Lips That Touch Mine (35 page)

Claire and Elizabeth carried the ladies'
valises upstairs to their rooms. Mildred loved the blue room with
its calming blue carpet and draperies. Maude preferred the room
with the lavender decor and the large cherry bed with the white
lace canopy. Both women decided to settle in and take a nap before
going to Elizabeth's house for supper.

Downstairs in the foyer, Elizabeth stopped
and quietly thanked Claire for providing the rooms, offering to pay
in advance.

"You're doing me a favor, Elizabeth. You can
pay at the end of each week, if that's all right."

Elizabeth was more than agreeable. "I'll come
for them at five o'clock," she said, then slipped outside.

Mildred and Maude were lovely old ladies, and
they loved their rooms in Claire's boardinghouse, but like many of
Claire's guests, they hated the noise from Boyd's saloon. Claire
complained to the deputy, Levi Harrison, but the noise continued.
By the fourth morning, Mildred and Maude refused to spend another
night listening to the racket. Claire couldn't blame them, but knew
this would put Elizabeth in an uncomfortable situation if the
ladies moved in with her. To spare Elizabeth, and to make a point
to Boyd Grayson, Claire had Levi put the ladies up in his two best
rooms at his hotel—at Boyd's expense.

It was time that Boyd faced up to the damage
his wretched saloon was causing.

After she'd settled the ladies at the
Harrison Hotel, Claire trudge through the rutted streets of town.
Eight more days and it would be February, a month closer to spring,
and hopefully a month closer to shutting down the saloons.

The, temperance marches gained considerable
ground during the week.

Bench warrants were served on two billiard
rooms for selling liquor without a license; the tables were taken
down and the owners fined. The Randolph Board of Excise published
notice in the
Fredonia Censor
that all dealer licenses
might be revoked. Two more saloon owners, and one drug store owner,
agreed to stop selling liquor.

Claire was pleased with the success, but her
life was unbearably empty with Anna and Boyd gone. She was upset
with him over the noise from his saloon, but she missed him. Boyd
had hired his friend Pat to cart her wood and run his bar, then
he'd taken the first train to Buffalo—as if he couldn't wait to get
away from her.

Would a man propose marriage to a woman, then
run to another woman if he was rejected? She didn't want to believe
that. She missed Boyd. She missed his friendship. She wanted him to
shut down his noisy saloon and be her lover. If only for a few
weeks, it would be a glorious escape from her lonely life.

He didn't want an affair. With her.

She gave Boyd her passion—and her heart. She
thought that would be enough. But he wanted ownership, all or
nothing.

Her freedom wasn't for sale at any price. It
couldn't be.

The icy wind stung her cheeks, and the sign
above A. B. Edwards's furniture store blurred as she entered the
building. She lifted her chin, refusing to feel sorry for
herself.

She was through living in half measure.
Perhaps she'd been impulsive and bold when she slipped into Boyd's
saloon—and into his bed—but she didn't regret their night of
passion. She had loved it. She wanted other nights with him, more
passion and lovemaking.

But she was afraid Boyd was sharing those
nights and passion with Martha.

She closed the door against the cold day,
refusing to dwell on her mistakes and losses. She had business to
take care of, an apology to make. She moved forward with purpose,
but hadn't taken three steps into the show room when she slammed to
a stop. A sense of the familiar swept through her.

Her mind whirled as she stepped back outside
to look at the sign above the door. "A. B. Edwards Furniture."

Was
Abe
a name her grandmother had
chosen at random? Was it a shortened version of Abraham? Or did it
stand for the initials of the man her grandmother had loved so
deeply?

Claire's heart thundered with excitement and
possibility as she reentered the store. Could A. B. Edwards be
Abe
?

A man not much older than herself offered to
assist her, but she asked to see the owner. Minutes later, an
elderly man with white hair and vivid blue eyes walked to the
counter where she was waiting.

"If you're here to cancel an order or fill my
ears with that temperance nonsense, you can leave now."

