Harmony (30 page)

“Then you must do something.” Her frown lost its vigor, and she pressed on with a purr, “Fall in front of Dr. Teeter, my dear. He's the one with the tie pin. The expensive-looking one.”

Lucy pursed her lips. “I don't think he's very handsome.”

Forgetting herself, she snapped, “What's handsome got to do with it? He's rich.” Then she sighed and said, “If ever there was a little angel on earth, it's my Lucille. Now you do like your mama says and you'll be married by June, my precious.”

Lucy eyed the doctor who stood conversing with Camille Kennison. “It's not fair she gets all the boys. She always has. All right. I'll do it.”

Mrs. Calhoon pinched her cheek. “What a good little dear you are!”

Edwina stifled a gasp, but not in time to stop the young woman from walking directly to Dr. Teeter, gaining his attention with a heavy sigh, then dropping dead at his feet.

“Miss!” Dr. Teeter exclaimed and bent down.

A rush of guests closed in. Edwina had to fight her way through them. She wouldn't expose Lucy, but she wanted to make sure Dr. Teeter didn't get caught by the situation.

“The girl has fainted and hit her head. She needs a doctor!” Dr. Teeter declared, frantically searching the faces gazing down at him.

Mrs. Calhoon, who had rushed to kneel at her daughter's side, screwed up her face. “But you're a doctor.”

Dr. Froggins offered to fetch a medical man. “Where's his office?”

“You're supposed to be doctors,” Mrs. Plunkett burst in, elbowing her way through.

One of Lucy's eyes opened, and her mother put her hand over it. “Now, wait a moment, Prudence, let's not be hasty.” Mrs. Calhoon glared at Mr. Teeter. “Are you or are you not a doctor?”

“Not in a medical capacity, madam.”

“What?” Mrs. Calhoon lifted her hand. “Lucille, get up. You're spoiling your costume.”

Lucy's eyes fluttered open and she went on with the act to save face. “Why . . . I must have fainted. . . . I feel much better now.”

Mrs. Plunkett wanted an answer; her tapping toe was a severe indication. “If you're not medical doctors, what are you?”

“Dentists, madam.”

“Dentists!”
Mrs. Plunkett gasped, then grimaced.

“Yes, madam,” Fred Teeter said in confirmation. “We're from the Mt. Plymouth Dental Conservatory in Massachusetts. We thought you knew.”

“She
said you were doctors!” Mrs. Plunkett pointed an accusing fat finger at Mrs. Brooks.

Mrs. Brooks blurted out, “But they signed the register as physicians!”

“We are,” Dr. Teeter said, intervening. “General practitioners in all phases of dentistry—doctors, just as we call ourselves. The travel arrangements were made under our professional titles—physicians.”

Mrs. Plunkett wasn't appeased. To Mrs. Brooks, on whom she blamed the entire fiasco, she growled curtly, “If you had snooped through their rooms as I suggested, we would have known in advance that they were . . .
dentists.
” Her voluptuous body, dressed as Queen Antoinette, shuddered, as if dentistry were akin to plumbing.

Before Mrs. Brooks had an opportunity to reply, a muffled scream came from across the room. There by the apple bobbing tub, Hildegarde Plunkett stood, wide-eyed, an apple stuck in her mouth.

“Good Lord!” thundered Mr. Kennison, who happened to be nearby. “She's bitten too hard on the apple! She can't get it out of her teeth!”

“Hildegarde! My baby!” Mrs. Plunkett screamed and vaulted toward her daughter, wide skirts and hoops knocking over anything in her way. A slice of cake was lost from the service cart, as was a candle from the center table. Luckily, one of the dentists snuffed the flame before damage could be done.

“Hildegarde!” Reaching her daughter, she shrieked, “Help me! Somebody!”

“Pat her on the back!” someone suggested through the poor girl's choking coughs.

“Pry it out!”

“Slap her!”

“Pull! Hard!”

“You'll do no such thing,” Dr. Teeter said through the animated shouts. “You may damage her lateral incisors!”

“Get a knife, then!”

Hildegarde's round face had begun to turn red.

“Cut it out!”

A nasally plea snorted through Hildegarde's nose. “Nnnnnnoooooo!”

Mrs. Plunkett moaned, “My baby! She needs a doctor!”

“No, madam!” Dr. Froggins shouted above the melee. “She needs a dentist!”

And quite handily, there were thirteen readily available.

•  •  •

Edwina had planned on playing the letter game, Ghosts, at midnight, the winner to be proclaimed the
Halloween spirit for the night, but with the drama Lucille and Hildegarde had stirred, things had broken up, guests exhausted, just before the strike of twelve.

With a hug for each of the girls, Edwina had seen people off at the door. The last was a weary Marvel-Anne, who'd kept up with the dishes as quickly as they'd been soiled. The rest of the clean-up, such as removing the decorations, could wait until the next day.

Leaning into the open doorway while she watched the gate fall closed, Edwina let out a tired sigh. She'd bid Crescencia and Mr. Dufresne good night, but not Tom. He must have left without her noticing. That he hadn't at least said farewell gave her an inexplicable feeling of emptiness. It shouldn't have . . . but it did.

She rested a hand on the jamb, her head down, and was about to shut the door when a deep voice came to her.

“You don't bring in these pumpkins tonight, I guarantee half of them will be in the street tomorrow morning.”

