"Might have to stay there, but I'd rather have a boarding house" Briar sipped the coffee. Actually it wasn't bad. A little strong, but then that was the only way to drink it. If it didn't curl your toenails, it was only murdered water.
"Then you need to walk about four blocks on up the street to the Morning Glory Inn. Miss Clara runs it and I heard one of her boarders got married last week so she's got a room," the man said. He'd teach Clara to spurn his offer to take her for a Sunday afternoon ride in his buggy. Yes, he would. He'd spoil her evening by sending oil riffraff up to her door. She'd singe the eyebrows off that tall fellow for sure with her sharp tongue. By the time she got through dressing him down for ruining the whole landscape around Healdton with those terrible oil wells, then went on to tell him that taking oil from the ground was a sin punishable by a slow and torturous death, the stranger would be glad to stay in the hotel. He might even be willing to give a dollar a night to sleep under one of the pool tables.
"Thank you for the information" Briar finished the coffee in a single gulp and headed out across the wooden floor that hadn't seen a mop since the day the pool hall was built. He made it to the door when he heard the store owner demanding that two other men take their arguments outside and what he'd do to them if they broke one of his cue sticks. Then a solid wall hit Briar in the back and forced him through the screen door, sprawling him out on the sidewalk flat on his stomach.
Before he could draw breath into his lungs, the dis agreeing men stumbled out over him like he was no more than a doormat. Yelling profanities. Pushing. Finally doubling up their fists and pounding at each other. Rolling around in the dusty street like they enjoyed it. He raised his head in time to see one of the ladies who'd been on the bench. She wasn't two feet from him and the look on her face showed pure disgust.
She stuck her nose in the air as if he were a pile of horse manure freshly dropped on the plank sidewalk and sidestepped him, careful to draw her skirt tail tight around her legs. "Oil field trash!"
"Snooty women!" he mumbled as he righted himself, climbed into his car and drove down the street, completely ignoring the fight behind him.
Morning Glory Inn was a sprawling two-storey house with a front porch that wrapped around both sides. Rocking chairs invited him to take his pick. A big white one with a slat back. A brown one with wide arms. A blue one with a soft cushion in the bottom. Morning Glory vines climbed up the posts and railing. The scorching hot sun had already taken its toll on the blue blossoms, but Briar knew what it looked like in the early morning when the whole front of the house would be alive with blue blooms as big as saucers. His mother's front porch in Kentucky had looked the same when he was a child.
He didn't know whether to walk right in like he was going into a hotel or to knock as if he were visiting a friend. Deciding on the latter, he rapped on the door frame and brushed the dust from his overalls and chambray shirt sleeves.
An enormous woman filled the open space behind the screen door. "Yes, sir? You here to ask about the room for rent?" She eyed him up and down.
"Yes, ma'am, I surely am," he said.
"You a preacher man? I don't hold none with no preacher man. I wouldn't rent you a place to sleep in the outhouse if you was a preacher man, and if you tell Dulcie a lie and say you aren't, then you don't want to think about the trouble you'd be in for." She crossed her arms over her ample chest and stared at him.
"I am not a preacher. Never have been" Briar smiled.
"Well, then I suppose the room is settin' empty and Miss Clara can't pay the bills lettin' rooms go beggin', so you just come on in here and sign your name sayin' as how you are willin' to obey the rules of the house. That'd be mostly bein' in your room by ten o'clock. Miss Clara, now, she don't cotton to folks layin' out half the night sinnin' like them oil riffraff do" Dulcie opened the door and led him to a credenza where a simple one-page contract lay beside a vase of freshly picked pink roses.
He noted the price, pulled enough to cover two months' rent plus extra for supper from his wallet and paid Dulcie. "What about laundry?"
"That's your problem, mister. Miss Clara don't be doin' washin' and ironin' for nobody, and I sure don't neither. There's a man who set up a laundry in town when the oil wells started booming. That stuff they'd be stealing from the Lord's earth is a mite hard to get out of a feller's britches, so he's charging high dollar. I expect he'd take in washin' from anybody though."
"Okay." Briar nodded. "Which room is mine?"
