Tommy agreed that marriage was not right for them and didn’t blame her for anything that had happened. Would he have been so understanding if he had known she was in love with another? In love with Grant?
She’d tried fighting it, denying it, but she could no longer ignore the truth. The train wreck had made certain of that. She’d known it in her terror. Fearing that Grant was injured or even dead made such pretenses fall by the wayside. Just the mere thought of not seeing him again had been more than she could bear.
Oh yes, she loved him. Loved him even though he’d let her marry another man rather than lose a case. Even though he’d betrayed her in the worst possible way.
How could she love such a man? The answer came from the whispers of her heart. Oh dear goodness. Given all the good qualities she knew he possessed—his kindness and compassion—how could she not?
Thirty-three
Meg couldn’t stay angry at Papa for long, no matter how hard she tried. The truth was, he worried her. Never had she seen him in such bad shape. Since Mama left, he’d walked around the house like a lost puppy. Meg prepared his favorite meals, but he only picked at his food. His face already appeared gaunt. Shadows skirted his eyes, and a network of deep lines made his skin resemble drought-parched ground.
The meticulous schedule he’d always followed fell by the wayside. Suddenly time seemed to hold no meaning for him. He arrived at the shop late and left early. He slept in fits and starts.
Late that Friday night, she heard him pacing the floor. Unable to sleep herself, she drew on her dressing gown and ran to his room with bare feet. She knocked on his bedroom door and, when he didn’t answer, cracked it open. A sliver of light spilled into the dark hall.
“Papa?”
He turned to stare at her, his face haggard and his sunken eyes red. “How could I have been so stupid?” he muttered as if talking to himself.
She entered the room, closing the door behind her. She hated seeing him so distraught when he had always been so robust and strong. As a child, she’d thought he was a giant who could do no wrong. He’d taught her how to stand up for herself against school ruffians and walked the floor with her whenever she was hurt or feverish.
She was only five when he taught her how to adjust the grandfather clock in the parlor. She was so short that she had to stand on a stool to reach the pendulums, but he’d patiently instructed her until she could do it herself.
Though they’d had their share of battles through the years, never once did she doubt his love for her.
Now the tables had turned, requiring Meg to comfort him. Taking him by the hand, she led him to the chair in the corner where Mama liked to read, a mistake she realized as soon as he was seated.
The sweet fragrance of lavender perfume scented the air, bringing visions of her mother to mind. On the table next to the chair, a pearl earbob lay beside the book of poetry Papa had given Mama on their last anniversary.
Meg knelt by her father’s side, holding his hand as he’d held hers so many times in the past.
“You’re not stupid, Papa.”
“People could have been killed.”
“That’s true, but thank God nobody was.” She wasn’t normally one to believe in miracles, but the lack of serious injuries had made a true believer of her.
“Your mother has every right to hate me.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Papa.” Mama didn’t have it in her to hate anyone. “She’s just hurt. Give her time, and she’ll come around.”
He stared at the palms of his hands. “I can fix every timepiece that was ever made with these hands.”
“I know, Papa. I know.”
“But I can’t fix the damage that has been done. Not to your mother. Not to this town.”
“Yes, you can, Papa. By ending the feud and changing the way we keep time.”
“The only way that can happen is if I agree to Farrell time. But that’s based on some ridiculous formula that’s scientifically invalid. My father and grandfather would turn over in their graves.”
“But at least that would bring peace to the town.”
He frowned. “But it wouldn’t solve the train problem. They would still be running on a different time schedule. There could still be more accidents.”
“Surely the train wreck made Mr. Farrell realize that things can’t go on as they are.”
Papa sighed. “All because of me, his son must cough up ten grand or face jail. Do you think Farrell would agree to anything I have to say?” He shook his head.
“You must try, Papa.”
Even as she said it, she knew the chasm between the two men was too wide to bridge. As a child, she’d believed her father could do anything, but now she harbored no such illusions. The hardest thing about growing up was learning to accept parents as the flawed people they really were, warts and all.
She laid her head on his lap, her heart heavy. “They say time heals all wounds, Papa.”
“Not all of them, Meg. Not all.”
*
Things didn’t fare much better at the shop the following Monday. Papa spent the better part of the morning staring at his tools as if trying to recall their purpose.
Meg tried her best to keep the shop running efficiently, while at the same time assisting customers. It didn’t help that sleep, if it came at all, was fitful and filled with disturbing dreams—mostly about Grant, but also the train wreck.
Monday was clock-winding day, and the chore fell on her shoulders. Some clocks required tiny bronze keys. Others had metal cranks that had to be inserted onto winding points. Grandfather clocks were outfitted with weight chains that needed to be pulled down individually. Clocks that chimed on the quarter hour had more gears and therefore more winding points than clocks chiming only hourly. The tyranny of time knew no end. Along with the winding, hands had to be adjusted to accommodate the earth’s movements. The sun rose farther in the north in the summer than it did in the winter, and that meant tiny adjustments had to be made throughout the year.
The complicated routine kept her hands busy but did nothing for her troubled thoughts.
