“I’m fine,” she muttered then realized that was a lie, because she didn’t feel the least bit fine. Abigail was correct in that she was pickled—or at least suffering the after effects—but it wasn’t intentional, and to clarify everything would mean sharing Mama’s problem. Larkin would never bring shame to her mother. Never. Not even to protect her own reputation. “I’m sorry, I must go.” She pointed to the parsonage. “The Bollens need fruit, and I don’t feel …”
Leaving her words to hang in the air, Larkin walked away slowly. She kept her pace steady despite the unevenness of the sidewalk, the churning of her stomach, and the perspiration on her forehead.
For as cold as December was, somehow it had grown as warm as July.
“Larkin’s so pickled she doesn’t make sense.” Miss Leonard wrapped her red-gloved hand around E.V.’s arm. “It’s a shame, you know, for her to behave like this, but it’s best to know the truth.” She gasped and covered her mouth. “Imagine marrying her and then learning about her preference for strong drink.”
E.V. stayed focused on Larkin. She’d faintly smelled of whiskey. Because of his past before his salvation, he knew the scent well. Yet something was wrong. His girl wasn’t a drunkard or even an occasional imbiber. During the fish fry Anna and Tuck held to celebrate their one-year anniversary, Larkin had shared with him her frustration and embarrassment over her father’s ownership of the brewery and had asked E.V. to join her in praying he would sell the business.
E.V. took a breath. He felt ill trying to sort it all out.
“Mr. Renier, you are looking a bit pale. Would you like something to eat?” The concern on Miss Leonard’s face wasn’t the least bit believable.
“Something is wrong with Larkin.”
Miss Leonard’s blue eyes widened, mouth gaped open. She looked practically peeved he’d make such an obvious statement. “Good gracious, she’s a drunkard. What else would explain her absence about town the past four days?” She gave a dispassionate shrug. “I hate to be the one to share this with you, but this isn’t the first time Larkin’s breath has smelled of whiskey. However, it is the first time I’ve seen her inebriated.”
Still unconvinced, E.V.’s gaze slid back to Larkin. Her stride faltered. Stopping at the lamppost in front of the milliner’s shop, she rested her basket on the ground and wiped her brow.
Someone stopped by on horseback, but she waved him off. Likely with a no, thank you, I’m fine response.
When he said nothing, Miss Leonard continued, “Hearing news of this is going to shatter her parents’ hearts. For the sake of Larkin’s reputation, they’ll have to move, which will grieve me greatly because I value”—her voice cracked—“no, treasure, our friendship.”
E.V. shook his head slowly in hopes of ridding it of his confusion. This wasn’t his Larkin. Through his friendship with Tuck, Frederick, and Willum, E.V. had learned a true friend—a man of God—trusts what he knows of another’s character. That’s what they had done for E.V., even when the gossips at the university claimed the worst about him. While the evidence appeared to paint Larkin disfavorably, E.V. knew the good and right thing to do was trust the character Larkin had demonstrated prior to this moment.
“Mr. Renier, I see how disturbing this must be. I’m meeting Daddy and Garrick for lunch. Usually I drive alone”—she looked to the sky—“but with this weather, I know Daddy would prefer I have an escort.”
E.V. blinked. She was always driving the buckboard around town alone.
She looked hopeful. “I’ve packed enough lunch for four.”
“Something’s wrong with Larkin,” he repeated, removing Miss Leonard’s grasp of him. “She needs help.” He took one step before she snatched at his arm again.
“But—I—well, this morning I overheard Daddy telling Garrick he was ready to make a decision on the contract.”
E.V. glanced from Miss Leonard to Larkin, still leaning against the garland-and-ribbon-decorated lamppost, now using her hat to fan her face. Miss Leonard could be speaking the truth about what she overheard, but after her—and her father’s—performance at the wedding reception, he’d grown more wary of believing anything that came out of their mouths.
Willing to risk that Miss Leonard was bluffing, E.V. jerked free of her hold. “Pickled or not, Larkin needs help.” My help, he wanted to add, but doing so would mean wasting another moment talking to a woman he had no interest in talking to.