“Tom?”

She went out to the porch, hugging her arms against the moist cold. The tiny red glow from a cigarette burned in a shadowy wedge by the camilla bushes. As she approached, she made out his figure. He leaned against the porch railing, one foot crossed in front of the other.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “I thought you'd gone home.”

“I was waiting for you.” Pitching his cigarette onto the lawn, he pushed away from the rail. “You're cold. Go inside. I'll bring the jack-o'-lanterns in. Where do you want them?”

“I can help,” she protested, lowering her hands.

Tom went to her and stood close. The dark heightened her sense of smell; he wore the bayberry cologne. It was heady; she loved the fragrance. He rubbed his warm palms down her bare arms. “You are cold.”

The shiver across her skin was caused by something
entirely different than the night air. As she peered through the fringes of her lashes, a tide of pleasure moved through her at his touch. In an unsteady voice, she responded, “You can put them on the dining-room table if it isn't too much trouble.”

“No trouble.”

“Thank you.” Edwina returned to the house, walking through the parlor and finding two candles as she went into the dining room. Setting them on the table, she collected more of the candles while Tom brought in the pumpkins. When they were finished, the parlor had been cast in black and only the dining room glowed in bright light.

Facing each other, Edwina knit her fingers together. “Thank you again.”

His eyes held her still. “You're going to bed now?”

The question threw her off guard. “Um . . . yes . . . I . . .”

“Then blow out the candles and I'll walk you through the parlor so you don't trip on anything.”

It was her parlor. She'd walked through it countless times in the dark and had never bumped into a thing. She knew its layout by heart, but his offer was too gallant for her to turn down.

With a knowing smile she couldn't wholly contain, she began to blow out the candles, until one by one, they died in a curl of smoke and the room grew bathed in gray. The acrid scent of burnt wicks floated on the air. A hand found hers. She let him hold it. She reached out her other hand and rested it on his arm. The chamois sleeve was indeed as soft as her kitty's belly.

She would have allowed him to kiss her, but he didn't. Instead he said, his voice cloaked in the dark, “You must be tired, Ed. You put on one hell of a party.”

A soft laugh passed her lips. “I think that since Dr. Teeter got the apple out of Hildegarde's mouth, there could be a romance budding. Did you happen to notice how she fawned over him?”

Tom's deep laugh mingled with hers. “I heard Mrs.
Plunkett inviting—no, make that
insisting
—he come to dinner as soon as he gets back from hunting.”

They'd begun to walk through the house, quietly reminiscing about the party and what they'd seen and heard, just like a married couple. It made her heart ache.

“Who would've figured they'd turn out to be dentists?”

“I should have guessed. He said I had flawless gingivae.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Hmm.” She smiled.

Once at the base of the stairs, Edwina paused with her hand on the newel post. Above her, the lamp's wicks drank oil with a cozy purring. She expected him to kiss her now. But once again, she waited in vain.

“Good night, Edwina.” Tom opened the door. “I can see myself out.” His glance cut the distance between them. “Sleep well.”

Then he was gone. No overtures of affection. No attempts at trying to make her open up to him.

She stood on the step and stared at a pane of the colored glass that was on either side of the door. A revelation came to her: it was the little things a man did for a woman that could make her fall in love with him.

On a quiet sigh, she sensed Tom had been entirely aware of this.

12

S
now sifted down in tranquil white when Tom got the idea. It had been over a week since the Halloween party and in that time, he'd been doing little things for Edwina, such as raking her side of the grove—or as much of it as he could rationalize was worth the effort. Now the trees were completely bare, so that chore wouldn't have to be done anymore. In the mornings, he arrived early and went in the storeroom and out the closet door on Edwina's side. He built a fire in her heater—moved away from her desk—so that when she came to school, the room was warm. The mail was delivered in the early afternoon, and he would have handed her share to her if she hadn't always beaten him to the mailbox.

He'd gone out of his way to show her that having a man take care of her could have some promise. That an accounting job in Denver or California wouldn't be a likeable trade-off for what she could have here, namely him.

They'd make an unlikely pair, but the possibilities of such a relationship gave him cause to pursue her. He had to find out if Edwina Huntington could be the one for him. No woman before her had made him want to
hang around for no good reason other than to talk, smile, joke—dance.

But so far, she hadn't fallen into his arms. And why should she? Aside from what was inside him, what could he give her beyond emptying her rubbish can in the bin? A house didn't seem a likely prospect, but he hadn't given up on one. He had gone to see the bank manager, Fletcher, to see if he could get a loan for that lot on Sycamore and a house on it. For how much, Tom wouldn't know for a few days. He hated to get his hopes up.

Even if he was able to get the money, there was Edwina's world beyond the superficial—the house with the picket fence and all the trimmings women liked: there were her friends, those old bats she hung around with. She obviously liked them or she wouldn't associate with them. He didn't think he'd fit in with them, even if Edwina welcomed him.

He recalled the night of the Halloween party and him standing in the parlor with his mouth clamped shut while others shouted out numbers in that game called Buzz. Even Shay, who'd dropped out of school when Tom had, had gotten into the spirit. Shay had a memory beyond anything Tom could comprehend. When Shay had been taught a subject in school, he'd remembered it. But Tom, he'd felt so stupid. He couldn't even play an asinine parlor game because he didn't understand math.