Weeping Angel (50 page)

Why had she kept a box of valuable books when she could have sold them and used the money toward her mortgage?

He didn't like the answer he came up with: She still felt an attachment toward Jonas Pray.

He couldn't understand her rationale and saw no logic, if that were the truth. The bastard had jilted her in public, and yet, she'd kept the goods as a memento.

The thought of her having any kind of lingering feelings for Pray ate at him.

Creaks on the stairs brought Frank out of his musings, and he looked up to see Amelia holding on to the oak banister. The olive-colored percale waist she wore enhanced her fair coloring, making her more lovely than ever. “I thought I heard noises. What are you doing up here?” she asked, walking toward him.

His voice was fraught with possessiveness when he asked, “Why did you keep these?”

Her gaze followed his hand to the crate of Bibles. “What was I supposed to do with them?”

“You could have gotten rid of them.”

“How?”

“Sell them.”

“To whom?”

Frank frowned. “I don't know. The mercantile.”

“And have Dorothea Beamguard know I needed the money,” she countered, frowning herself. “I would have rather starved.”

“I'm sure you would have.” He shoved the book back inside. “Were you keeping the Legacy Collection for sentimental reasons?”

“Yes.”

Her answer cut him to the quick, the confirmation a buzz in his ears.

“For a long time, I did wish Jonas Pray would come back,” she explained, “even though he humiliated me before he left. He was the first . . . and only . . . man who ever told me he loved me. I suppose I thought that was reason enough to keep the Bibles.”

Rising to his feet, he hoisted the mattress and moved it where he'd originally intended. “It's not a good reason.”

“But it's the only one I have.”

He felt the tension in the attic thicken, threatening to collapse the shingled roof above them.

Amelia spoke softly. “We can't continue this way, Frank. I've got to know how you feel. We've never talked about the future. We've never made plans about what we want to do with our lives . . . about having children. I think we should if we want to start fresh in this marriage.”

He took in a deep breath. “Kids are a big responsibility. I don't know if I can take the chance of failing one.”

“Why would you say that? Parents make mistakes all the time, and they learn from them.”

“But the wrong mistake can cost a life.”

Amelia grew quiet a moment. “How did he drown, Frank? Why do you feel guilty about Harry's death?”

Bunching his hands into fists, Frank replied, “Because I should have been there, and I wasn't.”

“What happened? Tell me.”

Frank couldn't dismiss her gentle plea. “I was playing stickball in the yard on a hot day when Harry took off with a group of troublemakers I'd told him to stay away from. They snuck under the fence to find some water to swim in. The nuns were alerted, and I prayed to God to have them give me Harry's whipping when they caught him. But later that night, I was summoned to the office and told my brother had died that afternoon in a sand and gravel pit that had been filled with water. Harry didn't know how to swim, and he drowned with another boy who hadn't been able to climb up the embankment either.” Frank went on, his voice a monotone of remembrance. “I couldn't believe my brother was dead until the next day when the nuns took us into the chapel and forced us to walk by the open coffins. Harry was laid out in a suit he'd never owned, made to be an example of what would happen if an inmate took it upon himself to leave the grounds.”

Her tear-smothered whisper washed over him. “It was an accident.”

“I shouldn't have been playing ball. I should have been with him.” Frank dipped his head slightly. “I should have told him I loved him, but it was something we never said out loud. We just knew.”

Amelia went to him and touched his cheek. Her palm was warm next to his skin, and he inhaled sharply from the contact. “It's not your fault,” she said.

“It's taken me years to reconcile that, but the hurt still stays.” His voice clogged with emotion, and he cleared his throat. “So, in regard to children, I'm afraid of what kind of father I'll be, Amelia. I never had one to look up to. And the father I was to Harry wasn't enough.”

“You're the best man I know. You'd be fine as a father.” She lowered her lashes. “I'm sorry I've made you feel that you wouldn't be because you've never
told me you love me. I understand now.” She held his gaze with hers. “You loved your brother, in the heart, where it counts. And he loved you. Just like I do.”

Frank took her into his arms and rested his chin on her shoulder. Squeezing his eyes closed, he held her close. The sun waned through the tiny window and an orange dimness prevailed. He lifted his head, his large hands taking hold of her face. “I married you because I wanted to, Amelia. Don't ever doubt that again.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I won't.”

He moved his mouth over hers. His kiss was slow and thorough. Amelia twined her arms around his neck and clung to him. Moving his hands over her back, he touched as much of her as he could. Their lips met, his tongue moving in and out of her mouth with deliberate leisure. He walked her across the room, all the while giving her slow, exploring kisses. With lips touching and legs entwined, he took her onto the mattress with him. He rolled with her until they were on their sides facing each other. Never leaving her mouth, he brought his hand to her modest collar. He fingered the tiny buttons and popped them free. Her shirtwaist separated, and he removed the garment with little effort. The rest of her clothing followed, and he shed his own.

“I've missed you, Amelia.”

“I missed you, too.”

Kissing her satiny skin, he found her breast. Her hands sank into his hair as his tongue teased her with infinite slowness. The heel of his palm slipped to that part of her he knew needed to be consumed with arousal. He rubbed with a light pressure and friction, refusing to relent his sweet torture even when she clutched his back, her fingers kneading into him. A cry passed over her lips, and he felt her body begin to pulse warmly. Only then did he thrust into her, filling her powerfully. Tightness enveloped him, hot and sleek.

