Pamela Morsi (4 page)

“You are keeping company with Rome Akers?” Edith asked loudly.

“The iceman, Rome Akers?” her sister clarified.

“What happened to that young barber?”

“Mr. Dewey?” Gussie pretended to look surprised at the question. “Mr. Dewey and I are the very best of friends, of course.”

It all worked even better than Gussie had imagined. By the time they had finished the preparations for the wedding and were making their way outside, the discussion was loud and openly curious.

Gussie lingered for a moment on the steps, speaking with Kate Holiday as the other women, including Loralene and Lulabell, went on their way.

“Oh, I must have left my good jet hatpin in the church,” Gussie said, turning to go inside again.

“Do you want me to help you look for it?” Kate asked.

“No, no.” Gussie waved her off. “I’m sure I know exactly where I left it.”

“We shall see you tonight, then,” the pastor’s wife said.

Gussie nodded and went back into the church. There was, of course, no jet hatpin. She quickly moved her flower arrangement back to the dais and left the forlorn little hothouse roses on the little table in the vestibule.

For Rome, it had been a very busy week. He’d been trying to teach the delivery routes to the young shute boy, Tommy Robbins. The fellow was smart enough, but Rome wasn’t getting any help. The youngster had been on the payroll for a couple of years now, but Miss Gussie had just last week started paying him a man’s wage.

Old Mr. Shultz had been genuinely surprised and not generally pleased.

“Why pay a man’s wage for a shute boy?”

“He’s more than that,” Akers told him. “He runs the plant when we’re out on deliveries. He’s hardworking and dependable. I was thinking that maybe next year, or surely the one after, you could swap out with him. I know that shoulder pains you tremendously.”

Shultz’s face immediately turned crimson.

“You think I’m getting too old to do my job!”

Rome deliberately remained calm. “It’s hard work toting ice day in and day out. It’s a vocation for a young man with a strong back.”

They were tough words, but they were true.

Shultz had worked for Mudd Manufactured Ice since Gussie’s father had started the plant. He was obviously getting on in years. He was still capable and willing to do deliveries, so there was no purpose in rushing into a change. But it was always prudent to have somebody who was capable of taking over in case the old man was injured or laid up.

It was the right decision, but not a popular one. The atmosphere among the three at the plant had been one of stiff silence. The only noise was the grunts of effort necessary for the arduous task of getting enough ice made and wagons loaded.

So Rome was grateful to be out in the sunshine perched, back aching and arms tired, upon the seat of an ice wagon making its slow, lumbering progress through town.

It was not necessary to guide or lead Old Jezzi. The milk-white dray knew the route better than he did himself. A driver could simply point her in the right direction in the morning and the hardworking horse would
walk the entire section, correctly stopping directly in front of the right houses.

Not having to do much more than sit on the seat and hold the lines, Rome had a good deal of time to think between deliveries, and this morning his mind was full to near bursting.

He was finally going to be a partner, a partner in the business at last. It would have taken him another five years of scrimping and saving, and now it was to be handed to him upon a silver platter. He toyed with the idea of his name on the building. Mudd-Akers Manufactured Ice. He almost sighed aloud.

Of course, there was the small detail of pretending to be in love with Miss Gussie so Amos Dewey would want to marry her.

Competition, Miss Gussie called it. And spoke of it as if it were a business maneuver. It was simply making the other fellow jealous and was as ancient a female trick as any in the women’s bag of wedding lures. And not every man fell for it. That was one fact of which Miss Gussie was obviously unaware.

But how could she know? Rome thought. There was never in the world a lady with more understanding of money or business and less understanding of men or romance.

He would have to take charge of the plan. Make sure that poor Amos was eaten up with jealousy, not resigned to letting the woman go. He had to bring those two together and it had to be soon. He’d never be able to make anyone believe he was in love with Gussie Mudd for any length of time.

Rome wanted that partnership, though he was not completely mercenary. If Rome had thought for a moment that Amos Dewey would not do for Miss
Gussie, he would not have so much as lifted a finger to help her in this crazy scheme.

