Mittman, Stephanie (42 page)

He'd
hired her to prevent any impropriety between her and Mr. Eastman, for whom he
had a dubious regard. He hadn't been unaware of Tessie's reputation; there
weren't many people who hadn't seen her in some degree of drunkenness, though
he himself had never been a witness to it. Still, the most reliable sources had
told him of her slurred speech, her uneven gait, her inability to remember
conversations that had taken place and promises that had been made.

So
when it turned out that she was actually a first-rate secretary with excellent
penmanship, superb organizational skills, and a fine vocabulary, he was
surprised and delighted. She also kept herself neat and appeared exceedingly
refined for someone who had succumbed to the perils of alcohol.

"Can
you think of a synonym for 'devilish' that has a brighter twist?" he asked
her.

She
looked up from her work, startled by his question. "Working on the
eulogy?" she asked. "What a shame about that little boy. It makes you
wonder. Well, not
you,
of course, but the rest of us."

"Some
good will come of it," he said without thinking. It was what he always
said, what he had been taught to say. He didn't know whether anyone was
expected to believe it, whether he even believed it himself.

"I
don't see how," she said with the pencil she was using poised in midair.
"But of course, you would know better than I how the Lord works."

Did
she really think that just because he was a man of God he understood His ways?
More than anyone else he was mystified by the twists and turns of fate. There
were mean old misers who seemed to last forever while good people were plucked
from their midst every day. He knew the theories as well as the next preacher,
all the right words to say. The Lord wanted this wonderful woman now, or that
child now sits at the hand of God.

But
the truth was that with every death his faith got shaken just a bit, made him
unsure of what the master plan was, or even if there was one. And it frightened
him. What if he made Sissy wait for what he considered a decent interval and
the Lord took her away from him before he got the chance to marry her? Or what
if he was the one to die? He was getting on in years, and no one lived forever.
What a shame for a woman as warm and caring as Sissy to be a spinster for life.

And
then it came to him, just like that. It was an inspiration, as divine as any he
had ever felt. And he knew just what he would say at Samuel Gibbs's funeral
service, convention be damned.

"Do
you honestly believe good things can come out of bad?" Tessie asked him.
Her voice sounded strange to him, and he looked up.

"What?"
he said. She was slouched in her chair, her jaw hanging at a slight angle and
her tongue protruding just slightly from her mouth. "Miss Willis?" he
said.

She
seemed to be trying unsuccessfully to focus on him, her brows knitted together,
her eyes squinting.

"Tessie?"

Without
answering, she rose and crossed the room on wobbly legs, using the backs of
chairs for support.

"Are
you all right?" he asked.

She
looked at him and her knees gave way. Had he not been sitting with her all
afternoon he would have sworn for all the world that she was falling-down
drunk.

But
Tessie Willis hadn't touched a drop.

The
wind blew around them, whipping black skirts and black coats and the black
ribbons that held black bonnets fast to every woman's head. There was a chair
for Della, who sat without expression on her face, flanked by Peter on her
right side and Francie on her left. Beside Francie, Annie stood stiffly, some
imaginary rod holding her erect.

There
wasn't a funeral she went to, a burial she witnessed, that didn't bring back
the nine-year-old girl who stood with Francie in her arms and watched them
lower into the ground the wooden box that contained her darling mother. The
baby she had held then was now a grown woman, lending her strength to her
sister. And this was no mother being buried, but a child.

Which
was worse, she couldn't say. She wasn't Samuel's mother, but the waste of that
short life cut her to the quick. And watching her sister in pain filled her
heart with an overwhelming grief.

But
not so full that there wasn't room for the pain put there by Francie's
announcement that she was back for good and intended to marry Noah Eastman and
raise his children. He wasn't like the others, she had told Annie. She hadn't
gotten over him. She would love him, she swore, until the day she died.

What
a moment for her and Francie to finally have something in common.

As
Miller began the service, her eyes searched the crowd that encircled the small
hole in the cold earth and the mound that bordered it. She could make out
Noah's forehead and eyes shaded by the same black derby as nearly every other
man wore. The stark pain she saw there reminded her that he, too, had suffered
a terrible loss.

"Samuel
Gibbs was not an angel before his death," Miller said, "but surely he
is one now. Life is brief and cannot be taken for granted. Who of us would have
thought, a week ago, that a healthy-three-year-old would be called to his maker
so soon? And where, you ask, is the purpose?

"The
purpose I see in Samuel Gibbs's death is that we must seize the life we have,
each day, each hour. We must love those around us with all our hearts because
we can never know which hour will be our last."

The
wind died down, and Miller's voice carried over the crowd like a warning bell
that was ringing for each and every one of them.

"In
that spirit, and with the most sincere and profound respect for my first wife,
Elvira Wells Winestock, I announce the betrothal of myself and Sissy Morrow.

"May
Samuel Gibbs rest in peace, and may he not have lived in vain if he hath opened
up our eyes to the fragility of life and the necessity of embracing it to the
fullest."

Annie
had no idea whether anyone thought it odd or inappropriate for the minister to
announce his nuptials at the funeral of the future bride's nephew. There were
sad faces around her and happy ones, shocked ones and blank ones, but she
couldn't tell which belonged to who. It was like one of those flip books where
heads and torsos and feet could all be switched around.

"Too
bad you can't be happier," Bart said from behind her. "With poor
Sammy and all."

"Yes,"
Willa agreed. "This should be the happiest day of your life."

