Leah laughed, but he didn’t understand the reason for her humor.
“What?”
Through a wide smile she embellished, “I can’t cook worth a darn. Why do you think I eat so often at the Happy City? The kitchen isn’t a friendly place to me. I’ve tried, but non va bene.”
When she spoke in that Italian, the inflections got to him. They sounded as if she should be saying them in a bedroom. Actually, whispering them in his ear in a bedroom.
“Geneva prepared the food,” Leah admitted. “She’s the one you should be complimenting.”
“I’d rather be complimenting you.” The words slipped out before Wyatt could take them back. Like some infatuated fool without an ounce of common sense, he’d said the first thing that had come to his mind.
He should have been relieved when she didn’t become coy with him and lower her lashes. And yet when a look of discomfort crossed her face, he was disappointed. “I don’t need compliments. I’m a fair judge of my attributes, and thus far I haven’t done anything deserving of praise.”
“That’s a pretty hard statement.”
“No,” she countered seriously, “it’s a true statement. It’s just that there is one thing in my life that I haven’t attained. I dream of it often, and until I fulfill that dream I don’t believe in undue flattery. If I win, and if you’re still here, you may compliment me to your heart’s desire and I shall revel in your every word.”
Whatever she was after sounded important. “What is it you want to win?”
Leah tipped her head to the side and stole a slanted look at him. “The New York Amateur Photography contest. It’s sponsored by a magazine and judged by Alfred Stieglitz, a famous photographer. This year will be my third submission and my third try at first place.”
“Is that why you were taking pictures of dishes?”
“Heavens, no. I wouldn’t enter a photograph of something so mundane as a saucer from my china cupboard.” An instant of wistfulness entered her expression as she put the tip of her forefinger to her lips, pulling his attention toward her mouth. “After giving my prior two submissions a strong critique, I realized I misunderstood the creative freedom of my profession. To win the contest, I believe that I need to replicate something with a balance to the picture by gentle but firm counterposition. The points of deepest conjunction generally lie in the center of the picture. Therein was my error with the picture of the clouds last year. They were a good subject for an artist who sought the broad, poetic view of things. But there was no life to them.” She mused a moment, then continued, though he had little clue as to what she was trying to convey to him. “Clouds provide an inexhaustible supply of infinitely variable forms, richer and less predictable than everyday images, but that is just that. Clouds are everyday images. I need to think along the lines of the extraordinary. But thus far, the only soul my camera has captured that I would feel comfortable entering is Mr. Quigley’s dog, Skeeter, lying down on my porch with a dead gopher in his muzzle. This may not sound winning, but the dog came to my porch on his own with the gopher, lay down, and seemingly awaited for me to snap him before he went along his merry way.” Leah shrugged. “Though you probably wouldn’t see it my way, Skeeter was an inspiration.”
Wyatt drank the last of his punch. The only relevant thought he could offer was, “It sounds like you know what you’re doing. I bet you win this time.”
“False hope doesn’t soothe disappointment when it comes.”
And Wyatt knew that. He’d had his hope minced and cut up so many times, it was amazing he’d even held on to any at all.
Music came to them, sung in that foreign language he’d first heard when he’d entered town. He didn’t understand a word of it then, nor did he now. But he finally realized that the music hadn’t been performed by someone in her parlor. It was coming from the Edison.
“Do you like opera?” Leah asked, breaking Wyatt from his thoughts.
He toyed with his glass, rolling the bottom in a tight circle while his fingers lightly held the rim. “I don’t know. I can’t make out what they’re saying.”
“They’re singing in French. Mr. Winterowd and Mr. Quigley found my Delibes. They know I’m partial to ‘Lakmé.’ ”
Wyatt sat back. “I think it’s those two who are partial to you.”
One corner of Leah’s mouth pulled into a slight smile. “Yes, I know. Trust me when I say I don’t encourage their attentions. Geneva invited them. She thinks she can pair Leemon and Fremont with the Clinkingbeard sisters.”
“Did somebody say our names?” The question came in unison as two women strolled around the gallery to the table.
