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

by Pamela Morsi

  "I wanted to thank you for the basket we received," she said calmly, steeling herself to politeness, even as a pain clutched tightly at her. "I gathered from Mrs. Beachum that the idea and much of the gathering was done by you."

  Sophrona waved away the gratitude with a pleasant word. "We all wanted to do it," she said easily. "'A man that hath friends must shew himself friendly,'" she quoted.

  Her smile faded slightly, and she glanced to the side warily. She moved closer to Esme. "Follow me," she whispered. With a guarded look behind her, she grasped Esme's arm and led her toward a deserted corner of the store.

  "Have you seen the new crepe de chine Mr. Rhy has purchased?" she asked Esme with considerably more volume than was necessary. "I declare that color would be perfect for you."

  Walking beside her, Esme gave Sophrona a very puzzled glance. "I could never afford to buy crepe de chine," she whispered, embarrassed.

  "I know," Sophrona answered easily. "I just wanted to speak to you alone. Here it is," she began again more loudly.

  Opening the cabinet into which were neatly stacked the bolts of sturdy rugged materials, Sophrona pulled out the extra-long remnant of rose crepe de chine that a drummer had thrown in with Cleav's last order.

  As the two women reverently ran their hands across the beautiful material, Sophrona spoke. "There's been talk about you and Mr. Rhy."

  "Oh?" Esme felt a blush stain her cheek, and she was grateful that Sophrona kept her eyes on the cloth.

  "I heard a bit at church yesterday," she admitted. "Everyone was determined not to let me find out what was going on, but I know they're saying you've been seen together."

  "I . . ." Esme began but immediately hesitated. Should she explain? Deny? She planned to marry Cleavis Rhy, but perhaps Miss Sophrona did, too.

  "In the afternoon we took tea at Mrs. Rhy's home," Sophrona explained as she leaned forward conspiratorially. "They sent me into the house. Mother said that I needed to fix my hair." Sophrona sighed with exasperation. "Sometimes I wonder if they think I am stupid. I did fix my hair, of course," she said, "but I listened at the parlor window."

  This quiet avowal was made with such seriousness, it sounded as if she were confessing to murder.

  Sophrona raised her eyes to meet Esme's gaze. "I'm not sure exactly what they are accusing you two of," the young woman admitted. "But I want you to know," she said firmly, "I don't believe a word of it."

  Taking Esme's hand in her own, Sophrona gave it a warm squeeze.

  Cleav was never more grateful to leave the suddenly close confines of the store for the freedom of the fish ponds. When his mother arrived, she had looked even more horrified than the reverend at the sight of Esme Crabb making herself at home.

  "Son," the preacher had said quietly as they had watched the two young women admiring a piece of dress goods, "just having her here in the building with you is fodder for the gossips."

  "I can't throw her out," Cleav said reasonably. "If the girl doesn't steal or cause trouble, she's got as much right to be in the store as anyone else."

  "You think she's not causing trouble?" The preacher looked skeptical.

  Cleav couldn't argue with the man about that. In the town's eyes Esme Crabb was causing trouble.

  "Is that girl addled?" his mother had asked. "She acts like she works here."

  "She's trying to help out," Cleav explained hesitantly.

  "Help out?" His mother spoke as if the idea horrified her.

  "Just ignore her. Mother," Cleav advised. "She'll soon tire of this nonsense."

  "I hope she tires of it before she makes us the talk of the town!"

  Cleav hoped the same.

  As customary, he gathered the fish food from the meat house, deliberately trying to quiet thoughts of Esme Crabb. If he had to put up with her unsettling presence across the room from him all morning, surely he earned the privilege of not thinking of her at all in the afternoon.

  Feeding the brood fish, Cleav had just finished with the females and had moved upstream to the pond of smaller, more active males. The boys were swirling excitedly in anticipation of the feast when a movement to the left caught Cleav's attention. No.

  Leaning up against the juniper tree, Esme Crabb was bent forward, casually adjusting her stocking.

  "Would you stop that!" Cleav's voice cracked through the quiet droning of the bees and distant call of birds to startle Esme.

