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

by Pamela Morsi

  Esme felt a clump of fear gnawing at the back of her throat. She could never be Sophrona Tewksbury, never in a dozen lifetimes.

  She glanced over at Cleavis. She wished he could hold her, kiss her, tell her that she was beautiful. But marriage, she reminded herself, doesn't take place only in the bedroom. She'd have to learn to be his wife in every way.

  The preacher's words were completely lost on her as Esme continued with her own thoughts throughout the service. She turned once to see her father and sisters come in the door, late as usual. But the rest of the time she tried to look as if she were paying attention. Sitting in the front of the church did not afford a person the opportunity for wool gathering that was enjoyed by those on the last pew.

  Finally, it was over, and Esme hoped to make a quick escape.

  "Well, don't you look just shiny as a new penny." Pearly Beachum spoke up loudly as she embraced Esme like a long-lost daughter.

  "Thank you," Esme choked out. The woman's bear hug had nearly taken the breath from her.

  "Come take a look at this dress, Wilma," Mrs. Beachum encouraged another woman.

  As the two women "oohed" and "ahhed" over the fabric. Pearly leaned forward to whisper in her ear, "I bet those silly-minded sisters of yours are pea-green with envy."

  Esme was first startled, then angered. Did these old gossips think that now that she was married to Cleavis Rhy, she was no longer one of the Crabb family?

  “Excuse me,'' she said as haughtily as she could manage. "I need to speak to my family. I haven't seen them for a week." Hurriedly, almost desperately, Esme made her way through the crush to her father's side.

  "Mornin', Pa," she said, planting a kiss on Yo's not-too-recently shaven cheek.

  "Well, if it isn't my little married gal," her father said, chuckling. "You're looking right pretty this morning, Esme-girl. I 'spect that old Rhy ain't taken to beatin' you yet."

  "He would never beat me," she proclaimed with mock outrage. "He is a very gentle and kind man." Blushing with a nervous glance at her hands, Esme added, "I'm very happy, Pa."

  The old man nodded, pleased. "It's good to hear that, for sure," he said. "You deserve some happily-ever-after if ever a woman did."

  "Oh, Esme!" The twins greeted her with shrieking giggles and a thousand questions.

  "Your dress is wonderful," Adelaide proclaimed.

  "Do you have others? When can we come and see?" Agrippa asked.

  Esme fended off their questions as well as she could and took her leave, promising a long visit soon.

  Cleav was waiting for her.

  "You didn't have to hurry," he told her as she took his arm. "Mother is lunching with the Tewksburys. I told them we'd prefer to be alone."

  His smile was warm and winning, but Esme was too wrapped up in her own concerns to notice.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes as Esme attempted to make order of the chaos in her mind.

  "When can my family move in with us?" she blurted out suddenly.

  "What?"

  "When can my family move in? We've been married a week already. Don't you think that's time enough for us to be alone?"

  Cleav's brows furrowed in concern. When he'd married Esme, he'd never given her family much of a thought. Was he really expected to take them in?

  "I'm not sure that your family should move in with us," Cleav began cautiously.

  Esme's eyes widened as she turned to look at him. "Why ever not?" she asked.

  Not exactly sure how to answer that, Cleav wavered. "It's not really that customary for the bride's family to move in."

  "I don't care about customary," Esme said. "I'm thinking about my family."

  "Don't you wish to be alone with me? I'd gotten the impression that our privacy was something you valued."

  "I do value it," she insisted. "But my family won't make our lives any more or less private. Your mother already lives with us."

  "Would you have me throw my mother into the street?"

  "Of course not!" Esme was as angry now as she was adamant. "I wouldn't want to throw your mother into the street, and you shouldn't want my family to be living in a cave!"

  Cleav hardly knew how to argue that. In his entire life he had never seen a home that was less habitable than Yohan Crabb's mountain cave.

  "Certainly I want to help your family," Cleav began tentatively. "I guess I just hadn't thought of it."

  "You hadn't thought of it?" Esme was in a genuine snit. "How selfish you must think me."

  "Selfish?"

