Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (13 page)

“My puppet? Is that what you think I’ve tried to make you? I raised you to be an upstanding citizen, and to carry on your father’s business. Of course, it would have suited me more had you decided to take over the farm, but there was no hope for that.”

Sam knew he’d been a great disappointment to his mother when, at sixteen, he’d announced he had no interest in taking over the farm. He much preferred forging to farming, and he couldn’t see himself doing both. They’d hired Virgil Perry and a band of hands to tend the land and raise the beef cattle.

“At any rate,” his mother continued, “I’ve brought you up to be a good, honest, successful man. And this is the thanks I get? After all I’ve done for you!”

He’d known it was just a matter of time before she’d pull out the guilt card. She’d used it often enough, and it usually worked. But not today. At the same time, he wouldn’t stoop to utter disrespect. He chose to soften his stance. He paused in his task and swiveled his body.

Her face was still contorted into a frown, reminding him of a topography map, with varied lines crossing every which direction on her forehead and over her countenance. He wished she would let go of the hate. The woman could be quite attractive when she put her mind to it, and in her day, she’d been quite beautiful. The proof was in the tintypes of her and his father, displayed on the stone mantel over the fireplace. Even today, she maintained a trim figure. Too bad her sour personality had added years and wrinkles to her formerly unblemished porcelain face.

He put his hands on her shoulders, felt the knots there, and tried to loosen them. She jerked away, another standard ploy. He huffed a sigh. “I’m thirty years old, Mother. It’s high time I got my own place.”

“Getting your own place is one thing; marrying
her
is another.” She blew out a loud breath to match his. “And what am I to do without you? You know I’m growing weaker with age.”

“I know no such thing. Doc Trumble says you’re healthier than a filly.”

“Pooh. He doesn’t know.”

He could argue with her, but why? He decided to take the high road. “It’s not like you’ll never see me again.”

“I do not want you bringing that woman around.”

“You mean Mercy, my future wife?”

Another low growl stirred in her chest, and she lifted her chin. “She will not be welcome in my house. Do you hear me?”

“Don’t be so unreasonable.”

“I won’t allow it.”

He groaned. “Do you even know the reason for all the bad blood? Why don’t you explain it to me, once and for all?”

She stood at his bedroom window, her back to him. “It had to do with Oscar Evans,” she said, her voice chilly with disdain. “Your father would not have killed him that day, had it not been for his vicious, venomous words.”

A sick kind of interest built up in his mind. “What exactly
did
he say, Mother? I wasn’t aware it ever came out in court.”

“It didn’t, exactly.” She dropped the curtain, and he could feel her hemming. She turned and gave him a derisive stare. “Saturday, you say?”

“Yes. Two o’clock.”

“Well, it’s unfortunate that I shall be busy.” She walked to the door, then turned and scanned the room. “See to it you tidy up before you retire for the evening.”

“You won’t come to my weddin’, Mother?”

But she had already disappeared around the corner.

His stomach turned over at her refusal to soften toward Mercy, no matter that she’d never done her any harm. It made him all the more determined to marry her. Perhaps his motives weren’t the best—picking a spouse just to spite his own mother—but he cared for those boys, and that had to count for something. At least he was partly motivated by selfless aims. Of course, he knew next to nothing about raising kids, but then, he doubted Mercy did, either. They would figure it out together. Weren’t two heads better than one when it came to matters such as these?

***

Saturday dawned with dark, heavy clouds and the promise of rain, a perfect accompaniment to Mercy’s song of woe as she stared into the mirror of her vanity. How had it come to this—having to marry Sam Connors, a man she barely knew? “Having” was the operative word, as no one else had stepped forward in the final hours to offer a better solution. She could blame Judge Corbett, though she supposed he did have the boys’ best interests in mind. She could point her finger at the fire itself, which, of course, made no sense; she could fault Herb Watson, for failing to extinguish his lantern before falling asleep that night.

Or, she could blame God. Didn’t He usually get the blame when bad things happened to decent people? The Watsons had been some of the most God-fearing people Mercy had ever known. Why, oh, why hadn’t God protected them in their hour of greatest need?

