Beauty: an Everland Ever After Tale (10 page)

“Yes, sir.” He heard the pride in Eddie’s answer. “I took my stepfather’s name when Mother remarried, but I was born Edward Hawthorne, Junior.”

Oh, God.

As always, Eddie scarfed down his meal and excused himself to go fishing again. Lunches at home were always like that, but it was suppers where she’d put her foot down; he
had
to sit and talk with her. Today, although he ate quickly, he kept up a running description of their time fishing. Arabella participated when necessary—she’d seen Vincenzo’s attempts at casting, and was glad he was too far away to hear her giggles—but mostly she was just happy to let her son talk.

Now that he was back down by the bank, hunting around for worms and bugs, she could enjoy the rest of the cold roast, cornbread, and bean salad Gordon had packed. It was delicious, and she could see why Vincenzo employed him. The younger man was a phenomenal cook.

Vincenzo himself had been strangely quiet during the meal, which was in contrast to his easy laughter and teasing before the fishing excursion. He hadn’t done more than answer Eddie’s direct questions, and then with less than his usual verve. Come to think of it, he hadn’t eaten much of the meal she’d set out for him, either. Even now, he sat cross-legged, hunched into himself, his plate on the blanket in front of. When they’d arrived, he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but now his forearms rested listlessly on his knees.

“Vincenzo, are you feeling well?”

He started, as if forgetting her presence. Instead of answering right away, though, he sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to being out in the sun like this.”

“It
is
warm, isn’t it?” He didn’t respond. “July and August will be almost unbearable, though, so it’s lovely to be out in the spring.” She put aside her plate, and stretched her legs out in front of her, not caring that a bit of her stocking was showing. He was blind, wasn’t he? She sighed and tilted her head back to feel the sun on her face. “Thank you so much for coming up with this idea, and inviting us. We haven’t shared something like this in a while.”

He exhaled, and finally said, “May I ask you something, Arabella?”

The sound of her name on his lips—the first time she’d heard him say it!—sent a shiver of longing through her. It had been too long since a man had spoken her name like that; full of desperation and need. It probably wasn’t proper, to have him calling her by her given name; but she’d been using his, and there was no one to hear it, and…well, she
wanted
that intimacy with him. She swallowed down her unseemly lust. “Of course.”

“I’ve never spoken of my past, and I appreciate that you have respected that.” She nodded, although he couldn’t see. Since she met him, she’d been curious why he had an Italian name, but didn’t speak with any sort of accent. She suspected that he’d re-made himself at some point before becoming the world-renowned virtuoso Vincenzo Bellini, but she hadn’t asked, because he obviously wanted that part of himself kept private.

So all she said was “Yes.”

He cleared his throat, and sat up straighter. “I’d like to ask
you
a question, though, if you’ll allow it.”

“Of course.” She had no secrets in her past; Rule Number Three was to not share shameful secrets, but only her lack of income really applied these days.

“Would you…” He ran his hand through his hair again, and then shifted position suddenly, so his knees were drawn up and his arms locked around them. He looked… vulnerable, hugging himself, and she felt her stomach clench. There was something wrong here. “Would you tell me about Eddie’s father?”

Edward
? He wanted to know about Edward? Arabella’s brows drew in, confused. How could her first husband possibly interest him? “Edward and I were childhood friends. We lived beside one another, and neither of us had siblings.” He leaned forward slightly, as if encouraging her to continue. “We married when I returned from school, like we’d always known we would, and we were quite happy.” She smiled slightly, thinking about those years they had together. “Our parents passed away, one by one, but we managed my father’s book-binding business through the early years of the war.”

He passed a hand over his face, scrubbing it through his beard in a gesture that was somehow familiar. Had she gotten so used to this man, already, then? “And the war?” He sounded like he had swallowed something prickly.

Arabella shrugged, and began to pack up the leftover food and organize the basket. “We were unable to have children.” He made a noise then, one she couldn’t identify. “And we eventually gave up. He joined the First Massachusetts in ’64, and I saw him once after that, around Christmas. He was killed at Hatcher’s Run when a shot hit his ammunition chest, and it blew up.”

Vincenzo groaned then, and she twisted towards him, afraid he was in pain. What she could see of his expression looked aching, but was tilted towards the sun. When he finally spoke, his voice was a strangled whisper. “And he didn’t know you were pregnant, did he?”

Was her story that common, then? “No. I’d barely realized it myself, by then. But the war left many widows, and I was just one more. When Eddie was one, my father’s business collapsed, and I became desperate. Milton offered me marriage, and we eventually moved out here.”

“Where he warped your view of yourself.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry.” He scrubbed his hand down his face again, pulling the blindfold slightly askew so that she could see the collection of scars where his brows once lay. “I’m…
No
, I’m not sorry, Arabella.” He dropped his hand, and turned that horrible, wonderful visage fully towards her. “You’re a beautiful woman. You’ve always been a beautiful woman. Age doesn’t change that. There are beautiful women who are eighty. But it shouldn’t matter, should it? Are those women only valued because they’re beautiful? Am I without value, because I’m not beautiful?”

She was speechless. Where had this outburst come from? He’d been so polite, so gentlemanly, but these words…these sounded ripped from his soul. But of course he’d think that way, looking the way he did. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t see what she looked like, or imagine what she used to be, in her prime. Taking a deep breath, she let it out with “I used to be beautiful…”

“No!” With startling energy, he pushed himself to his feet and stood over her, his hands fisted. “You still are…” And then, as she watched, mouth agape, he began to sway. Alarmed, she jumped up and reached out to steady him.

