by Peggy Gaddis
Edith tried hard to read between the lines things that might be there: little signs of homesickness; traces of loneliness; of regret. But Betsy’s letters were unfailingly gay, and the brief notes Edith recieved from Aunt Sally reassured her of her daughter’s well-being. Besides, Betsy would surely come home for Thanksgiving — and it was October, now.
The calendar said there were only thirty-one days in October. Frankly, Edith doubted it. She was quite sure that it was twice as long as any month had a right to be. The house seemed terribly big, and it echoed with a silence, ached with emptiness. Where once she had sighed a little with irritation at the incessant sound of footsteps and laughter and youthful voices, where she had sometimes wished that a radio had never been invented, she sat now in a silence that was almost unbearable.
“What wouldn’t I give,” she told herself, “to have Betsy and her crowd back, running through the house, raiding the icebox, kicking back the rugs to dance, the telephone ringing like mad… .”
At such times, when the loneliness seemed almost more than she could bear, she would get out Betsy’s letters and read them again. Then she would tell herself that it was best for Betsy to be away just now, even though it was terribly lonely for her parents.
It was a great disappointment to Edith when Betsy wrote that she could not come home for Thanksgiving. The store would be closed for only one day, Betsy explained; she would spend more of her time on the road than she would be able to spend at home. But she had been promised an extra two days at Christmas, she would come home then. With that, Edith and George had to be content… .
Christmas came at last, just when Edith was convinced it never Would. Since Christmas fell on Tuesday, Betsy had managed to get the Monday before as well as the Wednesday after. And so she left Atlanta Sunday morning and was in Centerville shortly after noon.
George and Edith had been pacing the platform for half an hour before the first plume of smoke, announcing the train’s approach, was visible down the line. When the train slid to a halt, and a girl in a smart blue suit, a topcoat swung jauntily about her shoulders, her hair in a very sophisticated upswept arrangement, appeared at the top of the steps, Edith burst into tears.
“Hello, you two! Is this any way to greet the return of the prodigal daughter?” protested Betsy. But she wept a little herself as she clasped her mother close and reached out a hand to her father.
“Oh, Betsy, I’m so glad to see you,” said Edith, smiling through her tears.
“Maybe you think I’m not happy to see you!” Betsy grinned at both of them. “I never realized before what a handsome pair of parents I have!”
They got into the car and drove home, with Betsy chattering like mad; regaling them with gay little tales of her adventures, of her friends, of her work. The house was bright with holly and mistletoe and the lovely greens that are at their best in this mild winter climate. There was also the rich, spicy odor of Edith’s good cooking.
Edith and George smiled at each other as Betsy’s flying feet raced up the stairs. The telephone, as though it had just been waiting for her arrival, burst into clamorous demands for attention. And by dinner time on Sunday night, it was almost as though Betsy hadn’t been gone at all. The house was echoing with laughter and young voices; the radio was going full blast, and somebody was yelling that there was a new Sinatra record — and why didn’t they turn the television off so they could play it on the phonograph.
Once George and Edith might have retired before the clamor, but tonight they loved it George displayed an unexpected ability to jitterbug, and the whole evening was as merry as a traditional Christmas season should be.
They were laughing so hard that nobody heard the doorbell ring. Then the door was opened, letting in a breath of cold air, and a man stood on the threshold — directly beneath a huge spray of mistletoe whose pearl-like berries shimmered in the yellow light.
“Sounds like a swell party,” he called. There was a moment of confusion, followed by a brief silence. Then:
“Pete!” cried Betsy. She ran to him, flung herself in his arms and kissed him joyously.
“Welcome home,” said Peter, and laughed.
Betsy’s face flamed. “Oh, well, if you just will stand beneath the mistletoe, you should know what to expect,” she told him. “Up and at him, girls!”
The girls clustered about Peter and the boys complained loudly that they hadn’t been smart enough to take advantage of the mistletoe.
“Is that starting all over again?” George whispered to Edith.
“What ever gave you the impression it had stopped?” murmured Edith.
It was an hour or more before Edith, moving among the guests, assuring herself of their comfort and well-being, discovered that Peter and Betsy were missing. And when she did, she only drew a deep breath and sighed… .
Chapter Seventeen
Christmas, in Centerville, is a time of gray skies and “gentle-to-moderate rains,” according to the local weather bureau. Snow is something so rare that when it does appear briefly, the young people are hysterical with excitement; freezes are almost equally as rare. The usual winter-time weather is mild, with occasional bracy, chilly winds.
Tonight, as though in deference to Betsy’s homecoming, was such a night. The moon was old and worn wafer-thin, and its light was pallid, like a thin wash of very old gold. The air was crisp and cold, and Betsy and Peter stood at the end of the walk, leaning on the gate.