His gruff greeting made her nerves jangle
with anxiety. "Actually, Mr. Edwards, I came to apologize for the
boycott. Would it be possible for us to speak in private?"

He nodded, then headed into an office a few
feet away. After closing the door behind them, he hooked his hands
over the top of his walking stick and openly scrutinized her.

"You look familiar."

"I'm Claire Ashier. I believe you knew my
grandmother Marie Dawsen."

His fingers tightened on the head of his
walking stick. "I built her kitchen cupboards fifty years ago," he
said, his voice melancholy. "You have Marie's smile."

Hearing the longing in his voice, and knowing
he'd built her grandmother's cupboards, told Claire all she needed
to know. This frail, white-haired old man had to be Abe. Her
grandmother's lover. Her grandfather.

She said a small prayer that she wasn't
making a mistake, that she was doing the right thing. "Mr. Edwards,
I came to apologize for the boycott that's taking place, but I
think I may have something more important to talk to you
about."

His bushy eyebrows lifted in question, but he
remained silent.

"Is there any reason my grandmother would
have mentioned you in her journal?"

His face blanched, and his walking stick fell
to the floor with a loud clack. He sagged against the desk and
gripped the edge with his gnarled hands. "Marie kept a
journal?"

The desperate hope in his eyes wrung Claire's
heart. "Her entries are dated fifty years ago."

"Don't you dare judge her," he said, his
voice so fierce and protective that she could have hugged the old
man.

"There is nothing to judge, Mr. Edwards. What
I read was a beautiful tribute to a very special time in her
life."

His eyes welled with tears and he ducked his
head.

Seeing his struggle made her own eyes mist.
She wouldn't tell him that she was his granddaughter. Not now. The
shock would be too much for him.

"Can I read Marie's journal?" he asked,
lifting his head. Moisture rimmed his eyes, and he looked ready to
beg her.

"Of course, Mr. Edwards. But to protect her
privacy, I have to ask you to read it in my home."

He pushed to his feet, so unsteady that
Claire retrieved his walking stick from the floor for him. He
caught her hand in a surprisingly tight grip. "Can I go with you
now?"

An air of desperation surrounded him, as if
he were afraid he wouldn't live long enough to read the words his
lover had written.

"I don't have a carriage to offer you a
ride."

"I can walk up the hill."

She doubted it, but couldn't insult him by
saying so. "If you are certain."

He nodded.

"All right then, we can go together."

It took ten minutes for him to dress in his
boots, coat, gloves, and hat, but his eyes glowed with anticipation
when he said good-bye to his grandson and walked out of the
store.

Claire held his arm and kept her pace slow as
they made their way up the hill. She apologized for the boycott
that hurt his business, and promised to talk to his wife and the
other ladies about stopping it. He waved away her apology, but she
suspected his mind was preoccupied with memories of his long lost
lover.

He was trembling so violently when they
reached the house, she insisted he leave his boots on. She settled
him in a comfortable wing chair in the west parlor with a hot cup
of tea and an afghan. He put up with her fussing without comment,
but when she handed the leather journal to him, his hands shook so
badly he dropped it in his lap.

"I'll leave you alone while you read," she
said, but he barely acknowledged her as she slipped out of the
room.

She tidied the east parlor where her window
was still boarded up because the pane of glass hadn't come in yet,
then took the back hall to the dining room. From there, she peeked
into the west parlor to make sure Mr. Edwards was all right.

He sat with the journal angled toward the
lamp, his face a collage of joy and sorrow as he read.

She left the door ajar and went to the
kitchen to bake tea cakes for the morning. Though she presently had
no guests, she had to be prepared at all times. While she did her
numerous chores, she kept glancing toward the dining room, worrying
that she was leaving Addison alone too long, then worrying that she
would interrupt him too soon if she went to check on him.

Finally, she tiptoed to the dining room and
peeked into the parlor.

Addison Edwards—Abe—was holding the journal
to his thin chest, his wrinkled mouth open as he wept with deep,
grief-filled sobs.

