“How about one thirty tomorrow afternoon?”
“That’s perfect. I look forward to it.”
She gently hung the receiver back into its hook on the side of the mounted box. When she flicked one of the metal bells at the top, its tinkle reverberated throughout her. She was going to visit Molly soon.
Then bells blared inside her head: You’re making a huge mistake.
Chapter Thirteen
Molly loved the earthy scent of the starter made from fermented potatoes that would make her dough rise gradually. After she moistened her mixture of flour, salt, oil, and starter with hot water, she rubbed a chunk of lard into her palms, moving her fingers back and forth together to coat them.
She kneaded the flesh-colored dough easily on the ceramic countertop. Usually the chore stultified her, but today she had her mind on Jacqueline’s visit. She hoped her guest wouldn’t find her too boring. Thrusting the heel of her hand into the elastic dough, she pushed several times, then folded the flattened material toward her and rammed it down and away from her body. What was it about Jacqueline that made her want to see her so much?
After she regreased her palms, she rotated the dough a quarter turn and concentrated on the way it molded to her fingers, stuck to them until she greased them again. The pliable dough gave repeatedly to her touch, flattened then swelled, and with each stroke of her hands it grew more ready to expand. What made Jacqueline so confident? Her beauty, of course. But something else, deep within, that Molly wanted to warm her hands by.
The minutes flew, and she kneaded the sticky substance much longer than necessary. She formed a ball, returned it to the bowl that she covered with a clean drying-cloth, and stuck it in a warm cupboard to rise.
Her lips suddenly dry, she had to drink some water before she spoke to Patrick. “Miss Jacqueline’s coming to see me tomorrow.” He sat at the kitchen table and crumbled cornbread into a glass of buttermilk. “Maybe she’ll still be here when you get home from school. She’s a nice lady.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Patrick emptied the glass and shrugged.
She had fretted about Jacqueline for the past two weeks. When she wasn’t at Sunday school the week after they met, she was disappointed but reasoned that Jacqueline was simply busy. After the second Sunday Jacqueline missed, she began to worry.
She reviewed each topic that had passed between them, every nuance of every word. Perhaps she had offended Jacqueline by insisting that they lighten the mood with some music. Her love of music irritated Mother Russell, so maybe Jacqueline felt the same way. But she’d praised the little trio on Easter Sunday.
When Jacqueline didn’t show up at the church for a third time, she had decided to take action. How could she entice Jacqueline to visit, and how could she entertain her, not merely sit in the parlor and chat? That Monday morning as she’d glanced out at the rose garden, she’d conceived her idea about making rose water.
It was a pleasant task, not very strenuous, and provided just enough activity to cover any lulls in the conversation. If Jacqueline had truly been offended, or simply didn’t like her, she could refuse the invitation and Molly would try to forget her. But if she accepted…She vibrated in anticipation but had no idea why this newcomer affected her so dramatically.
She hadn’t slept well, and after she finally dozed off she woke with a start at first light as the rooster crowed and Mother Russell stomped into the kitchen, then clanged pots and pans. She muttered her usual insults—sluggards, lay-abeds—and looked startled when Molly appeared much earlier than normal, dressed and offering to help.
The morning had passed as slowly as the ribbon-cane syrup she poured on her breakfast biscuits. Should she call Jacqueline? What if she pushed her even further away for being so forward? What if Jacqueline acted rude, heaven forbid, or insulting? She couldn’t eat more than a bite of peas and drink a big glass of sweet milk for dinner, and by early afternoon she was frantic. She had to make the call, because she couldn’t remain in suspense any longer.
She shifted from one foot to the other as the telephone rang. How long should she wait? Four rings. Where was Jacqueline? Five. Perhaps she was visiting someone else. Six rings. This was ridiculous.
She was about to hang up when Jacqueline answered, breathing hard as if she had run to catch the phone in time. She could barely extend her invitation and was so shaky when Jacqueline finally accepted that she had to sit down on the nearby bench.
