by Annette Lyon
She headed straight to her closet to select what she would wear for the day’s festivities, wishing she already had the new dresses made so she could wear one for the mysterious and handsome Wyatt Coltrane.
Assuming he came to the town celebrations, anyway. He mightn’t want to on his first day in town, though she certainly hoped he would. Hazel stood before her closet, which seemed to contain only dreadfully plain and threadbare dresses. Her best dress was in better condition, of course, but she couldn’t very well wear her Sunday satin to the Pioneer Day picnic.
The green-and-white gingham skirt and matching shirtwaist would have to suffice. She did like how the color complemented her auburn hair. Her mother had made a reticule of a piece of remainder fabric, something that she used to do often when Hazel was a little girl. Mother’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, and her arthritis tended to act up a lot, so she rarely sewed anymore. Hazel withdrew the skirt and shirtwaist and hung them on hook. She’d wear them to the parade for sure. She eyed the reticule in the closet and almost left it there, as she had no need to carry one today. But then realized that her mother might not ever make another for her to use. Yes, she’d bring it along today, even if it carried nothing more than a handkerchief. She slipped the ribbon on the hook as well.
For the next hour and a half, she went about her regular chores about the house, things her mother couldn’t do on her own anymore. When the time came, Hazel went upstairs and eagerly changed into the green gingham outfit.
She stepped to the full-length mirror that stood beside her door and eyed herself. The green fabric, originally the color of fresh apples, had faded slightly, but the dress had a flattering neckline and sleeves, and otherwise was in the best condition of all of her everyday dresses. At least, of the ones she saved for nicer than workday situations, but not quite best-dress events. Yet the gingham pattern suddenly seemed a bit backward, not at all what fancy city folk like Wyatt Coltrane would expect in a young lady.
It will have to do, she thought as she twisted side to side to examine her reflection. Even in simple gingham, she looked better — fresher and newly pressed — than she had before. She hadn’t planned on changing clothes before the parade, but then, she hadn’t counted on meeting a handsome new man in town, either.
On her way out, she stopped in the kitchen for the pie she’d made last night, her contribution to the potluck picnic. She found the flat-bottomed basket, lined it with a cloth, and carefully set the pie inside. Then she went to Mother’s room, where she rested in bed, holding a book in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other. Dear Mother was intent on never letting her mind get dull, to always been learning and remain, as she often put it, sharp as a hunting knife. Hazel imagined that reading books in that manner had to be exhausting, but she’d become used to seeing it.
“I’m going out for the parade now,” Hazel at the door. “There’s some bread on the counter, and I cut some cheese for you. Would you like me to bring home some food from the picnic?”
Mother looked up from her book. “That would be lovely, dear, thank you.” She lowered the book and glass to her lap and looked Hazel over. “The green gingham,” she said, clearly pleased. “You’ve always looked lovely in it.”
Her mother had always been sweet and kind like that. The comment would have meant more, of course, if her mother could have been able to see more than a general green blur. Hazel could have draped a green rug over herself, and Mother wouldn’t have known any different. Hazel crossed to the bed gave her mother a gentle hug and peck on the cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” Mother said, patting Hazel’s cheek. With their faces still close together, she looked into Hazel’s eyes, almost seeming to be able to see them clearly, and said, “I’m glad you dressed up for Nathan. He’s a good boy. You belong together.”
How to respond to that? Hazel cleared her throat and pulled away, returning, she was quite sure, to the blur she’d been before. “Do you need anything before I go?”
“Not at all, dear, but thank you,” Mother said, picking up her book again. “You two go have a good time.”
“I will,” Hazel said, and hurried out the room before anything more could be said. Had she replied with “we will,” it would have felt dishonest, because she wouldn’t have meant herself and Nathan, but herself and Wyatt Coltrane.
Mother still clung to the hope that something would happen between her and Nathan — something permanent. No amount of trying to convince her otherwise had worked, so a year ago, Hazel had stopped trying. Whenever Mother mentioned Nathan, she resorted to doing her best to simply change the subject or answer vaguely.
