After the frost f

by Chance, Megan

  She held up a hand to forestall him. "It's all right, Rand. We can't always help who we love." She offered him a wavering smile. "But I wish it could have been me.”

  Chapter 25

  Belle stood in the kitchen, pulling the lid off a crock of pickles, listening idly to her mother, Dorothy, and Stella chatter as they prepared dinner for the men cutting corn in the fields. Paul Miller, Jack Dumont, and Kenny, along with two men Rand had hired in Lancaster, had been out there since before dawn—before Belle had even stirred from sleep.

  In a way it was a relief that they had gone out so early, that she hadn't been faced with seeing Rand in the morning, that she hadn't had to smile and be the friend she'd vowed to be yesterday. In a way she liked avoiding him, because as long as she avoided him, she didn't have to think about the things she was giving up, not about the kisses or the touches. Not about Marie.

  But then again, there was something inside her that wished she had said good morning to him, that yearned to see him. A part of her that hungered for the sound of his voice, for the time when just the sight of him lifted her spirits and sent joy racing into her heart.

  Things have changed, she reminded herself. You can be his friend, but nothing more. Belle sighed and looked at the pickles shimmering in brine. It had only been a day since she'd made the decision, but it was already becoming hard to remember.

  "Damask napkins." Dorothy Alspaugh's voice cut into Belle's thoughts. With a sense of relief she glanced up to see Dorothy shaking her head. "Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? I told her I thought handmade ones would do just fine, but she insisted. Said she thought it made the doctor look better. I said there was such a thing as looking too much better."

  "Folks gettin' above themselves." Stella whisked the cover off an apple pie. "She was in Millers' the other day buyin' a length of velvet. Velvet, can you imagine? And green at that. Why, it'll make her look sallow is all."

  Belle spooned the pickles onto a plate. "Maybe it's not for her. Maybe it's for her daughter."

  Stella sniffed. "What daughter?"

  "Or her cousin." Belle shrugged. "Who cares what she's buyin'? It's not your money."

  Dorothy turned from the sink and stared. Like a frog who just swallowed somethin' too big for its own throat, Belle thought, smiling to herself as she looked down at the plate.

  Stella harrumphed. "It don't matter if that's so or not. I'm just sayin' she's gettin' above herself."

  "You had store-bought napkins when we were at your house for dinner," Belle pointed out.

  "Those were a gift—"

  "Isabelle," Lillian said. Her voice was soft, but there was a warning in her tone, one that Belle had heard too often to miss. "Dinner's just about ready. Why don't you call for the men?"

  "I'll go too." Sarah spoke from the corner of the kitchen, where she was playing quietly with a jar of buttons. "Then c'n we go dig up Janey? I wanna play with her again."

  "Goodness," Stella said quietly.

  Belle looked at her, staring until Stella flushed and glanced away, and then she turned to Sarah. "We'll dig up Janey tomorrow, Sarah," she said. She set aside the jar of pickles and wiped her hands on the apron Lillian had insisted she wear. "Come on, now, let's go call your papa."

  "Make sure Kenny hears you," Dorothy said over her shoulder. "That old man's getting deaf as a house, but don't you know he won't admit it. I don't wanna have to go out and fetch him in."

  Belle stifled a laugh. "I'll call loud," she promised. She went to the door, waiting until Sarah got to her feet and hurried after her before she opened it and stepped out onto the stoop. She looked at Sarah. "All right, you goin' to help?"

  Sarah nodded.

  "On the count of three—ready? One, two, three . . . Dinner!" Belle put her hands to her mouth, yelled the word as loudly as she could. She heard Sarah beside her, calling in a high, little-girl tone. Their voices blended, carried off into the breeze, disappearing over the hills.

  "Let's do it again," Sarah said. She mimicked Belle, putting chubby hands around her mouth. "One, two, three—"

  They both shouted: "Dinner!"

  The sound vibrated around them, and Belle stood there, listening, feeling a flutter of anticipation when she heard the shouts of answer from the field, bouncing through the corn. Sarah grabbed onto her skirt, curling her fingers into the material, leaning against Belle's legs.

