Mittman, Stephanie (6 page)

"That's
longer than Francie's been alive," Annie said, moved by his argument.
Eighteen years was even longer than she'd been raising her sisters and
brothers, and that seemed like a lifetime. A cool breeze swept over them, and
she rubbed her arms to keep herself warm. Autumn always showed itself first at
night, and it was promising to be a cool September. "I can see how you
feel. I surely didn't mean to make it sound like I was asking you to set a
date."

"It's
not that," he said, shifting his weight and checking his horse's bridle.
"Elvira shared my house and my bed for my whole adult life. Now you're
asking me to brush her memory aside, and it's not easy. You're young. Maybe you
can't understand about a lifelong commitment to one person."

Who
was he to tell her about lifelong commitment? Wasn't she still worrying about
each and every sibling? Wasn't Francie always on her mind even though she was
so far away? And Risa with child again? Risa wasn't even her own.

"I
ain't asked you for anything, Reverend Winestock," Annie said, backing
away from him and looking out over the horizon. It was too dark to see much
past the barn. And there was nothing to see but flat, dry land.

"No,
no," he said, sensing his mistake. "I didn't mean to make it sound
like you were being unreasonable. I'm just saying that I have to close one
chapter before I open another. Elvira was my Bible, so to speak."

"And
me? Am I some dime novel?"

"That
came out wrong too. It's just that while you have no obligations, no duties, I
have responsibilities to my congregation, to the memory of my wife, and to my
Lord, as well as to you."

"I
don't really like bein' thought of as some sort of duty. No one's forcing you,
Miller." Her voice snapped more than she intended.

"And
I don't need to be forced," Miller said. He tipped her chin up and held
her eyes with his own. "I do think marrying you is a fine idea, Sissy
Morrow. As soon as the time is right."

Right
for you, Miller, or for me?

His
hand was warm against her chin and it lingered there, his thumb stroking her
skin. It felt odd to have a man touch her face, not unpleasant, really, just
odd. There was no magic like in the tales Della or Risa told of their courting
days. She stood patiently waiting for him to release her, feeling nothing. As
suddenly as he had touched her, he backed away, as though he'd just remembered
where he was and what he was doing.

"You're
cold," he said. "You should go inside."

She
nodded but didn't move.

"Do
you want me to give you my coat?"

She
shook her head, her thoughts on Risa and Della's stories and on something Bart
had said earlier in the day. Here she was trying to push Miller into an early
marriage without even being sure what she could expect in the bargain. There
were, she reminded herself, worse things than living with Willa Leeman under
her roof.

Especially
if Bart was right about Miller being like other men. Was she fooling herself
about what he would want from her in marriage? Della's diary had been full of
men trying to raise her skirts. And Bart had claimed all men had needs. But
Miller was a minister. Bart had to be wrong about him. He just had to be.

Well,
better to find out now than after they were married. Her breath was coming in
short little gasps at the thought of what she had to do, but her mind was set
on finding out. She smiled at Miller as seductively as she knew how. She doubted
she was any good at it, but with Miller being a minister and all, he wasn't
likely to be an expert or have much to compare her with. Not sure he could see
her half-closed eyes or pouty lips in the dark, she softly asked, "Would
you like to kiss me?"

His
body rocked slightly as if she had hit him with her words. "What?"

"To
seal the promise," she said. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back
slightly, waiting to see what kind of kiss he would give her. Della, when she'd
been dating, had explained all the different types. A kiss on the cheek meant
he wasn't really interested. Lips closed signified inexperience. Open meant
eager but not pushy. If his tongue found its way into her mouth, a good girl
knew the man had too much passion or too much experience for her to handle.
That was Della's favorite type. Annie didn't know what she'd do if he tried
anything like that.

But
he didn't.

He
didn't try anything at all. She opened her eyes to find Miller standing stiffly
a few feet from her, a look of surprise on his face.

"I
don't think a kiss would be s-such a good idea," he stuttered. The hat
slipped from his fingers and he bent to retrieve it. Looking up at her from
near the ground, he added, "I wouldn't want to tarnish your
reputation."

Clearly
no one would see them. If the Reverend Miller Winestock had "needs,"
as her brother called them, they were well under control. That was all Annie
wanted to know.

"Thank
you, Miller," she said softly.
And thank you, Lord!
"I think
it's very kind of you to think about that."

"Oh,
not at all. I respect you, Sissy, and I'm sure you feel the same about
me." He sighed heavily. "It's been many, many years since anyone but
Elvira found me attractive."

"You're
a very handsome man, Miller. I'll be proud to be your wife someday."

"Yes,"
he said, "someday. But for now you have the letter to Johnstown to write
and the church social to plan. Elvira always took care of that."

Elvira
hadn't taken care of anything in years. If Annie had felt any guilt over not
being in love with Miller, it faded when she realized that neither one of them
was foolish enough to let something like love cloud their judgment.

The
good minister wanted someone to take care of his elegant house in town and see
to the concerns of the church. Annie Morrow wanted to live in that house and
invite all the ladies of the church to tea. He wanted someone waiting in a
clean dress at the end of the day, anxious to serve him a hardy supper and
nothing more. How many stars had she wished on, praying for just such a life? If
ever there was one, this was a marriage made in heaven.

If
only Bart and Willa could wait just a little while longer.

This
time only two blankets signified the Morrows' place at the Sabbath school
picnic. For years Annie had marked the changes in her family by the number of
blankets at the annual affair. At the first one she could remember, there was
just one old patchwork quilt, the remnants of which she now sat on. Once
Charlie was born the family graduated to two blankets, one for her parents and
one for the three children. By the time her mother died, there were three
blankets: the one her father brooded on alone, one for Charlie and Bart, too
old to share with the babies, and one for Della, Ethan and Francie. And Annie
had gone from one to another, seeing to each of them.

