Mittman, Stephanie (37 page)

He
realized suddenly, with embarrassment, he hadn't even offered her a seat. Now
he led her to his gent's chair and encouraged her to sit. He perched on the
edge of Elvira's chair and faced her. He took one of her hands in his, an
intimate gesture he wasn't entirely comfortable with, but he wanted to impress
upon her the seriousness of what he had to say.

"How
well do you know this man?" he asked.

"I
know he's a good man, an honest man."

He
shook his head, fighting with himself, wanting to warn her yet wondering what
his motives were. Did he just want to see the man destroyed the way he had
destroyed Elvira's father's memory? Was he, perhaps, jealous that Sissy spent
her days at Mr. Eastman's farm and had abandoned him to fend for himself?

"You
don't know, Sissy," he said, then bit his lip. "But you should. Ask
him. Ask him about his life, the life he led in Johnstown. Ask him why he
moved. Ask him about his wife."

Sissy
looked confused. "But we know all that," she said cautiously.
"He moved here because of the flood that took his wife and his family.
When Stuart Eastman died and left the farm to him, it let him leave all the terrible
memories behind and start over here. What more is there to know?"

"Perhaps
a great deal," he said.

"You
might be right," she admitted, as if just considering it. "I don't
get the feeling that even though they work together all the time, Ethan knows that
much about him. Francie fancies herself in love with him, you know. Do you
think I ought to ask him about himself, or would that be prying?"

Innocent
eyes stared at him. It felt good to be the one she turned to for answers, and
it was a relief not to have to be the one to tell her.

"By
all means," he said patting her hand. "Ask him."

"I
will," she said with conviction. She rose and went toward the hall tree to
don her coat. "And Miller, you will come to dinner on Sunday, won't you?
We're having turkey."

"I
look forward to it," he said honestly.

A
smile lit her face and a twinkle touched her eyes. "Don't worry. Willa
won't be cooking."

She
was a dear woman. And he could do a lot worse.

She'd
spent half the night going over the conversation with Miller in her mind.
Countless times her thoughts were interrupted by Bart, who kept coming in to
her room to ask her how to fix lemonade for Willa (in November, for goodness'
sake!), or how to make coffee (naturally, she was cold after the lemonade!), or
whether there were any pickled beets (luckily, there were), or a hundred other
requests for an expectant mother. Certainly it was annoying, but to see her big
oaf of a brother sheepishly asking for some kind of cream to stop the itching
of Willa's stretching skin was touching, too.

Love
had bitten Bart Morrow right on the heart, and after her evening with Miller,
Annie was just a little jealous. Maybe more than a little. And a little angry,
too. Miller had been polite, concerned, friendly. He'd been the perfect
minister. But she hadn't come to him as a parishioner, and he had left her
feeling embarrassed once again about bringing up their marriage.

It
wasn't as if he had never asked her; he'd only said he had to wait a year. But
there was no bended knee. No flowers. No declarations of love.

"You're
being a fool," she said to the reflection in the mirror as she looked at
the woman in the blue wool dress who stared back at her. "You're not
seventeen. You're not beautiful. You're not going to be swept off your
feet."

She
pulled the hair back for her bun so tightly it made her eyes slant.

"You're
twenty-six. You're used up, old. And lucky enough to have the most respected
man in town willing to marry you, take you into his house, and give you a life
you've only dreamed about. And you're thinking about flowers."

It
was Risa's fault. Risa's and Willa's and Bart's. All this talk about love and
devotion. It was Ethan's fault. And Charlie's. Everybody claiming they wanted
her to be happy.

It
was Noah Eastman's fault.

The
thought sobered her. It was no one's fault but her own. One foolish old maid
who thought that because a man once said her hair was the color of spun sugar
she was entitled to the dreams of a young girl.

She
knew better than to change direction in the middle of a furrow. She'd been
planting this field a good long time, and now that it was nearly ready for
harvest she was letting the horse run loose. Miller Winestock was everything
she ever wanted in a husband. He was a pillar of the community, respected,
admired. He was as far from a farmer as you could be in Van Wert. He was kind,
patient, giving.

And
right. He was right about Noah Eastman. What did anyone know about the man? A
memory hit her as she made her way down the staircase: Francie running in, the
sun just low enough in the sky to come through the window and show the tears on
her face. She'd run right past Annie on the stairs and up to the room they had
shared as children.

Annie
had gone after her like so many other times. Her

Francie
was such an earnest child. Everything that happened to her was the best or the
worst; there was no middle ground. That was where Annie lived, and Francie
never wanted any part of it.

"He
could have told me!" Francie had cried. "He could have trusted me,
you know."

Annie
had rubbed her back and handed her a hankie. "Mr. Eastman?" she'd
asked.

Francie
had turned over on the bed where she had flung herself and stared at Annie with
red-rimmed eyes. "God, I love him so much," she'd said.

"But
honey," Annie had reasoned. "Only a month ago it was Fred Hott you
loved. And a month before that it was the Conn boy."

"You
don't understand. They were just children. I was going to marry Noah. And now I
can't."

"No,"
she had agreed, "you can't. You have Teachers College in New York and a
whole wonderful life in front of you. Mr. Eastman is practically old enough to
be your father."

"You
don't understand," Francie had said again. "And I can't tell you. I
couldn't even tell him that I know."

Annie
had been thoroughly confused. Francie had only admitted that she had been
snooping despite all of Annie's warnings, and now her heart was broken.
Forever, as she put it.

Miller
was right, as usual. They knew nothing about Noah Eastman.