For the second time that day, E.V. took off running.
Chapter 5
I feel poisoned.” The words had barely left her mouth when Larkin felt her feet separate from the ground. She dropped her hat and reached for the lamppost. The tips of her fingers brushed the velvet ribbon encircling the metal post, but she couldn’t grab hold.
“Relax, Miss Whitworth,” E.V. said as two widow ladies new to town stopped next to them. He settled her in his arms. “I’ve got you.”
“Why?”
“You’re unwell so I’m taking you home.” As he said it, one widow nudged the other with her elbow and grinned.
Home? She couldn’t go home yet. She had to fulfill her duty, and she was not about to disappoint the Bollens. “I must deliver the fruit. I always—”
“Miss Whitworth.”
At the sound of her name, she stopped squirming and turned to see who’d spoken.
“I’ll see the good reverend gets the basket,” the milliner, Mr. Dudley, offered as he stood in the opened doorway to his shop. He nodded at E.V. “Y’ got her?”
E.V. adjusted her in his arms. “Yes sir.”
One of the widows picked up Larkin’s hat. “We’ll take this to your father, dear, since we’re headed that way to get his investment advice.” And they hurried off, oblivious to Larkin’s, “No, that’s all right, I can carry it” response.
She sighed.
E.V. started walking. “It’s only a hat.”
“I know, but I seem to have a habit of losing my hats. No one returns them to me, so my theory is Papa pays a finder’s fee.”
“Then I ought to turn in the two in my office.”
“You should, and then let me know how well he pays.”
Content in the arms of the one who held her, Larkin rested her head against E.V.’s chest as he walked up the shaded alley between the milliner’s shop and the barber’s. She’d often dreamed of being held by him, but, somehow, she’d never imagined this scenario.
“E.V., how did Mr. Dudley know who I was taking the fruit to?”
“Sweetheart, you always deliver food to the Bollens on Wednesday.”
“But this is Thursday.”
“So it is.”
“I also take food to Mrs. Ellis and to, umm, to other people in town,” she finished. Really, her head hurt too much for her to think straight. Only—she felt like she was thinking straighter than she ever had before. And hearing better, too. To hear his calm, gentle, well-educated voice say sweetheart again, she asked, “What did you call me?”
Thunder rolled overhead, yet Larkin could have sworn this time he said mine.
And the pounding of her pulse seemed to beat all too perfectly. For a moment everything became nothing but them.
“E.V., I—”
“Shhh, rest,” he said softly. His brown eyes held such kindness and love that she’d be a fool to doubt his devotion.
Larkin, again resting her head against his rough work vest, closed her eyes and listened to his steady heartbeat. Someday she’d tell him exactly how she felt. When the time was right. Magical. Lovely. When he didn’t so much smell like sawdust. When she wasn’t medicated. And then he would say he loved her, too, and would kiss her for the first time, and it would be spectacular. It would be the kiss to end all kisses. No! Even better.
Imagining the moment, Larkin felt her lips curve.
It would be the kiss to begin all kisses. Which was completely absurd of her to think as the kiss to end all kisses, but she was too deliriously happy to care about being logical.
&
nbsp; E.V.’s pace increased, and Larkin opened her eyes in time to see him turn the corner to the back alley that led to the tree-lined street leading to her parents’ house.
“I’ll get you home as quickly as I can,” he said between breaths. He glanced around as if he were looking for someone. “Not many people out right now, I’m guessing, because it’s about to rain. Smell the breeze.”
She breathed deep. “Sawdust.”
“Interesting. I smell whiskey.” His intense gaze met hers. “Larkin, what’s going on?”
“I want to explain, I truly do, but I need you to trust me.”
“I do,” he said without hesitation.
And she believed him. Feeling warm and cozy and content despite the queasiness of her stomach, Larkin focused on his bristled jaw. It’d probably scratch when she kissed him.
“Why do you shave on Sundays and Wednesdays since it bothers your skin?” she asked as casually as she could. The pounding of her pulse was nothing like she’d ever felt before. While the beautiful overcast sky was brimming with the promise of rain, the world around them was bright. Magical.
