The Storm (27 page)

He'd rushed to the parsonage in town where she lived with her parents. Polite, his hat in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other, he'd insisted on an explanation. So she'd gently told him again, more straightforwardly. “Mr. James, when I'm around you, I truly believe I love you. But when I'm away from you, I realize I don't love you at all. I respect you and admire you, but that's not enough. Marrying wouldn't be fair to either of us.”

At the time she couldn't understand why she resisted his proposal. He was a very eligible bachelor, with a large farm and house. Everyone in town seemed to respect him, but she felt strong enough about the situation to risk being an old maid. She would rather live with her parents and survive on her menial salary as a music teacher than keep his ring. Inside she had screamed,
Something's wrong. I shouldn't marry him.
And now she understood a little of why she'd been so adamant.

But every Saturday during the summer of 1910, he drove the buggy the long eight miles from his farm to the parsonage. Invariably he brought a gift—a lace handkerchief, a bar of perfumed soap, a bottle of toilet water. They sat in the front-porch swing side by side, and he talked about the latest Conan Doyle novel or the stories they enjoyed in
The Saturday Evening Post.

Each Sunday he'd returned, always carrying his hat and roses. He accompanied her to church and watched her attentively while she played the piano. Then he ate dinner at the parsonage, to which he'd always contributed several dozen eggs, a big mess of turnip greens or green beans, a half bushel of tomatoes—whatever was in season. Her mama appreciated his offerings, and her papa seemed to enjoy Mr. James's news about several wealthy congregation members. Mr. James's social connections apparently impressed him.

During this courtship, alone during the week, she heard a weak inner voice insist,
No, you don't love him
. But eventually, she became accustomed to him, felt secure and safe, and decided she actually did love him. She didn't want to live the rest of her life regretting what might have been, like the country girl in one of the poems Mr. James loved to recite to her. He offered his ring again, and she accepted. After she married him, the small voice had grown silent. Until recently.

Since she'd begun to know Jaq, the voice had piped up again and grown downright chatty. The voice encouraged her to do outrageous things, like kiss Jaq back and register to vote. Its suggestions scandalized her at times, but she gradually welcomed its saucy attitude, though she feared it might lead her into trouble, make her disappoint her parents.

Although she'd lost the diamond, she still wore the ring. Every time she looked at it, she noticed its empty setting. The sharp edges pricked her fingers as she rubbed cream into her hands every night. Somehow the ring made her think about her marriage as often and as deeply as she did before she accepted it. She gradually, painfully concluded that she would never fulfill her dreams with Mr. James. Now she asked herself more and more often what might have been if she
hadn't
married him.

But did all her painful reasoning make her love him? No. Did it make her happy? No. At times she thought of simply taking off the ring and hiding it in a drawer. But her inner voice had gained strength and wouldn't give up as easily again. She had to wrestle with this situation, and the empty ring reminded her of it constantly. With Jaq, she didn't doubt her own heart, but could she trust Jaq? She'd been in love with the nurse called Helen just last year. She admitted that she had been involved with a woman in New Orleans. How many others had she failed to mention?

Now she understood what was missing in her life and what she craved. She wanted Jaq, for life, but she couldn't be unfaithful to Mr. James. She'd rather die than betray her vows.

What if Jaq eventually rejected her and found someone new? Or returned to the mysterious woman in New Orleans? Molly would have thrown away the safety and security Mr. James provided and risked everything for nothing. But, most important, she would have revealed her very being, her hopes and fears, to Jaq.

Was she strong enough to survive if Jaq didn't love her as much as she loved Jaq? Those possibilities frightened her more than the prospect of living on the farm with Mr. James and Mother Russell forever.

Lately she and Jaq had sat quietly, busy with some daily task, and listened to the wind blow the tops of the tall pines. At times, as they shelled peas or crated tomatoes or shucked corn, they listened to the colored people sing during their lunch break or while they worked in the cotton fields. The leader, with his deep bass voice, sang a line of an unfamiliar song, and the others repeated the surging melody. The male voices doubled the female voices an octave below them, and some individuals experimented with the melody, their obbligato adding to its richness. Their music sounded mournful yet strangely beautiful, the voices blending so exquisitely that she held her breath every time she heard their music.

