by Deeanne Gist
She tested the seat with her hand before trying it out. “Do you think it would hold both of us?”
In order to find out, they’d have to sit awfully close. “If it doesn’t, I’d hate to be the one to discover it.” He cast about for something to distract her with. “Look there. I believe that’s a project I read about in the papers.”
Offering her a hand, he assisted her from the settee and forced himself to ignore the smoothness of her skin. Upon reaching a gallery of photographs, she absently pulled her glove back on.
Wanda’s hands were as rough and calloused as his, but they were good hands. Worthy hands. He pulled up a picture of her in his mind. Brown eyes, sweet smile, lots of curves. He clung to those memories, refusing to make a comparison between the two women.
Anyone, man or woman, would notice Miss Wentworth’s blue eyes, her heart-shaped face, and her peach-colored lips. Well, maybe not the lips. He noticed them only because he’d been forced to study them all night.
“What is this?” Miss Wentworth pointed to a picture of a huge building with scaffolding.
“It’s a grand castle called Biltmore. It’s near Asheville. The papers said the youngest Vanderbilt is having it constructed. For the surrounding property, he’s hired the same man who landscaped Central Park and who also turned this park from a swamp into the grounds that we currently stand on.”
She peered more closely at a photograph of barren, overworked terrain. “He’ll have his work cut out for him if he’s to make that look anything like Central Park.”
“It’s to be a planned forestry program. The first in America.”
“Interesting.”
By the time they reached the last booth, hours had passed and they’d yet to do more than practice the long o. They exited Virginia’s section through a hollow segment of a sycamore tree, stopped by the coat check, and stepped out onto the verandah again.
Darkness had set in, leaving only moonlight and street lanterns to guide them to a set of benches facing the water.
He opened her coat, dipping it so her arms slid easily inside the sleeves.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to be a bit more disciplined with our lessons, Miss Wentworth.”
“I was just thinking the same thing. I became so caught up in all those wonders, I totally forgot our purpose. If it’s not too late for you, we could sit out here for a few minutes and do some work on your vowels.”
“Will there be enough light?”
“If we sit on that bench over there.” She indicated a bench with a splash of lantern light touching its wooden slats.
Settling onto it, they faced each other, her knee brushing his. He sat up straighter, putting another inch between them.
“I’m going to say a list of words with the long o sound.” She cleared her throat. “Watch for the pucker. Sometimes it will come at the beginning, sometimes at the end, and sometimes in the middle. The middle ones are the hardest, so you have to be on your guard.”
He nodded.
“Only.” Her voice was soft, but audible.
“I heard you.”
“Did you? Even over the waves? That’s wonderful. I thought you had difficulty when there’s background noise.”
“I usually do.”
The moon’s reflection cast a burnished ribbon across the lake’s rippling surface. Noise was too harsh a word for the push and pull of its current.
“It’s your voice,” he said. “As a whole, I hear women better than men. But you, I hear very distinctly.”
She nodded. “I’ll mouth them, then.”
For the next ten minutes he watched her lips and tried to read them. He’d never really noticed the nuances of a woman’s lips before. Did they all have such distinct Cupid’s bows?
“What did I say?” she asked.
He scrambled to think of a word with an o sound. “Ogle.”
She shook her head. “Rosy. Watch for the pucker. Every time you see it, insert a long o or u. Like slogan. See how my lips pucker in the middle? Slogan.”
“I see.”
“Good. Now watch for that. Let’s try again.”
For the next several minutes, he forced himself to view her lips as independent objects, as if they weren’t attached to a flesh-and-blood woman. Until she formed a kiss.
He pressed himself against the armrest. “I don’t know that one.”
“Of course you do. Watch.”
Looking him right in the eye, she formed another kiss.
“Say it out loud.” His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears.
“But you were doing so well. Let’s try it with a sentence. And watch my entire expression if you can. That sometimes helps.”
Her lips began to move. He knew the minute she used it, but he couldn’t fathom what word in the English language looked like a kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t tell.”
Sighing, she tilted her head, a tendril of hair slipping free and swirling in the lake’s breeze. “Scoop. I was saying scoop.”
“Right.” Jumping to his feet, he pulled out his timepiece. “Look at the time. I had no idea it was so late. I’m afraid we’d best be heading back.”
“Sit down, Mr. McNamara.”
“What?”
She threaded her hands together in her lap. “Sit down. I’m the teacher. I say when we’re through.”
“It’s almost ten o’clock.” He turned the face of his watch toward her.
“Sit. Down.”
After a slight hesitation, he sat on the edge of the bench.
“Thank you.” She reached into a hidden pocket of her skirt and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “I’ve written a list of pucker words. You are to stand at the mirror every morning and night and say each word out loud. Pay particular note to the formation of your lips.”
He shot to his feet again. “I am not going to stand in front of a mirror and practice puckering my lips.”
“Well, of course not. I don’t want you to do anything with your lips. I want you to speak in a normal fashion without elaborately mouthing the words. That’s very important.”
Pulling his gloves on more tightly, he avoided her gaze. “Fine. Is class dismissed?”
