by Anne Mateer
“Any news from home lately?” The sheriff sat beside me now, his question drawing me away from the family commotion around the table.
“Not much.” I ran my fork through my pie, lifted a bit to my mouth as I watched Frank interact with his children. “Mama seems on the mend. Will has gone off in his car to see the country.”
Sheriff Jeffries nodded. He glanced at Frank before turning back to me. “So you aren’t headed home anytime soon?”
“No.” My stomach twisted. I set down my fork and pushed my plate to the side.
“You done with that, Bekah?” James asked. “ ’Cause I could finish it for you.”
Frank looked at my plate. At me. At Sheriff Jeffries.
I avoided his eyes. “Share it with your brother. More coffee, anyone?” On my feet again, I smiled at both men and turned to get the coffeepot. I wanted to be sick, and I had no idea why. Instead, I played the perfect hostess, filling cups and chatting until finally the sheriff rose to leave.
We walked to his automobile, leaving the clatter of the kitchen far behind. Strings of clouds drifted near the horizon, like tufts of cotton ready to be spun into thread.
“May I come visit again? Saturday evening?” He glanced back toward the house.
“Visit? Us?”
“You, Rebekah. I want to visit you.”
A Saturday night visit. My mouth felt dry as dust, and my heart pumped faster. Should I commit to more than friendship?
I couldn’t let myself think too hard, so I stared straight into his face and answered. “That would be nice . . . Henry.” Why did I feel like a traitor as I spoke his name? “I’ll make another pie. Or a cake. Or something.”
A grin stretched across his face as he slapped his hat on his head. “I’d like that.”
He cranked the engine and waved as he climbed behind the wheel. I waved back. When he motored out of sight, I sighed and turned.
And ran smack-dab into Frank.
Hands on my arms, he steadied and dizzied me all at the same time. “Is he coming again?”
I nodded. “Saturday night.” I hesitated. “Is that okay?” I couldn’t look him in the face.
“If it’s what you want.” He nodded toward the retreating automobile, something wistful in his voice lifting my heart.
I raised my eyebrows, but my gaze skittered to the house behind me. Shy and uncertain, I longed for retreat, so I stepped around him. “I’ll start supper. That is, if anyone’s hungry.”
That night, I lay in bed sorting through the photographs in my mind. Barney Graves. Arthur. Sheriff Jeffries. Frank. The children. I spun out stories of the way things might go, but each ending soured with an unsettling regret, almost as if I’d baked a perfect cobbler but forgotten to sweeten the filling.
I pulled the covers over my shoulder and faced the wall. Mama would say to take the sure thing—but was anything in life a sure thing? Irene would say be careful not to overlook what appeared to be the less exciting choice. Yet right now, every path open to me appeared tainted with the mundane.
I wiggled onto my other side, facing the dark room. What, Lord? What do You want me to do?
Silence, as usual. No direction. Not a niggling thought. Not a feeling. I could simply go ahead and make my own choice, but thus far my choices hadn’t exactly worked out. I imagined again Arthur’s golden hair lifted by a breeze, the hurtful words of his engagement spilling from his lips. Why, in spite of it all, did the thought of him still thrill my heart?
I tossed back the covers and shivered in the cold night. I hadn’t thrown out the last of the coffee. Maybe a cup would distract my thoughts. My socked feet muted my footsteps as I groped my way to the parlor and threw a quilt around my shoulders, holding it closed in front. Then I padded my way to the kitchen. I found the lamp, but my fingers resisted striking the match. A sliver of moon shone through the window. It would be enough.
A new piece of wood and a fraction of rearranging brought a flame to life in the stove. I reached into the cooler to pull out the last piece of pie, larger than I would normally eat, but comforting all the same.
Pie plate and fork resting in the center of the table, I touched the coffeepot. Almost ready. The door behind me creaked. I whipped around, my hand pressed against my hammering heart.
“I guess we had the same idea.” Frank’s voice loomed from the shadowed doorway.