  Belle closed her eyes. It felt so good, the feel of Sarah's body next to hers, the sound of voices in the air. It touched the loneliness that started deep inside her, the loneliness that had been there for a very long time. She heard the movement of the women in the kitchen, the murmured, discordant tones of their squabbling and gossip, and even that she didn't mind. Even that made her feel a part of things, and she knew that she had missed this, too, this busy socializing, this gossipy bickering. The things she'd thought she always hated.

  Well, she didn't hate them anymore. She wasn't sure she ever had. Being away from it, being just one other person in a city where nobody meant anything, had shown her that. There was something to be said for women bustling together in a kitchen and men joining to work the fields. There was something to be said for being part of a town where everyone knew your business.

  She opened her eyes and pulled Sarah closer, running her fingers through the little girl's short hair. Belle thought about Rand cutting it, and the thought made her laugh; she couldn't believe she'd ever been angry about it, or upset. She understood now, knew that Rand was just being a father, just trying to make Sarah happy. And hair grew back so quickly. By the end of the winter it would be long again, blond and heavy. Like Belle's. She would make sure Rand didn't cut it again, at least not until Sarah was old enough to know her own mind—

  Belle stopped mid-thought.

  She was thinking of the future.

  It startled her. She stared at the fields unseeingly. The future. She had never thought of it before, not really. Had never wondered where she might be next year or the year after that, next week, or even tomorrow. One day at a time, hour by hour, minute by minute. She planned her life that way—or actually she never planned it at all, just let it happen without thinking about where it might go. It had never mattered to her before. She had never let it matter.

  But now, suddenly, it did. Now she found herself thinking about the things she would do with Sarah in the winter, in the spring, in the heady, grassy days of summer. Found herself wondering if she would still be here, and what would change. Rand was getting married; there would be no place for her, not really. She was Sarah's mother, but she wasn't Rand's wife, and Marie wouldn't want her around, whether she knew the truth or not. Marie would want to make her own life with Rand.

  And Sarah.

  The thought squeezed Belle's heart. She looked down at the top of Sarah's head, stroked her hair. She realized now why Rand had never wanted her to tell Sarah the truth, why he'd fought her wish to tell.

  Because telling Sarah the truth would only hurt and confuse her if Belle left. And Rand thought she would leave.

  Maybe she would have done that once. But not now, not anymore. Now she wanted to see her daughter grow up, to play a part in Sarah's life. Belle wanted to see Sarah at ten, and twelve, wanted to see her playing in the fields and wearing her first grown-up dress and pinning up her hair. But mostly—oh God, mostly—what she wanted was for Sarah to call her Mama.

  But Sarah would be calling Marie that.

  The pain welled inside Belle, making it hard to breathe, bringing tears to her eyes that she blinked away. She didn't know what to do about that, didn't know how she could change things. She couldn't stand in the way of Rand marrying Marie, regardless of whether she loved him, or Sarah. But she knew she couldn't leave either. Even if Rand married Marie, even if she had to watch her daughter call another woman Mama, Belle knew she would never leave this town, not

  as long as Sarah and Rand were in it. She would be his friend, and Sarah's aunt, and she would watch them change and grow
around her, and take what joy in it she could. Because she knew now it was all she was ever meant to have.

  And maybe it would be enough.

  Maybe.

  "Here they come," Sarah said. Just as she spoke, Belle heard the men as they broke from the fields and walked across the pasture. They looked tired, their skin and clothes and hair covered with corn dust and pollen, their faces striped with sweat.

  Belle swiped at her face with the back of her hand, wiping away the last vestiges of tears, and tightened her hold on Sarah, watching the men come toward them. She raised her chin, tried to smile. "I hope you boys are hungry," she said. "We've got enough food for the whole town."

  "What'd you say, girl?" Kenny Alspaugh asked, rubbing his face.

  Paul Miller grinned. "Well, now, I hope that's true, 'cos I'm hungry enough to eat most of it myself."