Claire's heart wrenched with sympathy, and
she slipped back into the kitchen. She hadn't known that passion
could be poisonous, that it could rush through your veins with a
thrilling but deadly intent.

But Abe's torment attested to that. The poor
man was dying a thousand deaths as he wept alone in the chair.

She felt the urge to go to him, but waited a
half hour before returning to the dining room. Mr. Edwards was
calmer, but tears still streaked his face as he thumbed through the
Journal. She hesitated near the door, unsure if she should disturb
him.

He closed the journal and held it against his
heart. His eyes shut and he leaned his head against the chair
back.

She would have left him to his memories, but
it was growing late and she had no idea how to get him home.

"Mr. Edwards?" she called softly, not wanting
to startle him by sailing into the room unannounced.

He turned his head and gave her the most
peaceful smile she'd ever seen on a person. "Come here,
granddaughter." He held out his hand.

Her heart filled with hope as she rushed
forward and knelt beside his chair. He closed his fingers around
hers. "You can't know the gift you've given me." His voice was
hoarse and edged with emotion. "Marie never told me I had a
son."

"Then you talked to her after you...after her
last journal entry?" she asked, hoping they found a way to be
together. She could no longer bring herself to condemn them or
their love for one another. They didn't mean to fall in love or
have an affair. They were just two lonely souls who found each
other too late, and risked their own heartbreak to share
passion.

Sadness filled his eyes and he shook his
head. "Only to greet each other. We couldn't have said a word more
without resurrecting our relationship."

To think of Abe and her grandmother denying
their love for five decades while living only minutes from each
other was unbearably sad. "That's heartbreaking."

He nodded, and his eyes said the heartbreak
was greater than she'd imagined.

"Does your father know about me?" he
asked.

"No. I...I haven't told him about the
journal." She couldn't bring herself to admit that her father had
disowned her. "He has very blue eyes, like you."

Sadness cut deep ravines in Addison Edwards'
face. "I watched Bennett grow up and never once suspected he was my
son. I'd believed Marie wouldn't keep something so important from
me."

"What would you have done if she told you she
was going to have your child?"

He sighed and leaned his head against the
chair back. "Probably something foolish."

"I believe that's why she never told you, Mr.
Edwards."

He rubbed his hand over the soft leather
cover of the journal, as if to thank his lover for sparing them
more irreparable mistakes.

"You're welcome to come back and read the
journal whenever you like."

"Thank you," he said. "I might."

Something in his tone told her he wouldn't
read it again, that he was at peace now and had no need to revisit
the past.

"I'm sorry, but I have no way to take you
home."

He waved his hand. "I can walk to Spring
Street. In fact, I'd better get home before Desmona starts
fretting."

Claire flattened her hand across her suddenly
nauseous stomach. "Your wife knows about the journal."

The light dimmed in his eyes. "She does?"

"She saw it during a temperance meeting. She
only read the first page, but I'm certain she understood what the
diary contained. I had no idea that you were Abe...that Desmona
was...oh, how careless I've been."

He squeezed her hand. "You've done nothing
wrong. Desmona knew about my affair long before she poked her nose
in this journal. There's nothing for you to fret over." He patted
her hand. "Help me up so I can get home before she comes looking
for me. I don't want to bring trouble to your doorstep."

She helped him stand, but as soon as he had
his walking stick in hand, he put his arm around her and gave her a
hug. "Thank you for giving an old man back his youth. I'm honored
by your trust in me."

"How could I not trust a man my grandmother
loved so deeply?"

"I'd like nothing more than to openly
acknowledge you as my granddaughter, but I have four daughters and
a slew of grandchildren to consider."

"I understand. I shared the journal with you
because I believed Grandmother would have wanted me to, and because
I felt it was the right thing to do. I'm not looking for anything
more than this," she said, kissing his wrinkled cheek. "I'm proud
to know you, too, Mr. Edwards."

When she drew away, his eyes were moist, but
she suspected it was tears of happiness and peace. "I'd prefer you
call me Abe. Or Addison. Or Grandfather."