A Time for Everything (18 page)

“
Only if you call me
Po.”

His brow knitted together, and he went
completely still for a moment, as though her nickname came as a
shock. Shaking his head slightly, he rubbed his forehead until his
features relaxed again.

“
Po and Beau,” he said
with a soft chuckle. “Now, isn’t that something? Goodnight,
Po.”

He lightly grasped her fingers with
his and gave a gentle squeeze. Then he climbed the stairs, crossed
the landing, and disappeared around the corner. She heard his door
click shut and glanced at her hand — the one he’d touched. It was a
completely innocent gesture, so why did it feel like some
un-scalable wall had fallen, and an undiscovered territory lay
before her?

~~~~

Beau watched the
birth of Tuesday morning from the front porch.
Orange and magenta clouds streaked the horizon. The obnoxious
rooster had taken his place atop the chicken coop, crowing like his
racket alone could draw the sun into the sky.

“
Today might be a good day
for chicken dumplings,” Beau said, hoping that would silence the
ill-tempered fowl. No such luck.

He hadn’t slept a wink all
night. The days and weeks ahead held too much uncertainty to let
him close his eyes and stall his racing mind. Why couldn’t things
be simple anymore? He heard the first stirrings of life from inside
the house and wondered if Portia was awake.
It might be nice to sit here and talk to her for a
while.

Last night, when they had laughed
together, all his tensions had melted away, if only for a little
while. She had certainly earned her keep, even if he couldn’t pay
her yet. Those blisters on her hands proved she didn’t mind hard
work and that she was willing to sacrifice her comfort to do what
needed doing. Claire, busy as she used to be, never wore the
blisters and calluses of a working woman. He had loved that about
her — that soft femininity — and felt proud that he could provide
her with such a life.

But Portia was a different woman.
Jonny seemed to have taken to her, though he still wouldn’t say a
word, not that he had heard, anyway. Was it possible he spoke to
her in private? The thought stirred up a mess of emotions he didn’t
want to sort through. Not today.

The door creaked open, and Harry
stepped softly out to the porch. He froze when he saw Beau sitting
there on the stoop.

“
What are you selling this
time?” Beau stared at the bundle of lavender fabric under his
arm.

He flashed his innocent smile and
rotated the stolen goods around his side until they were partially
hidden. “Selling? I’m not—”

“
Give me the
key.”

Harry’s face went deadpan as he dug
the key from his vest. He flipped it at Beau, who caught it in his
fist.

“
The dress,
too.”

He must have decided the dress wasn’t
as flightworthy as the key, so he took one step toward Beau and
thrust it at him. Beau took it, and Harry stepped back to his
original caught-red-handed spot. Turning away from Harry and back
toward the yard, Beau let his eyes linger on the lavender dress his
wife once wore. His fingers caressed the delicate fabric, and he
imagined her warm body beneath it when they waltzed together. He’d
already sold or traded many of Claire’s dresses and jewelry to make
ends meet, but he’d held on to a few items like this — locked them
away to keep them safe and out of his sight. So he
thought.

“
Look, Beau, I’m sorry. We
need the money.”

“
No.
You
need the money. I don’t care how
you get your goddamn morphine, but you will not touch Claire’s
things again. Is that understood?”

“
But I can’t—”

“
Stop talking!” Beau’s
voice roared across the yard. The rooster went silent in mid-crow.
He rubbed his eyes and groaned. “Stop making excuses or get your
ass out of here.”

The air hanging between them felt
thick and foreign before Harry conceded with, “Yes, Lord Stanford.”
He didn’t try to hide his limp as he walked past Beau and across
the yard toward the barn.

Beau returned the dress to the chest
in his room. He had to force his fingers to relinquish the soft
fabric. Tucking it beneath his bloodied jacket and the tear-stained
letter telling him of her death, he closed his eyes and shut the
lid. The lock’s tumbler clicked into place as he turned the key.
Once that was done, he put it in his pocket. For one long, lonely
minute, he allowed himself to cry — quietly of course, so no one
could notice him surrendering to emotion. He couldn’t pay bills
with emotion. Only hard work could do that. He splashed his face
with water at his basin, scrubbed it dry with a towel, and went
straight for the barn.

