Homespun Hearts (44 page)

He wanted Esme. He wanted her to love him.

And he was determined to win her. The question was how.

He could give her anything that she might want. But she wasn't the kind of woman who cared for "things" too much. They were good together in bed, he reminded himself. Was that enough to win a woman's love?

Not the way he was going about it, Cleav muttered to himself aloud.

He hadn't taken her in his arms for days. He was afraid that in the heat of passion he would declare his feelings for her and embarrass the both of them.

But he couldn't stay away. He wanted her. Even now he wanted her.

That could be a start, but he also had to try to make her his friend—to try to understand her, to share her problems and her life.

The bell over the door jingled, and Cleav looked up to see who was the customer. It was Yohan Crabb.

"What you need, Yo?" Cleav asked him with as much patience as he could muster.

The old man shrugged. "Not a dang thing," he answered easily. "They's just so busy at the house, I thought I'd come down here and see what you were up to."

Cleav made a split-second decision and reached for the ties at the back of his apron.

"I need you to handle the store for a couple of hours for me.

"What now?" Yo asked, nearly dumbfounded.

Cleav handed him the apron.

"There's a price book in the money drawer beneath the counter. If somebody wants to buy something that's not marked, look it up in the book."

Yohan, clearly stunned, attempted to choke out a refusal. "I cain't hardly read."

"Just do the best you can," Cleav said with a wave of unconcern. "I've got something important to do."

"You going to see about them fish?" Yo's question was almost an accusation.

"No," Cleav replied as he headed out the door. "I'm going to see about my wife."

The moon was on the rise as Esme sat before the vanity brushing her hair. The fancy store-bought soap—Mrs. Rhy called it shampoo—left her hair as soft and silky as an egg wash. But Esme's thoughts were not upon the long strands of hair she pulled her brush through. They were on her husband, Cleav.

That afternoon in the sewing room, she had been laughing at a joke Mrs. Rhy had made and wondering at the sudden change in her mother-in-law when Cleav suddenly appeared at the door.

"Mother, sisters," he greeted the other women with polite nods. "If you will excuse my wife, I need to speak with her for a moment."

Esme didn't wait to hear their answers. She immediately hurried toward him.

"What is it?" she asked, but he'd ignored her and simply taken her arm to escort her up the stairs.

His silence worried Esme. She knew he'd been angry at noon. And why not? He'd spent years trying to be a perfect gentleman and live in a gentleman's house with gentlemanly manners. And in a few weeks his new wife had turned his kitchen into a dance hall and his mother remembering her own hill upbringing.

Cleav probably saw her behavior as some horrible breach of conduct. Was he angry with her? Planning to chastise her privately?

Cleav opened the door of their room and gestured for her to enter. Esme did, with some trepidation.

When she heard the door close quietly behind them, she turned to question him.

She hadn't had a chance to say a word.

Cleav's arms came around her. His mouth found hers in a kiss that was hot, passionate, hungry.

Fire leapt in Esme's veins, and she eagerly returned the kiss. Allowing her fingers to weave through his hair, she moaned in delight and pressed against him.

Cleav couldn't seem to get close enough. "Sweet Hillbaby, my Hillbaby," he groaned against her. "I want you too much," he said.

Their kisses were as sweet and tender as they were urgent and passionate. Both speaking their feelings so clearly and neither hearing the other.

Cleav eagerly undid the buttons at her back, and Esme, her hands free, quickly lowered her bodice as a temptation for his lips.

"You're so beautiful, Hillbaby," he had told her roughly. "And you're mine, Esme, forever mine. ..."

Tonight, as Esme stared blankly at her image in the mirror, she still shuddered in remembered pleasure. This afternoon had been heaven. But all of marriage was not spent in bed.

Cleav teased and pleased and satisfied her. But the closeness of their first days together eluded them. He no longer spoke of his days and his dreams. Somehow she had pushed him away. All her life she had managed to provide for the needs of the people she loved, but she wasn't sure she knew what Cleav needed.

A throaty giggle outside the window captured Esme's attention. Although she couldn't hear what was said, she recognized the voices of her sister and Armon.

It had been Agrippa's night to walk out with him, and she and Adelaide had worked furiously that afternoon to finish her new blue percale.

Her sister had looked positively charming when she'd come downstairs. Esme hoped that a rakish, overbearing clod like Armon could appreciate all their work.

The sounds from the yard ceased. But Esme didn't hear the door open. Curiously she made her way to the window.

Looking down, she saw Armon and Agrippa locked in a passionate embrace on the front path. He was holding her far too closely for a couple who were not engaged, and her sister was not complaining.

Disapproving, Esme was just about to call out a sisterly rebuke when the kiss ended and Armon set her at arm's length. Although their conversation was spoken too softly for Esme to hear, apparently Armon bade her good night with one last longing look, Agrippa hurried to the door.

