Willow Springs

by Jan Watson

  “Why,” she said around a lump in her throat, “John and I grew up together. He’s always been my best friend.”

  “More than friend, I would say.” Simon’s voice was tight, his words clipped. “As I remember it, he wanted to marry you.”

  Copper took a shuddery breath. The present smoldered like sin in her hands. “Have I done something wrong?” She could barely see through the tears threatening to spill over.

  Suddenly he crushed her to his chest. The box tumbled to the floor. He held her so close she could hardly breathe, and his heart beat against her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered gruffly. “Dearest, I’m so sorry.”

  Tears quickly gave way to sobs. Copper cried and cried as Simon led her to the parlor, where a fire chased away the chill of the day. Settling into the wing chair, he held her. It seemed she would never stop crying even though he begged his apology.

  Finally spent, she rested her head on his broad shoulder and listened to his endearments. “What did I do to upset you?”

  “It’s just when I saw you with those gloves and you mentioned his name . . . well, I . . . something came over me. I can’t bear to think of anyone else touching you.”

  “He hardly touched me. We were only friends, Simon. You know that.”

  “Did you let him kiss you?”

  “Yes,” she answered truthfully, and her answer took her back home to the Indian summer day under the hickory nut tree, not much more than a year ago when John had asked, “Could I kiss you, Pest?” She had made John cry then just like Simon made her cry now. How could love hurt so much?

  Simon’s hands captured her face. “Show me. Show me how he kissed you.”

  Resigned, her lips brushed his tenderly for a moment of promise before she drew away. “Satisfied? Should I demand if you’ve kissed before?”

  “Forgive me.” He hung his head. “But I’m so afraid of losing you.”

  “Simon,” she snapped, “do you think John might sail up the creek on his merchant ship back from the Orient or some such place? Maybe tempt me with exotic spices and bolts of silk from China? And do you think I’d hop aboard like a ship-sick sailor and leave you without a backward glance?” She tried to get up, but his arms held her fast. “If I was going to leave—” she struggled against him as words she’d never meant to say slipped out—“I’d have gone when you and Searcy put up that sham of a Christmas tree while I was seeing to Nora Collins.”

  He quieted her with a long, hard kiss that took her breath away. John’s kiss had promised, but Simon’s claimed her as if he owned a bit of her soul. It wasn’t likely she’d walk away from that. She settled into his strong embrace and kissed him back.

  Later that night she was glad when supper was over, the fire banked, and the clock wound. Glad for the cold winter night and the warmth of their love.

  The next morning as Copper followed Simon down for breakfast, she saw him pause at the bottom of the staircase.

  “What’s wrong with this Christmas tree?” he asked.

  Copper could reach out and touch the graceful angel ornament that had belonged to his mother. The tree was beautiful. Each evergreen branch bowed with heaps of ornaments collected by his family through the years. Silvery icicles reflected the light in the foyer, and mounds of cotton batting looked like real snow at its base. Why couldn’t he have forgotten her hateful words from the day before?

  “It’s just not a real Christmas tree,” she replied.

  “How can it not be real?” he asked with a sweep of his hand. “It’s Christmas, and this is definitely a tree.”

  “Oh, Simon.” She tucked her skirts to the side with one quick motion and plopped down on the landing. “For one thing it’s a pine tree, and for another it’s too straight and its branches are much too even. Why, it doesn’t look like anything’s ever lived in it.”

  He shook his head. “Sweetheart, I looked all over the tree lot to find the perfect specimen for you.”

  “That’s just it. A perfect tree tells no story.” A wave of longing washed over her. At home she’d have scoured the mountain behind the cabin until she found just the right bushy cedar, one with an abandoned bird’s nest tucked up in its center. Daddy would take a hatchet to the trunk, and they’d haul it home on the sled, Willy and Daniel riding atop, catching snowflakes on their tongues.

  Once in the house, they’d have to turn the tree a dozen times to find the best side, what with its bare spots and crooked branches that told of summer’s drought and winter’s storm. You could tell the tree had suffered just by looking at it, but she’d make it proud with blue jay and cardinal feathers and paper chains the twins had made.