  They each went to the cistem, sluicing off their faces, their necks, washing their hands in the bucket left off to the side. Paul and Jack and Kenny. Belle looked out, toward the field, just as the others stepped beyond the fence. The two hired cutters and Rand. He was talking to them, gesturing slowly, not looking toward the house. His clothes were dusty like the others, sticking to his back in dark, sweaty places, and his hair looked pale from pollen. Belle's fingers tightened on Sarah's shoulders, her heart flopped into her stomach. She struggled to keep her smile. Friends, she reminded herself, just friends.

  Then he looked up and caught sight of her.

  He stopped dead.

  The two cutters stopped along with him, pausing mid- speech, following his gaze, and Belle felt the blood rush to her face, felt her heart pound in her chest. He was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before, a stare that seemed to dance along her skin, made her fingers tingle. But before she had time to really understand what was in his eyes, he straightened and tore his gaze away and continued his conversation.

  She felt vaguely, embarrassingly disappointed. But then he washed and followed the others up the stairs, stopping for a moment beside her.

  "Hey there," he said softly, and the quiet hush of his voice shivered over her skin, sank into her stomach. Then, before she could answer, he leaned down to tweak Sarah's nose. "What're you up to, Little Bit?" he asked.

  "Nothin'," Sarah said.

  "Nothing?" Rand chuckled. "Well, then, I guess you've been a good girl." He stepped into the kitchen, and Sarah followed, babbling happily, leaving Belle alone on the stoop.

  She listened to the talk and laughter in the kitchen, heard the men tease their wives as they loaded up their plates with chicken and ham, potatoes and biscuits and applesauce. And even though she'd felt like she belonged just minutes before, now Belle only felt isolated and lonely.

  And it was all because of that look, that strange look that made her think of kisses and dancing and hungry words. That look that reminded her she was not Marie.

  Belle swallowed. No, she was not Marie. It was time she started remembering that. She glanced at the door, moved toward it purposefully, and then she went inside.

  They were all talking, even Lillian was smiling as she dished up mounds of boiled potatoes and sauerkraut. The men ate as if they hadn't seen a meal for days, shoving food onto their forks and into their mouths, swallowing almost before they could chew, and following it up with long, loud gulps of buttermilk and coffee.

  "It looks good this year, Rand," Jack Dumont was saying. "Those ears is just startin' to glaze."

  "A fine crop," Paul agreed, spreading apple butter thickly on a biscuit. "Should get a helluva price for it, but you might have to ship it farther out. I'm thinkin' of doin' that myself."

  "Always thinkin', never doin'." Stella laughed, slapping at his hand. "Don't you listen to him, Rand, be ain't seen a train pract'ly since they laid the track."

  Belle made her way slowly around the table, looking for a place to stand. Dorothy and Stella stood beside their husbands, ladling food on their plates as fast as it was eaten. Sarah was at the far end of the table, squished against the wall, dragging her fork through a pile of cooked dried corn while Lillian juggled dishes behind her. And Rand—Rand was hunched over his meal, nodding as the others spoke.

  Belle took a deep breath. She didn't want to be here suddenly, didn't want to watch him and think of him, didn't want to have to pretend she didn't care. Quietly she left the kitchen and went down the hallway. She stepped out on the front porch, closing the door behind her, along with all the noise, all the laughter. It was quiet here; there was nothing but the sound of the oaks blowing in the heavy breeze, the scatter of leaves on the ground and the calls of the birds who still lingered in the last days of fall.

  Quiet. Belle sighed. She settled herself on the rail and leaned back, closing her eyes, listening to the sounds and letting them calm her, feeling the breeze blow through her hair, across her skin. Gradually she felt better. Gradually thoughts of Marie and the future faded away. She felt calmer, stronger, able to go back inside and face Rand and know that things would be all right. Yes, things would be fine. She would make them—

  The front door squeaked open.

  "Mind if I join you?"

  Belle's eyes snapped open. Rand was standing in the doorway, a plate in one hand, a fork in the other.

  "You didn't eat anything," he said.

  Her throat tightened. She straightened against the pillar, feeling nervous and uncomfortable, even though there was no reason to be. No reason except for her own thoughts. "I wasn't very hungry."

  He motioned to the plate. "Want some pie?"

  "No."

  He hesitated for a moment, and then he took a deep breath, gestured to the rail. "Can I . . . ?"

