The back end of a zebra had been made into a clock that hung above the fireplace mantel. Its striped tail ticked off the seconds, keeping her enthralled while she chatted with Edwina and acquainted herself with her husband.
“Do you recall Miss Totten, the typing teacher?” Edwina asked. “She had an ear trumpet and we always had to yell in it.”
Truvy was on the settee and sipped tea from a mismatched china saucer and cup. She took a moment to smile at her surroundings. The way Tom had such affection for his wife. The way the tea service was a mixture of old and new pieces. The way the firelight played over the couple in the chair. The way the home seemed so inviting. And loving.
For the briefest of moments, a longing settled so deeply in Truvy’s heart it was a physical ache. But she quickly quelled it, forcing the sudden feeling of melancholy away.
“I do remember her,” Truvy remarked. “When we typed, she couldn’t hear a word we said over the noise of the keystrokes. Once, Abigail Crane called her a wet goose and she replied, ‘Yes, Miss Crane, you have to release the bail for the paper to get loose.’ ”
Edwina smiled in distant remembrance.
Truvy pondered, taking a taste of her tea. “I wonder whatever happened to Abbie.”
Edwina responded matter-of-factly. “She married Professor Rutledge.”
That news surprised Truvy. She’d had no idea. “Really?”
“How was the weather in Boise when you left?” Tom asked, drawing his arm over the back of Edwina’s chair. “I read in the papers the pronghorns are plenty this season.”
“Tom,” Edwina chided with a curve to her mouth, “I don’t think Truvy wants to talk about antelope.”
“Oh, on the contrary,” Truvy said, sitting toward the edge of the settee. “President Roosevelt is an avid whitetail hunter and I’ve heard he’s going to Idaho next year to hunt.”
“Are you a fan of the president, Miss Valentine?” Tom rose and put another log on the fire. As he poked the embers, sparks shot up the flue with crackles and pops.
“I am. Very much so.”
Looking over his broad shoulder, he commented, “It was terrible about President McKinley.”
“Horrible,” Truvy agreed.
Although her alliance had been with the Democratic Party and she’d had her doubts about President Roosevelt—a Republican—the two months since he’d taken office after President McKinley’s death had been filled with economic promise. In his own words, he pledged to govern with the qualities of practical intelligence, of courage and endurance.
And above all, lofty ideal.
The clock chimed eight o’clock. Truvy hadn’t meant to stay so late, but once they’d begun to reminisce about their college days, she’d lost track of time.
“I really should be going, Edwina. You need your rest.”
“I’m fine.” Edwina stood and discreetly arched her spine. “But I’m a bit anxious.”
Truvy set her cup and saucer on the tea cart. “I’ll come back tomorrow and help you with whatever you need.”
“That would be wonderful.” She embraced Truvy and she fondly placed a kiss on her cheek.
“I’ll be off, then.”
Tom walked to the vestibule with them and helped Truvy with her short cape and handed her her hat and gloves. Afterward, he collected his own hat and coat. “I’ll see you home, Miss Valentine.”
The criterion that a lady shouldn’t walk alone on the street after dark required she accept his offer. Either abide by the strict standard or suffer the consequences: gossip. Still, the fact that she had no one but Tom to escort her made her painfully aware of her unmarried status. She hated to be a burden. “I don’t want you to trouble yourself, Mr. Wolcott.”
“No trouble at all.” He settled his hat on, then gazed at Edwina. “The usual?”
“I’m not in the mood for my usual. I’d like two candied cherries on my ice cream. Vanilla, please. Butterscotch on one half and chocolate syrup on the other. No whipping cream. And only a light sprinkling of nuts—on the butterscotch side.” She gave his mouth a quick press of her lips. “Thank you, darling.” Then addressing Truvy, “Can Tom get you some ice cream, too? He could take you by the café, then to the Plunketts’.”
The ritual of a husband attending to his pregnant wife’s craving was so personal, Truvy felt awkward accepting ice cream for herself. But for Edwina to include her was utterly thoughtful. Guilt plagued Truvy over her omission of the whole truth about her trip. She hadn’t been able to admit she was on a leave of absence from St. Francis. But if Miss Pond were to have a change of heart, then Truvy need never mention it. “That’s a lovely offer, but I’m going to decline.”
