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

by Pamela Morsi

  "I know what a shivaree is, Cleavis," his mother replied sharply. "I've lived in these mountains all my life. Your father had to get me down out of a tree, and we both were covered with poison oak." Her eyes stared out into nothingness for a moment as if she were recalling the unpleasant incident fondly. Then, looking at the young couple at the bottom of the stairs, she actually smiled.

  As if the memory of her youth had somehow fortified her, the older woman pulled up the sleeves of her wrapper and headed downstairs.

  "You'll both be needing baths, no doubt," she said practically. "Esme, do come help me get the water heated."

  Chapter Twelve

  What a way to start a marriage! Esme thought to herself as she helped Mrs. Rhy draw water for their bath.

  "We can just have a basin bath," she had assured her new mother-in-law. But the older woman was having nothing to do with it.

  "Lord only knows what kind of vermin you're bringing to my clean sheets," Eula Rhy had declared.

  Esme gasped in shock. Mrs. Rhy hastily attempted an explanation. "I mean the both of you all muddy from the shivaree!" she corrected. "A couple only gets one wedding night. The least it ought to be is clean."

  Esme thought that if a couple got only one wedding night, the least it ought to be is alone.

  It had taken the better part of an hour to heat enough water for a tub bath. Chivalrously, Cleav allowed Esme to bathe first.

  The water felt delicious, and Esme was tired, but she couldn't quite relax. She was in Eula Rhy's kitchen, and the older woman showed no inclination to leave her alone with her thoughts. Esme was trapped stark naked in the bathtub as Mrs. Rhy explained Cleavis, his life and family, and Eula's own personal philosophy of marriage. "Things are different today than when I married," she told Esme. "In my day a couple really knew each other and the families were all agreed before the wedding even took place." The older woman shook her head in disapproval. "Now, you and Cleavy don't know the first thing about each other," she said.

  "Oh, but we do," Esme insisted. "I've been watching Cleavis for weeks, studying him. I know everything about him."

  Eula Rhy snorted in disbelief. "That's obviously not the truth, young woman, or you would have never married him."

  Esme's mouth dropped open in shock. "Why do you say that?"

  "You seem like a fairly intelligent girl, Esme. If you really knew Cleav, you'd have seen how totally unsuited for him you are."

  Esme held her tongue with great effort.

  "My son is a gentleman," Eula continued. "His life revolves around the finer things and higher thoughts. A mate for such a man should be as refined and conversant as he is."

  Esme's jaw was tight as she scrubbed with diligence. Someone like Sophrona Tewksbury, she thought to herself but refused to utter the words.

  "Heaven knows," Mrs. Rhy had rambled on, "it hasn't been easy for me. My late husband was a common man. He'd been to school, of course, and knew a lot about the business. But he never worried about who he was or his place in the world. Our people just weren't like that." Eula gave a tired sigh as she considered the memory.

  "But, Cleavis ..." She shook her head. "Let me tell you, Esme Crabb, that once Cleavy had been to that school in Knoxville, why, he knew everything about everything and wanted the best of all of it."

  "My name isn't Crabb anymore," Esme said quietly. "It's Rhy."

  Casting a wary eye at the young woman in the tub, Eula shook her head disapprovingly. "You are not at all what he had in mind when he thought of marrying."

  Esme raised her chin defiantly. "Well, maybe not," she admitted grudgingly. "But we's married now, and I know Cleav well enough to know he won't back down from his vows."

  "Of course he wouldn't!" her mother-in-law agreed with a haughty tone that said such a thing was foolish even to suggest.

  "I'm learning to help out about the store," Esme told her proudly. "And I know some about his fish, and I'm real interested in that."

  "His fish!" Eula Rhy chuckled with disdain. "Those fish are the biggest bunch of foolishness that Cleavis ever involved himself with. There are fish aplenty in the river. There is certainly no call to try raising them like chickens."

  "That's probably what the mother of the man who decided to tame the first rooster thought, too."

  Eula raised an eyebrow at her daughter-in-law's unexpected defense of Cleav. But young Mrs. Rhy could apparently be counted upon to do the unexpected.