  Christmas Eve, Mam would hold her long-handled corn popper over the fire in the fireplace until the corn pop-pop-popped; then they’d gather round the tree while Daddy read the Christmas story from Papa Brown’s Bible. . . . Anytime she woke that long winter’s night, the clean scent of cedar reminded her that it was Jesus’ birthday. A body should be home for Christmas.

  “I favor the smell of cedar . . . ,” Copper started, then saw his fallen face. “But this is fine.” She hurried down the steps and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Just fine. Why, really, it’s quite beautiful.” She ushered him along to the kitchen. “Do you want my help at the office today?”

  “Don’t you have a luncheon with Alice?”

  Alice! How could she forget? Her stomach flipped as homesickness made way for indigestion. But she bit her tongue. She’d said enough for one day.

  Copper was determined to be pleasant on the long ride to the ladies-aid luncheon at the home of Mrs. Inglebrook. “Are you ready for Christmas, Alice?” she asked, her words desperately chipping at the frosty silence between them in the carriage.

  “What does one do to be ready, Laura Grace? Do you mean, is my house in order? Certainly it is. I put my household first, unlike some who flit about town meddling in the affairs of others.”

  Copper measured her reply. “My work is important and a great help to Simon. My midwifery frees him to see other patients. Besides—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t clatter on so.” Alice shrugged and arranged her red-fox wrap. The matching muff lay in her lap. “Babies made their way into the world long before you came to Lexington.”

  Suddenly the buggy jounced, springs groaning, into a deep hole. “Steady! Steady!” the driver instructed the horse as Copper flew across the seat, her teeth rattling from the jar, and landed smack up against Alice, whose arm shot up to steady them. The leg-of-mutton sleeve of her purple velvet coat rode up, revealing paper white skin.

  Copper reached out to help. Her fingers brushed a lump as purple as an eggplant and just as foreign on the inside of Alice’s thin limb. “What is this?”

  Alice jerked the sleeve to meet the top button of her short, dove gray glove. “It’s nothing.” She turned away. “I had a fall at home.”

  How could you hurt the inside of your arm by falling? Copper wondered. “Did you show this to Simon?”

  “Please don’t fuss so!” Alice exclaimed, her chin trembling, her face stretched in a horrid grimace. “It’s of no consequence. And I’ll thank you not to mention this to my brother.”

  “I’m sorry,” Copper said, frightened, though she couldn’t say why. “We’re here,” she sang out gaily, falsely. “Goodness gracious, look at the wreath on Mrs. Inglebrook’s door! Don’t you just love Christmas?”

  In truth, Copper easily forgot her sister-in-law’s distress, for when she returned home that afternoon full of stories about Mrs. Inglebrook’s lovely Christmas decorations, full of delicious cookies and cocoa she had shared with the other ladies, a surprise awaited her. The beautifully decorated pine that had stood so formally in the foyer was no more. An unkempt, lopsided tree had taken its place. The fulsome green scent of cedar thickened the air. And Simon stood waiting on the stairs.

  Dropping her coat to the floor, Copper rushed forward, arms flung wide as if to embrace the tree. “Oh,�
�� she cried, “there was never a lowly cedar so honored as this one.” His mother’s fragile glass ornaments trembled on the cedar’s drooping boughs, and the Christmas angel swayed dangerously atop a spindly branch.

  Simon’s arms encircled her from behind as he parted the evergreen’s girth to reveal a nest of twigs and mud snuggled up against the trunk. Silky milkweed seed still lined the little refuge, and a bit of red ribbon was boldly knit into its rim. “A tree that tells a story,” he whispered in her ear.

  She leaned against his warmth. “A tree to hold a nest for a bird who longs for beauty.”

  “As do I.” His whisper turned urgent and caught against her heart. “I long for beauty also.”

  Worldly cares fell away as Copper turned to her husband . . . turned to the man who made her feel truly loved and as beautiful as a cedar tree.

  The next morning found Copper on the way across town with a basket of goodies for Andy and his sisters.

  As usual, Marydell met her at the door. Dodie clung as tight as a monkey on her skinny hip.

