Once her solitary supper was finished and her arithmetic lessons ready for the next day, Violet crawled into her bed. She sighed as she picked up the copy of A Christmas Carol sitting on the small table next to her bed. She’d decided to read it again—ensure it wasn’t too morbid and frightening to read aloud to the children just before Christmas.
Opening the book, she smiled as she saw familiar eyes gazing out at her from the photograph she’d always kept inside the front book cover. Lifting the photograph from its haven, she studied the familiar face of the boy Stoney Wrenn. She shook her head, marveling at how different he looked as a man. With the exception of his eyes, Violet wasn’t certain she would’ve recognized him in simple passing. She wondered for a moment if she looked as different, though she feared she did not. No doubt she looked just as ridiculous and plain as she always had.
She placed the photograph back in the book, closed the book, and closed her eyes. She could not keep thinking of him. The past was over! He had a life without her now—a life that included Layla Asbury.
Violet grumbled, “Layla Asbury. Oh, why did I accept that invitation to supper?”
With a heavy sigh, she determined not to read. She’d stayed up far too late the night before—had far too taxing a day. She needed rest, especially if she were to feel fresh and friendly for supper with Maya’s family.
She wondered if Stoney was out protecting the old Chisolm place from trespassers. She thought of the mirth shining in his eyes when she’d teased him about being better at kissing now than he had been as a boy.
That night, Violet dreamt of opals—beautiful, fascinating opals. She dreamt of Thanksgiving and her Aunt Rana’s opal earrings. She dreamt of a ring she’d once seen on the finger of a wealthy patron of the opera in New York City. But most of all, she dreamt of green-blue opals—the unusual opaline of Stoney Wrenn’s alluring eyes.
Chapter Seven
“Good evenin’, Miss Fynne,” Maya greeted as she opened the door. “Come on in. Supper’s almost on the table.”
“Thank you, Maya,” Violet said as she crossed the threshold into the Asbury home. It was a bright, cheerful-looking little house from the outside, and as Violet stepped into the parlor, she fancied it was as bright and cheerful on the inside. “I have to confess to being a little nervous. I’m not very good with meeting new people,” Violet told Maya.
Maya giggled, took Violet’s hand, and began leading her into another room. “Oh, that just can’t be true, Miss Fynne,” the girl said. “And anyway, it’s just my family. There’s no reason you shouldn’t feel as comfortable as a kitten in a mitten.”
Violet smiled. She felt more comfortable already.
“Mama,” Maya began as they stepped into the kitchen, “this is Miss Fynne. Miss Fynne, this is my mama.”
Mrs. Asbury dried her hands on her apron. Smiling at Violet, she offered a hand in welcome. Violet accepted her hand, and Mrs. Asbury said, “I am so delighted to finally meet you, Miss Fynne. Thank you for acceptin’ our invitation for supper.”
“Thank you for having me,” Violet said. She was somewhat puzzled. Maya looked nothing like her mother. Mrs. Asbury had golden, straw-colored hair and the brownest of brown eyes. She was a lovely woman but so very opposite in appearance to her daughters that Violet stared at her for a moment.
Mrs. Asbury giggled. “Maya looks like her daddy,” she said.
Violet smiled and blushed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Asbury. I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, do call me Emeline…and it’s all right. Everyone is always so surprised when they see the girls and me together for the first time. But once ya see my Tony, you’ll realize they look just like him.”
“Daddy’s grandparents came from Italy,” Maya explained. “That’s where Layla and I get our dark hair.”
“We’re just so glad to have ya, Miss Fynne,” Emeline said. “Maya can’t seem to say enough good things about you.”
“Come on, Miss Fynne,” Maya said, taking Violet’s hand again. “I want ya to meet Layla.”
Violet nodded—though the last thing she felt like doing in that moment was meeting Stoney Wrenn’s girl.
“Thank you again for inviting me, Mrs. Asbury,” Violet said.
“Emeline. And it’s our pleasure,” Maya’s mother said. “You tell Layla to be at the table in five minutes, Maya.”
“Yes, Mama,” Maya said, rolling her eyes with exasperation.