Betsy gave a sigh of utter happiness and said, “Maybe Centerville isn’t the most beautiful place in the world. Maybe it isn’t big and important, but you’d have trouble convincing me it isn’t!”
Peter turned his sightless eyes upon her and grinned. “Were you homesick?”
“Let’s not talk about gruesome things.”
They stood for a while in companionable silence, and then Peter said, “I’ve missed you like the dickens, Betsy.”
“Did you, Pete? I missed you, too.”
Once more there was a brief silence, and Peter’s voice was a little husky when he said:
“Betsy, you’re sweet — and so beautiful.”
Betsy stared up at him, caught by astonishment. “Pete!” she gasped. “This is Betsy — remember? The long-legged brat with braces on her teeth and carrots in her hair!”
Peter shook his head. “No, that was the Betsy who went to war with me! The kid who was with me every time I had a chance to think. She was the kid I talked to so I wouldn’t go to sleep from sheer exhaustion on night patrols. I used to keep myself awake, when I was so tired that just sitting still was like being drugged.”
“But, Pete, I never realized — ”
“She used to come and talk to me,” he went on, ignoring the interruption. “And well, that was the Betsy who was the long-legged, carrot-topped brat. I brought her back home with me. But after I got here, I found there was another Betsy. A new and disturbing Betsy.”
“Disturbing?” she repeated, anxiously.
“Disturbing!” Peter returned it firmly. “A girl whose hair is like old mahogany that has been polished until it’s like satin; with a skin that’s delectable; a Betsy who is beautiful.”
“Peter, who — I mean — ”
“Bo Norris told me,” he answered. “Quite a lad, Bo is. He came to see me a few days after you’d gone to Atlanta. It seems that there was something resting heavily on Bo’s mind. He felt that — well, that complications might easily develop, and that it was his duty to clear them up before they could.”
“Complications?” Betsy repeated.
Peter turned as though to look down at her, and the pale moonlight was reflected for an instant from his dark glasses.
“It seems that Bo was under no delusions about your being in love with him, Betsy. He knew very well that he was catching you on the rebound. When you said ‘yes’ to him the day before Marcia announced her engagement to me, Bo knew then — so he says — that you were not in love with him.”
Betsy stood very s
till, her hands clenched about the pickets of the gate before her, her face turned away, as though he could see its expression and read there something she was not yet ready to reveal.
After a moment Peter said, “But, of course, Bo could be mistaken. Some very smart people have been.”
“He wasn’t mistaken,” exclaimed Betsy. “But why was it necessary for him to tell you? I’m practically worn out from throwing myself at you. I’ve told you about a million times how much I loved you — only you wouldn’t listen!”
Peter’s arms opened and she was in them. He held her close for a long moment. Then, before he kissed her, he put her a little away from him and looked down at her, as though his heart saw clearly what his eyes could not see.
“Betsy, I haven’t any right to ask you to chain yourself to a man handicapped as I am.” Peter’s voice was grave now, almost solemn. “You’re young and lovely and — ”
“In love with you,” she reminded him.
“Bless you for that,” said Peter. “Only it’s for always, Betsy,” he added, “or not at all. I couldn’t have you for a little while and then, if you found the going too tough, give you up. That I couldn’t take.”
“You’ll never have to. Oh, Pete, can’t you get it through that thick head of yours that I’ve been yours ever since the day I learned to spell ‘differential’ — and long before I ever knew what it meant? Oh, Peter, I forget that you are blind. It only makes me love you more, because you need me more, and there are more things I can do for you. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Can’t you just accept that and stop torturing both of us with questions and answers that don’t really mean anything?”
She was sobbing a little, and Peter’s arms closed about her and held her very close. After an interval that might have been moments, or could have been hours, she looked up at him, radiant.
“Oh, Peter, what a lot of time we’ve wasted! It should have been like this when you stepped off the train,” she told him. Then she grinned and added unexpectedly, “I adore Bo Norris.”
“Oh. So it’s like that, is it?”
“Next to you, I mean. Bo, bless him, made you see things you refused to see. And now — when are we going to be married?”
Peter laughed. “Wait a minute, you forward creature. I’m supposed to ask you that!”
“Then go ahead and ask me, so I can say tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest!”
Peter’s answer was to hold her still closer in his arms. But it seemed quite enough to Betsy.
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 1968 by Peggy Gaddis
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7414-6
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7414-6
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7413-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7413-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
Enchanted Spring
Peggy Gaddis
Avon, Massachusetts
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Copyright
One
The door burst open and Betty flung herself into the room, then came to a dead stop as she saw Lynn busily packing a suitcase.
“Oh, Lynn,” she wailed, “you’re really leaving!”
“Well, of course, silly,” Lynn answered cheerfully. “I told you all along that as soon as we graduated, I was going home for a rest.”