"That'd be the first one on the left at the top of the stairs. Got five boarders. Mostly they're in their rooms before dark, so I wouldn't be comin' in here too late. You need to sign your name to the bottom of that paper. Miss Clara, she puts great stock in keepin' things legal and all. You better read it before you sign, because it says if you move out you don't get a dime of your money back," Dulcie said.
"Yes, ma'am." He stifled a smile. The house was spotless. Wonderful aromas were coming from the kitchen. The room would be twice as nice as the one in the hotel, he was sure. He signed "Briar Nelson" with flair and picked up his suitcase. "Supper is ready at six?"
"Supper is ready at five and don't you be late or you'll be going hungry" Dulcie wagged a finger at him.
"What happens if I want it in my room?"
"This is a boarding house, not some kind of rich man's mansion. And I can tell by lookin', you sure enough ain't no rich man, so don't even ask tom foolery questions like that. Bathroom is at the end of the hall. I'll let the other boarders know there's a man in the house now so they won't be embarrassin' them selves or you neither. They're all womenfolk," Dulcie told him.
He carried his baggage up the stairs and found his room. "Pretty-just like I knew it would be. Libby would like this."
Frilly lace curtains fanned into the room from the summer breeze flowing through the open window. An intricately patterned patchwork quilt covered the bed. The hardwood floor was so shiny he could see the reflection of his shoes. If there was a speck of dust anywhere, he would have been willing to lick it up. The walls were covered with yellow rose wallpaper, reminding him of what had been in his mother's bedroom back in Kentucky.
Twenty minutes later, he had all his things unpacked into a chest of drawers and the wardrobe. Yes, sir, Briar Nelson could be very comfortable here even if he did miss Libby. As he stretched out on the bed for a short nap he wondered if Miss Clara was Dulcie's daughter and if so, was she as big as Dulcie?
"Rented that room for you. Paper is on the table over there," Dulcie told Clara when she arrived. "Nice man. Not a preacher. I made sure of that"
"Not oil well trash?"
"I sniffed real hard but couldn't get a whiff of it, and I got a nose for that smell. No matter how much they try, they never can get all the stink off them. Had on brandnew overalls and a shirt that was only just a bit dusty. Drives his own car and all. It's parked out there in front of the house. Looks to be fairly new. I figure he's some kind of salesman. Suitcase didn't look too beat up, and he had a wad of money in his wallet. Didn't think I saw it when he drug it out to pay, but not much misses Dulcie's eyes. No sir. Now you just sit yourself down and play a little tune on the piano while I finish supper. You're late today. Did you go inside the drug store for a cold drink?" Dulcie steered her toward the parlor.
"Yes, Tilly and Tucker were both in town. Tilly and I had lemonade. There was a fight in the pool hall. Men out in the street slugging away at each other. One was knocked down and sprawling on the sidewalk. I had to step around him. That's oil field riffraff for you. Then I remembered I needed some hairpins, so I stopped in the general store and the time got away from me" Clara sat down at the piano and began to play.
"That's so pretty. I'm glad your momma made you learn. Now I'll get back to that frying chicken."
"What would I do without you, Dulcie? I couldn't boil water without setting the house afire"
"And if I tried to play the piano, honey, it'd bring every hound dog in six counties to howl at the back
door. Some of us are good at some things. Some of us are good at others."
Clara's long slender fingers danced over the ivory keys like children playing in the meadow. The village idiot did have one talent.
The aroma of onions sizzling in hot grease along with the sweet sounds of piano music drifted up the stairs and into Briar's room. He awoke slowly, taking in his surroundings and remembering where he was. Morning Glory Inn, not in his bed at home in Kentucky when he was a boy and his mother often fried onions with potatoes for their supper. Not even in his current home in Pennsylvania where it wasn't unusual to hear early morning music. This melody sounded nothing like the whining fiddle of the hill country, but still he was reminded of home. Both the one he'd left before he was sixteen and the one where he hung his hat these days.
He checked his watch. Ten minutes until 5:00. He rolled out of bed, found his boots and eased the door open. No one was in the hallway and from the sounds echoing from the living room, the boarders had all gathered before dinner. Dulcie's voice drowned out the others declaring she was putting supper on the table and they had five minutes to take their seats. Briar stomped his feet down into work boots, hurriedly found the bathroom, washed his hands and face, and used a little water to tame a cowlick that had given him grief all his life. If he had wakened earlier he might have shaved, so dark was the shadow on his angular face, but it was too late now. Miss Clara Whateverhernamewas would have to be content that he would at least be bringing clean hands to the table.