“All right. Good-bye, then, Truvy. I’ll see you tomorrow. Come over any time you like. I’m up early.”
Truvy and Tom made their way into a night that was illuminated by a quarter moon. Its rays gave off just enough brightness to see the glittering ice crystals that covered the street. Because she wasn’t accustomed to wearing high-button shoes, she carefully placed her steps but nearly slipped anyway.
Mr. Wolcott’s hand quickly gripped her bent elbow to balance her. His assistance remained as they walked along. Such gallantry was foreign to her, and she didn’t know what to say—something rare in her life. She usually made the grievous mistake of speaking her mind on all occasions, oftentimes to the great mortification of others.
Edwina was lucky to be married to such a gentleman, but to state that to Mr. Wolcott would be too brazen—even for Truvy. But she did manage to say, “Thank you.”
“I suppose in Boise, you have boardwalks every where and they’re kept ashed all winter long,” Tom said. Mist came out of his mouth when he spoke.
“Yes, we do.”
“We don’t have that here, but I like it just the same.” The expression on his face was one of fondness for the town—that was evident in his profile. “I guess it’s a good thing Edwina wasn’t in her last month in the summer. I’d end up bringing her something melted.”
Hearing such ardent affection, Truvy’s inward smile barely surfaced. For some strange reason, she felt an empty void settle inside her. But the odd thing was, Truvy didn’t covet Edwina’s lifestyle.
Truvy’s days were filled with her students—her own children, in a way. She was perfectly happy living within those limits. She had a rich and full environment, and so what if no man had ever put on his coat and hat to brave a frosty night to get her a bowl of ice cream . . . butterscotch on one half and chocolate syrup on the other?
Soon, they were at the Plunkett house. She put her hand on the gate latch, its metal slightly sticking to the wool of her heavily gloved fingers.
“Thanks ever so much, Mr. Wolcott.” She slipped her arm free from his hand. “I can manage the rest of the way myself.”
“All right.” He tipped his hat to her and was off.
Truvy clicked the latch open and proceeded up the walkway. Lamplight and shadows flickered from behind lacy curtains, a telltale sign the occupants of the house were still up. Then, a quite clear tall form—a man—moved to light a pipe. Flame from a match sprang to life, its light etching a fuzzy face. Mr. Plunkett.
She drew in a deep breath. Truvy had to make a nice first impression. She didn’t want to do anything to upset Mrs. Plunkett and have Mr. Plunkett think Truvy shouldn’t stay with them because it was too distressing for his wife, both because Mrs. Plunkett missed her daughter and because Truvy had inadvertently put herself in disfavor with the townswomen when she’d carried that boxer’s beer bottle. Ladies talked. Truvy didn’t want Mrs. Plunkett to hear about it from them.
Waiting a moment, she paused midway up the walk. She had to collect herself. To make sure she was focused on presenting her best behavior. No slips of the tongue. No lapses in deportment.
She inhaled air into and exhaled it out of her lungs as a form of mental calisthenics. This method always calmed her. She felt herself relaxing and looking at her surroundings.
Pale snow piled against the front fence, on the brown lawn, and against the veranda lattice. Gelatin stars winked from the trees at the house across the street.
Her thoughts drifted to Christmas and what her girls would be doing on the winter break. Singing rousing carols, drinking hot cider, going ice skating, and returning home to families. Before she had left Boise, Truvy had telephoned The Aunts, who lived in Emporia, Kansas. She’d wished them a merry Christmas.
The Aunts had been married to two brothers, both inventors. Because they lived with men who developed ideas for a better future, it was no surprise The Aunts took up the cause of women’s suffrage. Aunt Beatrice and Aunt Gertrude had always been free-thinkers and raised Truvy to be such, but they were sedate in their campaigns. Not a single arrest—a record they prided themselves on.
Truvy had no distinct memories of her uncles aside from bushy hair and big beards. They’d both died in an accident when she was four. For the past twenty-one years, The Aunts had been widows. They lived in the same house, slept in the same bedroom, drank tea and ate jellied toast at the same kitchen table in the morning.