  She jumped, dropping her skirt hastily.

  "You scared me!" she complained, placing a hand just below her throat.

  "Well, something ought to. You shouldn't be pulling your dress up like that in broad daylight!" Cleav shot back.

  "No one's around," Esme said with conviction.

  "I am around!" Cleav's anger was unmistakable.

  "Yeah," Esme said with a naughty grin. "But you've already seen my legs."

  Cleav paled. Glancing guiltily toward the surrounding hills, he jumped to his feet and hurried toward her. "Are you out of your mind?" he asked in a furious whisper. "If someone heard you, there is no telling what they would think."

  Esme cocked a hip and set a fist obstinately against it. "I know exactly what they'd think," she said. "They'd think you'd already seen my legs, which you have. And I don't believe for a minute that you think they are as skinny as you let on. You liked 'em plenty well enough. You was near drooling like a starving man at a box supper."

  Cleav stood speechless before her for a moment. Then he closed his eyes in a silent prayer for patience. "Miss Esme, I am sure that you are as aware as I of the indecency of this conversation."

  "It's a private conversation," Esme answered him. "There ain't no use us pretending we don't know what's happening between us."

  Cleav took a step backward and then spread his hands in a hasty gesture as if to wipe clean an invisible slate. "There is nothing happening between us, Miss Crabb," he said emphatically. "Absolutely nothing."

  He turned from her. Why had he thought this young woman bright? She was proving to be the most thick-headed female he had ever encountered. He would simply walk away from this woman and ignore her completely in the future.

  "You call that kiss you gave me nothing?"

  Cleav spun around, his mouth opened in shock. "I never kissed you!"

  "Did so!" she claimed obstinately. "Right here on this very spot one week ago today! Two people with their mouths together are kissing," Esme said with pretense of grand sophistication. "It makes no difference who starts it."

  "It makes a world of difference!" Cleav shot back. "At least, it does to me. You can't just throw yourself against me and claim you've been kissed. Believe me, when I kiss you, you will know it."

  "You are planning to kiss me then?" Esme was all smiles, obviously delighted.

  "No! I never said that!"

  "I heard you with my own ears."

  "I never stated any such intention."

  "You said 'when,' and when means something that's sure to happen," Esme argued with the sound logic of one who usually wins such discussions.

  Cleav looked directly into her eyes. "I plan to see to it that it doesn't."

  "Why?" Esme asked, genuinely aggrieved.

  "Why what?"

  "Why do you plan to 'see to it' that you don't kiss me? You want to kiss me but you're holding yourself back?"

  His jaw dropped in shock. "Where do you get these ideas!"

  "From the way you look at me."

  "I don't look at you at all!"

  "Now, that's a bald-faced lie," Esme said unequivocally. "You watch me every day in the store when I'm tightening my stockings."

  The blush that stained his cheeks was understandable, but she suspected it was caused by fury, not embarrassment. "Any woman who displays herself in such a wanton fashion can't complain if a man takes a look!"

  "I didn't say I was complaining," Esme corrected as she walked toward him. "I like feeling your eyes on me. It makes me go all tender inside, and I feel kind of dangerous."

  "You
are dangerous!" Cleav cursed under his breath.

  Esme's reply was a self-satisfied smile.

  Turning away from her, Cleav forced himself to continue his work. He felt her presence. She was humming lightly. The cheery tune irritated him further. He would ignore her. It was the only way. He could feel his heart pounding and the blood rushing through his veins as if he'd run a half mile straight up the mountain.

  It wasn't as if kissing Esme Crabb was an unthinkable idea. In fact, that very thought had already occurred to him on numerous occasions in the last week. He remembered all too clearly the sweet, clean smell of her hair as she sat so close. And the vivid memory of her shapely, stocking-covered calf held before him almost dared his inspection. If that wasn't disturbing enough, more than one night his sleep had been bedeviled by the hot remembrance of that one shocking moment when the crux of his body had fitted itself so intimately against hers.