~~~~

Come mid-morning,
he was trimming the newest filly’s hooves. Harry
occupied the next stall, doing the same with Crazy Girl. And it
wasn’t going so well, much to Beau’s amusement and
satisfaction.

“
Ow!” That was the third
“ow” of the morning.

“
What now?”

“
She bit my
ass!”

Beau laughed.
“She’s
your
girl,
Harry. Be a good daddy now.”

“
Ha, ha, you’re
hilarious.”

“
Just tie her head tighter
and steer clear of those teeth.”

Ezra hollered from outside, “Looks
like we’ve got company!”

Beau let the horse’s foot down gently,
and with one hand on his aching back, he stood up straight and
hollered back, “Be right there!”

Leaving the stable, he squinted into
the sunlight and peered down the drive. A coach and two large
carriages full of luggage rolled along toward the house. He pulled
out his handkerchief and wiped his face and hands. Probably should
have taken the time to wash up before they got there, but it was
too late now.

Ezra gave him a one-armed bear hug.
“Excited?”

“
I can hardly contain my
joy.”

“
Be nice,
Beauregard.”

The closer their company came, the
harder it became to breathe. He didn’t really know how to feel.
Never once had he considered remarriage in the two years since
Claire had passed, but that possibility now rolled up their drive
on four expensive wheels. Worse yet, he couldn’t deny the obvious.
He’d be marrying for money, if he married her at all, and knowing
that made him feel like a whore.

Harry joined them, rubbing his
horse-bitten backside. “Here comes the bride…”

“
Shut up.” Beau popped him
on the shoulder with his fist.

“
Ow! Damn, you tryin’ to
cripple me all over again?”

“
Watch your language,”
Ezra reprimanded. “Let’s go greet ’em.”

Climbing the hill toward the house,
Beau’s feet could have been made of lead, they felt so heavy. He
spotted Jonny, Bessie, and Portia coming out the front door. His
eyes met Po’s. She smiled and nodded at him in assurance, much like
she’d do with a student, he imagined. Smiling back, he did feel a
mite calmer and ready to face the new arrivals.

He recognized their black driver,
Tipp, husband to Bessie’s niece. Beau recalled rainy days spent at
Bessie and Isaac’s house trying to beat Tipp at checkers. Never
could. His old friend lifted a hand in greeting and smiled as
though he was thinking the exact same thing.

When the coach came to a stop in front
of the house, Tipp climbed down and opened the door. A blonde angel
swathed in royal blue satin and white lace set her dainty feet on
the ground. Beau’s eyes traveled past the fawn-leather gloved hand,
up the ivory-skinned arm and matching full bosom. His breath
stalled. He could have been looking at Claire come back to life,
the resemblance was so close. But it wasn’t Claire. It was her
little cousin, Lydia Clemons, all grown up, and Beau was the first
to receive her stunning smile.

“
Whoa,” Harry whispered in
his ear. “She’ll have you before the night’s over.”

Next to exit the coach was a
well-dressed man with tufted gray hair and a perfectly trimmed gray
beard. Two older women clad in drab traveling dresses
followed.

“
Oliver!” Ezra hollered,
offering his hand. “I hope y’all had a good trip down.”

“
We did, thank you,”
Oliver answered and granted him a handshake. He repeated the
gesture with Beau. “So good to see you again, though it pained my
heart to hear of Claire’s passing. She was a fine
woman.”

“
She thought a lot of you,
as well,” Beau said.

Having his wife’s family there again
woke a strange mixture of feelings. First was the resemblance that
tugged at his heart and made him miss Claire all the more. But
seeing the Clemons family also brought flashes of days past — happy
times with barbeques, dances, and Claire’s sweet
laughter.