"Ashes
to ashes," Miller said as he threw the first shovelful of dirt over the
coffin that held her nephew.

Francie
bent over and hugged Della, as she sat motionless in the chair. Then she turned
to Annie and put her arms around her, squeezing hard through the layers of
winter clothes. "Congratulations," she whispered. "I hope I'm
next."

Over
her head Annie's eyes met with Noah's questioning ones. "I'm sure you will
be," she said to the girl in her arms.

It
seemed as though everything had fallen into place. And who was Annie to
challenge it? After all, it was what she had always wanted, wasn't it?

***

"You
aren't trying to tell me this is what you really want, are you?" Risa
demanded. She and Annie had gone back to the Morrow farm to pick up the pies
and cakes Annie had baked for the condolences at Della and Peter's home.

"I
don't know why you're so surprised," Annie said with a sigh. "I've
told you and everyone that I was going to marry Miller. And now that I am, you
act as though it's come out of the blue."

"You're
saying you love Miller Winestock? Is that it?"

Annie
nodded her head. She was placing the pies in baskets, covering them with
overturned bowls and stacking a second layer of pies on top of them. After Noah
left she hadn't been able to sleep and had made an even dozen pies before
giving in to exhaustion and going up to bed.

"Put
the pies down," Risa said quietly, and took Annie's hands when she
complied. "Sit."

Annie
sat. "It's done, Risa. And it's for the best."

"I
see," Risa said. "For the best."

Annie
knew Risa wouldn't let it go at that, and waited, lining up her arguments in
her head. Miller was a good man. He owned a lovely home,
in town,
and
would provide well for her. He had no children. And she saw the way Noah looked
at Francie and, worse, the way Francie looked at him. Francie was young enough
to raise his girls. Why should a man like Noah settle for Annie when he could
be tasting Francie's lips?

"All
right," Risa said at length. "So you're going to marry Reverend
Winestock. As a married woman I think I'd better tell you what your mama would
tell you if she were here."

Annie
felt the color flee her cheeks.

"It's
not so bad," Risa said, patting her hand gently. "Not when you love
your husband. Then you'd be surprised how good it feels when he touches
you."

"Risa!"

"You've
got to know all this," Risa said sternly. "You don't want to be
embarrassed on your wedding night, do you?"

Annie
just looked at the table and fiddled with its edge.

"All
this time he's kissing you to take your mind off it. Is Miller a good
kisser?"

She
thought of the kisses Noah and she had shared right in this very kitchen just the
night before. Kisses so intoxicating she'd let him touch her breasts and run
his hand down her thigh. "I don't know," she admitted with a stammer.

"Well,
I'm sure if you love him it won't matter."

"Won't
matter?"

"When
he puts his tongue in your mouth, you know, and—"

But
Annie didn't hear the end of Risa's sentence. The chair fell back and banged
the floor as she jumped up and ran to the front door, threw it open, and began
to heave. Breakfast came up, spilling onto the dirt beside the porch steps and landing
on the toe of a man's boot.

Horrified,
Annie looked up and saw Noah Eastman's face.

"Is
that it? Are you done?" he asked, putting one hand on her back and rubbing
her soothingly.

Sheepishly,
she nodded. He produced a handkerchief from somewhere and handed it to her.
After she'd wiped her face he put his arm around her.

"Ready
to go inside?" he asked.

She
nodded, and before she could stop him he swooped her up in his arms and carried
her inside.

"Her
room's at the top of the stairs," Risa said. "I'll, make some
tea."

He
carried her gently up the steps and set her down on the bed. There was a spare
blanket at the foot, and he tucked it around her. With his lips he felt her
forehead. "You don't seem to have a fever," he said. "Do you
have any other symptoms?"

"I'm
all right," she insisted, trying to sit up while his strong arm pressed
against her shoulder, keeping her right where she was. "I said I'm all
right."

"Fine,"
he said testily. "Then what the hell do you think you're doing letting
Winestock think you're going to marry him?"

"I
am
marrying Miller."

"No,"
he said simply. "You're not."

"You
don't understand," she said, sitting up and mustering all the dignity she
could. "Francie's back and she loves you. She'll make you a wonderful
wife. She's beautiful and she loves your children and she's read lots of books
and you can—"

"Francie
is a little girl. I adore her, but as a sister. Or sister-in-law. She is not
the woman I love. You are. And while you may be generous and kindhearted enough
to toss away my love and give up what we have for someone else, I am not. And I
am not going to let you do it, either."

He
said he loved her. He loved her and wanted her more than Francie. And something
about the way he said it made her believe him. "But what about Miller? I
can't just—"

"Do
you know what I felt like coming over here? Thinking about the possibility that
you really meant to marry him? Thinking about him putting those pasty-white
hands on your golden skin?" He cringed. "It made me want to pitch my
breakfast right over the side of the wagon."

She
raised her hands quickly to her face when she felt the small smile start, but
it was too late. He had seen it. He gestured toward the porch and she nodded.

He
threw his head back and laughed. "Well, I sure am glad we see things the
same way. Now just say you're marrying me and maybe we'll be able to keep some
supper down."

"But
Francie—" Annie began.

Risa
stepped into the room with Annie's tea. Behind her, Francie stood tentatively
in the doorway.

"Francie
wants to be the first to wish you all the happiness you deserve," Risa
said and yanked the younger girl into the room. "Don't you, Francie?"

Annie
reached out a hand for her sister. "I never meant—" she began.

Francie
shook her head and sniffed. "No, I don't think you could."