A Time for Everything (2 page)

Louise started crying, too. “Pwease,
Aunt Po, don’t weave us.”

“
I’m sorry, baby, but I
have to.” Portia swallowed past the stubborn knot in her throat and
kissed Louise’s chubby wet cheek.

Portia moved toward the door before
she made a trio out of their crying duet. The morning sun haloed
the gravestones across the road.

She tried to sound reassuring, but her
voice fell flat and dull. “Lebanon’s not that far. I’ll visit soon
as I can.”

Ellen followed, taking Portia’s hand
in a strong, shaky grip. The freckles on her cheeks danced along
with the quivering of her chin. “But you don’t even know these
people. How do you know you’ll be all right?”

“
I don’t. But I need to
get away. There’s been enough sadness around here, and I’ve cried
about all I can cry. It doesn’t do Jake’s or Abigail’s memory
justice to keep living like this.”

“
What about Samuel? We can
try to find him.”

“
I don’t expect we’ll ever
hear from my little brother again. If he’s not dead, he’s being
held captive by some voodoo lady in New Orleans… according to his
last letter.”

“
Po!”

“
Well, it’s true. He said
he was going to marry that Creole woman and bring her back home.
But he didn’t. He missed my wedding and never saw his niece. I even
wrote to him when Abby died and never got an answer. What would you
suppose I do? Head to New Orleans and roam the streets, calling for
him? He’s either dead or… who knows? I’d rather take my chances in
Lebanon.”

Ellen dabbed her eyes. “You’ve never
been farther than Nashville, Po. Aren’t you scared?”

“
Yes, I’m scared. But I
can’t live my whole life in fear. I’m twenty-five. If I want to
start living again, I need to get to it.”

She couldn’t let fear and doubt keep
her here in this stagnant place between emptiness and what might
have been. So she hurried to the wagon, where Frank offered a hand
to help her up. Settling into the seat, she tried to ignore Ellen’s
sobbing but feared her dear friend might lose her breath or drop
Louise.

Portia reached down and rubbed Ellen’s
cheek. “I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me. Take care of Frank
and the children and that little one who’ll be here soon. I’ll
write, I promise.”

“
All right, just be
careful. If they’re the least bit ornery, you get back here!” Ellen
attempted a smile and cleaned Louise’s nose with a forceful swipe
of her handkerchief.

Before another word could be said,
Portia took the bulging envelope from her bag. She handed it to
Ellen, who looked at it as though something might jump out and bite
her.

“
Take it,” Portia said.
“It’s enough to pay your taxes and to buy some material and thread,
maybe even some good coffee for a change.”

Guilt and need sparred for dominance
in Ellen’s eyes, until she let out a sigh and took the envelope.
She took a step back and looked toward the fields where a
long-legged surveyor repositioned his tripod.

Frank climbed in the wagon and stared
straight ahead. Portia didn’t have to ask to know exactly what he
was thinking. Though he would never say much about it, he felt
responsible for his brother’s widow and thought himself a failure
because of her departure. Out of all of them, Frank’s guilt weighed
on her most. After Jake left to fight, he had worked twice as hard
to keep them all fed, avoiding the call to duty only because he was
blind in one eye. Every day since, the worry lines on his face dug
deeper, while the hair on his head turned grayer.

All because he wanted to provide for
his family and to take care of his little brother’s wife, whom he
loved like a sister.

He flicked the reins and the mules
pulled them along. It was warm for early April, so Portia left the
blanket folded up between them. The wagon rattled down the drive,
but she couldn’t help herself and took one last look at the house.
It wasn’t much more than an unpainted clapboard shack with sagging
eaves and a crooked porch. But Jake had built it with his own two
hands and it had been Portia’s whole world for the past seven
years. The most joyful days of her life had happened in and around
that little house. She held no hope of ever finding such joy again
and forced herself to focus on the road ahead.