  "Did you think that I would marry you to live in that big house of yours just for myself?"

  Cold fear cut through Cleavis like a knife.

  "Sitting up in that cave," Esme continued without noticing his darkening expression, "I saw this big old house with just you and your mother, and I knew there'd be plenty of room for my whole family."

  "Of course," Cleav answered very quietly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once Cleav had agreed to let her family move in, Esme was genuinely startled by his rush to make that happen. Sunday afternoon he'd left her in the store to pick out whichever fabrics she liked for her new dresses while he went up the mountain to talk to Crabb.

  "You are absolutely right," he'd insisted with a strange new coldness. “My in-laws cannot live in a cave in the hills. Especially with all the sacrifices you've made."

  Esme wasn't sure what he meant by "sacrifices." She supposed he was talking about all the years she'd cooked and cleaned for them. She started to ask him but wasn't given time to discuss it. A moment later, Cleav was off and gone.

  By Tuesday her father and sisters had moved into the big house and Eula Rhy had taken to her bed with another attack.

  "Bring the twins to the store to pick out some fabric, too," Cleav told her. "The three of you can spend the summer sewing up your new wardrobes."

  Esme had wanted to spend the summer getting to know her husband. "You're too generous," she protested, but Cleav ignored her.

  "Your father will need clothes, also," he insisted. "We can't have him looking like a vagabond."

  Esme was cut by Cleav's coldness and concerned by his quiet. With all the activity of the move, it was natural, Esme had decided, that they didn't have as much time together. But waiting alone in her bed at night while he sat up in the library made her worry.

  Once she'd made her argument, Cleav clearly wanted her family better housed and better dressed. But she no longer knew his motivation. Was it because he cared for her? Or because he was ashamed of her?

  As these thoughts came to her mind, she tried to discard them as unworthy. Cleav was a kind, gentle, loving man. He was not so vain that he would look down on their poverty.

  Still, the thought nagged Esme. His speech, his dress, his house were all constructed to present him as a gentleman. His wife and her family, however, were a definite step backward.

  Her mother-in-law's words haunted her: "If you really knew Cleav, you'd see how totally unsuited for him you are." Esme was afraid that perhaps Mrs. Rhy was right. Maybe she didn't know Cleav as well as she thought. And maybe she really was unsuitable.

  Before she married, she'd only wanted what was best for her family. Now she only wanted what was best for Cleav. Maybe a lady was what was best. She was only a half-wild hill girl.

  "But I can change!" she declared to herself adamantly. With Cleav's money, she could dress as nice as anyone in town. And her family could, too. They were simple mountain folk, but they could dress and talk as fancy as they pleased. Esme was sure of it. With that as her goal Esme's life was as busy as it had ever been.

  The elder Mrs. Rhy was now seemingly permanently ensconced in her bed. Esme ran errands for the older woman all day long. In part because, never having been ill herself, Esme couldn't imagine how terrible it might be. And also, because she hoped in some way to prove to Cleav's mother that she could be a good wife and daughter-in-law. However, as the weeks passed, Eula Rhy seemed no closer to being won over
.

  With a household of six to clean for and cook for and clothe, Esme found little time to be with Cleav at the store. And even less time to help him with the fish. It seemed they rarely had a moment alone—no more quiet conversations, no more secret sharing.

  Esme missed their closeness but realized it must be her fault. Perhaps after getting used to the novelty, Cleav had decided her conversation was boring. Or perhaps her manners were too crude. Perhaps she wasn't really pretty.

  Perhaps he could never love her.

  That thought would catch in her throat and sting her eyes. She would make him love her, she vowed. She would be whatever he wanted her to be.

  Only those special nights gave her surcease. Those nights when he couldn't keep away from her. Those nights when they loved each other until they couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Only those nights gave her hope.

  No man could express such care, such tenderness, if he had no feeling, Esme assured herself.

  She simply had to make herself more worthy of him. She flinched at her own words. All her life she'd held her chin high, daring the world to condemn her for her name and her poverty. Now she had finally realized that it was her own finger that pointed to her so derisively.