Wyatt gazed at the twins, taken aback at how their looks mirrored each other perfectly, from their matching feather hats right down to their patent shoes. He couldn’t tell one from the other as they gaped at him expectantly.
It took Wyatt a second to remember he should rise to his feet. When he did, Leah introduced him.
“This is Netha and Wilene Clinkingbeard. Ladies, this is Mr.—”
“We know,” Netha said, stretching out her gloved hand in a manner that told Wyatt she was presuming he’d kiss her fingers. Instead, he awkwardly took her hand in his and gave her wrist a slight shake. He did likewise for Wilene. Both tittered in what sounded to be harmony.
He waited for them to move on, but they didn’t.
“We’ve seen you at the Chinese restaurant,” Netha said.
“Yes. Sister and I eat there every Saturday. We were there last night.” Wilene’s eyes were wide and blue as a pair of delft saucers. “Did you see us?”
Wyatt hadn’t noticed them. “I get pretty busy in the back.”
Leah had opened her mouth and was about to say something when a towheaded boy came dashing across the nicely appointed veranda with its colorful potted plants placed in between the spindles of the porch banister. Not several feet behind him was Tug, closing in, both hands raised and holding toy guns.
“Jary Keithly, you slow down this minute,” Leah admonished.
“Pow! Pow! Pow!” Tug spouted. He accidently knocked over a terra-cotta pot with the toe of his boot. Fluffy coral geraniums and clumps of soil tumbled out. “I got you, Jary!”
Leah quickly moved to stand in front of Tug so he could get no farther. “Excuse me, Mister Cowboy. What do you call that?” She dropped her hand on his head and turned him to face the overturned geraniums.
“I didn’t do it.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
The Clinkingbeard twins sniffed in an affronted manner at the young boys. Wyatt thought it was a good thing neither sister had married, for they seemed to have no tolerance for children.
“We should ask if Geneva needs our help serving the cake,” Wilene said, giving Tug a disapproving purse of her lips.
“Yes, we must ask if she needs our help.” Netha nodded in agreement. Then the pair went off, their skirts swaying in sync with one another.
Tug lowered his guns into his sagging holsters to approach Wyatt. “Hey, mister, I got my hat back.” He took off the Roughrider Roy hat and held it out to Wyatt. “It’s got a real jet bead on the strings. Made from genuine Indian rock.”
“Looks like a fine one,” Wyatt said, testing the brim and giving the hat his full attention before returning it to Tug. “You must have been a good boy.”
“Yeah. I didn’t do anything bad all week.”
Leah smiled. “Nothing overly bad.”
“And see these guns?” Tug exclaimed, disregarding Leah’s observance. “They shoot real bullets and I could kill a man dead if I took a mind to.”
“Tug, they don’t shoot real bullets, and you will not go around threatening to kill anyone,” Leah corrected.
“They do too,” he insisted. “And I wouldn’t really kill anyone, much less him. He let me ride his horse.”
Wyatt noted the boy’s Wild West woolly chaps were a size too big for him. They’d had that brand around since he’d been a little guy.
Tug also wore a leather vest with a beat-up tin star on the breast and mule-ear cowboy boots. He was ready for a shootout.
“Who you aiming to go after, Marshal?” Wyatt asked, playing around with the boy and enjoying every minute of it.
Tug’s face lit up. “I’m hunting down those bad guys from the O.K. Corral.”
Wyatt was impressed by the kid’s imagination. “Where’s this O.K. Corral, Marshal?”
Tug scowled. “You never heard of the O.K. Corral and the Earp brothers? You’re named after one.”
“Oh . . . sure. Them.” But Wyatt didn’t know. He’d picked his name after his Uncle Wyatt Harper who lived in Eastdale, not some Earp brothers.
“Tug, I want you to be my helper and gather all the children to the cake table. It’s time to sing happy birthday to Rosalure. Can you do that for Momma?”
“Can I have a piece with an icing flower?”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Tug scampered off, hollering for kids to follow him.