  "Oh—yeah." She moved over, swinging her legs over the rail so that he could sit. "Have a seat."

  He sat beside her, not close, but close enough for her to see the trailing spores of pollen and dust on his shoulders and his neck. The heavy canvas cutting sleeve still covered his left arm, stiff and unyielding, dark with dust and fraying at the edges.

  She gestured to it. "You'll need a new one of those soon," she said.

  He glanced at the sleeve. "Lillian'll make a new one." He shrugged. He looked at her. "Or maybe you could do it."

  A shiver went through her, a longing that froze her heart. She looked away. "You wouldn't be able to get your hand in it if I made one," she said. "The last thing I ever sewed was a sampler."

  He chuckled softly. "And you did a damn poor job of that, if I recall."

  Belle made a face. "I think Mama gave up on the idea that I'd ever be a seamstress, that's for sure."

  He shrugged. "You can always hire someone to sew."

  "Yeah." Belle sighed. She heard him chewing, heard the scrape of his fork along the plate. She stared straight ahead, out at the road, watching the grass blow in the Alspaughs' field, thinking about the day she and Sarah had run across it on their way to the canal. It seemed a long time ago now, though it wasn't really, only a few days. It felt like weeks.

  It was a moment before she realized he'd set aside his plate.

  She turned to look at him and found that he was staring at her, the same way he had earlier, when he'd come in for dinner. That same scrutinizing, curious stare that made her heart jump into her throat, made her feel strangely weak.

  "What is it?" she said, and her voice came out too high, squeaky with nerves. "What's wrong?"

  He swallowed. "Nothing," he said, but she heard the lie behind it. "I was just—just wondering what you were thinking about."

  Belle shrugged in surprise. "I don't know. Nothin' really. Just that day me and Sarah went to the canal."

  "Oh." He ran his hand through his hair, corn dust sprinkled his shoulders at the movement. Then he looked away from her, glanced down at his hands. "I always wanted to take her there, you know. To show it to her for the first time. I thought she'd like it."

  "She did." Belle smiled, remembering. "We went to Shenky's and had some melon, and she got it all over her face. We put our
feet in the water, and I told her stories. I told her about Bandit."

  "Bandit." He said the word wonderingly, as if it were a memory he couldn't quite grasp. Then he smiled. "Oh, the mule."

  She nodded. "Yeah. She liked that story."

  "I'll bet she did." He laughed slightly. "She probably can't wait to see him."

  "She'll drive us crazy till summer with it," Belle said.

  His laughter died abruptly, along with the smile. He still didn't look at her. Still kept his gaze fastened on his hands, rubbing his fingers with his thumb. "Till summer," he repeated softly. And then, "Tell me something, will you?"

  There was a soft hesitation in his tone, a caution that crept inside her, "What's that?" she asked quietly.

  "All that time you were gone, when you were in New York, what did you do?"

  "Do?" She shrugged. “I don't know. A little of this, a little of—"

  "No." He looked up suddenly, and the look in his eyes forestalled her, cut her words dead. "Not that answer. I don't want the answer you give everyone else. Tell me. Tell me what you really did."

  Belle swallowed. His eyes were nearly burning in their intensity. He was looking at her as if he could find the answer just from her expression, as if he could somehow read her mind. She looked away, unable to bear it, not wanting to be affected by it, unwilling to let him see so far inside her. But the words fell out anyway. Honest words. Words she'd barely even admitted to herself. "I worked in boardinghouses," she said. "But I was cold mostly. Hungry sometimes. Always lonely." She looked up, at the trees in front of her, at the huge limbs shadowed against the sky. "I wasn't like you, Rand. I never wanted adventure. I remember when you used to ask the canal-boat captains if they would take us all the way to China." She paused for a moment, thinking. "I never wanted that. I would've been happy here."

  "Then why did you go?"

  The soft question cut into her like a knife. It brought back all the memories, all the little things she'd tortured herself with over the years, the things she was afraid to think about again. She remembered his harsh voice, and her mother's. Remembered the fear and confusion and pain. It festered inside her, a dark place in her soul, a pain so bad she couldn't look at it for more than a moment, couldn't face it.