  Cleav finished feeding the brooders and catwalked between the male and female ponds to the larger, deeper pool on the far side. Here the year-old trout were being fattened, he didn't stop to feed these fish by hand but simply scattered the meat across the top of the water like a farmer sowing seed.

  Glancing back, he saw that Esme was still following him like a shadow, and he gave a sigh of disgust.

  He wanted her; there was no use in denying that. But a man couldn't always just take what he wanted.

  As he watched her navigate the catwalk, the slight breeze pressed her skirt, unencumbered by the usual requisite of a half-dozen petticoats, closely against her long slim legs and thighs.

  Momentarily a little devil on Cleav's shoulder whispered, “Why not have her?" Even the most civilized of gentlemen sowed a share of wild oats before settling down. She made no secret of wanting him, and he was bound by no vows or even promises. It could be mutually beneficial to both of them. A bit of illicit pleasure for him; she might even enjoy it herself, and maybe a small gift when they parted? Then his thoughts took off. Some cash money could sure come in handy for her. Maybe she could buy herself some new clothes or he could help her set herself up in a little business of some kind. He'd already seen she had a good head for it.

  That bit of nonsensical thinking riled his conscience. What type of business could a ruined woman set up for herself in this town? he was forced to ask himself angrily. He swore at his own lack of scruples.

  Esme Crabb was a decent woman. She had spent her whole life struggling to take care of her family. What she needed was a good, steady, hardworking husband to take care of her. And she would never find one by being the storekeeper's fancy piece.

  And it was not as if such an arrangement could be kept secret. If he so much as pinched her fanny, every man, woman, and child in Vader would know it. The two of them were already the talk of the town when nothing had happened at all!

  She came up behind him, and he turned to look at her. She wasn't a beauty like Sophrona, but she was pretty in her own way. Her face was suntanned and ordinary, but her features were agreeable. The curves of her bosom and hip were not stunning, but they were distinctly feminine. And her legs ... a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. It was a good thing propriety said limbs should be covered, else Miss Esme's legs could cause a riot.

  She smiled back at him, so naively, so foolishly full of hope.

  Oh, how he wanted to feel those legs wrapped around his waist. Clinging, grasping, begging for pleasure from his body. A man would sacrifice a lot for that. But not everything. Cleav desired her. That was certain. He even liked her, or he would if she weren't always in his hair. But he didn't desire to marry her.

  And a gentleman would protect a lady's virtue, even when the lady wasn't so keen on protecting it herself.

  "You want to feed the fish?" he asked finally. His smile was the warmest and most welcoming Esme had seen from him in days.

  Her eyes widened with delight, and a blush reddened her cheeks. Clearly, she recalled her last opportunity at the task with pleasure. "Yes, I'd like that very much." Her words were an uncharacteristically gentle whisper.

  The sweet sincerity of her words nearly made Cleav discard his current plan to simply make her a friend and settle for the former, less savory option. But determinedly he hardened his heart.

  "Good," he answered and handed her the bucket. "Just scatter the meat on the top of the water, and the fish will get it."

  At her startled expression he continued. "The table trout aren't tame enough to hand-feed. And besides, you wouldn't want to get to know somebody you might be cutting up for the frying skillet." He looked up at the sun. "There's a world of things I need to be doing at the store."

  "But—" Esme's vague protest went ignored.

  "Be sure to rinse the bucket good and then carry all of the equipment back to the meat house," he said as he turned to go.

  Words deserted her completely, and she could only stare open-mouthed at him as he walked away.

  "Oh," he called over his shoulder before he was out of range. "If you're planning to come back inside when you're finished, you be sure to wash yourself up real good. I don't want you smelling up my store with the stink of fish."

  Chapter Seven

  Esmeralda Crabb eased her way past the mountain hobble-bush and rhododendron to the still, small pool held within the ancient roots of a towering hemlock. Careful to hold her dress back from the water, she leaned over to assess herself. She had no glass with which to judge herself, only the vague reflection of the cool water to act as a mirror.

  Quietly, in the silence of the late Saturday afternoon, she studied herself in her new dress. Then, slowly, a tiny tear slipped out of the side of her eye. "Save to graces, I'm beautiful," she whispered softly to the forest around.

