Hooked (39 page)

She turned away from him and went back to the shore.

*  *  *

Hours later, as Meg walked through the hotel lobby once again dressed as herself, she should have felt relieved that she no longer would have to be alone with Matthew.

But the mere thought left her feeling lonely. And more than a bit sad.

She shook her head. Forget about him. Think about something else.

The bust cream.

Now there was a topic. That bust cream had caught her more fish than it had men. She wondered what was in it that made the trout go crazy and bite.

If she hadn't brought it to the creek to dump, she wouldn't have found out about its luring abilities. After the bonfire fiasco, she wasn't about to have Mr. Finch discover her bust cream. So she'd planned to get rid of it at the bottom of the lake. Only the jar lid had come lose when she'd been sneaking it out of her tackle box and Matthew had caught her. She hadn't been about to tell him that she'd been gullible enough to buy that kind of feminine product.

She'd rather curl up and die.

Matthew
. She sighed.

Pushing open one of the double front doors, Meg paused on the hotel's porch when she saw Grandma Nettie at the boardwalk with Mrs. Treber, Mrs. Calhoon, Mrs. Elward, and Mrs. Plunkett around her.
Several of her schoolmates were there as well: Camille Kennison—the prettiest girl in class. Ruth and Hildegarde.

Voices drifted to Meg.

“Her behavior is not to be tolerated, Mrs. Rothman,” quipped Mrs. Elward. “She and my Ruthy have been friends ever since they were babies. I always knew Margaret was on the flighty side, but I never minded because she was so innocent Only now she's gone too far. Cutting her hair and breezing about on Main Street without the slightest bit of embarrassment.”

“I quite agree,” chimed Mrs. Plunkett. “Hildegarde, don't you dare take it into your head to cut your hair. It just isn't done.”

“Yes, Mother,” Hildegarde replied. “I mean, no, Mother, I won't cut my hair.”

Mrs. Treber forged right in with, “I'm so glad my Johannah has found a good man. That's what Margaret is lacking. A husband would tame her. Teach her not to be so forward.”

Mrs. Calhoon added, “A husband would solve everything.”

“She's run amuck,” Mrs. Plunkett voiced. “First she shows her petticoat hem in public, then she cuts her hair. What's next?”

Grandma Nettie had quietly listened to them, then straightened to her full height and made a hissing sound of disapprobation. “You don't know a thing about being women. And you don't know a thing about my Meg. Cutting one's hair does not a hussy make. It speaks of individuality. Of confidence.”

Tension bristled the air.

Meg breathed in and out in a soft rise and fall of
her breasts. She lifted her hand to the doorjamb to steady herself. Her head swirled with doubts. Had she gone so far in the opposite direction of Margaret, she'd turned Meg into a public disgrace? That hadn't been her intention.

Her mind awhirl, Meg could barely comprehend what she was hearing.

“I like her hair,” Camille said, slicing through the electrified quiet. “I think it looks darling on her and I admire her for having the courage to cut it. I wish I could be more like her. She never worries about what people think and she looks like she has an awful lot of fun with life.”

Tears filled Meg's eyes. She'd never known Camille Kennison to have doubts about herself. She was so pretty and sought after. Why, she could have any man in all of Harmony . . . and yet, she didn't. Why was that? She wasn't engaged and she never talked about getting engaged either.

“Your mother would have a fit if she heard you talking that way, Camille,” Mrs. Treber ostracized.

“My mother wouldn't mind at all,” Camille defended. “She's modern.”

“Amen,” Grandma Nettie seconded. “Meg can be whoever she wants to be.”

“Yes, like a luggage cart-riding hoyden,” Mrs. Treber spouted.

Meg felt her whole life falling apart right then and there. She'd wanted to be herself. And she'd wanted to be accepted. She realized now that she couldn't have both. It seemed so unfair. She felt her temper rise in response to their unkind words.

A cry escaped her mouth as she pushed off from the doorway and approached them.

Lifting her chin and boldly meeting their eyes in turn, she said, “My, my, it does look like a nice day for a ride on Delbert's bellman's cart.”

“Miss Brooks, really,” tsked Mrs. Treber, “do be serious.”

Serious?

Just then, the three o'clock train whistle blared its impending arrival at the depot.

Meg's thoughts dangerously raced.

The luggage cart-riding hoyden.

Her rebellious emotions got the better of her as she laid a hand on the cart's brass rail, let its wheels smack across the porch, down the steps, and onto the brick street.

Mrs. Plunkett cried, “You wouldn't.”

“Wouldn't I?” Meg stepped her left foot onto the velvet platform, leaving her right foot on the ground to shove off with.

“When you're finished, dear, you bring it back,” Grandma Nettie said, then excused herself from the ladies and went into the hotel as if nothing was amiss.

The whistle blew steam once more and Meg set off in motion.

Triumph flooded through her as the luggage cart gained speed on its rickety wheels toward the depot Rattling and careening down Birch Avenue, she felt the wind at her cheeks, with her skirts flying and her hair blowing. And her tears flowing.

The bristle of their words could not be ignored. But she would be damned if she let them know how they'd hurt her.