They passed the small family graveyard
where soft green grass covered Abby’s plot. By the gate, a few
crocuses poked their purple heads above the ground, blooming amidst
the emerging yellow daffodils. Portia wished the lilies were in
bloom so she could put some on the graves. She decided to come back
this summer and do just that.

Frank broke the silence. “It ain’t
right. You ought to stay with your family.”

She figured a remark like that was
coming, but at least he was finally talking. “You don’t need
another mouth to feed.”

“
Po, you’re skinny as a
rail. It ain’t like you eat much.”

Uncertain how to answer him, she
watched the fence posts go by and let her mind wander to Lebanon
and the life awaiting her there. She’d answered the ad, not
thinking she really had a chance at the position, but a letter had
returned a month later, asking her to arrive as soon as possible.
The Stanfords owned a horse farm, and the lady of the house had
died, leaving a ten-year-old son in need of a tutor. She’d grown up
with two brothers and taught school for a while before getting
married, so she knew how to handle herself around boys. Hopefully,
she and her new student would take to each other all
right.

Miles passed along the dusty road
toward Nashville. Rectangular plots topped with damp soil and new,
tender grass filled every graveyard they passed. Frank remained
silent until they pulled up to an inn just inside the city at dusk.
He helped her down and carried her bag as they walked
inside.

“
Just tell ’em we’re
married, should they ask,” he whispered.

Frank paid the innkeeper, and Portia
was relieved when he didn’t question their relationship. They both
wore wedding rings, after all, though they were tarnished old
things handed down from generations past.

He carried the bag to the room on the
second floor, and Portia followed. Perching herself on the edge of
the bed, she waited as he went back downstairs to retrieve the
chest. She had never stayed at a hotel of any sort, but it wasn’t
as exotic as she had imagined. The small room was clean and warm,
practically furnished like any bedroom in a modest home.

Mr. Stanford’s business partner, Harry
Franklin, was to fetch her at six in the morning to take her to
Lebanon. They needed a good night’s rest, though Portia figured
sleep wouldn’t come easy.

When Frank returned, he unwrapped some
warm fried chicken and biscuits. The aroma set Portia’s stomach
rumbling.

“
You didn’t have to buy me
supper,” she said, thinking none too fondly about the cold hoecakes
in her bag.

“
It came with the room
fee. Now eat up.”

He was lying, of course, but she
smiled and did as she was told.