  "You married my son for his pecuniary fettle and social position," Eula said evenly. "I fear that you will both find that it takes more than wedding vows to make a marriage."

  Sloshing the soap from herself, Esme could think of no appropriate reply. It was not a fact that she could dispute. She'd chosen Cleav for his big white house. It was too late to deny it. Already having a glimpse of the disparity between them—Cleav regarding her mother's fine tablecloth as little more than a rag—Esme wondered if she'd made a mistake.

  In all her planning and scheming, she'd never thought past the wedding. And she'd fully expected Cleav to fall in love with her and ask her to be his wife. Having a pair of garters intervene in her favor had thrown molasses in the churn. No matter how thick and hard to paddle, it seemed the combination would never turn to butter.

  Esme rose to her feet. Mrs. Rhy, apparently unsatisfied with Esme's ablutions, picked up a bucket and poured the warmed water over the young woman's head.

  The rush of water was not unpleasant, but it was a surprise. Esme had the bad manners to shake off the excess like a dog, splattering Eula Rhy, who gave a cry of disgust.

  "Here!" she snapped, handing the young woman a towel. "Don't you even know how to take a bath?"

  "I take them mostly in the river," Esme admitted. "I don't really approve of sitting in a big vat of hot dirty suds," she declared with as great a degree of hauteur as she could muster.

  Clothed in Eula Rhy's soft cotton challis wrapper, Esme followed her new mother-in-law to the front hallway. The two came up short at finding Cleav seated on the stairs.

  "Good heavens! What are you doing out here, Cleavy?"

  His forehead was furrowed with worry. "I was waiting to take Esme up to our room."

  "Oh, I can do that!" Mrs. Rhy said impatiently. "You go ahead and get your bath."

  Cleav looked ready to argue, but Eula whisked past him, her arm firmly around Esme's waist, leading her upstairs.

  "The furniture in this room came all the way from North Carolina," Eula told her as they stepped across the threshold. "Cleavis has very fashionable taste but an eye to quality. All of these pieces were hand-lathed from native black walnut."

  Esme gazed with awe at the massive pieces of dark furniture. There were enough shelves and drawers to hide everything in the town of Vader. The huge wardrobe had a beveled glass mirror. The bed was wider and longer than any Esme had ever seen, and the headboard touched the ceiling.

  "Save to graces, it's a palace!" Her whispered exclamation was so horrified, Eula Rhy turned to look at her curiously.

  "Wasn't that what you wanted?"

  Before Esme had time to answer, she found herself alone.

  "I didn't expect a palace!" she answered the empty room. "I only wanted a good sturdy roof over my family's head." Even as she said it, the words rang false.

  Somewhere between that first day in the General Merchandise and the "I do" she'd spoken earlier in the evening, Esme had fallen in love. But she knew, as she ran her hand along the pristine chenille bedspread, that she hadn't fallen for a man with a palace. She was in love with a man who was so gentle, he could call the fish to come eat from his hand.

  She smiled as she recalled the memory. Sitting in his shadow, she'd felt so safe, so calm. It was as if the world had been lifted from her shoulders. As long as she was within his shadow, he would take care of her.

  Take care of her? Esme smiled and shook her head. What a strange idea. Esme took care of everyone. She had no need for someone to take care of her.

  With
that, sweet memory floated in the remembrance of the other emotions of that day. The tingle that coursed through her as she became aware of his nearness. The catch in her breathing as she felt his breath on her neck. And the anxious jitters of anticipation that caused her to throw herself right into his arms.

  Esme suppressed a nervous giggle and covered her pink cheeks with her hand. From this night on she would be in his arms, for better or worse, for the rest of their lives.

  With that thought Esme scrambled into her bedclothes and braided her hair. Leaving one coal-oil lamp to light his way, she arranged herself in the big dark bed and waited with trembling anticipation for her husband.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  She awakened when the other side of the bed dipped with his weight. The lamp had gone out and the room was dark as pitch.

  "Cleav?" The question was a startled exclamation.