“I guess we did.” I pulled the quilt closer to my body, thinking I ought to leave yet wanting to stay. “C’mon in. Coffee’s almost ready.”
I heard Frank step inside. He sat in the chair at the opposite end of the table.
“You willing to share?” He nudged the pie plate in my direction.
“Split it down the middle. There’s plenty for both of us.” I pushed it toward him, heard the scrape of metal against metal before the plate slid back in my direction. I could make out the glint of the fork resting against its side. Then the smell and steam of coffee curled around my nose, and I realized a cup sat in front of me.
“Thank you.” My fork slid through the creamy custard. A sip of coffee melted the sweetness in my mouth before mingling it down my throat.
“I’m sorry. About earlier.”
I took another bite. Another sip. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Yet I wondered what he meant. Three quick bites and my pie disappeared, my fork clattering into the empty pan.
“It’s not any of my business what you do with your life.”
“No, it isn’t.” I wrapped one hand around my warm cup and lifted it to my lips.
“But do you mind if I ask what you intend to do with it?”
Uncertainty colored his voice. Was he afraid to hear my answer or afraid he couldn’t restrain comment on it? I cleared my throat, uncomfortable now, even with the cover of night over our faces. Yet something in me needed to talk. And Frank might understand. He’d lost his love, even if part of his dream remained intact.
“I’m not sure, exactly. I thought God had made it very plain. Now I don’t know.”
Quiet filled the room. Then his chair creaked.
I took a deep breath. “I’ve lived on a farm my whole life. But I’ve always wanted to live somewhere else. Somewhere big, with lots going on. My brother, Will, he got to see the world, to do something important. Like you did. I want the same opportunity.”
More silence.
“The world is changing so fast. I don’t want to miss it.”
His boots shuffled against the floor. “I can see how you’d feel that way. But I guess it depends on how you define ‘important.’ ”
I shrugged. “Same as everyone, I guess. Something big. Something lasting.”
His shadow leaned against the Wilson cabinet now. “I think tending my farm and raising my children are the most worthwhile things I can do. So did Clara. That’s why we agreed I should go to France. To make the world a safer place for them.”
My insides jiggled. Perhaps a late-night snack hadn’t been such a good idea. I pushed back my chair. “I’d better get some sleep. The children will be up early.”
“I’ll be praying for you, Rebekah.” His voice rumbled from nearby. I could feel the heat from his body, smell the scent of fresh hay on his clothes. He took the dishes from my hand. “I’ll clean up.”
I nodded, even though I doubted he could see my response. Then I fled up the stairs and dove into bed, pulling the quilts over my head. Daylight couldn’t come soon enough.
Mama’s account of Will’s death arrived the Monday after the sheriff’s and my awkward Saturday night visit in Frank’s parlor. After a quiet Sunday with Frank and the children.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I read the letter. Not that Mama had any real details to relay. He’d died as he wanted—in the midst of living. His friend had written that a woman in the Montana town they’d been visiting nursed him as his strength waned. They’d buried him at the foot of a mountain, near a stream.
Will, who had left Downington and seen the world. At least seen more of
it than I had. Would I trade his short life of experience for a long one of familiarity? Just a few months ago, I’d have said yes. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“What’s wrong?” Irene stood in front of me, her voice full of sympathy.
I lifted the corner of my apron to dry my face. “It’s Will. He’s . . . gone.”
“Oh, honey.” Irene led me to the sofa and pulled my head to her shoulder. “You go on and cry now. It’ll do you good to grieve.”
Her words broke something inside me, like an overfull barrel busting out its bands. Tears flowed. Chest heaved. Head and eyes ached. But I couldn’t stop crying. She left me for a little while. I curled on the sofa and sobbed alone.
Shoes scraped into the room and left again. I smelled Janie’s freshly washed hair as she laid her cheek next to mine. Held her until she wriggled free.
“It’s hard to say good-bye.” Irene handed me a warm cup of tea, its sweetness teasing my nose. “I do know how you feel. Remember?”