Leah gazed at Wyatt with soft color on her lips and her lashes thick and sweeping. She lifted her hand to adjust the wayward strand of hair beneath her chin, but the curl didn’t cooperate. The tendril fell right back down after she tried to tuck it in her bun. His response to her was strong, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“You look real pretty today, Leah.”
A blush colored her cheeks the same shade as the roses filling the yard. “Thank you, Wyatt. You look especially nice, too.”
“A little spit and polish,” he said with a shrug and a smile.
She laughed. “Come this way and we’ll join the others.”
Wyatt followed her around the veranda. Behind the rear-entry door was a large porch and patio where ivy had been trained to grow up trellises. The area was lush and green, sprinkled with color from hanging flowers the names of which he didn’t know. There was a circular table covered with a silver cloth, and in its center a white frosted cake decorated with pink roses. Rosalure stood in front of the cake with Geneva behind her as guests circled round. Tug had a close-up view on Rosalure’s left, his nose twitching as he sniffed the sugary frosting. Hartzell was off to the side, still talking with Sim Sommercamp.
“Excuse me,” Leah said, and took her place by Rosalure so they could light the ten candles on the cake. Soon everyone broke out into the song of “Happy Birthday.”
Wyatt stayed back, leaning against a post with one of his legs crossed over the other. He’d thought he’d be able to listen without thinking of the other times he’d heard the words. But he couldn’t. Unbidden, he saw Ardythe, Daniel, Robert, Todd, and Mary, his brothers and sisters. They had sung at birthdays, too, only the trimmings had never been as fancy as this. They’d been a poor ranching family, but a tight-knit family. Though Wyatt had been the man of the house when his dad had been away working, times had been hard for him. There were a lot of pressures and he’d felt every one of them by the age of fourteen. It had been the year Mary was born that Wyatt had fallen into trouble and had to leave. She’d been only three months old. For her, he’d never sung “Happy Birthday.”
Softly singing it now, he tried to envision what Mary looked like. What the others looked like. If they’d married. How they were getting on. If he was an uncle. If the home place was still there. He wondered how his parents were. If they’d fared well in years kinder to them than the ones he’d lived.
But he’d have to go on wondering. It was better that everyone back home thought he was dead. And the truth was, that boy they had known so long ago really was. He’d thrown away his whole life, and there was no point in digging up a grave that would only cause heartache.
He watched Leah singing, their eyes meeting for a second before she lowered them lovingly onto Rosalure’s face. How old would he be when he got to sing to his child? He had no prospects for a wife. And the one woman for whom he felt something was a banker’s daughter-in-law.
“Happy birthday, dear Rosalure,” the party attendants sang, “Happy birthday to you!”
Wyatt’s throat had closed up, and the hot sting of tears swelled in his eyes, but he refused to succumb to any show of emotion. He was beyond that. For him, the road only went one way. Forward, away from Utah and what he’d left behind. What was gone would have to stay that way. He had to make his own family now.
10
Blame yourself if you have no branches or leaves; don’t accuse the sun of partiality.
—Chinese proverb
Leah’s house was nearly empty. All of the guests had left but immediate family and Wyatt. They’d retired into the parlor where the cooler air was more comfortable for conversation while sipping refreshment from the armchairs and davenport. On a side area of the cabbage-rose carpet, Rosalure and Tug played with Punch and Judy puppets—the present from Hartzell and Geneva.
Coming from the kitchen with a fresh pitcher of ice tea, Leah asked, “More tea anyone?”
Hartzell nodded, then turned his attention back to Wyatt, who sat in the overstuffed wing chair by the hearth. That was Leah’s favorite chair, and she’d made it available to Wyatt because he looked as if he was suffering from the effects of uneasiness. When the others had begun to leave, he’d stayed. But not without reluctance. To Leah’s observation, he was searching to speak with Hartzell, only Hartzell was still busy with Mr. Sommercamp. The Sommercamps were the last guests to depart, and Wyatt had attempted to engage Hartzell’s attention, but by this time, Hartzell was ready to sit down and stretch his feet out while watching his grandchildren play. Wyatt had followed him inside and Leah had directed him to the chair. That had been fifteen minutes ago, and the tension in the room hadn’t lessened while she’d left to get the tea.
