Silk and Stone

by Deborah Smith

  “Close your eyes,” he ordered softly. When she did, he pushed the door open. “Now look.”

  “A loom.” She uttered the words in a prayerful whisper.

  “I copied Clara’s. It’s even made of chestnut. I bought the wood from an old man at Cawatie, who was tearing down a barn. The trees it came from stood at the edge of a village. People would pick up chestnuts under them in the fall. The babies slept under the trees on woven mats of cane while their parents worked.” When Sam looked at him curiously, he frowned and added, “At least, that’s how it could have been.”

  “It’s wonderful.” Her hands pressed to her lips, she hurried to the loom and sank down on a smooth wooden bench. He had lined one wall with simple shelves. She pictured them filled with skeins of yarn. During the past few weeks Mrs. Big Stick had taught her how to thread a loom, and she touched the loom’s empty frame longingly.

  Jake eased over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You like it,” he said with relief. “It’s just what you needed. I thought it’d be a good wedding gift.”

  She placed her hand over his and looked up at him with stark adoration. “Everything here is exactly what I need.”

  They were married outdoors, by his grandmother’s cool, enchanted spring, on a beautiful June afternoon. A hundred people clustered before the pool of water, making a small path up the center of the group for her. Sam wore a simple white dress overlaid with old lace Sarah had given her, a lace veil floating down her back. She walked up the path alone, carrying no bouquet, her veil drawn back, the hem of the dress moving gracefully around her ankles. She was vaguely aware that the crowd included Mr. Gunther, who was grinning, and Mrs. Big Stick, who sat on a tree stump away from the others, looking solemn. Sarah, Ellie, and Charlotte stood together, and Charlotte cried and smiled at her constantly.

  But she could not take her eyes off Jake, who waited for her and held her gaze with an intensity that took her breath away. He wore his beautiful black suit as if he’d always been at ease in such elegant attire, and stood stock-still, his head up, beside his father and a minister from the church at Cawatie. Bo crept out of the crowd as unobtrusively as a huge, baggy-faced bloodhound could. Someone had tied a white bow around his neck. He lay down at Jake’s feet. People laughed.

  Sam took Jake’s outstretched hands and faced him. The world narrowed to just the two of them, a small, intimate space in which nothing mattered but their certainty and faith. The minister, his brown face glistening with earnest perspiration, his gray hair pulled back in a long braid, read the ceremony in Cherokee and then English, and through a haze of emotion Sam heard herself repeating the vows, and Jake echoing them.

  They traded plain gold wedding bands engraved with their initials and the date. The minister reached the I now pronounce you moment, and Jake said, “Wait.”

  Sam stared at him, bewildered. His hands tightened on hers. “Your sister is my sister,” he told her. “Your parents are my parents.”

  Sam choked up. “Your sister is my sister,” she replied. “Your parents are my parents.”

  “Your home is my home.”

  “Your home is my home.” Bo chose that tender moment to rise from behind Jake’s feet, edge over to Sam, and lean heavily against her legs. Sam staggered, glanced down at him, then back at Jake. “Your dog is my dog,” she added.

  Jake smiled. “Now, that’s love.”

  “I pronounce you husband and wife,” the minister intoned. “Kiss her quick, Jake, before Bo knocks her down.”

  They stood in the shadows, quietly watching the party that had spilled out of Sarah and Hugh’s house after dark. Sam’s thoughts shimmered with the newness of it all—the anticipation, the unspoken intimacy between her and Jake. He had one arm around her shoulders, and she had hers around his waist. It was time for them to go back to their own house, alone, for the first night. She hadn’t quite decided how to mention it, and she dreaded the coy looks they were going to get when they told everyone good night.

  Lanterns were strung in the trees, casting pools of light under the dark, huge limbs. The bluegrass band had closed up shop at midnight. But people were still dancing; someone had brought an enormous tape deck and speakers. The music varied wildly—country, then rock ’n’ roll, then pop. No one seemed to notice. The old people did their two-steps; the younger ones bounced around as if the dewy grass were a disco floor. The sleepy ones, and the drunk ones, were snoring in the porch rockers and along the perimeter of the darkness, propped limply against tree trunks.