She remained silent. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he looked at her.
She indicated the bench with her eyes.
He sat.
“I’m perfectly happy to forgo these lessons.” Her voice was calm, not at all agitated. Simply matter-of-fact. “If you don’t want to do this, I’ll gladly bow out and we’ll both have our evenings free.”
Dragging a hand over his face, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not a very good student. At least, that’s what my teachers always told me.”
“I’ll not put up with any more outbursts.” She handed him the paper.
He took it, then tucked it into his jacket. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About how long it takes for a person to learn to lip-read. And now I can see why. So that makes me wonder if maybe I shouldn’t learn the language of signs as well. Just in case I go totally deaf before I master lip-reading.”
The longer he spoke, the stiffer she became. “You must never, ever use sign language. It would brand you as deaf and different.”
He shook his head. “I’d use it only at home, with my family. They know about my plight and don’t condemn me for it.”
“Even still, it’s too risky. It is critical that you blend in with everyone else.”
He knew she was right. In a society obsessed with United We Stand, Divided We Fall, anything and anyone who was the least bit different was to be avoided at all costs. At best, he’d be labeled an imbecile, at worst, he’d be thrown into an asylum like that poor Ashford girl.
“I would only use it temporarily,” he said. “Until I became proficient at lip-reading.”
“It takes years to become proficient. You cannot use sign language for years without someone finding out.”
“
I don’t live in the city the way you do. I’m a farmer, and the only people I see day in and day out are family.”
Frowning, she tilted her head. “I thought you were an inventor. Aren’t you here to sell your fire sprinklers so they can be manufactured for businesses all over the country?”
He let out a soft laugh. “That’s nothing but a father’s dream for his son. I’m here only out of respect for him and because he insisted. As soon as the fair’s over, I’m going back to North Carolina, where I’ll live for the rest of my life on a farm in the middle of nowhere. And I’ll need to know how to sign.”
“What if your fire sprinklers become a success?”
“What if they don’t?”
“I still wouldn’t be able to teach you to sign.”
“Then you are condemning me to a world of silence and isolation. Because I can’t possibly learn what I need to in five short months.”
Her face became stricken. “It goes against everything I’ve been taught,” she whispered, forcing him to strain.
“And what have you been taught?”
“That our aim is to be as natural as we can with the deaf. That we must treat them as if they can hear. That we shouldn’t do anything to single them out. We shouldn’t raise our voices or make exaggerated movements with our lips. And certainly, under no circumstances, should we make hand gestures of any kind.”
He studied her. So passionate. So sure. Yet so wrong. “It’s a shame you feel that way. I’ve always thought the language of signs to be a beautiful thing.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ve seen it used?”
“When I was an adolescent, I worked one winter as a news butch for the Norfolk & Southern Railway, which ran from Charlotte to Norfolk. I sold newspapers, candy, sandwiches, whatever my customers needed.” He smiled, remembering the freedom he’d experienced at earning a wage all on his own. “One of the regulars on my route was a deaf man. He and his wife would sign to each other the whole trip. I was fascinated, so each day, as I waited for the train to return to Charlotte, I walked to the Norfolk library, pulled a book on sign language, and taught myself the alphabet.”
She touched a gloved hand to her lips. “You know the alphabet signs?”
“Yes. Just the alphabet signs, though, not all the word gestures. And I was never so proud as when I asked that man, with my fingers, if there was anything on my tray he’d like to purchase.”
“What did he do?”
“He pretty near bought me out. Best day of sales I ever had.”
Her face softened. “He sounds like a lovely man, but I’m afraid those days are gone. Society has changed since then.”
“Not as much as you think. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I’d unintentionally offended a great many of my other customers by catering to someone ‘abnormal.’ And they let me know it in no uncertain terms.” He watched a gull soar up from the water, then disappear in the blackness of the sky. “I never spoke to the deaf man again. With my fingers or otherwise.”
She bit her lip.
“I’ve regretted it my whole life. I’d give anything to do that over.” He pierced her with his gaze. “Will you teach me? Will you teach me the other gestures he used? Because he hardly ever used the alphabet. Only for proper names and such. I couldn’t find any books about those other gestures.”
She swallowed. “I’m not supposed to.”
“We could go someplace private. I’ve heard the Wooded Island has plenty of places that would shield us from curious eyes.”
She rubbed her temples.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said.
She gave him a wary look. “What kind of deal?”
“How many lip movements are there?”
“There are three vowel families and eight consonant families,” she said.
“What about this, once you’ve introduced the vowel families and, oh, let’s say, three of the consonant families, you teach me a set of hand gestures.”
She worried her lip.
“I won’t tell anyone. Promise.” He kissed his finger and crossed his heart.
She drummed her fingers. “I’d expect you to do your mirror exercises twice a day, every day from now until you have become proficient.”
He balked. He couldn’t imagine doing such a ridiculous thing. He also couldn’t imagine being so hard of hearing that lip-reading would be his only way of understanding conversation.
After a slight hesitation, he nodded. “Very well. I’ll practice.”