I protected their children
.
The voice knocked at her heart’s door and brought tears to her eyes, which she quickly dabbed at, so as not to smear the bit of color she’d added to her face in preparation for the ceremony.

“Yes, Lord, I know You protected Joseph and John Roy, and I thank You for that. But why couldn’t You have—”

“And we know that to them that love God all things work together for good, even to them that are called according to his purpose.”
The whisper of her favorite verse, Romans 8:28, brought a measure of comfort. She determined to drop the questions for now.

She leaned forward on her stool and studied herself in the mirror. For some reason, she wanted to look her best, regardless of the fact this wasn’t the happiest day of her life. It was her wedding day, not the one she’d dreamed about since childhood, but “her day” nonetheless, and to show up at the church in rags with a tearstained face would only make the situation worse, giving her something to regret, if not today, then later. She would make the best of it, for the sake of the boys and no one else—certainly not her groom, who’d been all grins when she’d gone to him a few days ago and accepted his proposal of marriage. My, how she’d hated to admit—silently—that he was her best offer. At least she hadn’t said it to his face. She simply had no other recourse for keeping the boys in her care. And so, she’d chosen to move forward with this pitiable plan, all to avoid giving them up—for she was convinced that no one else could love them near as much as she.

At one thirty in the afternoon, her neighbors, the Lamars, arrived in their fashionable barouche to escort Mercy and the boys to the church. Unlike the majority of folks in Paris, who scraped by on next to nothing, the Lamars were reasonably wealthy, thanks to the return on Wayne’s investment in a successful pharmaceutical company. They were also among the kindest, most down-to-earth people Mercy knew. She had tried to decline Wayne’s offer of transport, insisting that she could drive her own rig, with capable Sally leading the way, but he had emphatically overridden her argument. “No bride ought to even entertain such a notion,” he’d told her. “The wife and I will escort you, and that is all there is to it!”

Now, Mr. Lamar was perched on the high box seat out front, top hat and all, directing his pair of high-quality horses up Wood Street toward the center of town. The half-hood served to protect Mercy from the falling mist. Despite this being far from the happiest day of her life, Mercy had to admit to feeling quite important as she and the boys snuggled in the rear seat, facing a chatty Rhoda Lamar. Her constant babble did help to settle Mercy’s nerves, and, of course, the boys delighted in the fancy conveyance.

To her great dismay, upon arriving at the little white clapboard church known as Paris Evangelical, she saw members of both the Evans and Connors families standing outside, arguing in loud voices.

“Mercy, you mustn’t go through with this sham of a weddin’,” came the voice of her cousin Bart, son of Uncle Albert and Aunt Gertie. “You don’t know what you’re doin’. Do you want to start a war?”

“Yes, Mercy, consider what you’re doin’,” said Aunt Aggie, her father’s sister-in-law. “Why, if Oscar were here, he’d have your hide. This is downright disgraceful.”

“She ain’t fit to marry a Connors,” jabbed someone from the other side of the steps, no doubt one of Samuel’s cousins.

“Watch yourself, Frank Connors,” shouted Mercy’s cousin Wilburta, who picked up her skirts and marched straight over to face him nose to nose. “You say one contrary word about ar Mercy, and there’ll be a brawl right here on the church steps.”

Mercy’s heart took a deep dive. What were they doing here, this cluster of unwelcome family members? She and Mr. Connors had purposely intended this to be a quiet, unobtrusive affair, so they’d kept the number of invited guests to a minimum.

Mrs. Lamar swiveled on her seat to gaze at the gathering crowd. “Oh dear, what have we here?”

Mercy gave a grave sigh, put an arm around the boys, and drew them closer. “I’m afraid what we have here is a family feud of the worst making, Mrs. Lamar. Perhaps there is a back door we could enter through. Mr. Lamar, would you mind…?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss Evans,” he called over his shoulder. “We will get you inside that church if we have to go through the roof. And if that doesn’t work, well, I’ll go through the roof myself, and it won’t be in the literal sense. These people have no business ruining your special day.”

Special day?
Mercy mused.
Hardly.