They
went on like that for years, until suddenly Peter Gibbs entered Della's life
and they were a four-blanket family. A year later Risa joined them, and they
went to five. And then the tide changed. Pa had died. This year the edge of
Charlie and Risa's blanket was lined up next to his in-laws. Bart shared
Willa's blanket where the Leemans were set up. Ethan, always the one to fall
through the cracks, couldn't be counted on to show up anywhere, and Francie was
off in New York.

So
Annie got herself comfortable on the old quilt and waited for Della and Peter
and the twins. Above her, the blue sky was cloudless. Only the hint of a breeze
stirred the poplar trees that surrounded the meadow. Families were clustered
under their shade while children ran free in the middle of the field, ringed by
the safety of community members who watched out for all the children as if each
was their own.

As
always, the children were playing tag in the meadow. Alone on her blanket,
Annie watched them and tried to remember if she had ever played the game
herself. Even when her mother was alive there were always the babies to look
after, too many for Zena to care for herself. And in the middle of nearly every
picnic, Pa had always spirited her mother away for a short while, leaving Annie
in charge.

She
had wondered what they had been doing, her parents, alone in the far meadow.
She remembered them returning with flushed faces, her father picking grass out
of her mother's hair. How young her mother always seemed! Of course, she
was
young. The last picnic of Zena's life, she'd been six months along with
Francie. So the one that stood out so clearly in Annie's mind had to have been
the previous year, September 1872. Zena would have been twenty-four years old.

Two
years younger than Annie, and in love. Ethan was still an infant that fall.
Annie had been rocking him in her arms when her parents had come, laughing,
over the ridge, their arms around each other's waists. She didn't know then
what they had been about, but she knew now, and her cheeks flushed hot at the
thought....

"Lotta
blanket for one little woman," a man's voice said, startling her. She
looked up and saw three silhouettes against the sunlight. She shielded her eyes
to make them out, but she knew who they were without looking.

"Mr.
Eastman," she said with a nod, "Hannah, Julia. Hello." The two
girls smiled shyly at her, neither coming out from behind their pa's legs.
"Would you like a cookie? I made some special just for today."

"We
saw your wagon," Hannah said as Annie reached for the basket and rooted
around until she found two perfect cookies, each decorated to look like little
girls, and held them out. Their eyes lit up, but their hands remained locked
around their father's legs.

"It's
all right," she assured them. "I've made these for Francie every year
since I can remember. I was halfway through decoratin' 'em this time before I
realized I'd have no one to give 'em to. You'd be doin' me a big favor if you
ate 'em right up."

She
held them out again, and this time Noah Eastman's hands met hers. For a second,
she froze. His fingers had merely grazed her own, yet she felt like her
forefingers were stuck in one of those Chinese finger traps they sold at the
fair. No matter what her brain said, and to tell the truth it wasn't saying
much, her hands refused to let the cookies go.

"Got
a letter from Francie a couple of days ago," he said, his eyes taking her
measure as if he wondered if she too had heard from her sister. "Don't
know when a letter has ever meant so much to me. Your sister is one special
girl there, Miss Annie. I can't say just how much. But then, just look at who
raised her." He eased the cookies from her grasp and handed them to his
daughters. His voice was like warm water washing up her body, easing aching
bones and soothing calloused skin.

"I
miss Francie," Hannah said, eyeing the cookie longingly.

"Me
too," Julia chimed in.

The
children's voices brought Annie back to reality.

"Go
ahead and eat them," Annie said. "Or are you savin' them for
later?"

Their
father still stood on the grass, but the girls had edged their way onto the
blanket, giving Annie a good look at them. The braids in Hannah's hair had
obviously been slept in. Julia's cheek revealed her breakfast. Still, they were
in clean clothes, and this was the third Sunday Noah had taken them to church.

"She
saves things she thinks are pretty," Noah Eastman said with a nod in
Hannah's direction. "She's got a collection of pink rocks by her bed.
She's got flowers pressed between the pages of every book I own. I don't know
what we'll do when she sees the leaves change color. No doubt there'll be more
in my house than on my trees."

Every
book I own.
Was
he a reader? Lord, how she had tried to master that skill. Oh, she knew her
letters and she could follow a recipe, understand a message, sing from a
hymnal. But reading for pleasure, that was something she just couldn't seem to
get the hang of. Each word seemed to stand there on its own, not connected to
the ones that came before or after. When she wrote letters for Miller she often
needed Risa's help, or Charlie's.

If
only she hadn't had to quit school to raise the children. If only that law
about sending children to school for at least twelve weeks a year until they
were fourteen had been passed sooner. She remembered clearly her father's
irritation when he was forced to allow her to attend school. She'd already been
taking care of the children for four years when they came knocking on his door,
Miss Orliss and the schoolmaster, Mr. Harmon.

"But
Sissy ain't a child," her father had whined. "Who'll watch the little
ones?"

"It's
the law, Mr. Morrow," Miss Orliss had said.

"When'll
she do the washin' and ironin'?"

He'd
have argued all day if Annie hadn't turned to him and said, "Please."
Later he'd admitted that was what had swayed him. He said he couldn't remember
her ever asking for anything before, and since the law was on her side anyway,
he couldn't deny her this one time. And so he'd given in.

It
had been the most wonderful weeks of her life, even though she was so far
behind the other children she was forced to take her lessons with the
ten-year-olds. Even though they'd had to swallow their pride and accept the
money Perrin DePuy had left the Union School for poor kids to buy books and eyeglasses
and things. And even if all her chores were waiting when she got home, with
Bart fuming at her for leaving him to watch the little ones, it was still
heaven. She'd wished it could go on forever.