Hazel quickly left the house, the basket in hand, and quickly headed to the town square to drop off the pie before the parade started. People were already lining the route. But she’d also arrived early in hopes of spotting Coltrane if he were to come. She found the food table in the shade of one of the dark brown government buildings, along with Mrs. Tandy, who was in charge of the food.
“Fresh apple pie, as promised.” Hazel set the basket on the edge of the table and opened the lid. “I didn’t have time to make any whipped cream for it, though.”
“No worries on that count whatsoever,” Mrs. Tandy said as she took the pie. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled. “Mmm. You are such a good cook. I hope I get some of this one. You never skimp on the cinnamon like some people I know.” She wore a knowing smile and glanced at another pie on the table.
Typically, Hazel appreciated compliments and attention, but today, she couldn’t help but return to thinking about the mysterious Coltrane. In fact, she was already looking about the town square for him.
“Hazel, you sweet thing, are you all right?” Mrs. Tandy asked.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Hazel said, pulled back from her search. “And thank you for your kind words. I learned to cook from my mother, and she’s the best.” Despite herself, she couldn’t help her gaze from straying back to the square and scanning the crowd. At first she pictured Coltrane’s dark riding coat, but then realized that if he did come to the parade, he’d likely do so after washing up and changing his clothes. A day — or several — of travel might be enough to keep even a young, energetic man away. She wouldn’t blame him for taking an afternoon nap, but she certainly hoped to see him.
“Nathan already found a place to watch the parade from,” Mrs. Tandy said. Of course that’s who she’d think Hazel was looking for.
“He came?” Hazel said, head coming around. “Well, wonders never cease.”
She didn’t correct the assumption, but Mrs. Tandy must have realized she’d misunderstood, because she said, “So who are you looking for, then?”
“I’m—” Hazel cut herself off. How much to say — or not say? She certainly had no desire to give the local gossips anything they could use for fodder, and though Mrs. Tandy wasn’t known to be a gossip, she didn’t have the strongest record for keeping secrets. Not to mention that they could be easily overheard in public, and that Hazel felt a reluctant to have anyone else try to dissuade her away from Coltrane the way Nathan had. Then again, if Coltrane was settling in Midway, keeping his existence a secret seemed unnecessary at best.
“I met a man this morning who is new to town,” Hazel said. Safe enough and entirely factual. “I told him about the parade and all, and he said he’d probably come.”
“Quite providential to have arrived on our biggest holiday of the year,” Mrs. Tandy said. “How wonderful.”
“Indeed,” Hazel said. “I imagine it will an enjoyable experience for him.”
Nathan’s voice from that morning began arguing with her, saying that someone born in Hurricane and raised in Salt Lake would inevitably know all about Pioneer Day and wouldn’t show up to a new town on that holiday unless it was by accident.
More than that, though — and Nathan hadn’t mentioned this, but it had occurred to her — locals tended to call the state capital “Salt Lake,” but Coltrane had added “City,
” as visitors often did. Of course, that proved nothing. It disproved nothing. Her own mother was a Swiss immigrant, but she’d come to America long enough ago to have almost lost her accent altogether and had few memories of her hometown in Bern.
Maybe that’s how it was for Coltrane. Being raised in Utah didn’t mean he’d spent his whole life here. He could have left in early adolescence and picked up a New York or Texas or California way of speaking.
While she initially looked for taller men, somehow it dawned on her that she didn’t actually know how tall Coltrane was; she’d only seen him astride his horse. What did she know about him for sure that she could spot at a distance? Dark hair. That was about it.
“Are you quite well?” Mrs. Tandy asked again.
“I’m fine, really. But thank you. I think I’ll go look for Nathan.” Hazel’s skirts swished as she rounded the table, and she before she left, she added, “Cut yourself a slice of my pie before anyone else gets a chance to eat any.”