Miss Gussie deserved a good, hardworking, responsible husband. The two were well suited. They were quiet, respectful, considerate of each other. And a person would have to be blind enough to sell pencils not to notice the way Miss Gussie’s gaze followed the man. Of course, tall as he was and with all that black hair, Dewey was the type of fellow who was bound to catch the eye of the ladies. Rome intended to make sure that on forthcoming occasions, Amos would definitely be looking back.

That Miss Gussie was going to take him on as a partner in the ice plant was just a bonus, Rome assured himself, still feeling a little guilty about his good fortune. He had earned that position by his own efforts. He would be putting his cash into the business anyway. Maybe buying a new distiller, which was very badly needed. And he would see to it that the woman would never have any regrets about giving him this chance.

Yet there was still enough underhandedness in the plan to make him a little queasy.

The horse made the turn off Third Street and onto Brazos Avenue. Old Jezzi stopped at the rather large and formidable Richardson house on the corner. Two tall Greek columns stood majestically in the front entry and expansive verandas curved around three sides of two floors. It was a typical house for a cotton baron, perhaps. But it stood on Brazos Avenue, a stark contrast to the modest homes around it.

Grover Richardson might have been the son of the city’s founder, but it was cotton, not the town of Cottonwood, that had made him a very wealthy man. That had been his goal and he had pursued it vigorously,
to the exclusion of all else. It was not surprising, then, that he had been nearing fifty when he finally got around to taking a wife. He had built her this beautiful mansion, the finest in town. Then he had dropped dead only weeks after they’d moved inside.

Rome jumped down from his perch and glanced toward the front door, where the delivery card was set in its pocket Each card had four weights of ice to request, two on each side. The numbers were printed on four different colors to represent the four standards. On one side of the card, twenty-five pounds was represented by yellow, fifty pounds by green. On the back, seventy-five pounds was blue and a hundred pounds was vivid red. Each customer had a little pocket by his or her front door and would slip the card into it with the appropriate order weight displayed. It would be impossible to read the numbers from the street, but colors were easy to see.

Rome glanced toward the front door and his face flushed.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed aloud as he saw the card in the pocket. Guiltily he glanced around, desperately hoping no one else saw what he saw.

He was alone, of course, and no one else would know the significance of a bright red card in the pocket. Though he still worried that someone might glance at it and wonder why a lonely widow with only a twenty-five-pound icebox would be requesting a hundred pounds of ice.

Rome went to the back of the wagon, raised the door and carefully cut a twenty-five pound block of ice. With his tongs he carried it through the front gate. He purposely went up to the request pocket and turned the card to indicate the more appropriate yellow. Then he walked around the length of the veranda to the side
door that led into the kitchen. With only one quick, cursory knock of warning, he stepped inside.

He glanced around the room, expecting Mrs. Richardson to be waiting for him. She was.

The handsome forty-two-year-old blond widow of the late Grover Richardson was sitting atop the icebox, attired in an extremely shocking black-and-red lace corset, with satin garter straps holding up black silk stockings that were partially covered to mid-calf with high-button red boots. She held her red silk bloomers in her hand and was using them rather ineffectually as a fan.

“Pansy, don’t put the red card in the pocket,” Rome scolded. “Some of your busybody neighbors might suspect something.”

The woman shrugged. Though she was beyond the prettiness of first bloom, she was still an attractive woman. And the effective use of face powder and paints made her more so.

“They already suspect everything possible of me,” she said. “There’s not much I could do to lower myself any further in their estimation.”

She cocked her head to one side and ran her gaze the full length of Rome’s body before deliberately and artfully crossing her legs.

“As for requesting the hundred pounds of ice,” she continued in a more throaty whisper, “I just thought you’d want to know … well … just how really
hot
I am this afternoon.”

Rome shook his head and stepped closer to the icebox. He made no attempt at a reply. He’d learned long ago there was simply no arguing with Pansy Richardson. A man would be a fool to even make the attempt.