Dulcie fussed at him from the bottom of the stairs. "Come on, man, I'm not waiting supper on you. Just this once, in case you didn't have a watch, I was going to drag myself up the steps for you, but it would be the last time."
"Yes, ma'am," Briar drawled in a lazy Southern brogue that more than a decade of living in Pennsylvania and two long visits to New York City hadn't gotten out of him.
"I found our newcomer," Dulcie announced. "He's going to be a good boarder and make it on time after all. Ladies, this is Briar Nelson. Mr. Nelson, this is Nellie Smith and beside her is Cornelia Oberman. They both teach school here in Healdton"
"Dulcie?" a lady from the end of the table said.
Briar didn't look at her, instead trying to put names with faces. Nellie had a long, long face with big, round, brown eyes and her thin hair drawn back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Kind of like that sway-backed horse his older brother named Nellie Belly. Cornelia had cornflower blue eyes, so he figured he could remember her name if he thought of that.
Dulcie threw up her hands and sighed at the impatient look Clara gave her. "Okay, okay, I'll hurry, since supper is waiting, Clara. This is Mrs. Beulah Hastings. Her husband died last year and she's been with us ever since. And this is Olivia Traversty who works at the bank. Next to her is Bessie Alman, another widow lady who's lived here since Clara's mother opened the place twelve years ago. And that is the bunch of the boarders. You've already met me, and the lady at the other end of the table is Clara Anderson, the owner of the Morning Glory Inn. You'll sit right here beside me," Dulcie finished flatly and took her own seat at the other end of the table.
Nellie, like the horse. Cornelia, like the cornflowers. Olivia, who was looking at him with a sly look in her eyes that told him he'd better lock his bedroom door at night. He'd seen that look before, lots of times, and when the women found out he had money, it got even stronger. Bessie and Beulah, both with silver gray hair and enough wrinkles to attest to the fact that they were at least eighty: The two B's.
And Clara.
He busied himself placing the white linen napkin just so in his lap and looked down the length of the well laden table. Clara! Sweet Jesus! She was a beauty-all that black hair dressed high on her head and the clearest blue eyes he'd ever looked into. He didn't need word association to remember her name. It was branded in bright red letters right across the front portion of his brain.
Then the memory hit him like a hurricane on its way to tear up a lovely town. She'd been the hoity-toity woman who'd snubbed him earlier that day when he was lying face down on the sidewalk. She'd made some rude remark about oil well riffraff. No wonder she appealed to him. History often repeated itself. He almost groaned aloud.
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, ladies. This meal looks wonderful, Miz Dulcie," he said.
"Likewise," Olivia winked at him.
"Son, we're just glad for a man to sit at the table with us. Been ten years since Clara rented a room to a man. It's nice to have some male company," Bessie said. "Now pass those potatoes before they get a skim of grease on them. Two things ain't worth eating. One is cold potatoes and the other is cold gravy."
Dulcie smiled. "You're right about that. But I remember when my granny used to make up cold fried potato sandwiches for us to take to school in our lunch pails."
"So do I," Bessie said. "And I said if I ever got out of school, I'd never eat them again."
Olivia shuddered and passed a platter of fried chick en to Briar, letting her fingers touch his a moment longer than proper. "And what is it you do for a living, Mr. Nelson? Are you a salesman like Dulcie thought you might be? Is that really your automobile parked out front?"
"Thank you" Briar forked a leg and a thigh from the plate. "No, I'm not a salesman. Yes, that is my automobile." Anderson. Clara Anderson. Could it be? No, that would be too coincidental. She couldn't be related to Tucker and Matilda Anderson. Anderson, like Nelson, was a fairly common name. His first order of business in Healdton was to try to talk Tucker and Matilda into letting him buy the mineral rights to their land. His foreman had approached them about a sale a few weeks ago, but they'd refused. Briar hoped that he could offer them a deal that would make their little eyes see dollar signs. But surely Clara wasn't kin to those people. Or was she?