Worry about Tommy and his family had made her toss and turn through the night. Besides that, she was so worried about Papa that she could barely eat. He just wasn’t himself.
Though he loved debating politics, religion, and any other controversial subject, he didn’t even bother to voice his opinion when Mr. Monroe objected to the proposed building of the Panama Canal.
“Makes no sense cutting across Panama,” Monroe argued, trying to get a rise out of Papa. “Any fool reading a map can tell you that Nicaragua is the wiser choice.”
“With all its volcanoes?” Meg asked, hoping to pull her father into the conversation, but her efforts failed. Soon even Mr. Monroe gave up and left.
At times it was necessary to repeat something before Papa would respond or answer a question. Even then, his answers were vague or incomplete. Sometimes he would stop talking midsentence, as if forgetting what he had been about to say.
Clocks in for repairs sat neglected on shelves. Meg had watched her father enough times to know how to take clocks apart and clean and oil the works, but some clocks needed more. They needed her father’s expertise.
Meg tried to maintain a cheerful attitude, as much for her father’s sake as their customers’, but it was hard. No one but family knew that Mama had moved out of the house, and Meg hoped to keep it that way.
Fortunately, Papa mostly stayed hidden in the back of the shop. This relieved her of having to explain his inattention and his disheveled appearance. It also kept him out of gossip’s way.
As did everything else in town, last week’s train wreck caused much controversy. Some townsfolk blamed Papa for the train wreck, but Farrell took equal blame. Others claimed that the railroad should take full responsibility for not adhering to its own time schedule.
Meg’s reputation was a whole different matter. She saw the looks and heard the whispers that were still all ove
r town. Better watch what you say in front of her. Don’t promise her anything, or you might end up in court.
Many thought she had halted her wedding to get even with Tommy for leaving her at the altar. As if she would do such a thing! Thanks to the Gazette though, she was no longer known as the “jilted bride.” She was now referred to as the “avenging angel.”
Even with all of that, it wasn’t just the gossip that kept her close to home and shop. She feared bumping into Grant. She even stayed away from church on Sunday, knowing he would be there. Each time they met, the sight of him made forgetting him—forgetting all that they shared—that much harder.
There were many types of silence. Some, like the silence of nature, were comforting and restful. Some were empty and hollow, like the silence of death. But the worst silence of all was the silence of the human heart.
Thirty-four
Meg could hardly find a path to Josie’s door for all the pots of poinsettias and white ranunculus. The heady scents made Meg want to sneeze, and she pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve. The last time she had seen so many flowers in one place was at a funeral.
“What’s all this?” she asked when Josie answered her knock.
Josie rolled her eyes. “Papa. If Mama doesn’t forgive him soon, I fear there’ll be no more flowers left in all of Texas.”
“Is Mama here?”
Josie nodded. “Come in.”
The smell of freshly baked bread teased Meg’s nose as she followed Josie into the kitchen. Mama was sitting at the table. Setting her needlepoint aside, she stood and greeted Meg with a smile and a hug.
“Have some tea,” Mama said, taking her seat again.
Meg pulled out a chair opposite her. It had been more than two weeks since Mama moved out, but you would never know it by appearances. She looked calm and beautiful, as always. Not a good sign. Papa was a wreck, but her mother looked close to her usual self. Only the slightest shadows beneath her eyes suggested otherwise.
“You must come home, Mama. Papa misses you. We all do.”
A frown flitted across her mother’s forehead. “Did your father put you up to this?”
“He doesn’t even know I’m here.”
Mama gave her a slanted look before picking up her stitchery, but said nothing.
“Mama, please…”
Mama stabbed the fabric with a needle. “Meg, I know you mean well…”
“I just want our family back together again. Is that so wrong of me?”
Mama’s hand stilled. “Even after what your father put us through? The trial? The train wreck? People could have been killed. If that’s not bad enough, he ruined your wedding—and in church, no less. How can you forget what he did?”
Meg wanted to forget about the wedding. About both weddings. “Papa feels bad. You should see him, Mama. You wouldn’t recognize him. He hardly eats and doesn’t sleep, and he let all the clocks run down at the house.”
As a child, Meg had hated the myriad of clocks that adorned the walls of the parlor and dining room. Hated how the bells and chimes kept urging her on. Ticktock, bong, bong, cuckoo… Time for school. Time for church. Time for this and time for that. Hurry, hurry, mustn’t dawdle.
It seemed as if the sole purpose of time was to prove one’s limitations. She was always running late and could never rise to the challenge posed by the mountain of ticking clocks. There was never enough time to leisurely ponder the universe or contemplate the mysteries of young womanhood. There were always chores to be done, lessons to be learned. Wasting time was thought to be the eighth deadly sin. How strange that the thing that could cause such anxiety was thought to heal all wounds!
Mama’s mouth drooped at the corners, and she suddenly looked tired. She jabbed the needle into the fabric and set the hoop on the table.
“I’ve been married to your father for a good many years. Since before the war… To find out that he doubted my love all this time, that the feud, the train wreck…all that was because of me.” Shaking her head, Mama drew in her breath. “How can I forgive him for that?”