  Sam smiled. “When we lived in Germany, my dad took us to Oktoberfest one year. I’d never seen so many grown people sleeping under shrubs before. It looked a lot like this.”

  Jake laughed. “The last time I went in the house, Charlotte was asleep in a chair next to the cake table. With a spatula in one hand.”

  “Do you want to go now? You’ve been so quiet. I thought you might be … well, nervous.”

  “I wanted to shoo everyone away and carry you off right after the ceremony.”

  “And do what, after that?” Her heart was pounding, and the question held breathless mischief.

  “Sit on the bed awhile and look at you. Pretend to be suave. Try not to gawk and wink.”

  “Oh, you stole my plan.”

  They bent their heads together and laughed softly, the tension momentarily broken. “Samantha Raincrow,” he said slowly, as if tasting the name and liking it. “Let’s go say our good nights, and then let’s go home.”

  She kissed him.

  Our house, she thought with awe as they left the forest path and walked, holding hands. The porch light was on, but the rest of the house was dark. The only soft sound was whippoorwills calling to each other. “Who turned the light on?” Sam said under her breath. “I think we’ve been ambushed.”

  “They’ve been here,” Jake answered. “Ellie and Mother and Charlotte. I saw them sneaking this way during the party.”

  “Well, your mother, at least, wouldn’t tie tin cans to the door or spray ‘Just Hitched’ on the kitchen counter in whipped cream.” She hesitated. “But Charlotte would.”

  They reached the front door. “Hold on,” Jake said when she put a hand on the doorknob. He pushed the door open, then picked her up.

  “Oh.” She smiled at him sheepishly. “I’m not thinking about proper customs.”

  “I forget why people are supposed to do this,” he admitted, carrying her into the dark, quiet living room. “But it feels right.”

  “Everything feels right,” she whispered.

  He carried her into the bedroom, and she fumbled for a light switch near the door. A small brass lamp lit the room with luxurious delicacy. The bed was king-size, and it had been turned down, with the quilt she had made for him years ago folded carefully across new white sheets. Several huge new pillows in lace-trimmed cases had been arranged in artful poses along the bed’s plain pine headboard, and white rose petals were strewn across them.

  Jake lowered her to the bed. They sat side by side. She winked at him. “That was my job,” he said solemnly.

  “I hope it didn’t look like a nervous twitch.”

  He sighed. “Nothing wrong with being jittery.”

  “Are you?”

  “Me? Why, it’s never crossed my mind. I’m an old pro at this kind of stuff.”

  “Scared stiff,” she said.

  “Stiff, and scared,” he corrected her. Sam collapsed into soft chortles. He grabbed her hand. “We’d better check the rest of the house.”

  “Oh, yes.” Relieved, they hurried through the rooms, turning on lights, gazing around, turning lights off. They found a note on the kitchen counter. “Food” was scrawled in Charlotte’s looping hand, with an arrow pointing to the refrigerator. Sam opened the door and gasped at the array of bowls and casserole dishes, the whole cooked turkey, and the ham. “They must expect us to do nothing except eat and … well, not a bad idea, actually.”

  “Look,” Jake said. The sink was full of ice.
A bottle of champagne nestled in the center of it. Two beautiful crystal champagne glasses sat on the counter with a card propped against them. He opened it. “Love, Ellie,” he read. “Well, I guess Charlotte did the food and Ellie did the champagne and Mother did the bed. I’m glad she didn’t leave a note on it.”

  Sam nodded weakly. “That’s not a place you want to find a note from your mother. Well, we can eat, drink, or—let’s have some champagne.”

  “Good idea.” He took it from the ice and studied the foil-wrapped top intently. “I’ve never had champagne before. I’m not much of a drinker.” Sam leaned close to him. “Me neither. But I believe you unwrap the foil and push the cork up with your thumbs. And point it at the ceiling so we won’t get beaned when it pops.”

