Harmony (48 page)

Then he left—no word about why he'd come, where he was going; no hint of why he'd said their paths would cross again—soon.

Distress caused her legs to weaken. She lowered herself onto her chair and took in a deep breath to still her racing heart. Then when she felt able to look at Tom, she lifted her eyes to his. What they had left unspoken between them before had been pushed away by the immediate problem: how could she explain to Tom about Ludie's showing up on her doorstep when she couldn't explain it to herself?

“Tom . . . I had no idea he'd come here.”

Sinewy thighs strained against his trousers as he rested his weight on one foot. “What did he want?”

“I don't know. He didn't tell me.”

Nodding with tight control, Tom hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. The waistband of his pants dipped, his belly flat behind the tucked-in ends of a red-and-black plaid shirt. “Were you glad to see him?”

She could barely think with the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. “I was surprised.”

“Glad?”

“Surprised,” she repeated firmly.

“He smokes two-for-a-dollar cigars—those fancy Havana red bands.” The observation seemed completely out of the blue—until he added without inflection, “Your drawer's smoking.”

She quickly yanked the drawer open and smashed the glowing cigar tip with the doily that had been beneath the ivy plant now on Tom's counter. When the smoldering assortment of papers whose edges had begun to blacken were put out, she looked up.

Only to find Tom no longer there.

•  •  •

For the first time since Wolcott's Sporting Goods and Excursions had opened, Tom closed up in the middle of the day for no good reason other than he felt like it. He'd gone back to the store through the closet, snagged his tackle and pole, flipped the sign on the door, and locked the place up.

Standing on the bank of Evergreen Creek, up to his ankles in snow, he had smoked one cigarette after another until the pack was empty. So was his hook—as it had been for the past three hours. But he didn't give a damn about that. He hadn't come here to fish.

He'd come to try to get rid of the image of Edwina and Ludlow Rutledge in her classroom smoking cigars together. She'd fallen into a habit with him. He had known the minute he saw her guiltily slamming her drawer closed on the evidence that she'd done this before
with him—smoked cigars. He didn't care that she smoked. That wasn't the point. It was the familiarity with Rutledge that her doing so implied. And she'd smoked again with him—now—after all the man had put her through. Jealousy had made Tom leave rather than confront her. He hadn't been able to trust his own voice not to rise. He wouldn't have been bullying her but rather Rutledge—even though the man had left.

He believed Edwina when she said she had no idea as to why he'd come. But he'd come just the same. Why? Did he want her back? Would she go back to him?

Tom had gone to see Edwina for the sole purpose of telling her that their set of circumstances—this affair—wasn't working out. He wanted more. He'd intended to bring up marriage to her again to see how she would react. He would have told her that he loved her to prove his point that marrying was the right thing to do. It was true—he did love her enough to spend the rest of his life with her.

The slowly trickling water, tumbling icily over rock beds and the frozen bank, kept Tom company when he should have been with Edwina instead.

But the distance he'd put between them had given him much-needed time to come to a conclusion. The fact that her old . . . friend . . . had come to town didn't matter one way or another. She obviously wasn't in love with the man anymore, or else she would have been rapturously in his arms—instead of smoking expensive Havanas—when Tom had come into the classroom.

Dusk had fallen, the trampled snow aglow from a pink cloud sunset. Tom gathered his gear and walked back to the store. He took only a minute to set his things on the counter before leaving once more and heading straight to Edwina's house.

Walking directly up the front walkway, he cranked the bell. The door opened and the housekeeper answered. Her face gave away her surprise at seeing him standing there. At least he remembered his manners and put fingers to his hat.

“Ma'am, I'd like to speak with Miss Huntington.”

Marvel-Anne stood like an unyielding ox when she informed him, “She's not at home.”

Tom kept his best courtesies in place. “Might you be able to tell me where she's gone?”

Weariness crept into her gaze, but when he kept an affable smile glued on his mouth, she gave in. “Minister Stoll's house.”

“Church business?”