  Wiping the tear away, a smile was next. A big smile. And then a laugh. With a hurried, happy step she made her way back to the path, where she stopped to twirl around giddily. The new white dress swirled about her, making a startling contrast to the sprouting green all around.

  Esme giggled at her own foolishness. Who ever heard of a woman dancing for joy at the mere sight of herself? Still, she couldn't quite tamp down her enthusiasm.

  The twins had done wonders for the dress. It fit her perfectly now. The neat little bodice pleats beautifully accented her waist, which was attractively girded with a sash made from the leftover material from the outrageously oversize bustline. The kickflounce at mid-calf was also the twins' design. The flounce not only made the petite little gown long enough for Esme, it also served to draw attention to her legs, which she'd just recently discovered were her best feature.

  Lifting her skirts slightly, she stared down at her old worn work shoes. It was the only mar, but couldn't be helped, she decided. It was work shoes or barefoot, and work shoes were infinitely better. Raising her chin in mock haughtiness, she daintily raised one side of her skirt, the way she imagined great ladies did, and began to promenade resolutely down the mountain path.

  Raising her voice in triumphant challenge, she sang,

  "Oh Katy was pretty

  And so was her legs.

  She sewed up her stocking with needle and thread.

  The thread it was rotten, the needle was blunt ..."

  As far as Esme was concerned, this was the most important night of her life. She'd been hoping all week that Cleav would ask her to the taffy pull. He hadn't, and she'd been a little disappointed about that. He was, however, letting her help in the store and with the fish. Sometimes too much. The jobs that would keep her away from him the longest were always the ones that he wanted her to do.

  But she'd done them uncomplainingly. Whatever he'd asked, Esme Crabb had barreled right in and done whatever was necessary to please him. Esme thought it strange, however, that he never seemed too pleased.

  She knew he'd be pleased tonight. How could he not? She was prettier than she'd ever been in her life. Why, she was just about as pretty as anybody she'd ever seen. The twins had seen to that.

  They'd woken her
early this morning to take her bath in the creek. Afterward they'd rinsed her hair in rainwater and crushed violets. While it was still damp, Adelaide had curled it up in rags. It had taken nearly all day to dry all tied up that way, but the result was worth it. Now dark blond ringlets flowed freely down her back like a waterfall with nothing to stay their course but the loosely tied satin ribbon that Armon had given Agrippa last Christmas.

  The twins, too, had plans for the taffy pull. Since it was Saturday, Armon was to escort Adelaide, and Agrippa was coming with Pa. Pa had been rosining up the bow all afternoon, so Esme knew to anticipate plenty of music.

  A pretty dress, fancy hair, and a satin ribbon. The only thing missing was a handsome beau to take her arm. Esme was confident she'd have that, too.

  Her evening was laid out perfectly in her mind. Cleav would be attending the taffy pull at the church tonight. Esme would show up, as always, to follow him. As pretty as she looked tonight, he'd be purdy foolish not to just let her walk along next to him. Once all the folks had seen them arrive together, it'd be the same as if they were walking out.

  She didn't expect him to walk her home, of course. But, surely, he'd be wanting to see her to the woods path. If for no other reason than to finally get that kiss he'd been thinking about.

  Esme knew he'd been thinking about kissing her. For herself, well, she could barely think of anything else! She had to continually remind herself that the kissing part was only a means to an end. She was marrying Cleavis Rhy and moving her family into that big house. But she had to admit that proving to him that she was worth kissing was going to be a whole lot more fun than proving she could take care of the store.

  Stopping by the edge of the path, she saw sprigs of wild phlox growing in the shade of a May apple. That's what she needed, color, she decided. She hastily pulled a handful and slipped a couple into the ribbon at the nape of her neck. Carefully she tucked a half dozen into the sash at her waist. The rest she gathered together in her hand for a small bouquet.

  Flowers made a woman so feminine, she thought. And the pale purple would clear up the muddy blue of her eyes. When she reached the end of the path, she made a hasty adjustment to her drooping stockings, then set off toward the big white house.