I pinched the clamshell tight between my thumb and forefinger. “Caleb, you are aware of my deliberate act of going against your will, of walking in the woods. Of not only doing so, but of taking up friendship with a native man.”
“Yes.” The words croaked from his mouth, muffled by his unwillingness to admit them.
“Why then do you pursue me? Why do you seek the hand of a woman who disregards your request?” I hated myself for my harshness, but I would not have this cloud of deceit hanging above our heads should we wed.
“Because I love you.” He pulled my hand from the pocket of my dress and clasped it to his chest. The gesture reminded me all too much of Abram’s gesture and I wrested my fingers away.
“Would you love me still if you knew I not only disregarded your request, but that I have done so on multiple occasions, that I have spent much time with this native, that . . . I have even allowed him to kiss me?” My face flamed as I voiced aloud the physical intimacy Abram and I shared, the societal boundary I had crossed.
Mr. Tanner dropped my hand, stood, and paced the ground before me with vigorous steps. I knew I chanced everything. He could not only spurn my hand, but spread my secret among the settlement. I would be ostracized, cast out, ridiculed. Papa would have no one. But I was through with secrets and lies. If Mr. Tanner was to enter a marriage with me, I would have him know all.
With sudden decision, he dropped in front of me on one knee. “Yes, Elizabeth, I would still love you. I have loved you for years, since the first time you ran behind my legs, frightened of a toad. That love has grown and changed as we have, and I am ready to cherish you now and forevermore if you will accept my hand. I pray we will find love in the days we share.”
I had a thought to shake some sense into Caleb Tanner. “You would wed me even though I love another?”
“Do you, little Elizabeth? Do you love your native? Or do you love adventure and freedom and life and surprises?”
I grappled for an answer. He took what I thought to be true and turned it on its head. Were these the things I loved, and not the actual man? Abram called me part of his spirit. Was he part of mine, or only a figurehead of excitement?
“I fear a time of uncertainty is coming. For you with your Papa sick. For us and for the natives as both sides harbor resentment. You want to be in both worlds, but you cannot. Ultimately, you must choose. I am offering you a choice now. Accept my hand and we can have the banns read this coming Sabbath. Let us settle this now, while your Papa is still here to see it.”
That’s right. Papa. I had promised. I thought of Abram, standing tall and strong at the top of his rock. I would have to tell him. His heart would hurt as mine now did. I wondered if I made the right decision.
“I accept your proposal.” Though a queerer proposal I had never imagined.
His gaze softened and he clasped my hands in his much larger ones. “You have made me happy,” he said. “And will you now promise me with your whole heart not to go near the woods again?”
“I—’tis only proper to say good-bye.” I could not imagine leaving Abram to wonder of my whereabouts forever.
“I will escort you, then.”
“Shall a man not trust his wife-to-be?”
“Shall a man not look after the safety of his wife-to-be?”
“’Tis safe. I have gone countless times.”
He must have wondered why his heart chose to love me. I certainly did. “Go then, now, while I can still be here to see of your safe return. I will watch after your father.”
I hastened away to the forest, the strange truth of this pit I had fallen into not lost on me. I cared deeply for Abram but must deny my heart. Caleb wants my heart and yet he still allowed me to say good-bye to the man who’d captured it instead of him. I knew it must hurt him to see me running off with eager steps to see one of the natives he took such a disliking to.
Perhaps that, more than anything else, was the truest love ever shown me.
June 12, 1675
I am not sure if my hand or my heart grew tired yesterday. Either way, I had not the fortitude to finish all that happened after I accepted Caleb’s proposal. I did indeed make haste to see Abram. He sat on top of his cave, the Holy Bible opened on his lap. I stood at the edge of the clearing and watched him, etching his picture on the tablet of my mind. I thought of the quilt I had not yet finished for him. Would I ever be able to gift it to him?
He saw me—or perhaps sensed me—and looked up from his reading. He smiled and held the Bible in the air. “I am reading good, Chickautáw.”