Violet couldn’t help but giggle a little at Maya’s irritation.
“Come on, Miss Fynne. Layla’s been askin’ me all kinds of questions about you. I figure it’s time she met ya for herself.”
Anxiety rose in Violet’s chest as Maya led her through the dining room, past a table set with lovely china and silver.
“She’s out back,” she explained, “on the porch swing.”
Before she’d even realized it, Maya had pulled Violet through a door leading to a back porch. She gasped—felt as if she might indeed empty the contents of her stomach with retching—as she saw Layla Asbury sitting on the porch swing with Stoney Wrenn.
“This is Miss Fynne, Layla,” Maya said.
Violet’s eyes lingered on Stoney a moment. He seemed entirely unaffected—but why shouldn’t he? Layla Asbury was his girl, after all. Violet was the stranger here.
“Well, I am so pleased to finally meet you, Miss Fynne,” Layla said, rising from her seat next to Stoney and offering a dainty hand. “Maya has nearly talked my ears off about you.”
“Really?” Violet asked, accepting the girl’s hand.
At the first touch of Layla Asbury’s handshake, Violet’s skin crawled with animosity. She didn’t like this girl—not one bit. Maya was sweet, kind, and sincere; Layla Asbury was not.
“You already know Mr. Wrenn,” Maya said.
“Evenin’, Miss Fynne,” Stoney said. He smiled a little, and the sight of his adorable dimples and bright eyes caused Violet’s heart to pinch.
“So…now…ya need to meet my daddy,” Maya added. Taking Violet’s arm, Maya turned her around. A very handsome man sat in a rocker just behind them. He rose to his feet and offered a hand to Violet.
“Tony Asbury, Miss Fynne,” the man said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. A real pleasure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Asbury,” Violet managed as he shook her hand.
She felt somewhat relieved that Stoney and Layla had a chaperone. Still, the situation was making her stomach feel more and more as if it would rid itself of any contents.
“Mama says we need to get to the table,” Maya said.
“Then we better get,” Mr. Asbury said.
“Come on, Miss Fynne,” Maya chirped. “You get to sit by me!”
Violet forced a smile. It wasn’t Maya’s fault that Violet’s father had taken her from Rattler Rock, that Stoney Wrenn was finding happiness in the company of a beautiful young woman instead of in the company of a girl he’d only known as a child.
“Mama used her good china—the plates and such we usually only use for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Maya whispered as they approached the table.
“Allow me, Miss Fynne,” Mr. Asbury said. He pulled Violet’s chair out for her and helped her to be seated.
Violet tried to ignore the way Stoney did the same for Layla.
“Maya!” Mrs. Asbury called from the kitchen. “Come help me.”
“I’ll be right back,” Maya said softly to Violet.
Violet nodded, her stomach churning into knots. She could feel the color had drained from her face. Why was she so affected? For pity’s sake!
“Maya tells us yer the best teacher in the world,” Layla said.
Violet forced a smile—forced herself to look at the young woman. “Maya’s very sweet to me,” she said. “I think she’s a jewel. I’m sure I’m far, far, far from being the teacher I should be.”
“Oh, surely not!” Layla exclaimed. “I know I never had a teacher who would tell me ghost stories or read morbid poetry to the class.�
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“Morbid poetry?” Mr. Asbury said.
“Oh, um…just Tisdale, Mr. Asbury,” Violet said. “Bryant Tisdale. Are you familiar with him?”
“No. Can’t say that I am,” Mr. Asbury said. “And…and this poetry…it’s morbid, you say, Layla?”
“Maya says it gives her goose bumps all over,” Layla said.
“Really,” Mr. Asbury mumbled.
Violet could see Mr. Asbury’s disapproval. Her innards began to quiver, for she could sense a reprimand.
“‘The Maiden of Conkle Crypt,’” Stoney said.
Violet looked to him. Would he put the last nail in her coffin himself?
“What’s that, Stoney?” Mr. Asbury asked.
“I’m guessin’ the poem Miss Fynne read to the children is ‘The Maiden of Conkle Crypt.’ Is that right, Miss Fynne?” he asked.