"For heaven's sake," Esme muttered to herself. "That was entirely too close."

She would definitely have to speak to Agrippa about her behavior. Certainly this time Armon had acted like i gentleman, but Esme was pretty sure that he could not be counted on for continual chivalrous behavior. She was just about to move away from the window when a movement behind the chestnut tree caught her eye.

"What are you up to?" She heard Armon's voice clearly "Spying?"

With a naughty giggle Adelaide emerged from behind the tree. Esme couldn't hear her sister's reply but watched it horror as the other threw herself into Hightower's arms.

Adelaide's kiss was much like Agrippa's. Too close, toe intimate, too long, and far too dangerous.

"Save to graces!" Esme exclaimed to herself. This had to stop. If someone didn't do something soon, those two would be planning a double wedding before she knew it, and with only one groom!

She was so stunned, Esme didn't hear Cleav come up behind her until he touched her on the shoulder.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

When she didn't answer, Cleav leaned forward out the window.

"Hmm ..." She heard him spot the object of her interest. "Good night, Hightower," he called out calmly.

The couple in the darkness of the chestnut tree jumped apart guiltily.

"Come on in the house, Agrippa."

As Adelaide rushed down the path and into the front door

Esme almost corrected him. Cleav still could not tell the twins apart then she saw the very cold glare that Cleav was offering Armon. He'd stated more than once that he didn't approve of the twin spark.

"I'm sorry, Cleavis," she told him as they watched Hightower disappearing into the night. "I swear I'm going to have a talk with those twins tomorrow. I won't have them making a scene on your front lawn."

Cleav shook his head and chucked his wife affectionately under the chin. "Don't worry about that Hillbaby. I'll have a talk with young Mr. Hightower," he said. "Sometimes a man needs a bit of prodding to make his choice."

"Oh, you don't have to do that" Esme said, horrified. After she'd forced him into an unsuitable marriage and made him support her entire crazy family, did he think she expected him to help raise and marry off her two foolish sisters? "The twins are my responsibility. I would never ask you to take that on."

Cleav placed the palms of his hands on Esme's cheeks and tilted her head to look at him.

"I know you'd never ask me to take it on, Esme," he whispered. "But I hope you'd ask me to share it."

L
ike the renewal
of crops and trees all around them, spring was also the time for renewal of the soul. The Reverend Wilbur Boatwright, an itinerant evangelist, arrived for the annual Vader revival, a week of hellfire and brimstone preaching.

Because the church could be a mite stuffy, and revival meetings were famous for running long into the night, the men of the congregation constructed a brush arbor on the little knoll overlooking the church.

Six sturdy posts were driven into the ground and connected to each other with two-by-fours. A few crosswise slats were nailed as roofing and were covered with fresh-cut pine, fern, and sumac. The open area allowed cooling breezes to pass over the congregation and the makeshift roofing shaded them from the late evening sun.

Usually Esme found the sweet smell of freshly cut brush soothing, but this time she was too excited and wary to appreciate the setting. Revivals were times for reunions with old acquaintances, high entertainment, and spiritual reevaluation. While she looked forward to the fun and friends, Esme was not anxious to look closely at her life.

She'd accomplished what she'd set out to do. Her family now had a decent roof over their heads and new clothes and plenty of food. But the man she loved, the person who was now most important to her, had she made him happy?

"Why should he be?" she asked herself as she brushed his good black suitcoat. "He was tricked into marrying a woman whose ignorance and countrified ways would surely weigh him down for a lifetime!"

Esme was doing her best to learn ladylike behavior. She listened avidly to her mother-in-law's directions on keeping the house up to fashion. And she severely rebuked her sisters and father for bringing "cave manners" into Mr. Rhy's fancy house. With her sisters she pored over the ladies' magazines to ensure that their new clothes were neither immodest nor out-of-date. But the fact was, she couldn't change herself. She was still Esme Crabb, the same Esme Crabb that God had created. And she hated to face her Maker so disappointed with the job he'd done.

"Are you about ready?" Cleav asked from the doorway.

Esme nodded. "I'm just brushing your coat."

Cleav shook his head and looked at her curiously. "I wasn't planning to wear it. It's quite warm out tonight, and the crowd will be very close."

"Of course," Esme answered, blushing with embarrassment at her own stupidity. She'd thought gentlemen always wore coats. "I'll just hang it back in the wardrobe."

Cleav could see that Esme was upset.

"Do you want me to wear the coat?" he asked her. "I'd be happy to do it, if it pleases you."

"No! Certainly not."

"I just want to make you happy," he said quietly.

"I just want to make you happy," Esme answered him with a curious look. "I should have known that it was too hot to wear the coat."

Cleav reached out and took her hand. He held the palm in his own for a moment and then squeezed it encouragingly.