She smiled up at him now, her expression a soft
challenge. Rome was far from immune to the picture she presented. Her blond hair hung long and silky down the length of her back. Her painted lips pouted prettily, offering things he knew full well that she could deliver. And the red corset she wore was laced so tight that her bosom spilled out the top in voluptuous excess, impossible in nature.

“Hop up now, I need to put this in the drawer,” he said, indicating the block of ice he carried, destined for the cold box.

Instead of removing herself as he had requested, Pansy drew her legs up and spread them wide to drape on either side of the polished oak cooler.

“Go ahead, Romeo,” she said in a low, teasing voice. “Go ahead and put it inside.”

Rome allowed himself one long, appreciative glance at the pale flesh of her inner thighs and the shocking exposure of her intimate parts before dutifully stowing his delivery in the ice keeper.

He positioned the block just right, closed the drawer securely and slowly straightened to his full height again.

Pansy waited, albeit not that patiently, upon her perch.

Rome licked his lips and cleared his throat.

“This is not a good idea,” he told her. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. The neighbors will notice if the wagon is outside for more than a few minutes.”

She raised a challenging eyebrow. “Then maybe you ought to make it quick,” she suggested. “I’d hate to do damage to
your
reputation. Although I’ve heard that being described by the ladies as
quick
is usually not a compliment.”

Rome drew off his gloves and stuffed them into his back pocket. He rubbed his palms together vigorously.

“My hands are too cold to touch you,” he explained.

Pansy wrapped her legs around his hips and drew him to her.

“Then don’t use your hands,” she told him.

He was close now and the scent of her tantalized him. It was a mixture of the clean, sweet-smelling innocence of a rosewater bath and the heady, pungent musk of female desire. It was an irresistible combination.

“You’d better kiss me before I do something to hurt us both,” she warned.

Rome reluctantly met her mouth with his own.

“Why do you let me treat you like this?” he asked her. “Why do you let me come to you like a whore?”

She pulled away just enough to look up into his eyes.

“Because I trust you enough to know you will never think me one,” she answered.

T
HE BRIGHTLY PAINTED RED-AND-WHITE POLE ON THE
west side of Cottonwood’s Broad Street business district was like a beacon of refuge for the gentlemen of the community. At nearly any time of the day, one could pass in front of the plate-glass window and see a number of occupants beyond the painted identifying script that read:
AMOS DEWEY TONSORIAL PARLOR … SHAVING AND HAIRCUTTING … HOT BATHS
. The customers joked, argued and swapped lies as they waited on uncomfortable slat-backed benches for their turn to sit in the fancy red-leather-and-carved-mahogany barber’s chair. Where they lifted up their faces with complete confidence to the steady hand and mild demeanor of Amos Dewey.

Dewey lived his life inside a mind of silences. During the day he could talk and laugh and look as if he were alive, but in his head he kept life quiet. He didn’t contemplate the future and he didn’t dwell on the past. Silence was simple. Silence was easy. Silence had gotten him this far. Past the anger over the senselessness of his wife’s death, past the emptiness of
being left alone. Keeping his mind quiet had gotten him from one day to the next for the past three years. But now, suddenly, there were rumblings in the stillness, echoes of life demanding to be heard.

As he stood behind the barber’s chair in his shop, shaving and trimming, listening to the incessant talk around him, he could not quiet the clamor that raged inside him.

Gussie Mudd wanted to marry him. It was natural, the expected outcome of being courted. He had courted her, he supposed. Mostly he had just been passing time. Time was empty and it was best to see it pass. Three years was like a lifetime or like a minute. He had passed much of it with her at his side.

He had not thought about what she might think, what she might want. But then, in avoiding thoughts of anger and pain, he’d managed to avoid most any thoughts at all.

It wasn’t so very difficult. There was plenty of talk in his barbershop. Enough to distract any man from unwelcome rumination. Especially on a busy afternoon.

A half-dozen men, three of whom were regular hang-arounders, sat in curved-back wooden chairs that lined the far wall and the space in front of the window. Amos’s business was thriving. Scrupulously clean and smelling of shaving soap and hair tonic, the barbershop was a peaceful island of male camaraderie, distanced somehow from the complications of women and the screeching of children.