“No. She's visiting with friends from the Gillette College. Miss Crane and Mr. Rutledge. I don't expect her back until after I've gone home. Shall I leave a note that you called?”

“No.” Tom tipped his hat in parting.

He went through the gate and let it slam behind him. In minutes, he was back at the store standing inside the dark interior. He lit a lamp on the wall, then stared at Edwina's handiwork. He hadn't changed anything since Saturday. All was exactly how she'd “fixed” it. It hadn't been in his heart to alter what she had done with good intentions . . . and love. Whether or not she was in love with him, he saw her decorations as tokens of that emotion. But maybe it was more like affection and friendliness; he didn't want to accept that. Right then, he wasn't sure what to think.

He wasn't sure of anything.

Walking to the counter, he reached behind the ledge, and snatched the bowl of small balls. He proceeded down the center aisle, stopped, and set the bowl down in the empty box of athletic supporters. Gripping one tiny sphere, he tossed it once and caught it in his palm, his lips pressed hard together. He coiled his arm and leg back and let the ball fly straight into Buttkiss's teeth. It made him feel somewhat better. He grabbed another ball and let it soar across the room. Then another. And another . . . until the bowl was empty and his forehead had broken out in a sweat from the effort.

•  •  •

When Edwina had returned home from the school after waiting over an hour for Tom to come back, she'd found a note and a calling card on her vestibule table from Abbie. She'd written that she had just come into town and was staying at her uncle's house. She wanted Edwina to come by at six for an impromptu get-together with her and Ludlow, where they could catch up on each other's lives. She'd dotted the
I
in
Abbie
with two eyes and a smile—the same way she had shown Edwina how to do for the
I
in
her
name. Edwina hadn't written it that way in . . . a long time.

Edwina had lowered the note and gazed at her reflection in the hall mirror. Had Abigail and Ludie traveled together? What were they doing in Harmony?

Telling Marvel-Anne she wouldn't be eating dinner, Edwina had gone up to her room and sat, trancelike, on the bed. So many things were happening in such a short space of time. . . . Tom was most important, but he'd made himself unavailable. She could try to track him down . . . but a lady didn't gad about after dark without having a proper destination. Tom Wolcott's apartment wasn't a proper destination. And she had the feeling he didn't want to be found at the moment—or he would have come back to the store before she'd gone home for the day.

Two hours later, Edwina had been admitted into the Stoll home. Now she sat in the quaint cherrywood-framed divan by the fire sipping a glass of Madeira Abbie had insisted on serving before dinner. It was a very awkward moment. Ludie resided in the oversize chair, his feet on an ottoman, and Abbie . . . she didn't sit. She flitted about the parlor, chattering on about Chicago. Minister Stoll had retreated into his study to leave the “young people” to their talk while Mrs. Stoll helped the cook in the kitchen.

Abigail, in physical appearance, looked like the old Abigail from college, only more refined, cultured. She talked differently. She sounded like . . . Ludie. Her deep titian hair was swept up on the crown of her head in an
intricate and fashionable pompadour. Her eyes, brown and almond-shaped, seemed to tilt at the corners more . . . giving the impression of elusiveness, sauciness. She wore face powder, a fine and translucent cosmetic. And lip rouge—just a touch to emphasize her mouth. Earrings dangled from the lobes of her ears. Edwina could swear they were real diamonds.

But what was most startling was the large emerald-cut ruby on her fourth finger. Each time she moved about the room, the gem caught bits of light and gave off sparkling brilliance. Edwina couldn't stop sneaking looks at it. The ring was valuable. It meant something. Had Ludie given it to her? Were the two of them engaged?

“Ludlow,” Abbie said in her husky tone, “be a dearling and go outside for a cigar so that I can talk with Edwina alone.”

Ludlow, who had sat silently in the chair, his gaze alternating between Abbie and Edwina, rose. Edwina had been immensely uncomfortable for the past quarter-hour—ever since she'd been ushered into the parlor. Abbie obviously didn't know Ludlow had come to see her. Edwina still was uncertain why they were here. She'd asked once and Ludlow had been about to say something, but Abigail had cut him off with an airy remembrance of the time they'd all gone to Gowan's soda fountain. He had not uttered one word since.