Lovely.
His grin was small but there, and his eyes glinted as when one had a secret too amazing to keep hidden. “I have important meetings those days with two very important people in my life.”
“You see me on Sundays.”
“And Wednesdays.”
“Who else do you meet with on Sunday?”
“The Body of Christ.”
“Oh.” Dreading he would say Abigail, yet ready to hear the worst, she asked, “Who else do you meet with every Wednesday?”
“I—” He paused and his grin and amusement ended. “I can’t share. I want to, but I need you to trust me, too.”
Larkin nipped on her bottom lip. Did she trust him? She wanted to. She had for two years, but if he loved her, why hadn’t he asked to court her?
I’m impatient, Lord. That’s what it comes down to.
“I do trust you.” Saying the words sealed them in her heart, chasing away the doubt she’d struggled with. She did trust him.
He nodded. “Then be patient.”
As E.V. turned the corner from the back alley to the street, Larkin noticed her house in her peripheral view. They’d be home before she could sing the first stanza of—of—well, of any song that she could remember if she could think of anything besides how sick she still felt from her toes to her eyelashes. Yet she also felt wonderful … and free to be honest with him.
Time to be a Ruth and motivate her Boaz into action.
She reached forward and touched—poked, really—his bristly cheek. “I. Love. You.” While she meant it to sound a bit more melodically romantic, she was happy to finally say the words. She wiped the increased perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve. “Would you like to know something else?”
Smiling broadly, E.V. stepped onto the bricked path dividing the front lawn. As he walked, the sound of his boots on the pavement grew in volume. “I’m not sure how you can top that, but I’ll listen.”
“I think—” she started, but then he stumbled on an uneven brick.
She bobbled.
He adjusted his hold of her.
That’s when she offered an apologetic grin. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
And she was.
Chapter 6
Fiddling with the middle button on the black waistcoat he wore over a white shirt, E.V. sat in the chair across from Mrs. Whitworth as they waited for Larkin to join them in the formal parlor decorated in holly, ivy, myriad red candles, and bundles of fragrant cinnamon sticks. The union suit he wore kept his chest modestly covered, so he wasn’t sure why Mrs. Whitworth had given him the waistcoat. The dress shirt with his denims and work boots was absurd enough. If he’d buttoned the upturned collar, the contrast would have been even worse.
He was thankful Mrs. Whitworth omitted giving him a tie.
E.V. looked around the oversized parlor that was really more of an elaborate Victorian salon, with its five distinct sitting areas and Steinway square grand piano in the far corner. Two years ago at Larkin’s birthday party, he’d gazed about the empty room, from the handcrafted fireplace mantel to the crystal chandelier hanging from the middle of the fourteen-foot ceiling, and debated if talking to Larkin—whom he’d only known as the pretty Whitworth girl at the time—was worth enduring an evening of dancing in a home that reminded him so much in appearance to the mansion he’d spent his childhood in.
Each home after that one had grown significantly smaller. Now he lived in a one-room apartment next to his office.
Having gone from riches to rags and having learned to enjoy freedom from the trappings of wealth, he hadn’t been too sure he wanted to follow the attraction he felt for a young woman used to a life of luxury. Her beauty drew him in, but her passion for Jesus and for graciously serving others had caught him hook, line, and sinker.
Two years later, he’d turned his sawmill into the most profitable one in Tumwater. Beyond marrying Larkin, E.V. had no grander ambitions.
He didn’t want to own businesses and companies throughout the Pacific Northwest that consumed his every waking hour. He merely wanted to prove himself to Larkin’s wealth-focused father so he could begin a life with the woman he loved. After an honest day’s work, he wanted to spend his evenings and weekends with his wife and children. Not in his office mulling over stock reports.
Yet here he was, sitting in Patrick Whitworth’s chair, in Patrick Whitworth’s grand parlor, wearing Patrick Whitworth’s shirt and waistcoat, while waiting to share tea and crumpets with the man’s beloved wife and daughter, while his own scrubbed-clean shirt and vest hung next to Larkin’s cape to dry beside the kitchen stove.