  “Where’s your mother this morning?” Copper asked, taking the baby.

  “She ain’t here,” Marydell said matter-of-factly, as if that was no surprise. “Andy said he had to go rustle up some coal somewheres before we all turn into icicles. Is that true, Miz Corbett? Would we turn into icicles if the fire goes out?” She went to the window and pulled aside the tattered, dirty curtain. Long, skinny icicles with pointed tips hung halfway down the window. “They’re pretty, ain’t they?”

  “What happened to the coal pile, Marydell? There should have been plenty.”

  “Oh, probably somebody stole it. Andy says some folks would steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. If you’re dead, why do you need pennies?”

  Copper started to the kitchen. Marydell was too young for some answers. “Is there anything to eat in the pantry?” She rummaged around in the now-familiar cupboard, finding cheese, bread, and a full bottle of whiskey. She had half a mind to toss it out the door.

  “That there belongs to Ma’s friend,” Marydell said as if she could read Copper’s mind.

  Copper hitched Dodie a little higher on her hip. “Friend?”

  “I ain’t never seen him, but I know when he’s coming ’cause Ma makes me and Dodie go to bed.” Marydell shook her finger in mockery. “‘And don’t you dare come out!’ Ma says.” The girl twisted a long strand of butter-colored hair around one finger. “Dodie always sleeps, but sometimes I just pretend like this.” She scrunched her eyes tight.

  Copper’s stomach dropped. “What about Andy?”

  “He leaves. Want to know a secret?” she whispered.

  Dodie wriggled in Copper’s arms and patted Copper’s face with one grimy little hand. “Sure, I’d love to know a secret.”

  “Ma’s friend’s buying her a present today!” Marydell thrust a baby bottle toward Dodie. “Don’t tell nobody.”

  Parting the beaded curtain to the bedroom, Copper laid Dodie on the bed. “I have an idea. Why don’t you both come home with me? We’ll bake Christmas cookies.”

  Marydell’s brow furrowed. “What if Ma comes back and needs me?”

  “We’ll leave a note, and you can make some cookies for your mother and for Andy.”

  “Well, okay, as long as we get home before dark. Ma’s scared of the dark.” Marydell dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. “There’s Dodie’s shoes. I can’t reach them.”

  Copper fetched a yardstick from the kitchen. Kneeling, she swept dust balls, a silk stocking, a hairbrush, and a piece of gold jewelry from under the bed. Holding the cuff link up to the light, she noticed fancy swirled initials. It looked expensive. She’d best tuck it in her pocket and give it to Annalise when she brought the girls back.

  After a time of struggle, she had the baby shod. “My, Dodie—” she couldn’t help but smile—“you certainly look fetching.”

  Dodie looked up with a lopsided grin. While Copper was busy with her feet, the baby had pulled the errant stocking down over her ears. Laughing from deep in her belly, she tugged it off.

  “Here, Dodie,” Marydell said. “You can wear my toboggan. I don’t never get cold anyway.”

  After easing out her hatpin, Copper plopped her beaver cloche on Marydell’s head. “Now,” she said, carrying Dodie to the door, “are we ready?”

  Marydell caressed the deep brown fur of her borrowed hat, then set the decorative ostrich plume to trembling when she opened the door. “We’re ready; ain’t we, Dodie?”

  The kitchen smelled of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. Puffs of flour dotted Marydell’s pinafore and Dodie’s bald head. Curls of raw dough stuck to the countertop. Mixing bowls and spoons and cookie cutters of every sort littered the table.

  “What’s this?” Simon exclaimed, coming in for his noon meal. “Fairies and elves have taken over my kitchen. Where did you find such beautiful creatures, Copper?”

  “Doc Corbett!” Marydell squealed at his appearance. “Don’t you rec’nize us? Don’t you remember putting drops in Dodie’s ear?”

  “Hmm, your voice does sound familiar.” Chin in hand, he took a closer look. “Why, it’s Marydell Tolliver under that apron. But who is this beauty?” Swooping Dodie up, he swung her over his head.

  Marydell laughed as loud as the baby. “It’s Dodie. Dodie Tolliver.”

