If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  Pru chose her words carefully, not wanting to hurt his pride, but certain that she was right. "Milton, you are not a man yet, you're still a little boy, and the gin is not a fit environment for you."

  "What do you mean by that?" he asked. "What's fifth-a-fire-ment?"

  Pru brushed a loving hand across his brow.

  "A fit environment is a good place for a boy to spend his time. Working alongside grown men in the gin, there is just no telling the kind of unwelcome influence to which you might be exposed," she explained.

  Sharpy was momentarily thoughtful.

  "You're talking about the po-knock-rafee, aren't you?" he said.

  Pru's eyes widened. "Where on earth did you ever hear such a word."

  "From Mr. Chavis," he answered. 'That's what he calls them dirty postcards."

  "My God, he'd showed them to you?" She was incredulous.

  "Well, not exactly," he replied.

  "You knew they were there, didn't you?" she said. "You'd seen them before."

  "Well, yes ma'am," he answered. “Truth is, I..."

  "I can't... I can't believe my ears."

  "I ain't lying, ma'am," Sharpy assured her. "It was really all my fault, ma'am."

  "Oh my heavens, this is far worse than I had imagined," she said. "How could he do such a thing? How could he pollute the innocent young mind of a child, any child, especially ..."

  Her voice trailed off, her expression both angry and concerned.

  Sharpy's brow furrowed, and his chest puffed out defensively.

  "He didn't pole-luke my mind, ma'am," Sharpy declared. "My mind works just as good as it ever did."

  "I know that, Milton," she assured him gently. "But Mr. Chavis should have never let you ... well you simply should have been protected from his tawdry vices."

  "There ain't no tar devices in the gin, Miss Prudence," Sharpy assured her. "Everything works with belts and pulleys."

  Pru opened her mouth to explain, then decided not to bother.

  "I just think, Milton, for your own good, I should try to find you some work elsewhere."

  "I don't want other work," the boy stated firmly. "I'm thinking that I should find some other place to stay."

  "What?"

  "I know that you said I could stay here in your aunt’s milk shed, that you would sleep better knowing there was a man about the place," he continued. "But now you are butting into my business, ma'am. You're saying I can't keep my job. Well, I'm going to keep it, ma'am. And if that means I can't stay here, then ... then let me clear my things out."

  "Milton! Don't be silly," she said. "I don't want you to leave. I've... well, I've grown very fond of you. More than fond of you. I care about you very much. You are to me like, well, like a little brother."

  Her words seemed to please him, but he was adamant. "I've lived under a tree before," he told her. "I can do it again if I have to."

  "I can't let you do that," she said.

  "I don't think you can stop me, ma'am."

  "But don't you see, the gin is no place for impressionable little boys," she said.

  "I ain't so end-pressed no-bull," he answered. "And I like Mr. Chavis. I liked the old man, too. He treated me good. He helped me out. He talked to me about my mama. It was like he cared what happened to me. But the new Mr. Chavis, he likes me. I mean ... well, he talks to me like I was a friend or a relative or something. Me, Sharpy Kilroy, I'm his friend. I ain't about to let him down."

  Pru stood gazing down at the defiant little face before her. Sharpy liked Gidry. He wanted to be around him. He wanted to be like him. He wanted to be a friend or relative to him. She glanced at the framed photogram she still held in her hand. The vague shadowy image caught on light sensitive paper stared back at her. He was a stranger. A stranger that the child pretended was his father. Gidry Chavis was no stranger. Didn't this innocent child deserve his chance to be close to him, despite all?

  "Sharpy," she said, "I will find a way for you to be close to Mr. Chavis. I will find a way for you to see him and talk to him. But I care too much about you to allow you to continue to work at the gin."

  The child's brow furrowed. Pru felt his confusion. He didn't want to lose the safety and security of the simple place he called home. But he was unused to living within the restrictions of people who knew what was best for him.