His skin was damp with sweat, having fought to control his own desires. He wanted her to find release with him, so he orchestrated a rhythm as slow as one of the waltzes she played on the piano. He loved the feel of her, the hunger inside her when she arched to meet him. Repeatedly, he withdrew to nearly leaving, only to bury himself deeply. She writhed beneath him, her fingernails biting his flesh. Mindless, he responded to the grinding lift of her hips, moving faster and faster.

The heat of her climax closed around him, and her breathing filled his ears. His tempo escalated and grew unchecked as he sought his own pleasure. When it came, he felt his muscles burn, and he let go of everything he'd been holding back.

His mouth found hers, kissing her, worshiping her. In a hoarse and sated tone, he said, “I love being married to you. I love the flowers in the house. The tablecloths on the table. Your silly things in the bathroom. That crazy sponge you call a loofah. I love your scent on the bedcovers. The smell of the soap you use to wash my clothes. I love your smile and your gestures. I love when you say, ‘Well, I like that,' but you really don't.” He brushed a kiss over her lips, then nestled his face into the curve of her neck and whispered, “I love you, Amelia.”

T
he residents of Weeping Angel packed the Christ Redeemer to witness the baptism of Cincinatus Marion Dodge, Jr. who'd come into the world three weeks early. Mother and baby were doing fine, but the father had had to be treated with Dr. White's nerve remedy.

The mayor stood before the members now, his hands still a little jittery, but pride beaming so brightly on his face, his countenance could have put a flame to shame. Mrs. Dodge sat in the front pew next to the godparents, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Brody.

Baby Dodge, who was bundled in blankets the same color as the snow falling peacefully outside, began to fuss. Narcissa tried to soothe him with a pacifier, but the length of Reverend Thorpe's sermon and the water from the font had exhausted the baby's tolerance. His mouth opened wide, and a wail came out so loud, the congregation laughed.

“My boy's got the makings of a great orator,” Mayor
Dodge said proudly from the pulpit. “He's got my lungs.”

A new chorus of laughter erupted.

“But to get on with things since I know the Reverend wants to take back his services . . .” Dodge straightened his tie as the group settled down and the noise in the room died to only that of his son's cries. The mayor's brow arched, and he gave his wife a contemplative glance. She shook her head no, but he placed his right hand into the fold of his jacket and took on a Jeffersonian pose. “When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to . . .”

Amelia smiled as Cincinatus's words faded inside her mind. He went on, and not a soul stopped him. This was his day, and they all knew it.

She studied the scene surrounding her as if the display were a picture on a Christmas card. Friends were near, the smell of pine boughs and hot, spicy wax filling the air in the church. Her gaze passed over the town's piano teacher, Cobb Weatherwax, and his wife, Emmaline. Amelia had given him her New American as a wedding present when it had finally arrived. Cobb still couldn't read music, but he'd bought a gramophone and records so he could listen to the notes, then play the pieces on the piano in order to teach them.

The dancing girls didn't stay long at the Palace. Sweet Sue and Rupert Teats were expanding the livery, as well as their family. Their first child was due in April. The four new Columbus Canopy Top Park Wagon surreys for hire were due as soon as the snow melted.

Smiling fondly, Amelia viewed Arnette. She'd turned the Chuckwagon around with her talent for preparing French cuisine. No one minded the occasional cigarette ash dusting the top of their mouthwatering dinner, for One-Eye Otis's bean and vinegar
pies were still too fresh in everyone's memory to complain. Not that Arnette would have allowed an unfavorable word to be spoken about her husband.

Patricia and Ed Vining had gotten hitched, and she'd taken on a small job writing articles for the
Weeping Angel Gazette.
She'd sit on her wraparound porch in the warm weather and write about the town, and people, and the happenings.

Amelia turned her head to see the newlyweds, Pap and Jill O'Cleary. Apparently love knew no height. After months of courtship, they'd finally given in to the differences in their statures and said I do.

Pap and Frank had continued on with their friendship as if there never had been a glitch in it. This morning, with rifles in hand, they'd gone traipsing off into the woods with a burlap sack filled with the lead-weight fruitcakes the town's women had brought on by the Moon Rock. Amelia thought it a waste they were going to shoot up perfectly good cakes, but Frank said it was either that or use them for paperweights because he wasn't a fruitcake-eating man.

There wouldn't have been any fruitcakes if Altana Applegate hadn't abandoned the Thursday Afternoon Fine Ladies Society and apologized to Amelia for her behavior. Soon after, the other ladies reflected on their conduct as well. This happened one Sunday when Reverend Thorpe had sermonized the loss of a true friend is the greatest loss of all. Amelia knew Dorothea, Luella, Viola, and Esther would continue to find fault in many things, but they seemed to regret their actions since the four girls had proven to be assets to the community.

Facing forward, Amelia vaguely heard Cincinatus as he persevered in his recitation. Baby Dodge's fussing had calmed down.

“ . . . for the support of this Declaration,” Cincinatus went on, his fist raised for emphasis, “with a firm reliance on the Protection of Divine Providence,
we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.”

The church had gone deathly quiet, and when he looked into his audience to cherish his moment of triumph, having recited the entire declaration from start to finish, their sleeping faces were reflected in his eyes. Even baby Cincinatus had been lulled to slumber in his mother's arms.

“Ah, Reverend . . . ?” The mayor went over to the preacher and nudged him. “You can have the congregation back now.”

Frank squeezed Amelia's gloved hand. “Dodge finally got his wish. Too bad we all had to sit through it. Or, rather, snore through it.”

“Frank,” she chastised with a smile. “Be nice.”