"I don't expect you to know everything I want, Esme," he said.

Esme nodded. He didn't expect her to know what he wanted, she thought, because he realized a woman like her, an ignorant hill woman, could never understand his needs.

"Come on, you two," Eula called from the hallway. "If we don't hurry, we'll be late for the foot washing."

Free Will Baptist, usually abbreviated with the initials FWB, were oft referred to in the mountains as the "foot-washing Baptists." The denomination, founded in Tennessee, was more famous for its insistence on foot washing as part of the communion service than for its adamant opposition to the concept of predestination, for which its name was taken.

The foot-washing ritual was performed much as it was done on the night of the Last Supper. Men and women were separated for the task. Each participant brought two clean towels: One towel was wrapped around the waist and the other hung down from it in front like a long sash. One by one the members of the congregation would perform the humbling task of washing the feet of another in a shallow basin and then drying them with the towel they wore.

Eula wasn't afraid of missing the event, rather she wanted to get the washing done before the "foot water" got too dirty. As usual, she was not the only one with this idea. More than half the congregation was better than a half hour early.

"Come on now, Esme," Mrs. Rhy urged. "I don't want a dozen people ahead of me."

"I'm not going to wash feet tonight," Esme told her and then glanced at her husband.

"All right," Cleav answered, patting her reassuringly on the shoulder. "Go on ahead, Mother."

As Mrs. Rhy hurried down the aisle, Cleav turned back to his wife. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she told him easily. "I just thought I'd skip it this time."

Cleav nodded his agreement and gave her a chaste good-bye kiss on the cheek.

"I hate to leave you alone up here," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the circle of men already forming in the clearing, their water buckets and towels in evidence.

"I'll be fine, go on," she said.

"You sure, Esme-girl?" her father interrupted.

"Yes, Pa," she said. "Go on now with Cleav."

As she watched the retreating backs of the men, she heard a giggle behind her. Turning, she saw the twins coming up the hill with Armon. He had one arm around the waist of each.

Seeing Esme, the two broke away from their sweetheart and hurried toward her. "Are you waiting for us?" one asked.

"What are you both doing with Armon?" Esme asked, looking over her sisters' shoulders to the culprit, who was now leaning so negligently against a tree trunk.

"Armon says that since we're going to the revival instead of walking out, the rules don't count," Adelaide answered with unconcerned openness.

"The rules always count," Esme said firmly. "Adelaide, this is your night, so I'll expect you, Agrippa, to walk home with me and Cleav."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Agrippa gave her sister an exasperated look. "Well, can't I at least sit with them?"

Esme started to say no and then held her tongue. "All right," she said finally. "But you find me as soon as the service is finished."

"Thank you." Agrippa gave Esme a grateful kiss on the cheek.

Esme hugged both girls warmly. "Now, you'd best hurry or you'll be late," she told them.

"You're not coming with us?"

"Not tonight."

As Esme stood on the hill watching the twins scamper toward the women's group, she folded her arms across her chest. Her sisters were sweet and pretty and such precious little featherheads. She'd always thought that she would provide for them. But it was Cleav who had given them a decent place to live and furnished them with clothes to wear. Could she expect Cleav to protect them from the human dangers in life as thoroughly as he protected them from the elements? Cleav wanted to share her responsibilities, but she still felt that she should handle this one herself.

Turning, she looked at the object of her sisterly concern. Armon Hightower stood, like a wolf in waiting, grinning at her. She felt the rise of powerless ire inside her. Oh, how she'd like to slap the self-satisfied smile right off his face! But she'd never slapped a man in her life.

Suddenly an idea came to mind. As her plan hastily took shape, she slowly made her way toward Armon Hightower.

He stood, a sprig of straw stuck in the side of his mouth, and his movements were lazy and casual as he watched Esme approach. "Evenin', Miz Rhy," he greeted her politely. "What you doing up here with us sinners?"

With a hasty glance around Esme realized that virtually everyone who had chosen not to go foot washing was either a mother with a quartet of children or a wild young man.

"Actually, I wanted to have a word with you," Esme lied.

Armon raised an eyebrow warily. "If you're fit to be tied about me escorting both them gals up here," he said, "I warn you that I already mentioned it to your pa, and he didn't care nohow."

Esme accepted his statement with a nod. "This has nothing to do with the twins." She stated the bald-faced untruth without flinching. "This is something else entirely."

Pushing off from the tree, Armon stood straight before her, his interest obviously piqued.

Allowing the suspense to gather, Esme hesitated. "There is ... I have a friend here who . . . well, has indicated an interest in you."

His eyebrows raised in surprise, and then he shrugged with studied unconcern. "Lots of young gals hanker after me," he admitted without an overabundance of pride. "I choose the gals I want, they don't choose me." His words were accompanied by a slight tilt of his head toward the circle of men, where her husband now stood ready to take his turn.