As the depot came into view, she let go with one hand to dash away her tears and she even dared to smile at the engineer as he waved to her. Old Moe, a
familiar soul who never once made an ill reference to her outlandish ways.

Coming to a stop in the gravel beside the depot, Meg hopped off the cart wondering what she would do now.

But she didn't wonder for long when a voice called her. One she knew. One she hadn't heard in months.

“Hey, sweet pea! Still up to no good, I see.”

Meg turned, shouting the name on her lips. “Wayne!”

19

“G
ee it's good to see you, sweet pea.”

The night swathed Meg and her brother in tones of grays as they sat on the front porch swing after supper. Wayne was in Harmony only overnight. He was on his way to Denver to meet with some friends for the spring semester break.

“I'm so glad you're home. I just wish you could stay longer.”

“I know. I know.”

They swung gently, quiet all round them.

“Did Camille Kennison get married while I was away?” Wayne asked, breaking the silence in a nonchalant manner. His question and consecutive blow of five cigar smoke rings were delivered at the same time.

Throughout the meal, Wayne had told Meg and Grandma Nettie—and Mr. Finch, too—all about Cornell University. Wayne had been elected to the student government and was even a member of an old and respected fraternity. His days were filled with classes and important meetings, while his evenings
were filled with a myriad of social events and too many friends to count. From the sounds of it, Wayne was a big man on the New York State campus.

His clothing were sure ultra. He must have gone to a high class metropolitan tailor. The cutaway coat that encased his broad shoulders was of the most extreme style. Fancy worsted had been used on his horizontal striped vest, while the coat was of cheviot. The coat also had five buttons, but Wayne opted for the current fashionable way of fastening the front with only four.
And
, he'd even taken to using a gold-trimmed Congo walking stick. He'd also pomaded his hair. He'd never done that before.

When Meg had turned and seen him at the train station, she could hardly believe the gentleman before her was her very own brother. He'd changed so much.

“Camille?” Meg asked, after a length of time. “No, she hasn't gotten married. Why?”

“Just wondering, sis. She's awfully pretty.”

“Yes, very.” Meg normally would have voiced her words in a pining note. But since Camille had stood up for her this afternoon, Meg couldn't think or say anything but flattery about Camille Kennison.

Knitting her fingers together and bracing them on her lap, Meg changed the subject. “So tell me about school.”

Wayne slowly puffed on his cigar. “I already did at dinner.”

“I mean tell me the things that aren't fit for table conversation.”

Winking at her, Wayne laughed.

Meg settled into the swing's wooden-slotted backrest and listened to Wayne's exploits of riding an elevator for the first time, and in electric street cars, and
seeing a Pierce motorette, which had been a gleaming black color, to shenanigans with his college chums. Of drinking beer in public gardens and going to burlesque shows.

“Do they really dance down to their shimmies?” Meg asked.

With a brush of his fingertip over the end of Meg's nose, Wayne said, “Never you mind about what happens after they get to their shimmies.”

They sat quietly for a while, swaying back and forth, the rusty squeak of the swing chains keeping them company.

“So where are all your beaux, sis?”

Wayne's inquiry caused Meg to tense. “I don't have any beaux.”

“I can't believe that.” He playfully tugged on a lock of her hair. “And if I do say so, you look cute with this short hair.”

Meg felt self-conscious about her hair all of a sudden and tried to play down the fact that she didn't have any men callers and never would again. “I've decided not to marry so why waste my time with suitors?”

“That's a change from the sister I knew. You've been fond of the idea of getting married.”

“I've changed my mind.”

“Maybe you'll unchange it.” Wayne pitched his cigar over the porch railing and into the dewy lawn that stretched out before them. “Finch told me that a man named Vernon Wilberforce has called on you.”

“Not lately,” Meg corrected. “And he wasn't for me. Not to mention he's only in town for the fishing contest. He'll be leaving Sunday, I'm sure.”

“The ol' contest,” Wayne chuckled. “Wonder who'll win this year?”

“Certainly not Mr. Wilberforce,” Meg said, “he can't fish worth a darn.”

“You've seen him practicing, have you?”

Some confidences couldn't be shared with her brother. “I've heard.”

“Who got the number-one lottery spot?”

“Orvis Schmidt.”

“He's a decent fellow,” Wayne commented while resting his arm on the back of the swing. “He has a chance at winning.”

“I don't care who wins just so long as we can move on.” In a softer voice, unable to meet his eyes, she said, “I've heard a few people talking about your win last year.”

“Have you now?”

“Yes. And I don't like it. But I've stuck up for you, Wayne. I have.”

“That's sweet, sis.”

“You couldn't help it if you pulled the number-one spot,” she stated, turning to him. “And you won because you were the best.”

Wayne's leashed rumble of laughter unexplainably brought out gooseflesh on Meg's arms. There was coldness in the way he found humor in her words—as if he knew a secret.

“I was the best, Maggie, best at being the smartest.”

For several driving heartbeats, Meg let the comment pass. Then she couldn't ignore the chill that swept over her.

“What do you mean?”

“Never you mind about what I mean, sweet pea.”

Never mind?
Why “never mind?” What did that
mean? Meg leaned forward on the swing and tried to see her brother's face clearly. “Are you telling me that you did something . . . dishonest?”

“Let it go, sis.”