It wasn’t that he disliked Whitworth.
He merely didn’t want to become him.
The ornate grandfather clock in the front foyer bonged once.
Mrs. Whitworth glanced over the shoulder of her red taffeta gown to the two doors on the east wall—one led to the library and the other to a water closet, but which was which E.V. couldn’t remember. Truth be told, since moving to Tumwater, he couldn’t remember exchanging more than a dozen words with Larkin’s mother.
“I suppose we can begin without Larkin.” Mrs. Whitworth’s hands shook as she filled E.V.’s teacup. “Why is it I find conversation easier in a crowd than with one person?”
Empathizing, E.V. admitted, “I’d say it’s because with one person there is an invitation to intimacy which is often intimidating. In a crowd, there’s freedom for obscurity. I’ll admit I’ve sought the safety of anonymity.” He knew Larkin did as well.
Mrs. Whitworth’s head tilted in a manner much like Larkin’s. Whereas her face was leaner and more rectangular than Larkin’s oval face, E.V. could imagine the children he and Larkin might eventually have looking like her. Only their blond hair could be natural, unlike Mrs. Whitworth’s chemically altered color.
“Are you in love with my daughter?” she finally asked.
He leaned forward in his chair to claim his teacup and saucer off the marble-topped coffee table. “You already know the answer to that, don’t you?”
The edges of her wide mouth curved. “Patrick has told me of your conversations. Two years is a long time to remain faithful despite the rejections. My husband is less inclined to view your behavior as romantic.” With a sad smile, she motioned to the crumpets. “Eat.”
While he did, she told him stories of Larkin’s childhood. She asked him if he knew who’d contracted the construction of the large house Willum Tate was building, and E.V. answered vaguely. From there, they spoke of politics, the due date of the Tuckers’ baby, the approaching anniversary of his parents’ deaths, the Pearson-Corrigan wedding she missed attending, church socials and the quilt auction she was organizing in the spring, the growing popularity of baseball (and how much both despised the sport), and finally the family’s upcoming Christmas soiree, which E.V. did not have an invitation to. If h
e had, he’d have to shave and, well, that was that.
She had laughed easily.
He had laughed as much as he did when he was with Larkin.
Then she vowed to call him Eric.
He grimaced. “I prefer E.V.”
“I realize sharing your father’s name is something you wish to forget.” All amusement left her tone. “Your heritage made you who you are but doesn’t have to define who you will be. Besides, I like Eric better.” She gave him a look that said it was pointless to argue.
That’s when E.V. realized this was likely a test to win her approval. More importantly, he realized from their conversation how passionately Mrs. Whitworth loved her husband and daughter … and how much she still grieved the loss of the son whose name she never mentioned.
“I won’t take Larkin from Tumwater,” he promised. “I won’t take her away from you.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Since Larkin still hadn’t returned to the room, E.V. lowered his voice and whispered conspiratorially, “How about a pact? You call me Eric until your first grandson is born, then I go back to being E.V. That way I can honor my heritage by giving the world an Eric Valentin Renier IV, and still honor you.”
She raised a hand to cover her mouth, and though she said nothing, he knew her answer.
“What’s this?” barked a voice E.V. knew all too well.
As Mrs. Whitworth wiped the tears off her cheeks, E.V. looked to his right.
With the extravagant angel-and-golden-feather-decorated Christmas tree in the foyer behind him, Patrick Whitworth stood in the parlor’s arched entrance beneath the mistletoe. He clenched his black Bowler hat in one hand and his greatcoat in the other, rain from both items dripping on the wood floor. His red tie was the lone bit of color on his lean frame. Contrary to their meeting yesterday morning, the few strands of brown hair that remained on the top of his head were not neatly combed to the side.
He tossed his wet items to a silent, hovering manservant who quickly scurried away.
Clearly Whitworth had gotten word about E.V. carrying Larkin home. And though his cheeks were rosy, he looked not a bit jolly over the news.
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