  "I won't work at the gin," he said finally, "if you promise that I can still see and talk to Mr. Chavis."

  "I promise that you can," Pru said. "But stay away from ... from sordid talk and from ... from all forms of pornography."

  "Yes, ma'am," he agreed eagerly. "I don't care much for it nohow."

  "That's good," she said.

  "And Mr. Chavis," Sharpy added. "He don't look at them much neither."

  "Milton, I don't think ..."

  "I heard folks saying that he used to be your beau," Sharpy informed her.

  Pru froze at his words. She hated being the object of gossip. And being part of eight-year-old gossip was the worst.

  "That was a long time ago," she said simply.

  "Maybe he can be your beau again," Sharpy suggested. "He ain't married at all, and I like him a lot better than that old mealy-mouthed Honnebuzz."

  "Milton, you shouldn't talk that way about people," she said. "And Mr. Chavis will not ever be my ... my beau again."

  "But there ain't no reason why," the child pointed out.

  "There are plenty of reasons that you are far too young to understand," Pru said.

  "I know you're kind of old, ma'am, but you don't need to worry," Sharpy assured her. "I think you're prettier than all them gals in the po-knock-rafee."

  Prudence gasped.

  "It’s true, ma'am, I ain't just saying that cause you've been nice to me neither."

  Pru held on to her composure.

  "Milton, you must never, never compare ladies with the... females portrayed in those postcards," she explained patiently. "Ladies would never do that sort of thing."

  His brow furrowed curiously.

  "They was just getting dressed and taking a bath and stuff," Sharpy pointed out. "Maybe you didn't see them up close, ma'am. Those weren't paintings, those were picture postcards of real ladies. They just didn't have no clothes on."

  "Milton!" Her cheeks were flaming with embarrassment. "There are certain things that are simply not spoken of," she told him sternly. "You must promise me that you will never, ever speak of those postcards again."

  "All right, ma'am," he said.

  "I have your promise?"

  "I promise," he said.

  "Very well," she said. "Now we won't mention it ever again."

  He seemed to be agreeable.

  "Since you no longer work at the gin," Pru said, "I will just simply have to employ you myself. I have an infinite number of jobs that you can do."

  "That's my favorite kind, ma'am," Sharpy assured her. "The in-fun-et jobs."

  Pru smiled warmly at him and ran a loving hand through his tousled hair.

  "Let's begin by getting this place cleaned and straightened. If you are going to keep all these things, you at the very least must establish some sort of order about it."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Gidry awakened at dawn, tired and cranky. He'd spent most of the long night watching Aunt Hen's garden from the darkened window of his father's room. He had listened to the measured even breathing of the older man behind him and thought about the woman in the small house across the lawn.

  They had been in there much of the early evening. She and her secret lover had been alone together in the tiny milk shed. The flickering light visible only faintly through the doorframe and boarded window indicated they were moving around a good deal. Perhaps they were pacing, worrying. Maybe he realized that he'd dropped her wicked invitation; maybe they were anxious about who might see it and if they were to be found out.

  He hoped they were pacing. Other activities that might have caused the light to flicker did not bear contemplation. Perhaps the se
cret lover was having his way with Pru upon the table. Or against the wall. Or both. Fornication could cause a light to flicker. He hoped they were pacing.

  Gidry had come home to supper determined to put the thoughts that plagued him completely out of his mind. He'd taken his dinner with Peer, speaking about the workday past and the one to come, as if Peer Chavis were still his boss, as if the gin were still his operation. Afterward he'd told his father more wild rollicking cowboy tales, one after another until at last, exhausted, the old man had slept. He'd wanted to entertain and cheer Peer Chavis, but more than that, he'd wanted to conceal his own uneasy thoughts.

  This morning, they were not much better. But at least it was daylight. There was work to be done and a purpose to be fulfilled. It was foolish for Gidry to allow such matters as the love affair of the woman next door to concern him. What was he? Some old gossip?