  "Who else would it be?" His tone was tight with displeasure.

  "No one," Esme answered in a small voice.

  He lay down beside her and sighed loudly.

  Wide awake now, Esme held herself as stiff as a board. This was their wedding night. He would make her his woman. But Cleav didn't move.

  Maybe she should reach out to him, she thought. No, she'd thrown herself into his arms once before. Tonight he would have to reach for her. He would reach for her. When would he reach for her?

  The minutes trickled past like hours, and Esme's whole body was rigid with anticipation.

  The suspense became too much, and she spoke. "Cleav, I . . ." She had no idea how to continue. He had married her against his will. He didn't love her. Perhaps he didn't even want her.

  "Cleav, I . . ."

  He rolled to his side, facing away from her.

  "Good night, Esme," he said.

  "Good night."

  Cleavis Rhy yawned broadly and then shook his head as if to clear it. Glancing down to the tablet he carried, he carefully wrote in the number of tins of wool fat that he'd found on the shelf. He hadn't planned on doing inventory today. But he'd never seen a better day for it.

  Apparently, every soul in Vader either expected the store to be closed or weren't tempted to venture too close. Cleav would have welcomed a bustling business. He had no desire to be alone with his thoughts. His thoughts were too troubling.

  "Stupid, clumsy clodhopper!" he muttered to himself. He'd thought with his trousers instead of his brain! He deserved exactly what he'd gotten! He sighed derisively at himself. He'd gotten exactly nothing!

  "You have made your bed, and now you have to lie in it," his mother had declared last night.

  "Lying in it" was exactly what Cleav had planned to do as he'd hurried through his bath. However, his mother had stopped him on his way upstairs.

  "I wish to speak with you in the parlor, Cleavis," she'd said in her most disagreeably haughty tone.

  Cleav was not a man to be bullied about by his mother, but long years of experience in dealing with Eula Rhy's snits had taught him to let her speak her piece. Otherwise, he would never hear the end of it.

  "Of course, Mother," he'd answered politely and indicated that she should precede him across the threshold.

  Walking across the room to lean with studied casualness against the mantel, he gestured toward her favorite chair. "Please sit," he told her. "It's very late and I'm sure that you are tired."

  Eula Rhy made herself comfortable before she realized she'd been outmaneuvered. It was going to be very disconcerting—and not very effective—to scold her son while looking up at him. "You have married this young woman in good faith," she began adamantly.

  Cleav nodded agreement.

  "Needless to say, she is not what I had in mind for you. I very much doubt that she is what you had in mind for yourself."

  "That's neither here nor there, Mother," Cleav said. "The deed is done."

  "It certainly is," Eula agreed. "She'll undoubtedly turn our home into her own, as is her right as your wife. Have you thought about that?"

  Cleav looked annoyed. "What are you suggesting, Mother?" he asked. "Esme is a very intelligent young woman. If you think she'll be raising chickens in the pantry and hogs in the dining room, I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment."

  Eula Rhy raised an assessing eyebrow. "I'm glad to hear you defend her. You'll undoubtedly be doing a great deal of that in the future."

  Cleav closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sure my wife and I will have our share of problems to work out," he said evenly. "Like all couples, time and familiarity are in our favor."

  Mrs. Rhy gave a lofty snort that could only be described as a huff. "Time and familiarity are not usually the only things newlyweds have to base a future upon," she told him.

  "There are other things," Cleav defended hastily.

  "Name one?" she challenged.

  One thing immediately came to mind, but Cleav was loath to speak it to his mother.

  "Well . . . there's ..." he dissembled.

  "Do you love her?" The question snapped at him like a whip.

  "I . . ." he hesitated. "I believe that she loves me," he said finally.

  The older woman gave him a moue of disbelief. "She loves you or she loves a fine house and nice clothes?"

  Cleav's mouth thinned to a line of displeasure. "Esme is not like that, Mother," he said with complete confidence. In his mind's eye he could see her sitting in his shadow at the pond. Her eyes sparkling with delight as she watched the fish and then darkening with desire before she threw herself in his arms.