Jacqueline would come tomorrow. Mr. James would be out working in the fields, and Mother Russell would be rolling bandages at the Red Cross meeting. They would have most of the afternoon together. What relief. Maybe she could eat a bite of supper and sleep tolerably well.
*
At supper, Mrs. Russell thought, My stars. Molly’s been moping around the past few weeks, and now she looks like the cat that ate the canary. Can’t ever tell with that gal. It’s a wonder James hasn’t noticed anything. ’Course, he wouldn’t see a log truck unless it hit him.
She spelled it all out for her favorite laying hen the next morning as she gathered the eggs in the hen house. “Molly’s been in the parlor every afternoon for days, playing sad songs. You’d think she’d lost her last dollar. Then yesterday afternoon she up and starts banging out some silly tune by that Russian fellow Chikovski. She played it so cheerful-like, even made me feel like whirling ’round the room—if I was up to such tomfoolery.”
Easing her hand under the warm hen, she slid out a fine-looking brown egg. “Been noticing too, for the past few weeks she’s been sneaking off down to the pond every chance she gets. Walks real slow under the pine trees and looks up like she’s talking to ’em. I should’ve cut those pines down a long time ago, right after we cleared the fields and the home site. Trees like those made good straight logs for our old cabin, and the barn and such like. But let ’em grow and they just shed needles everywhere.”
She placed the egg carefully into her straw basket and scooted over to the next nest. “But I got off track. Just having Molly on the place makes me do that. I was afraid she was losing her mind, but just before I thought I’d better have a heart-to-heart with James about her, she perks right up and acts like her little cheerful self again. Sure glad I didn’t say anything.”
She put another egg in her basket, then headed back to the kitchen, mumbling to herself. “Probably should have dosed Molly with more sassafras tonic. Nothing like a good spring tonic to purify the blood and help make the change from winter to summer. Come to think of it, that’s probably what’s been ailing her. The sassafras just worked slower than normal this year. I’ll double up next year and make her eat plenty of poke salad for good measure. Put her out of her misery, and me too. Worrying about her has worn me out.”
*
Jaq drove an ambulance over a pot-holed, muddy road to the front lines. Women smoked cigarettes, men drank whiskey, and pianos danced toward her on two legs and chased everybody. A spider spun a huge, sticky web around them all and carried them up in the air. It opened its mouth and—
Jaq woke, exhausted, pulled on an old housedress, and stumbled downstairs to fix what passed for breakfast. What a strange dream that was. She drew several pails of water from the well, heated it, and washed dishes. Her hands were callused from the rope and wrinkled from the dishwater. After eons of drudgery, she trudged back upstairs and fell across the bed.
She woke up again with a start and felt her forehead, lingering on her raised scar. Her forehead was hot, she was sick. Maybe she had the flu. Better call Molly and cancel their visit.
The minutes ticked by and she fidgeted, increasingly disgusted with herself. Damn it. She’d driven over muddy roads full of shell holes—with bombs exploding around her and bullets whistling over her head. She’d seen men with their legs blown off and listened to them scream. She’d tried to drive slow enough not to jar them and fast enough to get away from the gunfire. Anything to stop those screams.
All that, but she was afraid to spend the afternoon with a ti
ny redhead. So what if those green eyes saw her secrets, if Molly scared her spitless? She was a coward, trying to take the easy way out. She’d even made herself sick so she could tell Molly she couldn’t come.
Turning onto her side, she propped her head on one hand and stared at the dresser mirror. The image opposite her needled her cringing self.
She was pathetic. Was she afraid Molly could hurt her like Sister Mary Therese and Helen had? Hadn’t they taught her anything?
Molly was beautiful, like them. She was understanding, like them. And she was unavailable, like them. Why put herself through the wringer?
But she was stronger now. She could just go tell Molly she wasn’t interested. She needed to face this battle instead of run away, like she had from the War and from Washington after the doctors poked feeding tubes down her.