And he still did not as he took his leave through the open pocket doors and wide grillwork entrance to the parlor. He disappeared into the dark vestibule, and a moment later, the front door clicked closed.

Abigail breathed in, the neckline of her stylishly cut ivory chiffon silk bodice pushing against the cleavage it revealed. She came to Edwina and sat beside her, taking Edwina's hands into one of hers. Edwina could barely hold onto the wineglass. She set it on a side table, swallowed, and gazed at Abigail.

“It's so good to see you gain, Edwina.” She gave Edwina's fingers a squeeze. “I should have written more often.”

“So should I,” Edwina conceded. “It seems as if a lifetime has passed since we last saw one another.”

“Yes, it does. But it really hasn't been, you goose.” In her eyes, a glimmer of the old Abbie shone through. “I remember you living with us just like it was yesterday. Do you recall,” she said, her voice lowered in conspiracy, “the time we took our skirts off right down to our shimmies and we climbed that old elm in my yard—straight up to my room so we wouldn't be discovered for having snuck out of the house?”

Edwina laughed softly. “I think I still have the bruises on my knees.”

“Oh, what a pair of hoydens we made.”

“Yes . . .” Edwina's smile dimmed somewhat, as did Abigail's.

“I'm sorry about your mother, Edwina. Truly I am. I should have done more. Something . . . when she departed.”

“There was nothing you could do, Abbie. You were in Chicago. I was here.”

“Yes, here.” She sighed. “Quaint little Harmony. I don't recall it being so . . . so rustic from my visits when I was a child. How do you like it?”

“I like it well enough,” Edwina replied with guardedness.

“Oh, I suppose you do—if this is all you have to choose from. But, you goose, you've got an accounting certificate, which is more than can be said about many of our sex these days.”

Edwina hadn't been listening with her full attention. Preoccupation over the reasons why Abigail and Ludie were here prevented her from reliving the past with the same enthusiasm as Abbie.

She slipped her hand from Abbie's, clutched her hands together in her lap, then stared at her friend. “Abbie, are you engaged to Ludlow?” The question came out before Edwina realized she'd been wanting to ask it the moment she'd seen the ring on Abigail's finger.

Abigail sat primly, back stiff, ankles delicately crossed
and knees together. “I didn't want to tell you anything in a letter. It seemed so . . . cold. Especially knowing how you and Ludie used to feel about one another. He told me everything.”

Cold seeped into Edwina's bones. “Told you . . . everything?”

“Your secret engagement and his breaking it.”

Relief flooded Edwina. At least he'd kept quiet about their physical romance.

“That last week before you left, he took me into his confidence. I was hurt that you didn't tell me yourself. Why didn't you?”

“Ludie asked me not to tell anyone.”

“I wasn't anyone, Edwina. I was your friend. It deeply wounded me. I felt quite betrayed.”

“I'm sorry. . . .” In hindsight, Edwina could see that she should have told Abbie that she was engaged. But she had been trying to be true to Ludlow by keeping her silence.

Abbie went on as if she hadn't heard Edwina's apology. “It didn't surprise me that his family didn't approve of you. The Rutledges are old money, you know.” She settled into the cushion a little. “Remember, Edwina, it was me he liked first. But I wouldn't step out with him unless you came, too. Then he decided he liked you better.”

“I didn't mean for that to happen. . . . It just did.”

“Yes, I know. Then it undid. I would have accepted your marriage if it had taken place. I know you loved him. But since he broke things off with you . . . well . . . a lot has happened since you left Chicago. I haven't been getting along with my mother.” Her full lips went into a spoiled pout. “She thought she could tell me what to do. Well, she couldn't. So I made up my own mind. And . . .” She shrugged her bare shoulders. “I'm not exactly engaged to Ludlow.”

The implication—one of scandalous proportions—sent Edwina reefing. The two of them were together and traveling without being married? That was . . . was worse
than Edwina's affair. At least she didn't expose her indiscretion!