Her sad smile hurt so much I had to look away. But I did remember. Her sister. Tuberculosis. I reached for Irene’s hand and gripped it tight. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be praying for you, Rebekah—and your mama and daddy. But I just ran in for a minute. I have to get home. Do you want me to send Nola Jean to help take care of things?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. It’ll just take some getting used to, that’s all.”
Irene glanced toward the barnyard. “Remember, it’s taking him some getting used to, as well.”
I took a deep breath, my eyes meeting hers. “He loved his wife.”
She laid a hand on my damp cheek, then sighed and moved away. “It was hard on him, watching her suffer.”
“So he went away.”
“Not like you think. He went because he was needed, even knowing it could likely leave his children orphaned. But that man trusts God more deeply than most. And he knew he had to go.”
Her words echoed the ones he’d spoken to me on the same subject. And I remembered his first letter to me, about God knowing best, even in light of all the death in his life, in his children’s lives. His faith shamed me.
Irene took her leave but turned back halfway down the walk. “You know I’m here, if you need me.”
I nodded, thankful, again, that the Lord had sent me such a friend.
Not an hour later, Ollie raced into the kitchen, threw her arms around my waist, and squeezed tight. Then she looked up at me, eyes swimming with tears. “Daddy told me,” she said. “I’ll miss Will, too, Rebekah.”
My breath caught. Frank told her? Should he have done that? Hadn’t she experienced enough sorrow without having to shoulder mine, too?
“Irene found me on her way home.” Frank leaned against the doorjamb, blocking the afternoon sun. “I’m so sorry.” The lines in his face looked deeper now, as if he’d aged six years in sixty minutes. Yet another reminder of his own grief. Emotion flickered across his face too quickly for me to decipher.
“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“I can do that, if you want me to.” He nodded toward supper warming on the range, his gaze steady on my face. My stomach somersaulted, and my cheeks warmed.
“Rebekah.” Sheriff Jeffries broke the spell. He crossed the room and took my hands in his. “I’m so sorry about Will.” A quick glance to Frank. “Why don’t you come for a drive? It’ll do you good.”
Frank wouldn’t meet my eyes now. He simply took my place by the stove. “Go on.”
I pulled the apron from over my dress, smoothed back my hair. But something in me didn’t want to leave Frank behind. Not now.
Yet Henry Jeffries’s eyes implored me. And it didn’t feel right to decline. I bit my lip, looking back at Frank one last time, wanting him to read the “I’m sorry” in my eyes. But he didn’t turn from his task.
He’d thought my being here would help him, but maybe I just brought more pain into his life.
Two days later, the ah-ooga of a car horn hit my ears long before a topless automobile came into sight. I ran to the fence, eager for normal conversation.
Frank and I had avoided each other since I’d learned of Will’s death, each cocooned in our own grief. Janie toddled after me, finally grabbing at my skirt to steady her new steps.
Mr. Culpepper pulled back his goggles and grinned. “Decided to give my horse a rest. What do you think?”
I ran my hand along the edge of the door. “I think it’s fine, Mr. Culpepper. Your mail route won’t take half the time now, will it?”
His belly shook with laughter. “Don’t know about that, but it sure makes for a fun ride.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket. “Telegram for you, Miss Rebekah.”
Excitement leaked away as my hands covered my churning stomach. My tongue passed over my lips as I tried to reach for the envelope. Finally my fingers obeyed.
“Thank you, Mr. Culpepper.” Our eyes met. His turned away first.
“Howdy-do, Frank,” he called over me. “Bring those little ones over here to see my new toy.”
Frank’s gaze met mine, compassion spilling from the deep blue depths. I blew out a big breath and stumbled around to the back side of a pecan tree. With its trunk for support, I slit open the envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper.
Mama misses you. We arrive tomorrow. Daddy.
I breathed a prayer of thanks. Mama was all right. Then Daddy’s words hit me. They would be here tomorrow! I pushed away from the sturdy tree and stumbled forward.