  Copper was amazed. Had she ever heard Marydell laugh before?

  “Are you baking these for me?” Simon teased and swiped a cookie. “I’ve never eaten a tree before.”

  “If you’d wait just a little minute,” Marydell huffed, “I’d put some of this green icing on it.” She held up one already decorated with icing and silver sprinkles. “See? They’re supposed to be like Miss Copper’s Christmas tree, not just any old tree in the forest.”

  “Uh-oh, I can’t resist. . . . Delicious! The trunk didn’t need icing anyway, did it?”

  Marydell rolled her eyes. “Doc Corbett, you and Dodie are eating up all my presents. Now I won’t have one to put your name on with this red icing.” She stuck her finger in and tasted the sweet confection. “See? I already done Andy’s—’course, Miss Copper helped.”

  “I’m sorry. Take this back and decorate it for me. I won’t care if the trunk is gone.”

  Seeing Simon’s questioning look, Copper steered him over to the stove. She cracked the oven door and peeked at another pan of browning cookies. “Annalise left them alone, and Andy’s out scrounging up coal so they won’t freeze to death. What was I to do?”

  “Annalise does the best she can,” he started, as if Copper had been criticizing.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking her side!” Copper countered, waving her pot holder.

  Marydell looked their way, a cookie clutched close to her chest, one protective arm around Dodie.

  Chagrined, Copper lowered her voice. “What if the house had caught fire?”

  “These children are well-off compared to most I see in that neighborhood.” Simon removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Little boys crippled from rickets and little girls nearly blind from eye infections. Annalise is not a bad person, just childlike herself, and the children do love her.” His eyes reflected the burden of other people’s sorrows.

  Copper felt ashamed and wished she could hold him, maybe take some of his weariness into herself, but the children watched and Searcy puttered around the kitchen, and so she patted his arm. “You’re right, but it makes me sad when I remember the Christmases I had growing up.”

  Simon relieved her of the pot holder and slid the tray of cookies from the oven. “Would that we could wish happy memories for every child.”

  She slipped an apron over his neck. “Maybe we can’t do that, but we can make happy memories for these two. Get ready, girls. We’ve more decorating to do.”

  Everyone settled at the table—Simon teasing, Searcy wiping flour from Dodie’s head with the corner of her apron, Marydell laughing, Dodie licking icing from a spoon—all f
ull of Christmas cheer.

  “Sure smells like Christmas,” Searcy said. “This house ain’t smelled like this since Miz Lilly passed.”

  Copper paused and took it all in. Seemed like Simon’s weariness just fell away, and there was Searcy smiling while two little ragamuffin girls messed up her kitchen. And the girls laughed and played as children should. What was it about Christmas? How did it happen that a baby born in a manger so very long ago still had the power to turn an ordinary day into Christmas? She left to fetch her Bible. This was a good time for everyone to hear the story of that night in Bethlehem.

  Simon carried Dodie to the dining room and plopped her down atop a stack of books before pulling her chair close to the table set for supper.

  “Here,” Searcy fretted, “that child be tumbling off lessen you . . .” As quick as a wink she slid a linen towel around Dodie’s middle and tied her to the chair.

  “I’ll just have cookies for dinner,” Simon said. “No roast beef for me.”

  Marydell flounced to the table. “I told you, Doc Corbett, you can’t eat all them cookies now, else me and Dodie won’t have any ornaments to put on our tree. Did you know Miss Copper’s getting us a tree?”

  “Might it be that beautiful pine I just threw out?”

  “The very same,” Copper replied. “Reuben trimmed it some so it will fit in Annalise’s front room. And Santa left presents to put under the tree.”

  “Presents for Ma?” Marydell asked from her chair beside Dodie.

  “No, Santa leaves gifts for good boys and girls. He said these are for Andy, Dodie, and Marydell. Now quiet, everyone, and listen to the story,” Copper said.

  “‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed,’” she read.

  “Tacked?” Marydell said with alarm. “You mean like carpet tacks?”

  A finger to Simon’s lips quieted the girl as Copper continued, “‘And all went to be taxed’—that means paying money, Marydell—‘every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child. And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.’”