“Yes,” she managed to breathe.
“It’s very famous. I read somewhere that it’s required readin’ at many a college these days,” he said. “Is that right, Miss Fynne?”
“Yes,” Violet answered.
Layla giggled. “Oh, Stoney Wrenn! Do you mean to be tellin’ Daddy that you know anything about this morbid poem Miss Fynne’s been readin’ to the children?”
Violet felt emotion rising in her throat—felt tears threatening to well in her eyes. Mr. Asbury was disapproving of Violet’s teaching methods, and it was clear Layla Asbury meant to feed her father’s doubt. Stoney had tried to champion her as best he could—that fact warmed her heart. Still, she could see it would take more than that to convince Mr. Asbury that Violet had done nothing wrong.
“I learned that same poem when I was boy,” Stoney said.
Violet grinned at him. She knew her father had never taught Tisdale’s “The Maiden of Conkle Crypt” to the children in Rattler Rock when he had been the teacher at the schoolhouse. Stoney and Violet had discovered the poem on their own, after hearing Violet’s father talking about it to someone on the county school board.
“You did not, Stoney Wrenn!” Layla exclaimed.
“‘A murky, musty mist adorned the cavern walls,’” Stoney began.
Violet smiled, warmed by his championing her and his memory of the poem they’d loved as children.
“‘And bugs and blackened bones lay scattered in its halls,’” he continued. “‘Yet streamin’ through a fracture—a fissure in the crypt, the sun betrayed the darkness and lit as lovers sipped…sipped kisses shared in secret—for kisses were forbad—’tween royal men of Conkle and maidens common clad.’”
“You know it, Mr. Wrenn?” Maya said, appearing from the kitchen and placing a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. “You know the poem Miss Fynne’s been readin’ to us at school?”
“Of course,” Stoney said. “Like I was tellin’ yer daddy, Maya, ‘The Maiden of Conkle Crypt’ is a very renowned work. It proves what a good teacher Rattler Rock has…and that you boys and girls are gonna get a far better education than ya woulda had with someone else.”
Violet dared not thank Stoney—not with the look of pure indignation plain on Layla Asbury’s face at that moment. Instead, she looked to Mr. Asbury. “It’s not so morbid as you might think, Mr. Asbury,” she ventured. “I-I could send it home with Maya…for your review, if you like.”
“It sounds like a fine poem to me, Miss Fynne,” Mr. Asbury said. “I’m glad to know Maya is bein’ taught more’n just how to add apples and pears.”
“Thank you,” Violet said.
“Layla’s just a yeller bug, Miss Fynne,” Maya said. “She’s scared of everything.”
“And you, Stoney,” Mr. Asbury said, patting Stoney firmly one shoulder. “I had no idea you were so book smart.”
Stoney winced a little as Mr. Asbury patted his shoulder again. “I guess I’m just full of surprises,” Stoney said.
“Yes, you are, Stoney Wrenn,” Layla said.
As Mrs. Asbury arrived with a ham, Violet wondered how she would ever eat. Sitting across from a lovesick Layla Asbury and a far too handsome Stoney Wrenn, she was sure that anything she tried to force down her throat would come right back up.
“Maya,” Mr. Asbury began, “would you please bless the food?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Maya said.
A moment before Violet closed her eyes in reverence, she glanced across the table to Stoney. He was looking at her, winked with encouragement, and then closed his own eyes. Maya blessed the food, and Mr. Asbury served everyone a slice of ham.
“We’re so glad to have you to supper too, Stoney,” Mrs. Asbury said. “It’s always nice to have you at the table.”
“Thank ya, ma’am,” Stoney said.
Violet studied him quickly. He wasn’t wearing a hat. She realized it was the first time since returning to Rattler Rock that she hadn’t seen him with a hat. She couldn’t help but smile, adoring the way his hair rebelled and fell across his forehead. She remembered the way he’d constantly raked his fingers through his hair as a boy, to keep it from falling across his forehead the way it did now. She wondered for a moment if his hair still felt as soft as it had when he was a boy. She wanted to reach across the table and run her fingers through his hair.