  If Prudence Belmont wanted to engage in some sordid, morally imprudent romance with what was undoubtedly another woman's husband, it was no concern of his own. He certainly didn't want her.

  Well, perhaps he did want her, but only in the very general, very physical way that any man wants a woman when he's not had one in a while. She was not special to him in any way. No, that wasn't true, she certainly was special. But not in that way. Or maybe it was in that way. Gidry could no longer figure it out. In fact, he'd decided, during his long sleepless night, that he didn't understand any of it.

  She was a hypocrite, presenting herself to the people of Chavistown, even to him, as a dull, unattractive spinster. When in fact she was a sinful seductress luring weak men into her moonlit milk shed to break their marriage vows. That couldn't be Pru! But it was; he was certain that it was. Oh, how a person could change in a few years. And she had obviously changed for the worse.

  It was these angry thoughts that were fresh upon his mind as he left his house in the morning and unexpectedly met up with her as she stood apparently waiting for him to pass her front gate.

  "Mr. Chavis, could I please have a word with you?" she asked politely.

  Morning glories bloomed up the arched gate and all along the fence, framing her in a vision of fresh scrubbed tidiness and homey warmth. It was infuriating. The woman had spent an entire evening in heaven-knows-what lascivious sexual pleasures and stood before him now just after dawn, prim, proper and apparently rested.

  It infuriated him.

  "I'm in a hurry," Gidry answered coolly.

  "It will only take a moment," she insisted. "And it is of the utmost urgency."

  He did stop, however reluctantly, but made no attempt to hide his annoyance.

  "Make it quick," he insisted. "I've got cotton waiting.”

  It was evident from the stern way she drew up her mouth that she did not appreciate his brusque manner. She raised her chin slightly in challenge.

  'The Ladies' Rose and Garden Society met on Thursday and ..."

  "Yes, I know all about your little meeting," he interrupted. "In fact, I passed by on my way home from work. The house was lit up like Christmastime, and you could hear the chatter all the way to the street."

  "I'm sure the discussions of the gentlemen of the Commercial Club can get a little loud as well," she said.

  "Yes, of course," he agreed. "But men are brash and noisy by nature. It’s my understanding that ladies are to be quiet and demure."

  "You obviously don't have a close enough association with ladies!" she told him sharply.

  He raised an eyebrow and gave her a long glance from the tip of her toes to the top of her head.

  "I'm very surprised that you would say that, Miss Belmont," he answered snidely. "My association with you was almost close enough to be scandalous."

  That statement took the color out of her cheeks. He watched her flounder momentarily for some sort of appropriate reply.

  Gidry was surprised at himself and sorry for his words. He should never have brought up the past. There was too much there and in it, he was all in the wrong. He regretted his harsh words and knew he should apologize, but he still felt such anger. He felt such inexplicable, irrational anger.

  "I... I do not believe, Mr. Chavis," she retorted bravely, "that any long ago history between the two of us can have any bearing whatsoever on the issue in question today."

  "And what possible issue is that?" he asked. “The community is up against a band of thieves and a bunch of silly, bored females worry that electric lighting will keep them awake all night. Or maybe they are afraid that without total darkness a poor old henpecked husband might actually get a glimpse of the human body without the benefits of corset stays and horsehair bustles."

  "Oh yes, Mr. Chavis, I am aware of your preferences in female attire," she snapped. "Simplicity is too grand a name for its description."

  "I have no idea what you are talking about," he replied.

  Her complexion was florid with embarrassment or anger or perhaps both.

  "What I am talking about is the very essential need for another meeting on the subject of the residential street lighting," she said, appearing to draw her composure by taking a breath.

  "I see no need for any further meeting on the subject," Gidry said.

  'The entire populace is to be affected by this change, Mr. Chavis," she told him. "Surely all the citizens should have an opportunity to speak up about the issues involved."

  He shook his head.

  "A further meeting is totally unnecessary," he told her.

