister. She wanted to cry, scream, and run around the yard in circles. She wanted to pursue Mayfair to the end of the world if need be. Margaret fell into a chair, laid her head in her arms on the tabletop, and cried, not caring that Perla and Emily stood watching her. What she wanted was someone to fix everything. Her sister, her situation, her future, and this stupid feeling she had that Henry Phillips was her last chance for a hero.
The rough dirt road leading to Clint’s place showed evidence of recent travel, but Henry couldn’t tell if a vehicle had come in, gone out, or both. He eased into the yard, parked, and got out of his truck, checking all around. It would do no good to burst in with accusations. Anyway, if his hunch was right, Mayfair had chosen to come here.
No one came out to greet Henry, which was unusual. It wasn’t that the Simmons family was friendly—more like in a hurry to run trespassers off. He stepped up on the crooked porch and pulled open the screen door, which let out a raspy groan.
He rapped on the paneled door and called out, “Hello, the house.”
Silence. He knocked again, and the door jerked open. Charlie stood there looking sullen.
“What you want, man?”
Henry fumbled his words. “Uh, just stopping by to see if, uh . . .” What? To see if a twelve-year-old girl had turned up?
“I expect you’re huntin’ that girl Pa thinks can heal Ma.”
Henry blinked. “Actually, I am.”
“Get on in here, then.” Charlie jerked his chin toward a door at the end of the front room and disappeared into the kitchen, scratching his nether regions as he went.
Henry heard a man’s voice rumble and a woman respond. It didn’t sound like Mayfair. Then there was a broken sob, a pause, and next thing Henry knew Clint Simmons jerked the door open and stood there glaring at Henry.
“What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, I stopped by for—” Henry caught a glimpse of the woman he assumed was Clint’s wife curled in the bed. She looked wrung out, but there was a peace about her. “Is she sick?”
Clint shoved Henry back toward the sofa. “Seems like I told you she ain’t well. Seems like you didn’t much care one way or the other. Seems like nobody in this godforsaken town gives two cents for anyone with the name of Simmons.”
Henry held up both hands and tried to keep his balance. “I didn’t mean anything. Just thought maybe I could help.”
Clint sneered. “What do you think you can do?”
Henry was at a loss. He didn’t suppose there was much of anything he could do. “Grandma would be glad to come see to her,” he blurted.
“Would she now? Might be she thought to help once before.” Clint pushed Henry toward the front door. “You ask her how it turned out that time.”
Henry held up his hand before Clint could bully him back outside. “All I wanted was to check on Mayfair. I had a notion she might have come here last night.”
Clint’s shoulders sagged, and he lost his swagger. “She did. Said she might could help.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “She’s in there now. Guess you’ll be taking her on home.”
“If she’s ready to go. Her sister’s awful worried about her.”
Clint’s eyes lit up a bit. “Run off without permission, did she? She’s quiet, but she’s got spirit.” He smiled. “And the purest heart I’ve ever seen. Haven’t known anyone as through and through good since . . . well, it’s been a long time.”
Henry saw the door Clint came through open wider, and Mayfair a
ppeared, looking worn out.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey, there. Margaret is sure missing you this morning.”
Mayfair made a face. “I knew she wouldn’t let me go, so I came on my own.”
“It’s a far piece to walk,” Henry said.
“Mr. Simmons was out driving around. He brought me here.”
Clint chimed in. “It was the durndest thing. After I spoke to you, I walked around a little, thinking about days a long time back when I used to hunt your grandpa’s land. When I finally got in the truck to go home, I hadn’t hardly got to the main road afore I saw that young’un walking along. Picked her up, and she said she’d like to come see Beulah. So I brung her.”
Mayfair smiled at Clint, and Henry was stunned to see the crusty fellow look at her with soft eyes and something that could only be described as affection.
“I had a feeling he’d be along. I knew it was my best chance to come see Beulah.”
Her smile faded. “But I’m not sure I can help her, after all.”
Clint cleared his throat. “Darlin’, your visit has been the best medicine she’s had in a long time. And I thank you for it.” He turned to Henry. “Now get her on home. I know Beulah would take kindly to seeing her again sometime. If she wants to come.”
“Oh, I’ll come,” Mayfair said. “Probably in three days.”
Clint nodded once, glared at Henry, and disappeared back into Beulah’s room.
17
MARGARET STILL SAT AT THE TABLE, head resting on her arms, when Henry entered with Mayfair in tow. Emily and Perla hovered nearby, but they had finally given up trying to console her. Oddly enough, she found their quiet presence more comforting than anything they’d said. Margaret raised up when she heard the door open and cried out, leaping to her feet when she saw Mayfair.
“Where in the world have you been? Are you okay? You’re overdue for your insulin. Have you eaten?”
Until the Harvest Page 14