A hand caught my elbow. I cried out and looked up. Concern wrinkled Frank’s face, clear as the ticker tape on my telegram.
“What’s wrong?” His forehead creased as his eyebrows drew together.
“It’s Mama.” I croaked the words like an old bullfrog.
His face crunched into deeper solicitude.
I sucked in a deep breath of thick, cold air and blew it out again, long and slow. “She and Daddy arrive tomorrow.”
“Your parents are coming?”
“That’s what it says.” I read the telegram again. “Mama misses me, I guess.”
“Did you ask them to come?” He said it like an accusation.
“No.” And yet, why shouldn’t I have? We’d just lost my brother. Would it have been so terrible of me to ask them to visit?
Frank paced in front of me, murmuring, raking his hands through his hair. “It’s just . . . It feels a bit . . . awkward. I mean, the two of us, here, and . . . ” He shrugged.
I shoved my fists on my hips. “That hasn’t seemed to bother you until now. Besides, it isn’t as if either of us have any intentions toward the other.” Even if his touch did ignite a lightning bolt inside me.
“No, no intentions.” He stood still now, not even a twitch of movement. “I just didn’t want them to misconstrue our current arrangement.”
“Are you suggesting they’re coming to pressure you into marrying me?” I snorted out a laugh. “Don’t worry. I have very different plans for my life.”
“Yes. You’ve made that very clear.” He towered over me, our eyes locked in silent battle.
If only we were fighting on the same side.
“But I don’t wanna go to bed, Bekah.” The whine in Dan’s voice brought a pucker to my lips, as if I’d sipped lemonade with no sugar.
Frank and James hadn’t returned from milking Ol’ Bob yet. Ollie stood in the kitchen drying dishes. Janie already slept peacefully in her crib upstairs.
“Let’s go, little man.”
“I’m not your little man. And you can’t make me.” His eyebrows scrunched down over his eyes, and his fingers curled into fists.
“Oh yes, I can.” I lifted him off the floor, his feet kicking out behind me.
“What are you doing to him?” Ollie blocked my way out of the kitchen.
“I’m taking him to bed.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not his mother, you know.”
How many times had I said those words to her over the p
ast few weeks? And she dared throw them back at me now?
“Neither are you.” I set Dan on the ground but kept his hand imprisoned in mine.
Ollie’s eyes flashed. “When are you goin’ home, Rebekah?”
“Ollie Elizabeth!” Frank stood at the kitchen door, James at his side.
Ollie’s face paled. “But, Daddy, she—”
“Get on up to bed. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Ollie darted from the room, dragging Dan with her. James tugged at my hand. I knelt down in front of him.
“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” His bottom lip trembled.
“No.” I ran my hand through his blond curls. “I won’t leave you, sweet boy. I promise.”
He lurched into my arms, nearly knocking me to the ground. Tears gruffed my voice as I whispered, “Let’s get you tucked in, too.”
His head nodded against my shoulder. I carried him from the room without so much as a glance at his daddy. My heart couldn’t bear to know whose side Frank had taken—Ollie’s or James’s.
Will your mama like me?” James distracted me for the hundredth time.
While I swept the floor, I assured him, again, that she would, although my heart fluttered in my chest every time I said it. Who knew what Mama would think? My stomach roiled, and my breath heaved. And so I worked harder.
By late afternoon, I paced the front walk, twisting my good lace handkerchief beyond recognition. Frank remained in the fields, well beyond my sight. “Bedding up” for planting, he’d told me. And already more than a month behind.
What would Mama say when she saw him here? And what would Frank say when he realized I hadn’t told my parents he’d come home? I ripped my thoughts from that conundrum and focused again on the children. If only the boys would stay clean until Mama arrived. She needed to see them at their best, right off.
The chug-a-lug of a car drifted on the breeze. I leaned over the fence. Dan held open the small gate with his body. Ollie slipped her hand into mine as James whispered, “They’re here. They’re here.”