Meg exchanged a look with Josie. How much did her sister know about the circumstances of her birth? She drew her gaze back to her mother. “It wasn’t you he didn’t trust. Papa didn’t trust himself. He didn’t think himself worthy of you.” Growing up, Meg would never have guessed that behind all Papa’s swagger and bluster beat the heart of an insecure man. Even as she said it, the idea was hard to believe. “Don’t you see, Mama?”
“No, I don’t see.” Elbow on the table, Mama placed a hand on her forehead and rested her head. “All he’s ever been interested in is controlling time. I’ve had it up to here with his clocks and watches and bells and…”
“That’s just his way of trying to look bigger and more important in your eyes,” Josie said.
It was a surprising insight and one that Meg hadn’t even considered. But isn’t that how she wished she could look to Grant? Like one of those sophisticated women back east who could play the piano, wear French fashions, and read important books. How foolish to think that a plain, small-town girl like her could capture the heart of a man like him!
“That’s…that’s ridiculous.”
“Mama, listen to me.” Meg reached for her mother’s hand. “Papa thought you married him because you had to.” She clamped her mouth shut and glanced at Josie.
As if guessing her thoughts, Josie laid a hand on her shoulder. “I know, Meg. Mama was expecting me when she married Pa.”
Meg drew her hand away from Mama and stared at her sister. “How did you—”
“When Grandmama died, she left us the family Bible. One day, I happened to notice the date of Mama and Papa’s wedding written inside.”
Mama nodded. “Your grandmother wrote my wedding date in the Bible before she knew I was expecting. How did you know?” she asked Meg.
“Papa told me. He feels guilty about what happened and blames himself.”
Mama shook her head. “He has a lot to blame himself for, but not that. I take equal responsibility for what happened all those years ago.” She reached for Josie’s hand. “It was the best mistake I ever made.”
Josie leaned over to kiss her mother on the cheek. She then turned to the steaming kettle on the stove.
Mama’s eyes glazed over, as if she were traveling back through time. After a moment, a soft smile curved her mouth. “You should have seen your father when he was young. He was such a handsome man. I was afraid when he went to war that he’d come back broken like so many others, but he didn’t. Instead, he got this town moving again. He brought us together by ringing his bell every hour. It made us laugh, but it was also a reminder that none of us were alone in this world. We were part of a community.”
“Mama, how can we get Mr. Farrell and Papa to stop fighting?”
Her mother sighed. “Sometimes a feud becomes bigger than the people involved. I’m afraid that’s what happened here.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Mama. Please don’t cry,” Meg said, even as her own eyes watered.
Josie rushed to join them, tears spilling down her cheeks, and the three of them sat around the table bawling like babies.
After a while, Meg calmed her weeping and rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Tell me what Papa has to do to make you come back.”
Mama brushed away her tears with her fingers. “The one thing he’s totally incapable of doing. The one thing his pride won’t let him do. Make peace with Farrell.”
*
Grant left the jailhouse and mounted his horse. Kidd’s hanging had been postponed for the holidays, and now the train wreck had caused another two-week delay. Every able body had been needed to clear the tracks, leaving no one free to assemble the portable scaffold. That made the criminal the only one in town, other than doctors and salvage workers, to benefit from the crash.
Turning down Jackleg Row, Grant reined in his horse. A line of people waited in front of his office. What’s more, similar lines snak
ed up to the doors of the other legal offices on the street.
What the—?
The answer to his question came moments later, after he dismounted.
“You Mr. Garrison?” asked a man with his arm in a sling.
“Yes, that’s right.”
His answer made everyone start talking at once. Grant signaled for them to stop. “Please, one at a time.” He pointed to a thin man with a bandage on his head. “What can I do for you?”
The man spit out a wad of tobacco. “We’re all here for the same reason. To sue the railroad.”
Of course. Grant should have known. An accident of that magnitude was bound to tie the court up in litigation. “Let’s go inside.”
Unlocking the door to his office was like opening the floodgates. He almost got knocked over as people stampeded past him.
His books were still packed, and cartons towered in the corner of the room. A local shipping company had been paid to take them to the depot on the fatal day of the train crash, and it had taken them several days to return the boxes to his office, fortunately with little damage.
Grant regarded the group with mixed feelings. Given the inefficiency and time-consuming chore of filing individual lawsuits, he explained the concept of group litigation. It would have been easier to explain politics to a two-year-old.
“I don’t understand. Why can’t I file my own lawsuit?” one man on crutches demanded to know.
“You can. But you can accomplish the same thing by doing it as a group. Especially since some of the victims have already left town and won’t be around to testify.”
“Are you sayin’ we hafta share the settl’ment?” another asked.
“Yes, but it will be a far larger settlement than if you file individually.”
On and on the questions came, like a pump spitting out single drops of water. It took all morning and a portion of the afternoon to convince everyone that group litigation was best.
No sooner had the last client walked out of his office than Grant sank back in his chair and stared at the stack of paper on his desk. Now that Judge Lynch had left town, paperwork had to be dispatched to the county offices via mail or telegraph, causing yet another delay.
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