12

T
he ceremony had been anything but lovely. “Tense” best described it, seeing as Sheriff Phil Marshall and his deputies had been called to the church to break up the dispute taking place on the front steps between the unhappy couple’s cousins, a few aunts and uncles, and a smattering of curious onlookers who simply took pleasure in watching a good fight.

To Sam’s great relief, his mother had stayed away, as promised. Uncle Clarence and Aunt Hester, and Mercy’s aunt Gladys, had walked right past the melee without speaking to anyone, even though their relatives had berated them harshly. Sam had never witnessed such a skirmish, and he carried a good deal of the responsibility for its happening. Had he not been so persistent about this whole marriage matter, none of this would have occurred, and it worried him that he’d made an unfortunate mistake. Still, the alternative—giving the boys to another couple—would’ve been worse, so, truly, he amounted to nothing more than Mercy’s best option.

The boys wound up being the highlight of the entire affair, leaping up from their seats with a cheer when the reverend had pronounced them husband and wife. But when he’d added, “You may kiss your bride,” a lump the size of an apple had lodged in Sam’s throat.

“What?” he’d asked.

Reverend Younker had smiled and urged him, “Kiss your bride.”

Mercy’s cheeks had flushed pinker than the rouge she’d applied before the service. “Oh, that’s not necess—”

But Sam had taken her by the shoulders and drawn her close—awkwardly, to say the least, and not the slightest bit like a first kiss ought to have been—and pressed his lips against hers, probably harder than required. Mercy had stood as stiff as a pine post, her hands planted at her sides, her lips closed tight, and her eyes scrunched shut, as if she’d just tasted something bitter.

What a fine pair they made!

In attendance, in addition to Clarence, Hester, and Gladys, had been Doc Trumble and his wife, Nora; the reverend’s wife, Thelma, who’d also played the wedding march on the piano; and, of course, Mercy’s neighbors Wayne and Rhoda Lamar, who’d been kind enough to drive her to the church. Sam had offered to pick her up himself, but she’d declined, saying it wouldn’t be at all proper for him to see her before the ceremony. He hadn’t figured her for the mawkish type, being that there wasn’t an ounce of love between them, but perhaps her reasons were more superstitious than anything else. Whatever they were, he’d given in to her wishes.

After the brief ceremony, Aunt Gladys had invited everyone back to her home for a small feast. And everyone had gone, for who among them hadn’t heard about the woman’s cooking abilities? In fact, Sam would have sworn he saw a drop of drool on Wayne Lamar’s lower lip. With the service concluded and his nerves settled, even Sam found he’d developed an appetite, for not only had he acquired a wife; he had a place to call home—and it wasn’t under his mother’s roof.

***

Flora Connors scrubbed her wooden floor till it shone like glass, working every gritty stain and grimy smudge out of cracks, corners, and crevices till sweat rolled down her face like small rivers and dropped to the floor to merge with the mop water. The more she perspired, the harder she worked, figuring the labor did her stewing mind good. Glistening sunbeams filtered through the window and fell on her shoulders, but they did nothing to improve her spirits.
Imagine, a Connors hitching up with an Evans
, she mulled angrily.
And my own son, for heaven’s sake
.
Why, it’s nothing short of disgraceful!

The screen door to the kitchen opened with a whine, then flopped shut, followed by the sounds of footsteps on the tile floor. “Who’s there?” she called from her stooped position in the hallway. “You’d best not be dirtying my tile.”

Within moments, her burly hired hand, Virgil Perry, appeared around the corner and leaned his bulk against the doorjamb. Oh, but this man was the bane of her existence. She would like to fire him for all the trouble he’d visited upon her, but she had no way of doing so. Ernest had hired him some fourteen years ago to run their farm—the farm he’d insisted they maintain, even though he was always busy at the blacksmith shop. His argument had hinged on having two sources of income.

Virgil held a half-eaten turkey drumstick, no doubt left over from last night’s dinner with Flora’s sister, Mable Hughes, and her husband, Henry. She’d expected Samuel to show up for the meal—had even set a place for him at the table—but he’d begged off, saying he had much to do to prepare for the wedding. Of course, he’d once more invited her to attend the ceremony, but she’d adamantly declined.

“What are you doing in my house?”

“Come to see what’s in your icebox.”