“So,” Mr. Asbury began, “what’s goin’ on out at that place of yers, Stoney? Coby says yer havin’ trouble with trespassers.”
“Yes,” Stoney said. “A bit.”
Mr. Asbury shook his head. “Folks just don’t have no respect for a man’s privacy. Coby says you took a shot at somebody again last night. He says they took a shot at you.”
Violet dropped her fork, suddenly horrified by the thought of someone shooting at Stoney. The fork clattered to her plate, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I can be so clumsy sometimes.”
“It wasn’t anything so interestin’ as that, Mr. Asbury,” Stoney said. “I assure you.”
“Well, I hope not,” Mr. Asbury said, patting Stoney on the shoulder once more. “I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
“Mr. Wrenn!” Maya exclaimed then. “Yer bleedin’!”
Violet gasped as she looked up to see the dark crimson of fresh blood beginning to soak Stoney’s shirt at his shoulder where Mr. Asbury had just patted him.
Stoney glanced at his shoulder. “Oh, that ain’t nothin’, Maya,” he said. “I just…I just cut myself on a nail that was stickin’ out of the barn door this mornin’. It’s just a scratch.”
“That’s no scratch, Stoney Wrenn!” Layla exclaimed.
Rising from her seat, Violet’s mouth gaped in astonishment as the girl went about unbuttoning Stoney’s shirt.
“Layla!” Mrs. Asbury exclaimed as Stoney gently took hold of Layla’s hands.
“It’s just a scratch, Layla,” he said. “I’m fine.” Still, the blood soaking Stoney’s shirt was spreading. Whatever the wound was, it was far worse than he was letting on.
“Mama! Make him take his shirt off so you can look at his shoulder!” Layla demanded.
“Layla Asbury!” Mrs. Asbury scolded in a whisper.
“She’ll never settle down unless you let us have a look at it, son,” Mr. Asbury said.
Violet’s eyes narrowed. It was becoming very clear that Mr. Asbury favored Layla—that Layla Asbury probably got anything she wanted if she simply asked her daddy for it.
Violet looked at Stoney. His eyes blazed with irritation, and his jaw was tightly clinched. His broad chest rose and fell with anger. Yet he quickly unbuttoned his shirt, pulled one side open, and removed one arm from its sleeve.
Violet felt herself gulp at the sight of Stoney’s bare torso. He was incredibly brawny, every muscle intensely defined. She felt her cheeks pink—felt overly warm and uncomfortable.
“Let me see that, Stoney,” Mrs. Asbury said. She rose from her seat and went to Stoney. A bandage, a length of cotton now somewhat saturated with blood, was wrapped under Stoney’s arm and up around his shoulder. Violet watched as Mrs. Asbury gently pushed the cotton
aside.
“Well, Doc Coppell did a terrible job of bandagin’ this up, Stoney,” she exclaimed. “A terrible job!”
“The doc didn’t bandage it,” Stoney mumbled. “I did. And it ain’t anything to worry about.”
“Of course it’s somethin’ to worry about!” Mrs. Asbury said. “You come on in the kitchen, and I’ll change this bandage, Stoney.”
Mr. Asbury leaned over as he stood up and looked at the wound.
“Nail, huh?” he said. “Looks more like you got grazed by a bullet there, Stoney.”
“A bullet?” Violet said aloud.
“It ain’t nothin’,” Stoney grumbled, putting his arm back through the sleeve of his shirt. “It’ll quit oozin’ in a minute.” He fastened the buttons of his shirt.
“He’s right,” Mr. Asbury said. “You girls quit fussin’ over him. Let the man eat.”
“But Pa!” Layla began to argue.
“He’s fine, Layla. Isn’t he, Emeline?”
Emeline forced a reassuring smile to her daughter. “Yes. Yes, he’s fine.”
“I guess there’s more truth to what Coby Fisher told me today than I thought,” Mr. Asbury said.
“Just the same ol’ thing,” Stoney said. “Somebody don’t know well enough to stay away from Buddy Chisolm’s old place.”
The Light of the Lovers' Moon Page 12