  “I don’t even know how to uncork a bottle of champagne,” he said with disgust, shaking his head. “It’s gonna be a helluva night.”

  Sam placed her hands over his. “Just be careful where you point your cork, and we’ll be all right.”

  He began to laugh again, and looked at her with so much appreciation, she blushed. “Now I’m pink,” she said jauntily. “I hate being pink.”

  “Your face looks wonderful pink.”

  “You should see the rest of me.”

  That stopped the teasing. Suddenly they were quiet again, but it was an electric silence filled with strong needs and emotions. “We could drink the champagne later,” he offered.

  She nodded. “I don’t think I can swallow right now anyway.”

  They turned off the light over the sink and walked back to the bedroom. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. “I think,” he said loudly, as if announcing the idea to a crowd, “I think we should just get undressed and lie down, and turn off the light, and … talk for a while.”

  “You read my mind.”

  He said nothing, but looked at her wistfully. “I bet you made a special nightgown.”

  “Satin with lacy trim. With a matching robe. And I made you a pair of matching pajama bottoms.” She looked at him somberly. “No lace.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s all under the mattress. I put everything in place when I was here by myself one day, measuring for curtains.”

  She bustled around, folding the sheets back, feeling under the mattress, pulling out shimmering white material and laying it all on the bed neatly. Then she reached under the mattress again and drew her hand out with something else cradled lovingly in it. “My dreamcatcher,” she said, and hung it on one post of the headboard.

  The look they shared melted the uneasiness. His eyes shining, he took a step toward her, his hands out. Sam gave a small cry of welcome and moved quickly into his arms, planting fervent kisses all over his face, receiving his eagerly.

  A few minutes later, her wedding dress and his suit joined the satin gown, the robe, the pajama bottoms, on the floor. Sam lay in his embrace, rose petals clinging to her hair, the night dissolving into feverish caresses and whispers, and nothing in her whole life was easier to do than loving him.

  Alexandra moved through the quiet, dark rooms of Highview, her glorious, gabled, stone sanctuary—won in marriage to William, preserved in the fifteen years since his death, expanded in moneyed splendor of her own making—historic, dignified, elegant, empty.

  Orrin was at their second home, in Raleigh. She’d sent him away. He didn’t understand her misery, her obsession. He was tired of hearing about her rebellious nieces, tired of negotiating a semblance of civility between her and Tim, whom she had banished from Highview since his disgusting breach of common sense regarding Charlotte.

  Orrin was secretly glad, she suspected, that Samantha’s wedding to Jake had finally occurred. He thought it would put an end to a petty crisis that distracted her from their goals.

  But the wedding had only turned her defeat and disappointment into black rage.

  The front of her sleek green robe was flung open, red streaks showing on her breasts, where she’d clawed heedlessly. She carried a thin black riding whip in one hand, and slashed at everything in her path.

  In the foyer, a crystal vase filled with flowers crashed from her blow, scattering in silvery chunks across the Italian tiles.

  Jake was touching her cherished Samantha, dirtying her, taking her further and further away from the life she was meant for, the life Alexandra had wanted to give her. Alexandra strode into a front room, slapping an invaluable Tiffany lamp from a black marble table.

  In the dining room she smashed delicate dewdrop crystals in the lower tiers of the chandelier, slung porcelain figurines from the heavy teak sideboard, sent an eighteenth-century sterling tea set clattering to the hardwood floor.

  In the library she jerked leather-bound volumes out of the bookcases, leaving them strewn behind her.

  She knelt on the floor of the master bedroom upstairs, surrounded by torn portraits of her and Frannie as young girls, surrounded by broken lamps, ripped lingerie, scrapbooks of Tim’s lackluster childhood and adolescence—her life, her failures spread around her on the large Oriental rug in the center of the room.

  She had never been beaten. She would not be now. She would wait, and think, and plan. There would be some way to punish Jake for all he and his family had taken from her.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  “You know,” Father said, wrapping one hand around the handle of Jake’s ax, “I’d rather not have to hunt for your fingers and sew them back on.”