“An excellent idea.” Mr. Tandy grinned. “I believe Nathan is across from his place, somewhere around 300 East. He seemed rather put out when he dropped by earlier. He didn’t sign up to bring any food, but he left a gallon of lemonade without so much as how-do-you-do.”
“Thank you,” Hazel said. “I’ll see if I can find him and cheer him up.”
Trust Nathan to feel obligated to donate some refreshment if he came — and to be irritated over the sense of obligation. Rather nice of him to watch the parade near the endpoint; she’d be able to walk almost the entire route, looking for Coltrane, before finding Nathan. After teasing him that morning and practically forcing a promise to attend out of him, she had to find and acknowledge him. Quite simply, it happened to be convenient that she could walk the route before that.
The town square was only a couple of blocks from the far west end of Main Street, where the parade began. She headed that way, swinging her reticule as she went, trying to look as nonplussed as possible, as if she weren’t searching for anyone or anything. If she happened to blush at the sight of Coltrane, hopefully the locals would assume her cheeks had grown pink with the summer heat.
When she reached the head of the parade route, she peered around the corner and found the various participants gathered and about ready to go: a color guard with a cannon in front, the mayor in an open carriage, a marching band, and many more she couldn’t see but could guess at. The parade didn’t change much from year to year.
Hazel turned about on her heel and glided eastward down Main Street, breezily looking left and right, waving to neighbors and chatting with friends briefly, though long enough to not be considered rude. However, she hadn’t yet reached the next intersection before hearing a man’s voice call, “Hazel!”
She whirled around — yes, there came the cheek blushing — as she searched for the person who’d called her name. The voice was much deeper than Nathan’s, and she didn’t recognize immediately, which only made her that much more antsy to see if it belonged to Wyatt Coltrane.
Quite suddenly, someone grasped her arm and whirled her about. She cried out slightly with the surprise — and a bit at the pain — to see Coltrane himself standing there. She felt her cheeks get hotter and wished for a paper fan. “You came.”
“You bet I did.” Coltrane released her arm and smiled with some of the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. She had to look up to really see him. He was tall, then. She hadn’t imagined up that detail. Or at least, she’d guessed at it correctly.
She hadn’t expected to find him so easily or so soon, and didn’t know what to do now, what with Nathan at the far end of the street, more than half a dozen blocks away. Hazel shaded her eyes from the sun and looked down the parade route, which had filled with people several layers deep. A boom sounded — the cannon around the corner going off without a ball inside — marking the beginning of the procession. “I know just the place to watch from,” she said lightly. Before he could ask why they couldn’t stay where they were, she turned around, wove to the back of the crowd to the sidewalk between the people and the street, and waved at Coltrane to follow.
He eyed her with a smirk of amusement. Hazel did her best to keep her smile on her face and hope he’d come along rather than embarrass her in front of dozens of townsfolk by rejecting her right in front of them. She held out her arm again and gestured toward herself. “Come now, Mr. Coltrane. You can’t convince me that a stroll down our little Main Street is too much for a strapping man like you.”
With a shake of his head and a chuckle, Coltrane moved toward her — to her vast relief. She meant to put her arm back, but he reached out and took her hand, and before she knew what was happening, he’d put her hand through his arm, and they were walking like a proper couple. She lacked only a parasol. Comments of surprise fluttered about as she walked Coltrane down the sidewalk, and with every whisper and pointed finger, Hazel didn’t know whether to be flattered, offended, or embarrassed. Perhaps she should pull her hand from his arm. Or perhaps his forward nature simply signaled his desire to become better acquainted with her. As she did him. Besides, she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed the feeling of being so near him, of the feeling of his arm beneath her hand, of being aware of his large presence. She looked at him, and he noticed, turning his head and looking down at her — she barely came to his chest — and flashing that smile again.
“You’re my official tour guide,” he said. “Tell me about the town and what I can expect to see in the parade. I imagine it’s quite different from the Mardi Gras Carnival.” At the last, he winked at her, and her stomach fluttered something delicious.