If Esme had any qualms about her plan, Hightower's implied criticism of Cleav quelled them. She nodded slowly. "This young woman," she said with careful reluctance, "the one I'm speaking of, is not one that would be considered one of the bunch.'"

"Oh?" Armon wasn't exactly sure what she meant. His expression was now openly curious. "Well, who in the world is she, this special female?"

Esme smiled slyly. "I'm really not at liberty to say."

"Why not?"

With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Esme continued with feigned hesitance. "This young woman confessed to me how she has loved you from afar for years."

Esme stopped momentarily to let her words sink in. "For years she's been dreaming of you, but you've never approached her."

"So now she wants to approach me?"

Esme appeared horrified. "Oh, no! She's much too genteel to ever speak to you herself."

Armon's eyes brightened. "So she asked you to speak for her?"

"Certainly not!" Esme's tone indicated that she was appalled at the suggestion. "She would be horrified if she ever learned that I'd mentioned this to you." And then more quietly she added, "You must never breathe a word of it."

Armon began to tire of the game. "How do you expect me not to tell her, when I don't even know who she is?"

“Well, you don't expect me just to blurt out her name, do you?" Esme asked.

"How about a hint, then?"

Esme considered his suggestion carefully, as if she'd never thought of it herself. Finally she sighed, as if losing a battle with her conscience. "All right," she said. "I'll give you some hints, but I will not tell you if you are right or wrong."

"Fair enough." Armon struck the bargain easily.

"Let's see," Esme began. "She's a young woman who is exceptionally attractive."

"Must not be from Vader, then," Armon joked. When his chuckle was met by Esme's stony look, he backed down. "Okay," he said noncommittally.

"She's not seeing anyone at the present time, but she suffered a very recent loss of a sweetheart."

Armon's brow furrowed as if deep in thought. Esme looked at him hopefully, but the young man shook his head.

"Could be a lot of gals," he said.

"She—" Esme tried to think of something else to hint. Armon was dense. "Oh, she plays the piano."

Armon's grin was wry, and his answer was sarcastic. "Half the women in these hills think they can play the piano. A man don't look at the piano when he's thinking about a woman."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Esme was clearly getting frustrated.

"She has red hair," she said with an edge of temper. If he couldn't get that, he must be a complete dolt.

"Red hair?" Armon looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "I don't know any gals with red hair," he said.

"Of course you do!" Esme insisted.

"Well," he said, after thinking a moment, "there's that old whore down by Collins Crossing. But I'm pretty sure her red hair come out of a bottle."

"Do you think such a woman would be a friend of mine?" Esme asked with fury.

"No, ma'am," Armon answered. "But you're the one that brought up the red hair, and she's the only red-haired woman I know."

"You do know another young woman with red hair!" Esme told him.

"Nope," Armon replied obstinately. "Can't think of nary a one."

Esme gritted her teeth with frustration. "All right," she said between clenched jaws. "One more hint If you can't get it this time, I'm giving up."

Armon shrugged.

"She's the daughter of a preacher."

Armon stared dumbly at her for a moment, then his eyes widened in shock. "Tits Tewksbury?" he whispered, the tone of his question incredulous.

Esme frowned at the vulgar nickname.

Glancing down the hill toward the women's foot washing, Armon's expression was one of disbelief.

"I cain't believe it. Miss Esme," he said sincerely. "That gal ain't never give me so much as the time of day."

"I'm not saying a word," Esme told him, reeking of guile. "A lady's heart is involved, and I wouldn't want to in any way cause it to be broken."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Armon was clearly pole-axed. "Miss, uh, I mean Miz Rhy," he said, "I'll never breathe a word of what you tole me. But I do thank you for letting me know." His smile was joyous.

"Them ladies, they ain't like gals," he said. "You cain't even get a inkling of what they's a-thinking."

The crowds were breaking up, and Esme took her leave quickly.

If Armon couldn't get an inkling of what a lady was thinking, that must mean she was a lady, Esme thought to herself. Because Armon surely wouldn't have been smiling if he could have read her mind.

Esme hummed a cheery tune as she hurried to join her husband. If Sophrona had slapped Cleav for a gentle kiss, she'd probably break Armon Hightower's jaw.

The idea appealed to her.

The Reverend Wilbur Boatwright was a short, balding man with a florid complexion and a pure white handlebar moustache. What the middle-aged evangelist lacked in pulpit presence, he managed to make up for with a booming set of vocal cords.

Cleav and Esme found seats near the middle of the third row. Yohan deserted them for the male camaraderie of the hastily constructed "amen corner."

Only a couple of dozen benches were available, and with everybody within ten miles showing up, the place was crowded. Esme was jostled more than once as worshipers shoved into the row and she found herself plastered right up against her husband.