Mother Russell thought it downright queer that Molly appreciated their singing and minced no words telling her so, and Molly knew this was yet another mark against her in her mother-in-law's opinion. But Jaq seemed to value the colored people's songs too and said that in New Orleans, especially walking through the French Quarter, she'd heard all kinds of music. The musicians seemed to compose it as they played or sang, instead of reading from a page of music like she did when she took voice lessons.

Molly pondered this new type of music as she relaxed, under the spell of the sounds that touched places inside herself she rarely visited. Jaq somehow gave her permission to enter such areas, as if they were internal rooms she never knew existed but was now tiptoeing through with a lit candle. She was discovering that, inside herself, she lived in a luxurious mansion instead of a plain frame farmhouse.

The music and her strange thoughts lulled her into a pleasant, relaxed state. At times like this she didn't try to entertain Jaq. Sometimes after they sat in silence, they looked at each other and laughed for no reason except the sheer joy of being together. She'd point out a mockingbird to Jaq, high in a pine, or two squirrels as they chased each other and jumped from limb to limb in one of the large oaks that shaded them. A butterfly floated by or a bee flitted from one rose to another. On a hot day, the katydids and crickets formed a choir and serenaded them with their soothing drone.

In the kitchen, as she churned cream into butter, Jaq might hum a tune, and then she would pick it up and they sang together. They sometimes continued for hours, choosing old favorites and teaching each other new ones. Some, sad and slow, almost made her cry, and the light, happy ones made Jaq's midnight-brown eyes glow. Jaq's alto and her soprano blended perfectly.

Sometimes she told Jaq a secret, one she'd never shared with anyone, and Jaq listened as if she were the only person in the world. But she didn't want to simply share her secrets; she wanted to learn Jaq's. The day they'd talked about the Galveston Storm marked the first of their confidences, and they gradually risked more of themselves. They discussed their families, schooling, and attitudes toward religion. She'd never known a Catholic and wanted to learn about Jaq's church.

And she wanted to know about the strong women Jaq had met during her years abroad. Even though she feared she'd never be able to meet them, at least she could know them vicariously. Their stories would warm her long after Jaq left New Hope.

When Jaq returned in her housedress instead of her male attire, Molly didn't know which outfit she preferred. Jaq had looked striking in her shirt and trousers. Daring and jaunty, she made Molly's heart sing like a tenor soloist hitting rich, full notes. But in her dress, Jaq brought out the high soprano of Molly's feelings, like birds trilling in the gauze of dawn.

The voices that blended inside her made her want to rush into Jaq's arms, but she couldn't lose control like that. She had a husband and a child. As the old saying went, she'd made her bed and now she had to lie in it. So, instead, she stretched her arms along the back of the swing, inviting the world into them the only way she could.

*

Molly sat in the swing and looked sad, happy, uncertain, and afraid all in a few seconds. And throughout, the sun reflected off her red-gold hair. Sweet Jesus, she was beautiful.

Jaq wanted to sweep her up and carry her up the steep staircase to her bed. She'd tremble a little, a question in her eyes. But Molly would trust her—to kiss her gently at first, then more passionately…to slowly unbutton her soft white dress, slip it from her shoulders, and let it drop to the floor. Molly would let her kiss each arm. Neither the sun nor a woman's lips had ever touched them, she was sure. Then Molly would let her gradually slide her slip up until Jaq uncovered her virgin stomach and covered it with her lips. They'd be flaming, but Jaq would try not to burn her.

Molly would probably be startled when she picked her up again and laid her carefully on the narrow bed. And she'd surely say, “Jaq, I shouldn't.” But Molly would let her do what she desired, because she desired the same things. She could seduce Molly. Her craving—she'd just seen it in Molly's eyes—would be Jaq's ally.