She flopped onto her back. She was no coward. She’d visit Molly just once. But she definitely wouldn’t encourage her. Hell, it wasn’t fair to lead her on. What they could have would only halfway satisfy them. That was it. She’d tell Molly she and Eric were leaving New Hope soon. Say she’d rather not start something she couldn’t finish.
That way, she wouldn’t hurt Molly too much. Or herself. It’d be over before it even started.
The kind of childish friendship Molly was apparently angling for was a lie. Women like the two of them were probably just kidding themselves if they got emotionally involved like Molly obviously wanted to. She would rather be shot than participate. She’d learned her lesson.
*
For the past few weeks Molly had found refuge at the small pine-encircled pond down the hill from the house. Today it provided sanctuary as she waited for Jacqueline. The hours crept by like a child learning to walk.
When she’d risen at first light, she’d been afraid Mother Russell would change her mind and decide to stay home instead of attending the Red Cross meeting. So she’d milked Nellie, helped cook breakfast, roused Patrick, drawn water from the well, heated it and washed dishes, swept the house and the yard, and picked up Mr. James’s dirty work clothes.
Mother Russell measured her with granite eyes during this bustle of activity, but she pretended she was always this energetic and even helped Mother Russell hitch the horse to the buggy.
Now she paced the bank of the pond until she raised such a cloud of red dust that she sneezed. One minute she perspired, and the next a cool breeze blew across the water and chilled her.
Why did she crave to spend the afternoon alone with Jacqueline? Would Jacqueline enjoy their visit? How long would she and Eric stay in New Hope?
As Molly wandered among the tall pines, wondering what was happening to her, she peeled off a glove and ran her hand along the thick, rough bark of the tallest tree in the stand to steady herself. She felt as nervous as if she were about to direct the annual Christmas program.
She meandered to the next tree, puzzled. Why was she throbbing all over, her insides trembling, her arms and legs weak? Jacqueline McCade was simply paying a social call. They would make rose water, eat tea cakes with milk, then return to their husbands. Nothing queer was happening.
She sat on a log, peeled off her white cotton gloves and her bonnet, and studied a young snapping turtle lying on a log in the lake, sunning her cold, brown-black body. Molly longed to be as placid as the turtle.
“Miss Turtle, I’m so excited I can’t sit still.” All morning her legs had rushed her through her chores, her hands working automatically and her mind spinning around the same subject. Jacqueline. Jackie. Jaq. What a beautiful name. She’d thought it and sometimes even spoken it aloud, whispered it repeatedly, enchanted by its music and rhythm. Jacqueline, her new friend.
The turtle raised its large head and, unblinking, gazed at her.
“Would you like to meet her, Miss Turtle? Well, you can’t, because I refuse to share her, even with you and the pines. Today she’s all mine.”
As she pulled her bonnet and gloves back on, the turtle slid off the log and disappeared into the pond.
Should she ask Mr. James to drive her to the insane asylum? She was going crazy, talking to a turtle about a neighbor woman she planned to spend a pleasant afternoon with, then probably wouldn’t see again for weeks. She needed to control herself before she went off the deep end.
She couldn’t wait until Jacqueline arrived.
Chapter Fourteen
“I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.” Maneuvering her Model T down the bumpy road, Jaq glanced at her new Longines wristwatch. Why would a line from Alice in Wonderland pop into her head? Maybe she was going down the rabbit hole. At least she wasn’t heading for the trenches.
She’d already encountered new, strange worlds, though she couldn’t decide which was the worst. The Storm of 1900, her encounters with Sister Mary Therese and Helen, the battlefields of France and Belgium, and the brutality the suffragists endured haunted her. She wanted to rip them from her mind.
But here she was, getting herself into another disastrous situation.
She was overdressed. Her clothes probably wouldn’t even be fashionable in London, but here her outfit would impress, with its new American look. It certainly wasn’t appropriate for working in the kitchen, but she intended to awe Molly and show her she was a cut above her. She told herself she was an urban sophisticate who wasn’t interested in befriending a nobody destined to spend her life on an obscure cotton farm.