Chickautáw. I would miss hearing his Indian name for me. He leapt from the rock with the grace of a deer and clasped my hand in his. “I will show you,” he said.
I shook my head. “We have not the time.” I wiped my wet eyes.
“Chickautáw, what is wrong?”
“I am sorry, Abram. I am so, so sorry.” Perhaps I had betrayed Caleb, but I had also betrayed Abram. I had known our future would meet with an ending as hard as the rock under which he lived, and yet I had carried on with him. “I have come to bid you good-bye.”
He cocked his head to the side as my horse, Church, sometimes did when I made a high-pitched whistle with my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
“I am to wed soon,” I said.
Abram’s bottom lip quivered. “And you care for this man?”
“Yes—no, I don’t know! I do not care for him as I care for you, yet there can be no future for us.”
He stared at me a moment, battling with himself it seemed. Finally, he nodded stoically. “It is too dangerous for you.”
“And for you, though ’tis not solely that. I promised my father. He is much troubled over my uncertain future.”
I felt as if Abram’s thoughts were as vast and wide as the never-ending sea. Yet he did not voice them. I wondered if he thought me a coward, if I married for protection instead of love.
Perhaps I did. Perhaps I was.
“This man—he will take care of you well?”
“Yes.” Of this I had no doubt.
“I will miss you, Little Fire.” He drew me to himself and I sank into his embrace. He did not kiss me, though. He held out his Holy Bible to me. “Take.”
I pushed it back at him. “No. You need this more than I. You have no books.”
He patted the black leather cover. “This is most important. I know it in my spirit.”
’Tis strange to accept such a gift from a native. Often it is the white man who imparts a gift of the Holy Bible.
“I am making you a gift,” I said. “I will get it to you before the harvest. I know a native boy. I will send him. He may find comfort in meeting you.”
He kissed me on the forehead and I clutched his arms, reluctant to let go. Even now, Lord have mercy on me, I wished him to beg me to stay, to offer to run away with me. I shan’t ever know if I would have left with him, for he did not ask.
“Remember me with joy, Chickautáw. I will remember you the same. No . . .” He struggled for the word.
“Regrets?”
He smiled. “Yes. No regrets.”
I turned to leave, my heart bucking at the space growing between us.
I pocketed the Bible next to his clamshell and ran all the way back home. When I arrived, Caleb sat in the garden. I nodded to him, mumbled something about checking on Papa, and disappeared inside. When I came out to milk the cow a bit later, he was gone.
Chapter 21
July swept past like a long train, each car a fleeting blur of my day. I paused only for the necessities—eating, showering, brushing my teeth and checking the mail. Work became automatic. I packed away Barb’s house, setting aside things for the estate sale I planned to run in the fall. I went to the museum on Saturdays, wanting to finish the task given me by Barb and at the same time fearing its end. I hired an investigator to track Mary down after a simple Google and social media search hadn’t turned up anything definite. I’d given him the old files Barb had kept on
her daughter and still, I dug my feet in deeper, signing up for a class in August and pausing just long enough to call Essie when learning I was accepted for fall classes to begin my new career path.
A clock repairman finally returned my call. I left his message on my voice mail to remind myself to call him back when I got a minute, but that minute never came.
Matt didn’t call. I missed him the two times he’d stopped by for the mail. I hated that our lives were settling into this routine. I hated that I grew accustomed to the everyday business of my life and the goals I’d set for myself. I hated that I was sometimes even okay about not seeing my husband for days on end.
One day Pete caught me coming off the elevators.
“Hey, stranger.”
I tried not to look guilty. Yes, I’d been busy, but I’d also avoided Pete when I could. If I heard his voice in the room next door, I’d finish my duties quickly so I could be out by the time he came in. If I saw him walking toward me down the long hall, I’d duck into a patient’s room to see if they needed anything.
“Hi, Pete.”
His stethoscope hung uneven on his neck and I had an urge to lift a hand and tug it straight.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You look dead on your feet.”