Wyatt lifted his gaze to hers and declined the beverage. “I’m fine,” he said. His fingers meshed together over the crown of his hat resting in his lap, then he slipped them apart to rest his hands on the arms of the chair. She noticed the band had made an impression on his dark brown hair. She had an urge to smooth away the ripple, to feel the texture of his hair beneath her hand. He caught her looking at him and she quickly turned away.
Leah freshened Hartzell’s glass, then set the pitcher on a tea cart and sat down herself. The children were exceptionally quiet in their play as they acted out the voices of the characters they wiggled on their hands. Geneva sat erect on the davenport, her skirts fanned around her ankles and her eyes leveled on Wyatt.
“That was a very extravagant gift you gave our Rosalure,” Geneva ventured. “A music box like that wouldn’t be affordable to most men of your position. You must be very frugal with your pay.”
Wyatt made no comment other than, “I thought she’d like it.”
“I do like it. Very much.” Rosalure lifted her head with a smile, then she paused from the puppets a moment to wind up the music box beside her, near her other presents. “It plays one of my favorite tunes.”
“The music box is wonderful,” Leah added, wanting to throttle Geneva. “Thank you again for your thoughtfulness.”
Wyatt’s eyes slid away from Rosalure to rest on Leah. Her heart started its crazy double-fast thumping. That magic spark sprang into the air between them again.
“We didn’t see you in St. John’s this morning,” Geneva said, her tone cool enough to douse Leah’s slipping composure. “What denomination are you?”
“I was dunked in the Baptist church,” he said with quiet emphasis. “But the waters didn’t soak in.”
Geneva’s eyes rounded at the bluntness of Wyatt’s admission. “I take it you don’t believe in the Lord, then.”
“If I didn’t believe in the Lord, I wouldn’t be alive.”
As much as Leah’s curiosity was piqued about Wyatt’s background, she didn’t want Geneva taking a piece out of his hide.
“Mr. Holloway, would you care for another slice of cake?” Leah intervened.
“No, thank you,” Wyatt declined. “Although it was the best cake I’ve ever eaten. You’re a
fine cook, Mrs. Kirkland.”
Smart move, Leah thought. Compliments were best served to Geneva when she was in a mood to get to the bottom of someone’s personal nature.
Geneva was momentarily waylaid by the flattery. “That’s good of you to say, Mr. Holloway.” Keeping a pleased blush at bay, she plucked at one of the full gathers in her novelty gauze skirt. “I was well tutored by my mother when I was younger. I believe that is one of the reasons I landed my Hartzell. He was appreciative of the supper table I could set.”
Hartzell leaned his arm over the back of the davenport, but not so that his hand rested on Geneva’s shoulder. “I don’t doubt that good cooking is desirable in a wife, but there are other things to consider as well.”
“Which are?” Geneva asked in a pretentious tone that Leah hated. She knew where this was leading.
“Compatibility,” Hartzell replied.
“But is that enough?” Geneva pondered aloud.
Geneva had always made it clear that she didn’t think Leah was a suitable bride for her one and only son. He’d been educated at Harvard and had graduated with high honors. From there, he’d gone into business with his father in the financial end of the Eternity Security Bank, traveling to cities and seeking sound investments.
Leah didn’t want to think that initially Owen had regarded her and her father as charity cases. But in all likelihood, he had. For he’d heard about the misfortunes of the nine-year-old girl and her father. That had been Leah, and she’d been going through the worst time in her life. If it hadn’t been for Owen, she and her father would have lost everything. Even hope. Owen had been her savior of sorts.
But his family was upper-class, while Leah had come from humble stock. At first, Geneva never missed an opportunity to point this out. But now that Tug and Rosalure were older, she had to mind her tongue more often because of the children’s presence. Which suited Leah fine.
“I thought the party was a success,” Hartzell offered after taking a sip of his tea. “You two women outdid yourselves.”
It was nice that Hartzell tried to include Leah, and she appreciated that. She’d never had any reservations about his sincerity.
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