Of course she was lying, but she was desperate. Molly had already claimed more than enough of her attention.
She’d tried her damnedest not to hear the songs Molly played for her on Easter Sunday afternoon, but every morning she woke up humming “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-bag.”
Every time she looked out the window and saw a pine sway in the breeze, she wondered what Molly would look like dancing to her own music. Then she had to remind herself that she’d never see her move like that.
Even when she drank a glass of water, she sensed Molly nearby. Her soft eyes gazed at Jaq until she slammed down the glass and told Molly to leave her alone.
How had Molly managed to invade her mind in such a short time? She was a sap.
As she neared the outer gate of the Russell farm, she finalized her plan of attack. She’d act extremely haughty. Her sophisticated outfit and ultra-new wristwatch should help. She’d pretend to be bored and indifferent, which would be hard as hell. Then she’d deliver her carefully prepared speech about leaving this hick burg as soon as possible. That should cut the afternoon short.
She’d avoid falling into Molly’s eyes, no matter how much they invited her. And she would not touch Molly. Not at all. Not even her little finger.
But, honestly, she craved to hug Molly and melt into her. She ached to lose herself in Molly’s sweetness.
She’d never do that, ever. She might be entering the rabbit hole, but she was armed.
*
Molly stood at the front door and watched the black Model T motor up the long, winding, rocky driveway. As it neared, her tension ratcheted as tight as a piano string. If a felt-tipped hammer struck her nerves, they’d vibrate like the highest note on the keyboard.
She chided herself. This was supposed to be a delightful visit with a new friend, not a recital. At least she didn’t have to do mindless chores or listen to Mother Russell fuss.
Inhaling the fresh smells of spring in the country, she processed across the porch and down the steps as if marching down the aisle of a cathedral decked with flowers. She mentally heard the swell of a Bach cantata and envisioned vast expanses of stained glass.
She had to jerk herself back to the grassless, hard-swept yard she’d just glided across when she met Jacqueline at the gate. “Welcome. It’s been too long,” she said.
Jacqueline looked outstanding in her stylish black suit with its long jacket, trimmed with gold braid, and her straight skirt. So military, so trustworthy. And the subtle swirls of embroidery on the sleeves and around the bottom of the knee-length jacke
t added a touch of softness that the outfit’s almost-severe lines initially camouflaged.
She caught her breath and fingered the soft cotton lawn of her simple white dress, with its loose-fitting bodice and comfortable full skirt. She winced. The city mouse might not fancy her country cousin.
*
Why had Jaq worn this stiff, scratchy wool suit? However, it had helped her almost achieve her objective. Molly visibly shrank from her. But why did this little housewife scare her? The Storm and the War were a long way away, thank God. The rose garden and Molly were right here, a very real threat.
She jerked to attention. Molly had just welcomed her and said, “It’s been too long.”
“It certainly has.” She pulled herself together. She needed to act more mature. Oh, she’d meant what she’d just said. And she’d softened her tone. But Molly had sounded so hopeful and eager, probably like she had when she used to visit Sister Mary, when she encountered Helen unexpectedly.
She felt like she’d just lowered her sidearm. So much for being prepared.
“Would you like to visit the rose garden?” Molly asked. “It’s one of the few interests Mother Russell and I have in common.”
She chattered the entire time they crossed the fenced yard and strolled to the other side of the house. “Mother Russell brought several of these roses from Georgia after the War Between the States ended. Can you imagine traveling all that way with two adults and five children in a covered wagon and carrying rosebushes? She said she had a hard time keeping the roots moist because she stayed so busy feeding and watering her family. Once I overheard her tell her daughter that sometimes she even denied herself water and gave hers to her roses.”
Molly laughed nervously. “Of course, I’d probably have insisted on bringing my piano, but that wouldn’t have left room for many children, I suppose.”
The Storm Page 9