After they ate, Frank made himself a
pallet on the floor, while Portia took the bed. They both still
wore the clothes they arrived in. She would have protested about
sleeping in the same room, except the thought of being alone in a
strange place drove her to near panic, and Frank had his
pistol.

~~~~

Portia awoke to
Frank’s gentle nudging. She’d barely slept,
having tossed and turned most of the night on the strange mattress
with its unfamiliar lumps and creaks. They took turns washing their
hands and faces at the basin. Yawning, she arranged her hair into a
loose bun and they headed downstairs. The dining room was mostly
empty except for another couple at a corner table. She and Frank
claimed a spot near the kitchen, where the smell of coffee and
hotcakes made her mouth water.

Frank chuckled as she licked her
lips.

“
Told you I’m just another
hungry mouth to feed,” she said.

“
I don’t know where you
put it, unless your legs are hollow. But you still oughta give us a
chance.”

“
You’re a good man, you
know. Jake thought you hung the moon.”

He held Portia’s gaze for a moment
before waving the innkeeper’s wife over. He spent his last few
coins on a big stack of hotcakes, bacon, and two cups of coffee.
They didn’t speak at all until they had eaten every last crumb from
their plates.

She had just placed her napkin on the
empty plate when a black man entered the room. He wore gray checked
trousers, a white buttoned shirt, and black vest. A black felt hat,
faded and ragged around the rim, sat cockeyed on his head. He
looked around as if searching for someone else, but the other
couple had already gone, leaving Frank and Portia as the only
candidates for attention. He flashed them a broad white
smile.

“
Good mornin, good
mornin.” The man removed his hat and tucked it under his arm as he
reached their table. Gray tinged his sideburns and wrinkles creased
the corners of his eyes. “I’m Isaac Carter, and I’m lookin’ for a
Portia McAllister.”

Portia wiped her mouth and stood. “I’m
Portia. And this is my brother-in-law, Frank... but we were
expecting—”

“
Mr. Franklin,” Isaac
said, nodding. “He had to run an errand here in town, so he asked
me to come in and fetch you.”

Hand hovering near his belt, Frank
stood too, eyeing the man like he might rob them at any moment. She
cast him a glance he didn’t notice.

“
Sorry if I spooked ya,”
Isaac said, still smiling. “Good to meet ya, ma’am, and you too,
sir.”

Portia liked him immediately. “It’s
nice to meet you, Mr. Carter.”

She nudged Frank, who relaxed a little
and dropped his hand to his side.

“
I think you’s a bit
younger than Mr. Beau expected, but that’s all right. Can I carry
your bags for ya?”

“
You can carry the chest,”
Frank said.

“
Yes, sir.”

The men carried Portia’s belongings
outside to a black buggy hitched to two sleek horses that were so
dark brown they were almost black. The closest thing to horses she
and Jake had owned were mules, and they weren’t nearly as pleasant
to look at. While Frank helped her up to the rear seat, Isaac took
his place ahead of her in the driver’s seat. He took a rifle from
the floorboard and set it on his lap.

Frank glanced at Isaac and motioned
her to lean close so he could whisper in her ear. “I don’t like
this, Po, you ridin’ off alone with this colored man and this Mr.
Franklin fella.”

“
I’ll be fine.”

“
Well, I don’t know them
enough to trust them. I don’t know this Mr. Stanford, either, and
you’ll be living in his house. Keep this nearby.”

He handed her his pistol. She started
to protest that this would leave him without protection on the
return journey to Brentwood, but his size alone was impressive
enough to deter trouble. Besides, Frank knew she could shoot. He
taught her himself.

She had just placed the gun into the
carry bag at her feet when a white man with sandy brown hair and a
brown leather vest came around the corner of the hotel. Jogging
toward them, he waved with one hand, and had a paper-wrapped
package tucked under the other arm. He was handsome in a Greek sort
of way, his facial features prominent and symmetrical like the
busts she’d seen once in a Nashville library. He ran up to Frank,
extending one hand.

Frank simply stared at him until the
stranger spoke.

“
Harry Franklin. Sorry for
the delay. You must be…”

“
Frank McAllister.” He
finally took Mr. Franklin’s outstretched hand and gave it a firm
shake. “This is Portia, my sister-in-law.”

Mr. Franklin’s smile
reminded Portia of a child who had looted a cookie jar — guilty and
giddy at the same time. “Wonderful. Beau will definitely be, um,
surprised. I think he expected a more grandmotherly type. Not
that
I’m
complaining, mind you.”

With the look Frank gave him, Mr.
Franklin’s boyish grin slid right off his face. “We’ll take good
care of her, I promise.”

Isaac nodded, patting his rifle
reassuringly as Mr. Franklin climbed in beside him.

“
You better,” Frank said,
and without looking her in the eye, he added, “Goodbye,
Po.”

“
Goodbye, Frank.” The
words were just as difficult as she imagined.

The buggy lurched forward.
Frank raised his hand in farewell, standing there in the dim
lamp-lit shadows of early morning. Legs twitching, she had a sudden
inclination to jump out and run after him. Maybe he was right to be
worried, and maybe she was being unrealistic. Good Christian women
didn’t leave home and hearth when life turned sour. The great
Psalmist himself said, “
The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken
heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.”

They rounded a corner and she couldn’t
see Frank anymore. She sat back in the padded seat and let out a
sigh. Funny how Bible verses still lectured her when she had no
faith left to back them. If she was anything, it wasn’t contrite.
She had neither asked for nor wanted this life God had thrust upon
her. He could go be nigh unto someone else and leave her be for all
she cared.