“You sure know how to flatter a girl.”
He laughed. “You still look beautiful. Just tired.”
I tried to suppress the heat that climbed my neck. Instead, a burning sensation started behind my eyes. “I am tired.”
“Well, slow down, kid.” The four words were the most caring ones anyone had offered me in the past month and to my chagrin, a tear spilled onto my cheek. I hardly talked to my husband and son. I avoided my parents. Essie didn’t sympathize—my go-get-’em sister only cheered me on from the sidelines.
Work, organizing Barb’s house, planning my schooling—these were good things, weren’t they? Why then did everything feel so wrong?
Pete pressed the elevator button and ushered me inside. I allowed him to, vaguely aware that he must have been going up to the ward for a reason. I should insist he return to his duties. He had real patients upstairs. He didn’t need to take care of a single blubbering woman.
But I didn’t want him to leave.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered as more tears crept from the corner of my eyes. “I just need some more sleep.”
He looked at me with a doctor’s knowing stare. “You’ve run yourself ragged. And you mentioned summer classes? Maybe you should wait until the fall to start.”
“I can’t. I’ve already signed up and . . .”
The elevator doors opened and Pete led me outside to a bench set off in the garden entryway. The sun drifted lazily over the horizon. I loved summer nights, but I’d missed their beauty of late, too involved in my own problems, too busy getting Barb’s house together.
“You have to live too. Dropping a course isn’t going to throw you off that much. You’ll probably be able to concentrate better in the fall. And maybe concentrate on living.”
Right. Living. “I like the distraction.”
“What do you need distraction from?”
“Oh, you know, just the living part of life.” My words came out bitter. For all I knew, my husband dropped off the face of the earth. How were Matt and I to get past whatever this was if we had both become okay with a life apart from each other?
“You can talk to me, you know.” Pete’s voice softened. He didn’t move closer on the bench. I sensed that if he had, I wouldn’t have shied away. “I promise I’ll keep all my ulterior motives in check.”
“Those being . . . ?”
He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know, Sarah, maybe I’ve been kidding myself, saying I only want to be a good friend. But I’m almost ashamed to follow that line of thought.”
If he was able to admit it, why shouldn’t I? Why should I resist this man? He was ready to listen. He was kind, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was attracted to him. My husband didn’t want anything to do with me, was probably too busy on the Waterman yacht or taking runs on the Cliff Walk to think about his wife miles away.
It seemed I stood at the edge of a high boulder, ready to jump. Normally, I would set limits, rein myself in, guard my heart and my emotions. But I was too tired and too lonely to censor.
I jumped.
“It might be nice to talk about things.”
“I’m listening.”
“Now? Don’t you have to go back upstairs?”
He grinned and the gesture highlighted the small dimple on his left cheek. “I was going to pick up some papers. I can grab them tomorrow.” He stood and offered me his hand. “Want to get out of here?”
I lifted my fingers to his and allowed him to help me off the bench. My insides trembled at his touch. He felt steady and capable beside my tired and quivering frame, and I allowed him to lead me to his car.
He drove me out of the city and down a long stretch of byway until the road revealed glorious open space and wide sparkling ocean and sand. I smiled as some of the tension drained from my spirit.
“I haven’t been to the beach yet this year.” Matt should have taken me on Kyle’s birthday. It would have taken us five minutes to walk there. But he couldn’t even spare that for someone who wouldn’t further his interests, further his business propositions.
Pete shed his white coat and rolled up his sleeves. I left my purse in the car and we strolled side by side into the setting sun. The waves didn’t crash today. They trickled in. Soft and slow, like a caress upon the sand.