After spending the evening with Tom and Edwina, Truvy wondered if Aunt Beatrice and Aunt Gertrude ever thought about remarrying instead of keeping company only with each other. At least there was the pair of them. In Truvy’s case, she was alone.
Well, not truly alone. There were the girls. But in her room at night, in the middle of the midnight hours, there was nobody to talk to about her day, not anyone in whom she could confide.
Truvy shifted her stance, ready to go inside. As she moved forward, a stable scene beneath the elm in the yard caught her attention. A baby Jesus lay in the manger. Beside him huddled Joseph and Mary, several camels, some sheep, two donkeys, and three tall wise men.
My—but they’re lifelike.
The master craftsmanship of the figurines was evident with only the defused parlor light fanning across them. They stood about four feet high. She studied the one holding frankincense. The artist had actually sculpted and painted the veins on his hands, drawn the creases at the corners of his eyes, and shaded his skin with a healthy glow, and she was certain the hair on his head wasn’t a false piece but was real. So real that she wondered how realistically the rest of him was represented.
The chapter in The Science of Life entitled “The Most Complete Male Body—Organs and Structures” came to her. She remembered the text word for word because it hadn’t made any sense. She’d been baffled by its adjective-strewn interpretation.
The man’s penis is designed for the express purpose of conveying the “pabulum of life.” In conception, it is divine; in design, perfect; in architecture, grand; in con struction, wonderful; in beauty, lovely; in form, symmet rical; in outline, sublime; in strength, great; in arrangements, marvelous; in mobility, transcendent; in adaptability, unexcelled; in fine, when it is studied in all its parts and their relationship to each other, we are led to exclaim with the psalmist David, that the human male is “fearfully and wonderfully made.”
The description had the male anatomy sounding larger than life, but it didn’t clarify physical shape . . . and size.
Just how real was that figurine?
Truvy bit her lower lip, then looked out at the street. Quiet. Deserted. She gazed back at the realistic wise man. Then left and right. Then at the front door to the Plunketts’. And she made a decision.
She lifted the hem of her dress, hiking it higher as her shoes sank into the soggy snow. Her ankles and black stocking-clad calves disappeared in the fluffy white. As she bent over the wise man, a chilling draft shot up her skirts and caused her to shiver.
The rich velvet robe draping the figurine was partially iced over; his one hand stuck to the folds where moisture had formed and hardened from the night air.She paused, reconsidering. This was ludicrous. Then again, this might be an opportunity to see a man firsthand—if indeed the figurine was all there in forbidden factuality.
Bunching in her skirts, Truvy balanced over the wise man to sneak a peek at his “pabulum of life.”
She took hold of the robe’s hem. With the cloth in a semifrozen state, it came right off in her grasp—like a stiff shell of armor—and the figurine was left standing naked in a blaze of glory. Abruptly, she let the garment go. The fabric fell to his feet in a contoured blanket of shimmering gold.
Truvy blinked. Then squinted.
With his hand outstretched, now minus the frankincense, the biblical figurine was nothing more than a nondescript porcelain. She didn’t see any kind of anatomical parts on him.
Or is that something . . . ?
Just as she leaned forward to double check, a hard ball of snow hit her behind with a dull splat. Turning with a start, she barely made out an outline of a man on the sidewalk. His arm rose and he shot off another snowball. She ducked and the missile smacked the tree trunk, bursting into a spray of white flakes.
Practically jumping out of her skin, she could only stare in surprise. Although a cloud had drifted over the moon and cast the night in a veil of dimness, she recognized her assailant from his height.
Jake Bruiser—er, Brewster.
With her fists clenched in yards of blue velvet and pink satin petticoat, she froze, thinking that if she didn’t move he’d go away.
“Hey, you—come here,” he directed.
Panic gripped her. She wasn’t keen on facing him, but she didn’t want to be standing next to that naked figurine when the moon came back out.
Truvy watched her step on the icy walkway as she went toward the gate. The last thing she needed was to slip and land on her bottom right in front of him. She felt his gaze on her, and it was disturbing.
