Was.
Paul thought of her often, so his brief respite while arranging the books for sale in his store was nothing new. Neither was the pinch at the corner of his eyes or the grief that stabbed at his heart when he thought of her in terms of was or used to be. She’d passed fourteen months ago. Fourteen months during which he’d felt the passage of every single moment. The whole town missed her. Joanna was the sort of woman who took it upon herself to remember folks by name and ask about their young ones whenever they passed in the street. Paul, on the other hand, was more likely to nod to familiar faces in a friendly way without being overly enthusiastic about it. Without Joanna at his side, he was only left with silent nods from partial strangers.
For the most part, that suited Paul just fine. He’d spent most of his life roaming from one spot to another, one job to another, surrounded by a fair number of other people or none at all. When he was alone, he enjoyed the silence. When he was part of a community, he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d break away to become part of another. More than likely, folks remembered him fondly but not very often. Since he remembered them the same way, Paul was content to let things remain that way.
Whenever his spirits needed lifting, he only had to look at the faces of his two children. Abigail and David were both the spitting images of their mother, even though he’d been told the nine-year-old boy bore a mighty large resemblance to his father. If he wanted to be reminded of himself, Paul would look into a mirror, so he chose to only see them for what they were and as fond reminders of his sweet Joanna.
Standing with a pile of books cradled in his arms, Paul hadn’t realized he’d been lost in his thoughts until it was pointed out to him by the young woman looking through a small stack of dresses that had arrived all the way from New Mexico earlier that week. She was in her early teens and a bit tall for her age. Long, light brown hair was braided and draped over one shoulder to display a yellow ribbon tied at the end. Rolling her eyes, she rooted through the clothing with exaggerated vigor and let out a pronounced sigh.
“What’s wrong now, Daddy?” she asked.
Paul shrugged and got back to stocking the bookshelf. “Why does anything have to be wrong?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“Because you’re beautiful.”
Abigail started to roll her eyes again but blinked and showed her father a smile instead. It was a halfhearted gesture, but served its purpose well enough. “Thank you for saying so.”
After placing the last book upon its shelf, Paul walked over to the table displaying the store’s most recently acquired articles of clothing and rubbed his daughter’s shoulder. She was almost as tall as him even though she tended to stoop a bit to hide it. “I’m not just saying so. It’s the truth.”
“You’re the only one who thinks so.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Yes, well . . . thank you all the same.”
Walking to the back of the store where a few crates had been opened, Paul said, “I imagine you could corral any boy you wanted.”
Another sigh from the girl was followed by a series of stomping steps that led to the front of the store. “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”
“What about Michael Willis? Weren’t you and Becky talking about him just the other day?”
Even from her new spot behind the cash register, Abigail managed to shoot a terse glare all the way back to where Paul was retrieving some more books. “You were spying on me and Becky?”
“You and Becky are almost always together and you talk quite a lot.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Paul gathered another armful of books and carried them to the shelf at the front of the store. Although he wouldn’t have dropped one volume in the middle of a hurricane, he fretted with them as a way to avoid his daughter’s critical eye. “I have ears,” he said. “They’re not filled with wax. I hear things.” He also saw things but decided not to embarrass her with those details.
“Becky’s meeting me at Johansen’s Bakery. Can I have some money?” she asked while already poking a key to open the cash register.
“Take fifty cents. Not a penny more.”
“Fine.”
Sliding each book into place and taking his time in the process, Paul waited until he heard his daughter walking to the front door before saying, “If you’re still hungry, there’s going to be a picnic after Sunday services.”
“That’s not for two days,” she pointed out. “We’re not eating until then?”
“Of course we are. It’s just that . . . most everyone will be there. The Willis family, for certain.”
Abigail lingered at the door with her hand on the knob. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips into a tight line in an expression of anxiety dating all the way back to when she’d been a baby worried about standing upright. “Michael doesn’t care if I’m there or not.”
“Do you know that for a fact?”
“Yes.” When she finally looked over to her father to see his stern expression, Abigail sighed. “No.”
“Then you should go to that picnic and ask him to dance.”
“He should be the one to do the asking.”
“Maybe he’s shy,” Paul said. “Boys get shy too, you know. And it’s not such a terrible thing to ask one to dance. Many of them even like it that way.”
“Sure they do,” she scoffed. “That’s less work for them.”
Paul laughed and fell into an easier rhythm of placing the books in their proper order. After taking a moment to lift one to his nose so he could smell the musty pages, he said, “You’re right about that, but it never hurts to meet someone halfway. If things go right, it won’t hardly matter who took that first step.”
“I guess I could go to the picnic . . . if Becky’s going too.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“You know what would make me feel better about going?” she asked.
“What’s that?”
“If I had a new dress to wear.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Martha just sent over a few nice ones the other day,” Paul told her. “They’re hanging next to those waistcoats.”
“I was thinking more about the fancy silk ones on the front display.”
“I bet you were. Those will fetch a mighty good price, but not if they’ve already been worn. They’ll be damn near worthless once you spill jam or soup on them.”
“I won’t spill on it, Daddy!” she insisted while coyly trying to shift her arms to hide the faded stain on the dress she now wore.
“You spill on just about everything, sweetie. It’s part of your charm.”
Judging by the way she stormed out of the store, Abigail did not share that sentiment or find it half as endearing as her father did.
Ralph Compton Comanche Trail Page 24