  Shaking her head in dismay, Esme folded the wad of bread dough on the floured board and slammed it with the heel of her hand.

  "You're doing it again, Esme-girl," her father warned.

  Esme looked curiously at the dough for his meaning. "Doing what?" she asked.

  "Taking care of everybody but yourself," Yo replied with genuine impatience.

  She shook her head dismissively.

  "I don't mind," she said.

  "What about your husband?" her father asked. "Does he mind you working dawn to dusk with no help and never getting a minute alone with him?"

  "Cleav is very understanding," she said a little defensively. "And you are all family."

  "Family?" The old man humphed. "Family is family. You and your husband are the family. The rest of us are relatives."

  Slightly piqued, Esme's tone picked a sharper edge. "I'd think you'd be happy to live in a clean, dry house for a change."

  Yo Crabb folded his hands across his chest. "I surely am, Esme-girl," he answered. "But not at the price of you working yourself into an early grave like your mama. With four women and one old man in this household, there ain't no call for you to be doing all the work."

  Esme wasn't appeased. She looked at him skeptically.

  "You're right about that, Pa," she answered shrewdly. "Just what job are you willing to take on to help me?"

  The old man gave her a wry grin. "I ain't much for helping, and that's the truth of it," he admitted. "I'd be right willing to play the fiddle, however, and brighten your day." His smile could have lit up their old, dark cave. And Esme understood, not for the first time, what her hardworking practical mother had seen in the "laziest man in Vader, Tennessee."

  "Yes, Pa," she said quietly. "Play me a lively tune."

  In minutes he began the cheerful tune to "Old Rosin the Bow." Esme's foot began a rhythmic tap as she quartered the dough and rounded it into the pans.

  The twins scampered in from the sewing room with a lively step and clap as they sang.

  "I've always been cheerful and easy.

  And scarce have I heeded a foe,

  While some after money run crazy,

  I merrily Rosin'd the Bow."

  At least ten verses later and lots of clapping and laughter, all of them were still going strong when the kitchen door was jerked open abruptly.

  "Lord have mercy!" Eula Rhy cried as she took in the scene around her. "What in the name of heaven are you doing making such a ruckus in the middle of the morning?"

  Yohan ceased playing and leaned his fiddle casually against his chest.

  "Oh, Mother Rhy—" Esme began, shamed at her own thoughtlessness.

  "You sick?" Yo interrupted her.

  "Of course I am sick!" Eula Rhy was clearly furious. "I have a serious nervous condition."

  Yo nodded. "Yep, I heard that." Gazing rather calmly at his fiddle, his smile was deceptively innocent. "I've always heard that music has healing powers," he said.

  "Not that kind of music," Eula disagreed huffily.

  Yohan raised an eyebrow. "It got you out of that bed of yours for the first time in weeks."

  Eula opened her mouth in fury, prepared to make an angry retort, when Esme waylaid her.

  "Here, Mother Rhy, do sit down before you wear yourself out." Esme took the older woman's arm and helped her to a chair. "Can I get you something? Some spring water? A bit of buttermilk?"

  "Tea!" Mrs. Rhy demanded haughtily.

  "Of course," Esme answered and gave a quick warning look to the rest of her family as she hurried to put the kettle on.

  "Pa," she said with a fine edge of authority. "Play Mother Rhy something a bit more soothing to the nerves."

  Giving Eula a disapproving look, Yohan nevertheless began a soft sweet strain, and the twins sang the impromptu duet.

  "In the sky the bright stars glittered.

  On the grass the moonlight shone.

  From an August evening party,

  I was seeing Nelly home."

  At first Eula Rhy's face was stony, then the music slowly seeped into the old woman's veins. By the time Yohan had reached the third and final verse, Eula's contralto had joined the sweet soprano of the girls.

  "You got a right fine singing voice, Miz Rhy," Yo complimented. "Do you know 'Old Oaken Bucket'?"

  The singing continued as Esme fixed her mother-in-law's tea and resumed her work. She was just bringing in the sheets from the line when Eula Rhy suddenly stood up to help her.