“I’ll know if you’ve done them or not.”
He hesitated. “How?”
“By your progress.” Her eyes reflected the lantern light, flickering with intensity. She gathered a handful of her skirt.
He helped her to her feet. “Then we have a deal?”
“You won’t tell anyone? Not a living soul?”
“Not a living soul.”
After a strained moment, she let out a sigh. “All right, Mr. McNamara. All the vowel families and three of the consonant.”
Pleasure spilled through him. He held out his elbow. “Thank you, Miss Wentworth.”
CHAPTER
12
Cullen splashed water onto his face, chest, and arms, grabbed a bar of soap, scrubbed all over, then splashed himself again. The mirror above the washstand blurred as water dripped from his eyelashes.
“Scoop.” It didn’t look at all the same when he said it. “Scoop.”
He swiped the water from his eyes. “Loop. Snoop. Poop.”
Padding to his nightstand, he toweled his hair and stared at her list. Her writing was different from his. Less smooth. More fussy.
“Smooth.” Grabbing the paper, he walked back to the mirror. “Smooth.”
He repeated every word she’d given him. All fifty. Could she hear him? He looked at the floor, disconcerted to know her room was directly below his. He’d not realized she lodged at Harvell House too. It had been a shock to them both, but when he’d insisted on walking her home and she finally revealed where she lived, it explained why they’d been at the front of the crowd on opening day. Both had been looking for Mrs. Harvell and her group.
He’d never been to any of the house meals because he asked Mrs. Harvell to box up his breakfasts and suppers. Fortunately, she offered half-board to the exhibitors staying at her house, which meant no lunches. It had allowed him to recoup sixty-six dollars of his dad’s money.
Still, he’d not told Miss Wentworth his room was above hers. He simply walked her up the entry-hall stairs and touched his hat when she indicated which door was hers. Once she was safely inside her room, he continued to the top floor. Shaken. And feeling guilty, though his dad had picked out the boardinghouse and neither of them had anything to do with room assignments.
A breeze fluttered the lace coverings at his window. Was her window open too? Were her curtains the same flimsy fluff as his? Folding the list, he returned it to his nightstand and picked up his Bible. A letter from Wanda was stuck in the pages of Proverbs.
Pulling it out, he fingered its edges, comforted to know she’d touched them too, until thoughts of Hodge intruded.
He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Wanda,” he whispered, for it was a slippery slope he walked and he knew it.
He tried to reread Wanda’s letter, but every time he came to a word with a double oo, a long o, or a long u, he stopped and tested it on his tongue. Tried to imagine what it would look like. Yet his imaginings didn’t conjure up his own lips saying it but Miss Wentworth’s.
He pinched the top of his nose. What would Wanda’s lips look like if she said it? But he couldn’t summon something so specific. He wished he had a picture of her, but she’d never had one made. Folks in his part of Mecklenburg County didn’t have the money for such frivolities.
Frustrated, he thumbed through Proverbs, looking for a nugget of wisdom.
Whoso loveth instruction loveth knowledge,
But he that hateth reproof is brutish.
Was that
how he looked to Miss Wentworth? Like someone who hated reproof? He didn’t hate reproof—well, maybe he did. But that wasn’t why he’d tried to end his lesson so abruptly.
He reread the verse. “Whoso. Reproof. Brutish.”
Putting a finger in Proverbs, he closed the book and walked to the mirror. “Whoso. Reproof. Brutish. ‘Whoso loveth instruction loveth knowledge, but he that hateth reproof is brutish.’ ”
He would never be able to lip-read all that. But then, he’d been taught only one motion. Maybe if he persevered, gave it a chance. Still, he’d need to hold himself apart from Miss Wentworth. He and Wanda had set a date. The last Saturday in November. He’d set it because she feared some city girl would turn his head.
He swallowed. Wanda was a lot wiser than he gave her credit for sometimes.
HORTICULTURAL BUILDING
“In the center of the rotunda, like a diamond in a most ornate setting, stood a mountain with a collection of tropical plants covering its majestic slope.”
CHAPTER
13
I thought we’d start at the Horticultural Building.” Tugging on her gloves, Della stepped out of Blooker’s and headed toward the Court of Honor.
Mr. McNamara kept pace beside her, offering up no opinion. They’d met at the cocoa mill again. She had a cup of hot chocolate with her boxed supper. He had no drink at all.
“Originally, I thought to start at the Electricity Building,” she continued. “But then I reminded myself you’re a farmer and you probably have very strong opinions about electricity.”
“And why is that?” he asked.
She looked at him, startled. “Well, because of all the controversy over how confused plants are going to get if we set up electric lampposts along our streets. I mean, how will the plants ever know when to go to bed?”
A smile hovered around his mouth. “I imagine they’ll figure it out. And we farmers, as a rule, don’t have a lot of lampposts in our fields, so it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. If it’s the Electricity Building you want to see, I’m happy to follow along.”
She waved her hand in a circle. “No, no. I’m sure you’d much rather go to the Horticultural Building. What farmer wouldn’t?”