  "It is very necessary," she insisted. "No other view was given a hearing."

  "I don't believe that any other legitimate views exist."

  "You don't believe it without even hearing what we have to say?" She appeared incredulous. "Another meeting is essential, or everyone will be as ignorant on the issue as you seem to be yourself."

  "You might as well get that idea completely out of your mind," he told her. "There will not be another meeting. I will not let it happen."

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  "I mean, Miss Belmont, that I have no intention of allowing you and your female fellow naysayers to stir up some purposeless controversy."

  "Then those in opposition to your judgment are to have no voice in this at all, sir? We are to be offered no public forum?"

  “You want a public forum, Miss Belmont? Ollie Larson has a soapbox," he said. "I suggest you get one for yourself."

  "Aren't you making this a bit personal, Mr. Chavis?" Pru pointed out. "You speak as if I am the only person in opposition."

  "Aren't you?"

  "No indeed, Mr. Chavis," she said. "I formally represent the entire membership of the Ladies' Rose and Garden Society, who voted unanimously to present our perspective to the community."

  "Please reassure the ladies of your little club that they have no cause for concern. They should just leave these things to those who know best."

  Her eyes widened, and her jaw opened in shock at his curt dismissal.

  "Perhaps we would do that, sir, if we had any confidence that the gentlemen of the Commercial Club actually knew best," she retorted.

  "You think that we do not?"

  "I think that due consideration has not been given to all sides."

  "In that you are wrong, Miss Belmont," he answered. "We have thoroughly and thoughtfully considered. And we have come to the conclusion that the only people who will find the illumination of our residential streets unwelcome are those who are engaged in nefarious activities that they would not wish to be brought to light."

  "What on earth do you mean by that?"

  "Exactly what you suspect that I mean, Miss Belmont," he answered. "Good day."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “And you believe that he talked to me in such a manner?" Pru asked her aunt not two hours later as the two aired out the sickroom at the Chavis house.

  That morning Mrs. Butts was claiming that an infirmity of the back prevented her from doing any heavy work, so Prudence had been recruited. For the moment, she regretted the decision. T
he young people had had some sort of tiff, and her niece could not rest until every word, gesture, and expression had been relived, analyzed, and conveyed.

  Henrietta glanced toward Peer who was half-sitting, half-reclining on the mauve damask fainting couch that she had brought up from the front parlor. Peer seemed increasingly unable to catch his breath while sitting upright. The fainting couch was a vast improvement over being always in bed, but without many of the tiring effects of being up in a chair.

  She tucked the coverlet around his shoulders. Although the day was quite warm, she did not want any casual cool breeze to chill him inadvertently. There seemed to be little chance of that, since only insects

  and the incessant pounding noise of the cotton gin moved the air.

  "I can't imagine that Gidry would insult you without provocation," she answered her niece with only the vaguest concern.

  Peer was groggy and sleepy today, not completely himself. It made her uneasy. Rest was a necessary part of the healing process, she hastily assured herself. The listlessness she detected in his eyes was undoubtedly caused by the effort of his body to move toward recovery.

  "You believe I provoked him?" Pru asked her, sounding affronted.

  "I didn't say that," Henrietta replied with a long-suffering sigh. "But I believe that the two of you have more unfinished business than either of you cares to admit."

  "Our personal history has nothing to do with it," her niece insisted. "Surely, as a gardener, you see our point."

  "Don't try to get me into the middle of it, Pru. Yes, perhaps there are things yet unconsidered and questions to be asked," she said. "But apparently you have not broached them correctly with Gidry."

  "I was hardly allowed to broach them at all," Pru told her. "He was insufferable, intolerable, and inconsiderate."

  "You will not convince me that Gidry Chavis is being deliberately difficult. He is not an unreasonable fellow," Aunt Hen declared. "I have known him too long and too well to believe that."

  "We know how he used to be, but I can assure you that this morning he was as unpleasant as any person I have ever encountered."