“Vincenzo, I’m sorry that my story upset you, but I really do think you’re—“

“No. I’m sorry.” He seemed to sag, and she hurried to put her arm around his middle, to support him. They stood like that for several heartbeats longer than was proper, pressed against one another. In the warm stickiness of the spring afternoon, she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, and that seemed right. “I…” He took a deep breath, and pushed himself upright. “I’m not used to the sun.”

He was a recluse who’d lived his life on stage. A man who only went out in the evening, only stood under the harsh gas lamps. A man who wore a red silk scarf around his ruined eyes because he knew that flagrant disguise is what people would remember, rather than the scars. A man who’d wanted peace and quiet, and had found her and Eddie and Everland instead.

“I think I should go home now.”

“Yes. Yes, I think that would be a good idea.” Hurriedly, she called Eddie to come help, and they packed up the picnic and began the trudge back to town. This time, unlike on their way to the Lake, Vincenzo’s steps dragged, and he didn’t participate in conversation. He seemed willing to accept her help, but had drawn in on himself, as if reluctant to share anything of himself with them. He was a recluse again, and her heart tightened to realize it.

They helped him up the front stairs of his home, where Gordon met them with an alarmed look, and insisted they take the picnic basket home to enjoy the leftovers. Then Eddie asked to go back to the Lake with Tom and Jack, and she agreed absent-mindedly. She was worried for Vincenzo, worried that the exertion of the day might’ve been too much. They’d been having such a lovely time, until he’d asked her for her story…

And now she sat at her dining table in the back room of the store, staring at nothing while waiting for the kettle to boil water for tea. This table had come from Boston with them; it had been where she’d eaten meals as a child. The bed in the corner had belonged to Edward’s parents, and was now where Eddie slept. The tea set in front of her had been a wedding gift from Milton. These were all parts of her life, but none of it felt right, squeezed into the tiny room that was meant for supplies.

This wasn’t home. This was Milton’s place. She could still see him standing in front of the long table that used to sit under that window, patiently splitting stems and seeds, breeding for color of bouquet or height. Never for heartiness, though, always beauty. Always striving to bring more beauty into the world.

He’d use that potbelly stove to keep his seedlings heated, then he’d carefully transplant, gibber excitedly as each sprouted, and hurry to record his findings at the big desk there in the corner. The Society that sponsored him expected yearly publication, and he’d been thrilled to comply. Arabella herself had made use of his equipment to distill her own concoctions; her honeysuckle scent, and the roses and gardenia that Milton had deemed more worthy of his wife.

And now she and Eddie were living here. Milton had died of the influenza that had swept through the town two years before, and while she hadn’t exactly mourned, she’d missed the stability he gave her life. The Society sponsorship had ended, the income from his publications trickled, and her bookstore had never made enough to support them. So they were living here, in this little back room, and renting out their home above. Rojita and Sherriff Cutter would be moving in this week.

Arabella was pulled from her musings by a knock at the back door. Who could that be? She hurried over to the little alcove by the closet, and unlocked the door to the garden.

Standing on the back step were Zosia Spratt and Snow White, and both of them looked upset. “Hello, Mrs. Mayor.”

“Hello, ladies. I was sorry not to see you this morning at church.” This was directed at Zosia. Although the Spratt family was Jewish, they attended St. Crispin’s with the rest of Everland, just to fit in.

The young ladies exchanged worried looks, and Snow slipped her arm through her friend’s elbow in a show of support. Arabella glanced from one to the other, and could see that something was terribly wrong. So she stepped back, inviting them in. “The water is about to boil. Why don’t you come in for some tea?”

They smiled gratefully and slipped past her, not letting go of each other. Arabella followed thoughtfully, and began to go through the tea-making ritual. These two were best friends, as close as Zelle and Briar. But Arabella preferred these two to the younger girls; for one, they were more mature and level-headed, and did very little squealing. And for another, they adored her books as much as she did. It was impossible not to like a fellow bibliophile, but she also admired their fierce friendship, in spite of hardships. So the fact that they were so obviously unsettled was upsetting.

“Is everything alright, Zosia? You look…” Pale. Drained. But Arabella didn’t like to comment on another’s appearance. The habit came from years of trying to avoid comments about herself. So she settled on “…bothered by something.”

She placed the tea set in the center of the fine tablecloth on the dining table, and the other ladies took seats, still avoiding her eyes. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Mayor.” Snow dropped three lumps of sugar into her teacup and stirred it gracefully, pretending great interest in the whirl of the spoon. Zosia just stared at her cup and saucer, her shoulders hunched under her tight dark curls.

Arabella sank into her seat across from them, her stomach knotting in worry when she watched Snow place a hand comfortingly on Zosia’s forearm. “Please do call me Arabella, remember?” She said, hoping to get at least one of them to talk.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Arabella.”

“And now, I think, you’d better cut right to the point and tell me why you’ve come to see me. Is everything alright? Is someone hurt?” A horrible thought made her breath catch. “Eddie?”

“Oh! Oh, no, Arabella.” Zosia finally met her eyes, and Arabella could see the tear tracks clearly. “I’m sorry for worrying you.” The young woman made an effort to pick up her cup and saucer, but her hand was shaking too strongly to hold them steady, and she put them down. “It’s just that… that…”