We walked. I told Pete everything. Matt’s desire to take a break. The lack of communication. Lack of a desire to work at our marriage. I spoke of Kyle, how I missed him but didn’t want to bother him and the time he had with his father. I told him of the disastrous employee dinner, of Cassie Waterman and the jab Matt had made about my golfing abilities. I told him about Elizabeth’s journal, how it showed that troubles in love were as old as humanity, how I wasn’t sure there was hope to be found, either in my case, or in Elizabeth’s. I told him about school and the desire to prove myself, the desire to provide for myself if things with Matt continued to go downhill.
I hadn’t allowed myself to ponder such a prospect until now. What if Matt asked for a divorce? Here, beside Pete on the beach, the sting didn’t hurt as much as it should have. Was this Matt’s intent all along? To break away from me gradually? To ease out of our marriage? A husband was supposed to tell his wife his deepest thoughts. A husband was supposed to work at a marriage, to expect bumps and bruises along the way. A husband was supposed to hold your hand through them.
Pete listened with intense interest and patience. When I finished, he didn’t offer advice or apologies. My heart felt lighter. For the first time, I felt like maybe I could survive without Matt if I really needed to. I’d tried everything, hadn’t I? The ball was in his court, and he hadn’t even bothered to pick it up.
Part of me wanted to dive into this feeling—this feeling of not needing my husband. He’d put me through the wringer, that’s for sure. Maybe my parents were right—maybe Matt and I had been a mistake from the get-go. And maybe my parents were wrong—maybe a pregnancy wasn’t a good-enough reason for a marriage. Maybe I should have looked harder for a solution, braved the road of single motherhood, been less afraid and more courageous.
The last orange and pink rays of the sun disappeared from the horizon and Pete drove me back to the hospital. In the parking lot, I sat in his car, fumbling with my keys.
“Thanks, Pete. I needed that.”
“I guess it’s wrong to say I had fun listening to all your problems, but I did. I enjoy being with you, Sarah.”
I swallowed the hot mass in my throat. This was too much, too fast. I was not the kind of woman who slipped into an affair so easily.
I opened the door to his Toyota. “I’ll see you around?”
“You bet.”
He waited until I started my car before driving away. I put
my face in my hands.
What was I getting myself into?
June 21, 1675
Papa is dead.
Only he did not lose his lifeblood from the sickness that had invaded his body. He lost it at the hand of King Philip’s men.
Life has turned into a nightmare this very day, as it has for our entire settlement. I am crammed into a corner in Andia’s father’s garrison, along with thirteen other families from our settlement. None sleep. The men, including Caleb, patrol by the windows and doors and whisper why it is that Mr. Cole, the leader of our local militia, is missing. After today, I do not feel safe despite their hovering protection.
Living in fear is a new and strange thing for me. One does not realize how terrible and all-encompassing fear can be until one must live it every minute.
I rode with Caleb to meeting yesterday. Papa insisted. I tucked Abram’s Bible in my pocket, kissed my father’s fevered brow, and bid him good-bye as if he would still be here when I returned.
Caleb spoke little on the way home. I smelled smoke in the air and saw it rising high above the trees as we neared Papa’s homestead. My thoughts scrambled like a beaten egg as Caleb urged his mare to go faster. I had not left the cooking fire too hot, I was certain of it. Yet as we rounded the bend, my worst fears were realized. Flames licked the wood of the kitchen window and curls of smoke funneled to the clouds.
I did not wait for Caleb to stop. I leapt from his wagon, my wretched skirts in a tangle. I pushed through the door of our home. The fresh air brought a burst of heat and smoke to my face and I buried my nose and mouth in the sleeve of my dress. I pushed forward to Papa’s bed. Flames had not yet overtaken it. Caleb’s hands shoved me toward the door and he lifted Papa with an ease I could not manage. My chest squeezed, but I could not bear to leave two things. I lunged for the cabinet by the hearth—’tis near the door. I scooped up this bundle of papers together with the ink Caleb had gifted to me. I fumbled Abram’s crude quilt out of the cabinet also, and brought it to my face. For just a moment, I breathed in the precious bit of air hidden inside the fabric instead of the clogged smoke of the house.
The Edge of Mercy Page 16