  "She cares for me, Mother. Do you find that so hard to believe?"

  Eula Rhy looked her son up and down as if to take his measure. "I believe she might think that she loves you," his mother admitted. "But even that won't last long if you continue to trample her pride as casually as you did her mother's hand-crocheted tablecloth."

  Even this morning, as he counted the salves and drops on the medicine shelf, the truth of his mother's words continued to haunt him. He'd pulled Esme tight against him with all the finesse of a green farm boy at a house of ill repute. His desire had led him to act crassly.

  He'd been so anxious to bed her he'd insulted her, a thing that had never happened to him before. Rightly she'd foisted him off with an argument about the tablecloth.

  That was why he had lain beside her last night without attempting to claim his rights as bridegroom. This morning, however, he wondered if that had been a mistake. After living through a night of sheer torture, breathing the sweet smell of her hair on the pillow, he remembered that his baser nature seemed to be one of the things she liked best.

  His thoughts drifted toward a plan of action. Beginning a marriage without a wedding night was not particularly promising. Especially when in-the-bed affection was the most that he had to offer her.

  As his mind conjured the possibilities, he was interrupted by the bell over the front door. "Come on in, we're open," he called out.

  "I know," a small voice answered.

  Cleav turned as his wife approached him. Stepping behind the counter, she casually made her way along the shelves, hesitating occasionally to straighten a jar or examine a tin. Slowly, almost shyly, she made her way toward him, her fingers running lightly across the polished oak countertop as if gathering strength from those things familiar.

  She was scrubbed and shiny but wearing her usual threadbare attire. Cleav, however, thought only of the things he'd planned to say.

  "I'm ..." the two began simultaneously.

  A slightly embarrassed giggle was shared.

  "Ladies first," Cleav suggested.

  "No, you go ahead," Esme offered quickly.

  Cleav absently checked the shine on his shoes as he answered. "I'm sorry about last night," he said simply.

  Esme's cheeks flamed bright red. Was he apologizing for his inattention in their bed? Her pulse beat so vigorously in her throat, Esme nearly choked.

  "I'm very glad that you've brought your mother's tablecloth to our hou
se, Esme."

  He looked up at her then. His eyes, so deep and blue, were sincere.

  Esme nearly gasped at her own foolishness. Of course he had been talking about their argument, she assured herself disdainfully.

  "You were right, really," Esme answered with feigned calm. "Your mother undoubtedly has many tablecloths, and most of them will be better than the one my mother made."

  "But your mother made it," Cleav answered. "That's the point after all. This is your home now, and you certainly should bring your things into it" Cleav looked at the woman before him and wondered how to proceed. "I spoke foolishly last night" he began, "because I'm a foolish man. I was thinking more about kissing your lips than about the words that were coming from them."

  Esme's eyes widened, and the lips he spoke of parted prettily in surprise.

  "You were?" What was she to say? She had wanted to kiss him, too. She had wanted more than kissing, she admitted to herself. She wanted to feel the strength of his arms around her again. She wanted . . . she wanted everything. Their time was not lost. Their shaky start would not set them back. Esme refused to allow either to happen.

  Without giving herself a chance to think about her actions, the new bride raised herself on her tiptoes and softly pressed her mouth against her husband's.

  At Cleav's startled reaction, Esme's hopes sank. "I know I don't do it right," she admitted and lowered her head shamefully.

  Cleav's eyes softened. "You're a bright young woman," Cleav told her easily as his arms encircled her. "All it takes is a little practice, and I'm willing to do my part."

  Bending his head slowly forward until her lips were only a hair's breadth from his own, he hesitated. "This is my part," he whispered.

  Teasing his mouth slightly over hers, he captured the fullness of her upper lip between his teeth. Tenderly tugging with playful passion, he urged her mouth open. Then he captured the warmth therein.

  "Mmmm, you taste so good," he murmured.

  Esme didn't reply. This time she returned the embrace more slowly. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stroked the fine brown hair that was perfectly trimmed at the nape of his neck.