Oliver smiled morosely and put a hand
on his daughter’s back. “I’m sure you remember Lydia.”

“
Of course,” Beau said,
doing his best not to stammer and stare. She removed one glove and
offered her hand. He took her soft, warm fingers in his, and kissed
her smooth knuckles. “But I remember a little girl with that name,
not a lovely young woman.”

“
You don’t say.” Lydia’s
gloved hand settled on her chest in feigned shock, but her blue
eyes were bright and playful. “And I remember a man who once called
me Lily-doodle and taught me how to ride.”

“
I hope you haven’t
forgotten how.”

“
I’ll have you know, good
sir, that I am an accomplished equestrian thanks to you. Aren’t I,
Daddy?”

“
Yes, yes,” Oliver said,
choosing a cigar from a box Tipp had just opened for him. “Let’s
not prattle on about it. We’ve had a long trip.”

Tipp struck a match and held the flame
to the end of the tightly rolled Cuban figurado. Oliver puffed on
it until he expelled a nice cloud of tobacco smoke and waved Tipp
off. He clomped up the stairs past Portia and Bessie and entered
the house. Apparently he’d had enough of the reunion.

Lydia waved a hand and rolled her
eyes. “Never mind Daddy. He’s even more cantankerous than before we
moved to Philly. Isn’t that right, Mama?”

Her mother, Polly, nodded slowly in
agreement. She reminded Beau of a wilted flower with her drooped
shoulders and short, stocky build. Her hair was tucked neatly under
a brown silk bonnet, but her features were so forlorn, it looked
like her face could slide off at any minute.

“
Polly, I trust you are
well,” Beau said, hoping a warm welcome might add some light to her
dark expression.

No such luck.

He had a hard time hearing her meek
voice, but he thought she said, “The ride has aggravated my
rheumatism, I’m afraid. I do hope you have a room ready for me to
take a rest.”

“
Um…” Beau glanced at
Portia, who nodded. “Yes, yes we do.”

Polly’s older sister, Amelie, was the
last to step out of the coach. Petite and silver-haired, the
spinster looked around like she’d never seen the place before, even
though she had once called Lebanon home. Beau had always thought
fondly of Amelie Hamilton. Claire had spent a great deal of time
with her as a girl, and it was Amelie who had introduced him to
Claire.

“
Good to see you again,
Amelie,” Beau said.

She reached up and pinched his cheek.
“You’re too skinny. Did you and Claire build a new
house?”

Beau took her cool, limp hand and
patted it. “No… don’t you remember coming here to visit before you
went to Philadelphia?”

“
Where is she? I want to
see her and give her a few things.” She leaned in close like she
wanted to whisper, but her volume never changed. “She was always my
favorite niece.”

Eyebrows raised, he looked to Lydia,
who mouthed, “She’s going senile.” Then she added aloud, “She still
owns the Hamilton Estate. A few of her loyal people stayed on to
maintain it in her absence. We hope they have it ready for her to
reoccupy it soon.” She ended that last remark with an annoyed
glance at her frail aunt.

“
Ah, I see,” Beau said.
“Claire missed her and all of you when you moved to
Philly.”

“
And we missed you all,
too. I cried for weeks after I heard about her passing.” Lydia had
acquired a clipped Northern accent with only a slight trace of a
Southern drawl. She dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “I
have such sweet memories of my cousin. But you can imagine my
relief to know that you came home safely.”

She settled her hands on his chest,
while her bosom brushed against his shirt. Before his excitement
became embarrassingly obvious, he took a step away from Claire’s
lookalike and motioned for Jonathan to come down from the
porch.

“
You remember Jonathan?
Come here, son.”

Jonny came close and offered a shaky
hand to Lydia. She took it in hers and patted it lovingly, while he
stared down at his wriggling boots.

“
My goodness, he’s grown!
He looks so much like his mother, God rest her soul.”