"We shouldn't ask so many questions. Mr. Nelson will divulge as much information about what he does for a living as he wants to do. Now, tell me, ladies, who is going to the poetry reading at the library tonight?" Clara changed the subject abruptly. If and when Olivia moved, she intended to be a whole lot more careful with the next boarder. No more young girls who flirted with anyone who wore pants.
Clara's sweet Southern voice sent tingles up Briar's backbone. It reminded him of fine Kentucky bourbon, aged in a barrel for at least ten years, laced with the purest honey in the hills. Enough gravel to tease a man's senses and sweetness to make him want more. He could have leaned on both elbows, bracing his chin in his palms, and listened to her talk about anything in the world all evening. It had been years since a woman had affected him so intensely, and he wasn't so sure he liked the feeling. Not since he'd made up his mind four years before that he wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. He'd said that one uppity woman in a lifetime was enough to sour Briar Nelson forever and here he was practically drooling over another one.
"I'm not going," Olivia said. "Last time you roped me into that, I was bored to tears. I didn't understand a thing y'all were talking about. Who cares what some poet thinks of a rose?"
"I would love to go" Bessie dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin. "But Beulah and I are working our fingers to the bone trying to get the filet crochet done for the altar cloth at the church. We're staying in tonight."
"We'll go," Nellie and Cornelia said at the same time.
"Good. That will be five of us. Matilda and Tucker are both planning on being there. How about you, Mr. Nelson? Would you be interested in studying the poetry of Elizabeth Browning tonight?" Clara asked.
Briar almost choked on a mouthful of chicken. "Tucker and Matilda? Are they related to you?"
"My cousins. Matilda and Tucker Anderson. Tucker owns the old homestead place just out of town, the Evening Star Ranch, where my grandparents lived and raised my father and his two brothers. Tilly inherited the place next to it when her dad died a few years ago. Our fathers were the three Anderson boys who grew up right here in Healdton, Oklahoma. We have been cotton farmers forever. At least the family has been. My father wa
s a banker as well as a farmer. When he died, my mother turned this place into a boarding house," she said.
"I see. Well, I wouldn't know a poem from a billy goat, but I'd be glad to tag along if that would be all right," he said.
Cornelia clapped her hands delightedly. "Oh, how wonderful! We might even have another dreamer on our hands."
"Another what?" Briar fought the frown, drawing his dark eyebrows into a solid line.
Cornelia giggled. "Dreamer. That's what the townspeople call us because we attain to a higher level of thinking than just cotton patches and oil wells."
"I see" Briar went about the business of eating more seriously. If he had his mouth full, he wouldn't have to answer any more questions. Talk about luck. He couldn't have done a better job if he'd been trying to find the perfect place to board for the next two months.
Clara stole glances at the man on the other end of the long dining room table. His nose was a bit too hawkish and his lips too narrow, but his eyes were very nice. Deep, dark brown, almost ebony. Good thick dark hair he combed straight back and a heavy beard that gave him a rakish look. Briar had what Tilly called rugged good looks. The kind that had been honed down into pure masculinity. All mature angles with none of the soft boyish roundness. Nothing at all like Percy, who'd had thinning blonde hair, a round baby face and green eyes. It seemed like she'd seen Briar somewhere before. She drew her perfectly arched brows down into a frown and thought hard for a few seconds. No, she'd remember that face for sure.
She looked right into his mysterious dark eyes without blushing or blinking. "I'm glad you're going with us. Tucker feels like an outcast most of the time. He's always come to our Monday Night Poetry Club meetings, but there's times when I think he would rather be slopping the hogs or pickin' cotton as sitting there discussing poetry. All except Shakespeare, who's his favorite, but I would call Shakespeare more of a script writer than a poet, wouldn't you?"
Shakespeare? Was that the Romeo and Juliet fellow? Briar felt prickly heat rising up the back of his neck. "Like I said, I'm not much of a poetry reading fellow. I'll just go along to have something to do. I doubt anyone will ever call me a dreamer, though" He looked away and wondered if everyone else could see the sparks dancing around the room. He'd just met the woman and the mere tenor of her voice had him wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Sometimes the Almighty sure played funny tricks on a man.
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