“Oh?” Hazel said. “I’m unfamiliar with that.”
“You are, are you?” Coltrane’s smile widened on one side. “It’s a festival in the spring before Lent.”
Once again, Hazel had no idea what he meant, not really. She’d heard of Lent, but as she wasn’t Catholic, she had only the vaguest idea of what it was.
“I was in New Orleans a year ago during Mardi Gras. The parades are a sight to behold. They’re filled with costumes and masks and music. Women wear purple, green, and gold beads.” He leaned in close and whispered, “and in some cases, little else.”
Hazel heard herself gasp, and when she stared at Coltrane, he straightened and chuckled. Had he deliberately gone to see such a thing? Or had he stumbled upon it and left? Did he approve of such things? With no idea about the answers, she also had no idea how respond without offending — or shocking — him. “I — um, I—”
He reached over and patted her hand, which still rested in the crook of his elbow. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just have a feeling that this parade will be far more ... conservative.”
She nodded. “Definitely.”
In spite of his request for her to act as his guide through the city, Hazel couldn’t find anything to say that wouldn’t come across as simple and backward to someone who’d clearly seen much more of the world than she had. If one didn’t count the books and newspapers she’d read, this tiny town in the Rocky Mountains, with the occasional visit to a nearby city like Heber or Provo, amounted to her entire world.
At some point, she got so immersed in her own thoughts over what to say, and berating herself for not saying anything at all, that she lost track of how far they’d gone. She heard the parade behind them, but it moved much more slowly than they did. Hazel looked up from the sidewalk and realized she and Coltrane had already passed Bonner’s — they were nearly to the end of the street.
“I assume your perfect place to watch the parade is nearby,” Coltrane said, breaking the silence. “The route seems to ends about here.”
“That’s right.” Hazel straightened her back and lifted her chin, refusing to let herself look as insecure as she felt. Coltrane had chosen her to watch the parade with, and he’d come entirely due to her invitation. She had no reason to lack confidence. “There are some good-sized trees in just a bit that we can stand under. I should tell you about Bonner’s Mercant
ile. Their family literally owns the intersection back where you first spoke to me.”
“Do they, now?” Coltrane said. He patted her hand again, and this time left his hand atop hers almost possessively.
I must be imagining that, she thought. He has no reason to feel possessive of me.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she spotted Nathan in the crowd, standing beneath the very tree she’d been heading toward with Coltrane.
Chapter Six
For a solid twenty minutes, Nathan had been standing under that tree, looking for Hazel, sure she’d appear at any moment. She’d squeezed a promise out of him, and no matter how big a curmudgeon he might be, he didn’t go renege on a promise. It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t know where to find him, either; He lived two blocks down from Bonner’s, and he had a history of viewing the parade from across the street. Certainly not from his own porch, because that only served to send out a nonexistent, silence call to other residents that his sidewalk, steps, and porch itself were a natural gathering place — a belief he wanted squelched if possible.
Hazel knew all that. She must have expected to find him here, under this specific tree — past the evergreens, near the quaking aspens, and under this crabapple. That had always been his pattern. Heavens, even last year, she’d known to avoid the crabapple because he’d attended the parade with Meredith.
And now there she appeared, walking his way on the arm of that dag-blamed Coltrane, and looking far too happy about it. As if that weren’t enough, Coltrane held himself as if he knew he’d won a prize and wanted to show it off. Nathan felt his nostrils flare at the thought of anyone seeing Hazel as a trophy, a possession, rather than the intelligent, caring woman she was. He wasn’t blind to the simple fact that she was pretty, of course. He was a man, after all. But seeing Coltrane walk along with his hand over hers as if locking it in place so she couldn’t draw back if she wanted to, sent a shock of anger through Nathan. He clenched his fists and released them, over and over, wanting to punch Coltrane but knowing he couldn’t. Rather, shouldn’t.