“If it isn’t Miss Valentine,” he intoned in such a way that made it clear he’d known it was her all along.
As soon as the length of iron fence picket was a barrier between them, she dropped her skirts. Had he seen what she’d done? To veer him away from the subject of the wise man, she went at him with full-blown indignance. “I don’t appreciate being hit by a snowball. Especially on my buttocks.”
She hadn’t had the presence of mind to cut herself short; now, she silently winced at the vivid word. But then again, she’d been instructing the girls that they should use the correct vocabulary when speaking about the human body. No snickers or slang. On that conviction, she held her ground and stared at him, waiting for his defense.
It wasn’t forthcoming.
Mr. Brewster kept a wicked curve on his mouth for longer than was tasteful given the circumstances. Blast him, but he had fine lips, wide and . . . sensual. There was no other description.
With the backdrop of winter white blanketing the ground behind him, and Mr. Brewster in a dark overcoat, his body seemed more powerful—if that were possible. And his voice seemed louder when he remarked as casual as a summer day, “I thought you were a thief trying to make off with one of the Plunketts’ wise men.”
She remained calm, giving no hint of the turmoil inside her. Oh, what must you think of me for spying on a biblical statue? “Really, Mr. Brewster, you couldn’t have mistaken me for a hoodlum. You intentionally threw a snowball at me, and I can guess why.”
“Why?”
“Because I poured out your beer.”
“I wouldn’t whack a woman with a snowball for a beer offense.” He paused. “Although I thought about it.”
She immediately shot back, “I thought you were playing poker.”
“We ran out of beer.”
Beer. Naturally.
The keen air bit her cheeks and carried steam from her mouth as she lamely remarked, “That’s too bad.”
His eye narrowed when he smiled, providing a brief flash of white. “I thought so.”
Their exchange was hardly fit for parlor-room conversation, much less one held out in the elements on a starlit evening sparkling with frost. The moon peeked out from its cloud cover, its light passing over them.
This was the first time in her life a
man had stared at her the way Mr. Brewster was. Intently. Curiously. Hotly. His eyes skimmed over her in a slow perusal. From her face to her feet. Then lingering at her ankles—that not minutes ago had been on display. She let his overly long examination get to her. She felt it melt through her bones.
“You have nice . . . shoes,” he remarked, lazing next to the fence.
She knew that wasn’t what he was talking about. He was being ignoble. A man who liked that sort of silly risqué thing; a pair of female ankles in a pair of shin-topped shoes. And yet, his thinking her ankles in her new shoes were attractive made her palms grow moist.
Her wits returned and she refused to make much of his comments about her appearance.
But then he had to go and say, “You’re a tall woman. Tall women have long legs.”
Mortification made her want to hide.
She’d never liked her legs. Or her height. There was too much of both. Tall and long. All her life, she’d hated being tall and long-legged. Trapped in a nonconforming body was a ghastly thing to go through when most other women, small and delicate, better fit the ideal proportions prescribed for womankind.
That Jake Brewster would point out her failing made her feel deflated. So much for her notion that he might find her attractive. It was a ridiculous thing for her to think, much less want.
Jake’s gaze moved beyond her shoulder, and he lifted his chin toward the nativity scene. “Were you trying to get a look at that wise man’s ho ho ho—”
“I was adjusting his robe,” she cut in, her voice shaky yet filled with offense. “Adjusting his robe,” she repeated for emphasis.Well—she could have been!
He didn’t believe her; that much was clear from the expression on his face: the raised brows, the slight quirk to his mouth. For all the shadows in the night, she wished darkness covered it all so she wouldn’t have to see him mocking her. There was nothing worse than being laughed at. She didn’t appreciate it.
“If you say so.” He shifted his weight and dug his hands deep into the pockets of his boot-length sealskin overcoat. She wanted him gone, moving along, leaving her alone.
Squeaky hinges alerted Truvy that the front door to the Plunkett house had opened. She turned and looked into the thin wedge of light spilling down the verandah steps. Filling the space over the threshold, Mrs. Plunkett gazed down her nose toward the gate.
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