  Jake glanced vaguely at the enormous pile of kindling and the small stack of logs waiting to be split. He hadn’t realized he was working quite so fast. Bo, he noticed, lay under the porch, eyeing him curiously.

  Father had come over to keep him company, and he couldn’t understand the problem. He drew a deep breath of cool October air. The forest around the house was brilliant with autumn foliage; it was a perfect day for chopping firewood, and he had visions of a long winter in front of a warm fireplace with Samantha. He hadn’t built a second fireplace in the main bedroom for no reason.

  “Considering the mood you’re in, you need a safer pastime,” Father continued, laying the ax on a chopping block made from a tree stump. “Maybe we can find a bear for you to wrestle.”

  Jake slumped down on the stump and brushed wood chips from his jeans. “I want to be in town. I keep wondering how it’s going. Maybe she needs cheering up. What if she doesn’t sell anything? She worked all summer to get ready for the art show. She calls it her debut. I don’t want her to be disappointed.”

  “Son, I know you’re an old married man with four months’ experience, but I have to let you in on a little secret: When a woman is worried about being embarrassed, the last thing she wants is her husband there, watching. Makes a woman testy.”

  “But she let Mother and Charlotte go with her.”

  “Your mother had paintings to sell. And nobody could keep Charlotte from shopping for earrings. It’s almost six. They’ll be back any minute. Relax.” Father pulled a pipe from the pocket of his flannel shirt, and sat down calmly on the ground, cross-legged. He fiddled with his pipe and studied Jake from beneath graying brows. “Sammie does wonderful weaving. Even Clara says she’s a natural. Your mother says it’s quality work too. But Sammie won’t make a reputation for herself overnight.”

  “I just hope she sells something. It’s important to her. Important for her to know I’m not the only one who can make a living for us.”

  Jake thought of the enormous throw pillows Sam had made for their new couch, their delicate silk and satin coverings like tapestry, and the rugs so beautiful, he took his shoes off before he walked on them. He’d never seen anything as fine as that. If ignorant people ignored her work, he’d … he didn’t know what he’d do. Their life together during these months had been more perfect than he’d even imagined. He left her reluctantly in the mornings with his mining tools slung in a pack on his back, and all day he thought of her the way he’d last seen her, sitting at her loom, her face still flushed from t
he things they did in bed after they woke up. And the nights, God, the incredible nights.

  Father sighed. “Life was less complicated when your mother and I got married. I expected to bring home the money, and she expected to spend it.”

  “But I remember the first time Mother sold one of her paintings. She went around humming ‘I Am Woman,’ under her breath for about a week.” Jake stood up suddenly. “They’re coming.”

  Father looked over his shoulder, frowning at the empty tunnel of the driveway as it disappeared into the bright gold and red of the autumn woods. “I must be getting old. I don’t hear the car.”

  Jake busied himself setting a new log on the chopping block, then reached for the ax again. He didn’t want to look as if he’d been waiting on pins and needles all day. The old station wagon rolled up the driveway a few minutes later, and he casually leaned on the ax as he watched.

  Mother and Charlotte got out of the passenger side, their expressions unfathomable. Charlotte, a neon-pink sweater draping her from neck to thighs, pink tennis shoes peeping from under the legs of her baggy jeans, pointed to a new set of silver baubles swinging from her ears. “Great stuff. And I made friends with a lady who’s opening a dessert shop in town. We traded recipes. She said she might have a part-time job for me when I turn sixteen next spring.”

  Jake nodded vaguely and watched as Samantha climbed from the driver’s side. Her face was somber. She leveled a glum gaze at him and walked up to him slowly, a long gray skirt swinging around her legs, her arms crossed over a striped sweater. “Well, I’m not going back tomorrow,” she said dully. “It wouldn’t be much use.”

  Jake dropped the ax and draped an arm around her shoulders. She wasn’t depressed. She was teasing him.

  He stared at her hard, and she lost control. Her eyes gleamed, and a smile lit her face. “Because I sold everything today.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him boisterously. “Everything. Throw pillows, wall hangings, rugs, the whole kit and kaboodle.”