  "Oh, ironing!" the woman exclaimed, with the excitement of a child with a new toy. "Let me do that."

  "You're feeling better?" Esme asked, genuinely stunned by the woman's apparent good mood.

  "It's the amusement," Yo told them both with conviction. "Now, my ladies," he continued, with the hill version of courtly manners, "I'm going to play this fiddle so well, why, your chores gonna float by like leaves on a lazy river."

  And he did. Esme was sure that she hadn't heard her father play so cheerfully since he'd moved to the house. She suspected that recently he had walked up to the mountain when the music mood struck him.

  "Can you play 'The Bear That Yearned for Buckshot'?" Eula asked.

  Crabb's grin was his only answer as he struck up the lively tune.

  Within minutes the twins had brought their sewing into the kitchen and were simultaneously sewing and helping with chores as they laughed and clapped and jigged with the music.

  Mrs. Rhy actually showed the girls some fancy clogging steps. "I used to be quite a high-stepper in my day," she confided to the group. "Of course, that was before Mr. Rhy and I became Free Will Baptists," she explained with only the hint of wistfulness in her voice. "We used to go to all the dances and just tear up the floor!"

  Esme was amazed. Since dancing of any kind was considered inherently sinful by the Free Will Baptist Church, neither Esme nor the twins had ever danced a step.

  As Yo had warned, the chores passed easily and quickly. And it was with genuine surprise that Esme looked up to see her husband standing in the doorway.

  "What in heaven's name is going on in here?" His question was thunderous. "I could hear you all the way out at the gate."

  "We're just having some fun, Cleavy," Mrs. Rhy told him. "Yohan said he would play us a tune, and I thought I'd show the twins some real country clogging."

  "It's kindy a celebration that your mama is feeling more herself," Yo added helpfully.

  "Oh." He was clearly at a loss for words. "Well, I'm glad you are better, Mother," he said finally.

  "Dinner's almost on the table," Esme told him. "I fixed your favorite, roast chicken."

  Her husband's expression was strangely cold. "Roast chicken? Is it Sunday and no one told me?"

  The afternoon
was a long one for Cleav. He had been as grouchy as a bear at noontime, speaking in monosyllables. He attacked the succulent roast chicken with the finesse of a mountain lion and the manners of a billy goat. Not one word of appreciation passed his lips. The chill in his own heart froze the phrases to his tongue.

  The memory of his mother flushed and laughing, and the Crabbs all caught up in the gaiety, contrasted sharply with his own black mood. Since that fateful Sunday, Cleav had been chafing with the knowledge that his wife, Esme Crabb Rhy, had married him for his house. That was the fact, he reminded himself. And Esme Crabb didn't even have enough taste to appreciate the ambience of the structure he'd built. She wanted it painted blue!

  Why should he care? he asked himself over again. He'd married her because he'd had to. Nothing less than public censure could have compelled him to align himself with a snappy little baggage like Esme Crabb.

  No one in Vader should have expected a love match, least of all him. But he had. He'd thought that she loved him, desired him, needed him, for himself.

  She'd needed him, all right. Needed him to support her father and sisters and put a roof over their heads.

  Part of him was furious, but part of him understood. Just as he had felt obliged to give up his schooling to help his mother get through her grief, Esme felt responsible for her family's needs. She was the one who'd seen that there was a roof over their heads and food on their table. He could hardly blame her for seeking a solution that would ensure both of those things. Marriage to him was that solution.

  He remembered that long-ago day when she'd come into the store and asked him outright if he wanted to marry her.

  Of course she wasn't in love with him. She hadn't even known him then.

  Cleav shook his head in self-derision. He'd been so fanciful.

  It all made perfect sense, and he couldn't even fault Esme. She'd seduced him with her naive, countrified wiles, and he'd fallen in with the scheme easily enough.

  So why did it hurt so much to think about it? Pride? Being bamboozled by a woman? Yes, that was part of it. But he'd been in business a long time and had taken his share of skinnings, enough to know that every man can be a fool at times.