by DiAnn Mills
“Then we could turn you off.” A tenor male stole the punch line. Several people groaned.
Millie giggled. I jabbed a forefinger toward her middle. “You’ll give us away, goosey.”
Just then I heard Mother’s heels clacking on the oak floor as she bustled down the central hall. Short and wide with a sensible manner, she might have been a matron from a girls’ school. “Honey dear!” she cried.
Millie whispered to me, “She’s hugging Honey and snifflin’. Say, Julie, Honey got her hair bobbed. She’s got bangs and red lipstick.”
In a moment, Mother said, “Come into the parlor and get warm.” She called loudly, “Millie!”
Millie scooted away, leaving me to eavesdrop alone. Millie was more of a little sister to me than Honey was, though they were the same age. When Millie’s mother, our cook, died eight years ago, Mother kept orphaned Millie and trained her as a housemaid. Millie and I were pals. Honey and Millie had never been close.
Honey had just arrived home for her first Christmas holiday since she’d entered the University of Vermont. Being Honey, she’d organized a house party at the last minute. With five friends in tow, she phoned a message to Shegog’s Grocery, telling Mother and Dad of her plans. Shegog had the only telephone in the village. Lucky for us, it was a five-minute walk away.
Honey’s message arrived with the meat delivery. Mother threw up her hands and scolded, but an hour later she was making lists and chattering about gifts and activities.
Our cook, Esther Quin, grumbled through the menu planning, the pie baking, and the cookie cutting. But that was nothing new. Esther was forever grouching about something.
Dad took the news in stride. A family crisis rarely rattled him. He spent most of his time at his sawmill across the road from our house. He left most things to Mother—especially Honey.
I wished I could overlook Honey’s shenanigans, too. I should be used to her scheming by now. When she was ten and I was twelve, she got inspired to start a glee club in Athens, our tiny village. Worst of all, she made her big sister sing “Snookey Ookums.”
I hated every note. I still sang of course. I was dying inside, but I sang with all my might. Maybe that’s why the glee club dissolved after its first performance.
The next day Honey apologized for embarrassing me. Then she started planning a backyard rendition of Romeo and Juliet. Guess who got to be Juliet?
I pressed my head against the upholstery and closed my eyes as Honey said, “Mother, meet Lucy McDowell and Alice Stuart.”
Then a deep, resonant voice said, “Good evening, Mrs. Simmons. I’m Jim Clarke.”
“I’m Tubby…uhm…Michael Adams.” The singer.
“Bob Barton,” said the tenor, sounding younger than the others. He spoke like he’d practiced every word in front of a mirror.
“Honey,” Mother said, “after your friends warm up, take them upstairs to their rooms—the boys in the back and the girls in your old room. You’ll be in with Julie.”
Her voice faded as she called, “We’ll have dinner in an hour.”
I chewed my lip. An hour till dinner wasn’t nearly long enough. If only I could get upstairs to my room. Too late now. Someone would surely meet me on the stairs or in the upper hall. So I held my breath, dreading the inevitable.
The farmhouse smelled rich with mingled scents of linseed oil, the giant fir tree in the parlor, wood smoke from two fireplaces, and tantalizing aromas wafting from the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, a man’s expensive cologne touched my sensitive nose. I tensed.
“Pardon me. I didn’t know anyone was here.” It was the gent with the deep voice. “Mind if I sit near the fire? This cold gets into one’s bones.”
“The blue armchair is comfortable,” I said, gulping, “and it’s near the hearth.”
Across from me, the chair made a faint scrishing sound. “I’m Jim Clarke. You must be Honey’s sister, Julie.”
I wet my lips. “Yes.”
“She told me about you. I’m glad to know you.”
I scraped together my manners and asked, “What are you studying at the university, Mr. Clarke?”
“Please call me Jim. I’m a senior at pre-law. My father wants me to join his firm. My brother Peter is a partner, and it looks like my younger brother Ron will be one, too.” His words tightened. “I’m supposed to make it a happy foursome.”
“You don’t want to?”
He chuckled. “You have your sister’s knack for cutting to the quick.”
The dinner bell tinkled, and the chair creaked. “May I escort you to dinner?”
“Why…surely. Thank you.” His warm hand gently lifted my fingers and placed them on the sleeve of his dinner jacket. It was then that I knew that he knew…that I was blind.
I knew the big farmhouse inside and out, every inch of polished walnut flooring, every piece of antique furniture, every shrub and tree in the yard. Five years ago, I was an average girl in every way. Then a skating accident left me in a coma for days. On my fifteenth birthday, I awoke to a dark world. Only the brilliance of sun on snow could turn my eternal midnight into dense gray fog.
Three years at Perkins Institute for the Blind had taught me how to cope with everything, except strangers. Strangers seemed to think my injury had also dulled my ears and my mind. Strangers my own age were the worst. Why had Honey brought so many of them home for Christmas?
I’d much rather have a house full of rollicking village children. Their spontaneous questions and loving touches warmed my heart. That’s why I taught Sunday school for grades four through six.
As Jim led me through the parlor into the dining room, his sleeve felt rough under my hand. His palm lightly covered my fingers.
I pulled in my lower lip. Had my brown curls gone wild while I hid in the chair? My hair was bobbed above my collar with clips at each temple to keep it controlled, but sometimes it felt like a lion’s mane. I was afraid to reach up and find out.