“Oh, but, Lynn, there are people standing around offering us such marvelous jobs, practically on silver platters, and we’ve worked so hard learning to be private secretaries. Lynn, how can you?”
“Oh, just as easy as anything,” Lynn laughed, and tucked a slip neatly into a corner of the suitcase.
“But, Lynn, I’ve been offered three absolutely wonderful jobs, at more money than I’d ever dreamed I could earn. And if I can get that many offers, you can get scads more!” wailed Betty. “Even with all the ‘polish’ the school has given me, you start where I leave off. Please, Lynn!”
Lynn straightened, her pretty mouth set in an obstinate line.
“We’ve worked like dogs, Betty, to learn everything the school thinks we should know in order to become some harassed, overworked businessman’s ‘office wife.’ I’m tired!” she pointed out. “I simply have to go home and see Mother and Dad and all my friends in Oakville before I start on a job. I want an enchanted spring away from city noise and crowds and rush before I get submerged.”
Betty dropped down on the bed, and Lynn shooed her off with mock sternness.
“You know the rules, Bet, here in the Business Girls’ Home-away-from-Home, as well as all the rules The Dragon beat into our protesting minds,” she warned. “Up, pal, and into a chair and leave off sitting on the bed — it ain’t refined!”
Betty laughed ruefully as she dropped into a chair. Lynn sighed, shook her head and went back to her packing.
“Sure, I know the rules, and I’ll follow them — in a day or two,” Betty sighed, her blue eyes twinkling. “Did you ever dream that it would take so much training, such learning of rules and regulations, such brain-sweat just to be a stenographer?”
“Shh!” warned Lynn. “Not a stenographer, pal, a private secretary — top-drawer type!”
“But Lynn, I’d so hoped you’d stay on and take your pick of the fancy jobs being offered, and we could get an apartment and be busy career gals together!” Betty mourned.
“I want to see Mother and Dad and Bud, and smell something besides gasoline fumes, and hear something besides the roar of traffic and people screaming at each other because that’s the only way they can be heard above the city’s clamor,” Lynn pointed out, and snapped the lid of her suitcase shut.
“Oh, sure,” Betty agreed reluctantly. “I keep forgetting you’re not an ‘orphan Annie’ like me, without a Daddy Warbucks yet; that you have a normal family and that it’s natural you should want to spend some time with them. I just wish …”
“Look, Betty, why don’t you come home with me? The family would love it, and so would I,” suggested Lynn eagerly.
Betty sighed and shook her blonde head.
“Don’t tempt me, honey, I’m down to my last few bucks, and I’ve got to get to work and earn some more,” she answered, and added eagerly, “But you’ll come back, Lynn? And we can have an apartment together?”
“Oh, of course I’ll come back,” Lynn promised. “You don’t think I want to Waste all the hard work I’ve put in on this course, do you? I’ll be back in the fall, and we’ll get to work on that apartment idea.”
Betty’s blue eyes swept over Lynn from the top of the chestnut-brown head to the tips of the slender feet in their smart new pumps, and she shook her head.
“You’ll meet up with some likely lad down there in your home town and marry him, and all the things you’ve been taught here will go down the drain,” she accused.
“Oakville is a town of about fifteen to twenty thousand, where the ‘likely young lads’ get away to the big city to make their fortune as fast as they can,” Lynn replied. “Those who are left behind are either too young, or too old, or unavailable by reason of previous commitment
s to wives and families.”
“What’s it really like, this place you’re so crazy about that you can’t wait to get back?” Betty wondered aloud. “Me, I’m a city gal, born and bred; when I want to look at trees and green grass I go out to the park.”
“Then you’d probably be bored to death in Oakville. But you must come down for at least a weekend and see for yourself,” Lynn told her gaily.
“Don’t be surprised if I take you up on that,” warned Betty.
“I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t!” Lynn told her, and the two girls smiled warmly at each other.
The following afternoon Lynn stepped from the train at the Junction and looked about her with shining eyes. Although Oakville lay ten miles to the east and had no railroad connection, she still felt that she was almost home!
The spring twilight was slipping across the low hills in veils of pale gray faintly tinged with lavender. The hills were already touched with green, though it was March and back in Atlanta, which she had left only a few hours before, a bitter cold wind blew and there was no hint of green anywhere.
She was so absorbed in her impressions that for a moment she was not aware of the man who had emerged from the station waiting room and stood eyeing her with startled, delighted appreciation. She looked so smartly groomed, so sophisticated, so lovely in her tailored navy blue suit, the white blouse that was as immaculate as though she had just donned it — in short, she looked so out of place on the small-town depot platform that the man was quite sure she had left the train by mistake.
Tall, darkly handsome, quite sure of his charm, he strode toward her across the platform, an eager light of admiration in his dark eyes.
“Hello,” he greeted her warmly as she turned, startled. “If you’re not being met, I’d be happy to drive you anywhere you want to go.”