And Molly's white breasts…Dear God, how they made her heart pound.

After she praised Molly's breasts with her hands as well as her lips, she'd slide Molly's panties over her willing hips. Molly's hair would outshine the sun. There Jaq would stretch out as if they were lying in a hammock on a hot summer day and leisurely finger her. Molly would tremble so beautifully beneath her hands, for no one would ever have touched her as she would.

Molly would throw her head back and moan, “Jaq, we shouldn't,” as she neared. But she wouldn't mean what she said. After a long, enjoyable wait, Molly would finally open herself wide and welcome her.

Then—

She shook herself. She had to grip the oak arms of her rocker until they almost splintered, but she controlled herself and began to tell Molly the stories about John she'd requested. If she didn't talk, she'd act like a fool.

Listening to Jaq allowed Molly to participate in a world she'd only read about. She didn't want to be near the fighting in Europe, but she'd always dreamed of seeing London, Paris, and Vienna. They seemed totally unattainable. Only the wealthy traveled to such locales, but Jaq's stories made the places real. They gave her the courage to try to be the independent woman she'd always longed to be and that Mama encouraged her to be.

Looking around at the McCades' farm, at the red earth that had been her reality for eight years now, she knew she would miss it if she left…But she was fantasizing again. She'd never get away from Mr. James. She was his child bride, married to this land, tied by vows and by blood, and Patrick was her precious link to this small community. She would never desert him. And how could she take him with her, with no money, no freedom? She was better off here.

Suddenly the pines—always so kind and sheltering—loomed, threatened to suffocate her.

As Jaq handed her a full glass of cider, two of her fingers grazed Molly's hand. A glissando of heat shot through her as Jaq said, “Now, where was I? You asked about John.”

Jaq described John's appearance and personality, but Molly could barely concentrate because she was so busy memorizing the texture of Jaq's dark hair and the contours of her sculptured face. What if they were only fantasies? She could still dream. If only she could run her hands over Jaq's face she'd absorb every inch of every detail—the straight nose, the arched eyebrows, the scar above it. She barely kept herself from doing just that.

Jaq sipped her drink and looked pensive as she described how John's mother had never treated her well. Strangely, Jaq had mentioned her own mother only once, to say that she loved roses. Had Jaq's mother treated her well? If not, did Jaq have an invisible scar inside her because of that? Molly ached to even consider the possibility. If her mama didn't love her, she didn't know what she'd do. She almost reached over to the rocker and wrapped her arms around Jaq, but what would Jaq think? And more important, what would she do? Would Jaq kiss her again like she had at the picnic? And would she let her? The very idea made her dizzy.

She forced herself to focus on Jaq's description of the year John and her cousin Jane spent taking a road trip through the American South in a one-pistoned Tin Lizzie. John had dressed like a man, smoked cigarettes and cigars, and told everyone to call her Radclyffe.

Molly quivered with excitement. She felt as if she'd just visited another planet, where women counted for something and did exactly as they pleased, like men. How wonderful that such women existed, and even more wonderful that a woman very like them had kissed her.

*

Sweat trickled down Jaq's sides under the loose housedress she'd thrown on after she'd changed from her men's clothes. But not only the heat was making her perspire. She had just told Molly how John's first lover, Ladye, had made it known that, after she died, she wanted John to live with the woman with whom she was having an affair.

Jaq couldn't imagine letting Molly go like that, even if she was dying. But she had to. She and Eric would surely return to New Orleans soon, where she would become a free woman. She couldn't come back here, and Molly couldn't leave. So what did such freedom mean, if she and Molly weren't together?

She'd done exactly what she'd feared and tried so hard to avoid. She'd become so entangled with Molly she'd have to cut herself away from her like she was slashing through the jungle with a machete.

Damn it. She had to face the facts. She had absolutely no claim on Molly. She had to follow Ladye's example, and hopefully she'd be strong enough. She'd have to deny her feelings and leave Molly here, no matter how much the sacrifice hurt.