With
Blackie hitched up and ready to go, Annie lit out for the Eastman farm. And
some answers.

***

He
refused, flat out, to discuss his past with her. She had her rules, he said,
and he had his. He left for the fields in a huff, the door slamming behind him.
At lunchtime he returned with Ethan in tow, and she suspected it was to stop
her from asking any more questions.

As
always, when it came to Noah Eastman, she was wrong.

"Ethan
will watch the girls," he said gruffly. "Get your coat." It was
an order. She obeyed.

He
led her to the barn. The cold stung her eyes and she was grateful when they got
out of the wind.

"It'll
be colder with the door open," he said. He looked at her and held up an
open palm. "It's up to you. Close it or not?"

She
looked around. Hay was stacked neatly near the door, just like her barn at home.
The chickens were cooped on the left side, as hers were; the two cows were
penned at the front right. Ethan had apparently copied the Morrow barn when
he'd gotten Noah set up to run his place. It felt like home. It smelled like
home. Even Blackie was there, hidden for the day from the wind.

"You
can close it," she said softly.

He
looked surprised but not really happy.

"What
do you want to know?" he asked. They were still standing in the center of
the barn, and she could only read his face as unfriendly.

"Why
out here?" she asked.

"Hannah's
old enough to understand what we're talking about," he explained.

The
answer surprised her—and gave her a starting point, as well. "And what you
have to say would upset her?"

"That's
putting it mildly," he admitted.

"Was
she very close to her mother?"

He
laughed. It was a hard laugh, and then suddenly his whole face changed. It
softened as though he remembered who it was he was talking to, and his body
began to ease, his shoulders sagging just a little. He looked around and then
led her to the bales of hay. He moved one so that if they sat they would be
facing each other, and gestured for her to choose one.

After
she was seated he lowered himself to the bale across from her. He was too tall
to look comfortable on it, his knees coming way up, nearly to the height of his
shoulders.

"Oh,
my Annie," he said. It was a whisper that caressed her. "How can I
explain to you? How could you possibly understand a woman like Wylene?"

An
unexpected pang of jealousy stabbed her in the chest. "Was she so
wonderful?"

His
elbow rested on his knee and his hand made a resting spot for his head, which
shook back and forth sadly. "She hated me. She hated Johnstown, and she
hated being married to a teacher."

"A
teacher?"

"Surely
you guessed I wasn't cut out for farming."

"But
why did you leave teaching? When you could do so much good? You know they need
a teacher. Miss Orliss came to me about Francie."

He
closed his eyes and shook his head. "It's behind me. All of it. And that's
where I want it to stay. People leave a farmer alone. They don't point at him
on the street and wonder how such a smart man is being fooled." He opened
his eyes and gave her half a smile. Maybe it was a whole one, but with his
eyebrow scorched it looked like only half. "Besides, this way I can take
only the pupils I want. And I want only one."

She
was very quiet. What could she say to a man whose wife didn't love him? Hadn't
been faithful to him? Her heart ached for the humiliation he must have felt,
must be feeling again as he admitted all this to her.

"It's
none of my business," she said, putting her weight on her feet and
starting to rise.

"She
hated the girls too," he said, and she could hear the tears in his throat,
smell the shame he felt as if it were his own and not that of the woman he'd
married. "That was the worst part. It wasn't too bad after Hannah was
born. At least she seemed glad that the pregnancy was over, and her mother
helped with the baby. But when she found out she was carrying Julia, she ran
off."

He
swallowed so hard it was like thunder in the quiet of the barn. His eyes were
filled with tears that refused to fall, and though she wanted to stop him, tell
him not to go on, the words wouldn't come.

"There
was a woman, a doctor of sorts. She . . . well, she agreed to help Wylene out
of her trouble."

He
nodded when the shocked look on her face said she knew what he meant.

"But
she didn't," Annie said. "I mean, that beautiful little girl. She
changed her mind?"

He
shook his head. "I got there in time. I told the doctor if she ever saw my
wife again, even on the street, I'd break every finger she had so she'd never
operate again. I think I really meant it."

He
looked up and reached his hand out to wipe her tears away. His calloused
fingers felt warm against her cheeks.

"I
promised Wylene there would be no more children after the baby was born. I was
resigned to living a monk's existence. It was a hard delivery. Wylene was slow
to recover. She was dependent on elixirs and remedies—anything that contained
more alcohol than herbs. She refused to take care of the baby. I'd come home
and Julia would be lying there, a day's worth of pee burning her bottom."

Annie
rose and stood just inches from him. When he leaned his head forward she
clutched him against her stomach. His sobs shook her body, and if his arms
weren't so tightly wrapped around her waist she'd have fallen for sure.

"We
will never
ever
talk about this again," she said, her hands running
through his hair and caressing his head.

"I
told the girls she loved them," he said, as though his lie was worse than
the horrible things he had told her. "I couldn't let them think—"

"That
was good," she told him, in the same voice she had used to praise her
brothers and sisters when they'd done something they thought might have been
wrong, but for the right reasons. "Oh, Noah. Hannah and Julia are two
lucky little girls."

"Lucky?"
he said, like she was crazy. "To have a mother like that?"

"Lucky,"
she said, and tilted his head back so that he could look into her eyes,
"to have a father like you."

They
left the barn together, but as Annie headed for the house, Noah walked toward
his fields, his head down and his collar up against the wind. She wiped her
face and tried to find a smile for the little girls who were waiting for her,
babies who had known so much unhappiness in their short lives. She glanced once
more at the fields and the solitary man who stood in them. Her heart ached for
the whole Eastman family.