“There you are, Jim,” Honey called from behind us. “I was looking for you.”
“I found Julie in the library,” he answered easily.
“Hi, sis,” she said, giving me a short squeeze. “I’ve got tons to tell you later.”
Mother broke in with instructions. “Julie sits there next to you, Jim, with Honey on your other side.” She seated the other guests opposite us, with Mother and Dad at each end of the table.
After Dad ground out thanks for the food, Millie served my plate and cut my meat. She leaned over me from behind to whisper, “Roast beef at ten o’clock, potatoes at two, peas and carrots at five.”
Afraid of who might be watching, I lifted my fork, found a cube of meat, and jabbed it. Success.
A clink and a gasp next to me. “Oh no. It slipped out of my hand,” Jim said. “Pardon me, Mrs. Simmons. I’m clumsy tonight.”
“Esther, get a cloth,” Mother ordered calmly. “And another plate for Jim.”
He chuckled. “My beef’s swimming in grape juice. A new delicacy.”
Tubby sang, “I’m forever blowing bubbles…”
“Tubby, please!” Alice stage-whispered.
“Oops, sorry, Mrs. Simmons. I forgot myself.”
“Michael,” Mother said, a smile in her voice, “after dinner you can sing to your heart’s content…in the parlor.”
Honey added, “Julie can play the piano for you!”
My face grew warm as I reached for my glass. My fingers bumped it over. I felt Jim lurch back.
“Jim, your white shirt!” Honey cried.
Esther tsked. “And I just brought you a new plate, Mr. Jim.”
“It’s no worse than what I did,” he said.
I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my napkin on my plate. “Excuse me, please. I’m not feeling hungry.” I scraped back my chair and aimed for the kitchen door to make a quick escape.
Millie was at my heels when I reached the hall. “Julie, don’t run away. It was just a little accident.”
“Plea
se, finish your dinner, Millie. I want to be alone.”
Running my hand up the wide banister, feeling the pine garland tied there, I climbed the stairs and shut myself into my bedroom. If only I could stay here until they went away.
I sat on my bed and felt the texture of the quilt. Of all the awful things that could happen, spilling something on a guest had to top the list. My stomach clamped down until I felt sick.
A few minutes later, the door softly opened and Millie’s shoes scuffled in. “Julie? You okay?”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
She sat in the chair without saying more. She knew how I hated to be fussed over.
I thumped my pillow and pulled it into my lap. “What are they like, Millie?”
“They’re silly college kids.”
“But what do they look like?”
She moved next to me, her voice warming. “Lucy is a pudgy girl with a shingled bob that makes her look like a boy. She wears red lipstick and orange-colored rouge. She’d be cute if her mouth wasn’t always in a pout. She constantly whines at the fellows. I wonder how they put up with her.
“Alice is thin as a bean stalk with frizzy red hair and lots of freckles. Her clothes are from Vogue, her face is from Max Factor, and she talks like her head’s full of air.”
I smiled. “What about the fellows? Is Tubby as big as he sounds?”
“Bigger. He’s got a round face and teeth like a picket fence. He needs a haircut, too. The other boy reminds me of a soda jerk in Stowe. He’d steal the shirt off his ailing grandfather.”
“Millie! You don’t even know Bob.”
“He has shifty eyes, Julie. And he’s got a sort of pasted-on smile, too.”
“What about Jim Clarke?”
“Honey’s beau?” Millie’s voice became dreamy. “Six feet tall, sandy-brown hair, and eyes that look right through ya. And Honey looks at him like a cat sizing up a fat trout.”
I laughed. “Millie, you’re the limit.”
The door opened, and Honey skipped in. “We’re going to listen to the Happiness Boys on the radio and play some games. Come and join us, Julie.”
“I need to practice my offertory for Sunday.” I hugged my pillow hard. “Maybe another time.”
“Suit yourself.” She went to the dresser and sprayed L’Heure Bleue until it filled the room. “I see you met Jim. He’s a sheik. And rich as Croesus.” She laughed softly.
“Did he give you a ring?” I asked.
“Not yet. But he will soon.” Her heels tapped across the floorboards. “See you later.”
“Why do you have to practice?” Millie demanded as soon as Honey left.
“Because I don’t want to play with them.”
“I never knew you were such a spoilsport, Julie Simmons.” She stood. “I’ve got to help Esther wash up.” She banged the door behind her.
I picked up a brush and dragged it through my curls. Alice and Lucy were in their room. The connecting door was shut, but I could hear their muffled voices, their laughter.
Soon they shuffled downstairs, and the second floor felt like a tomb. Why not play mah-jongg? Dad had carved me a set so I could distinguish the pieces. I loved to play with Millie. But with strangers?
When I couldn’t bear the quiet any longer, I slipped down to the library where my baby grand sat in the corner. The smooth bench felt good. My feet automatically found the pedals. My fingers skipped across the keys, playing “The Skater’s Waltz” without conscious effort, the tune so familiar that my mind wandered to happier days full of light and laughter.
Chapter 2
Jim, would you like to play mah-jongg?” Honey asked me, leaning over my chair. Light from the parlor fire danced off her golden hair, which hung forward onto her cheeks. Her wide blue eyes looked deeply into mine. Honey had style. She was a unique person who could follow the latest fashions without the gaudy extremes of the flapper.
I was a lucky man. She could have chosen any fellow she wanted. She’d even charmed my father when I took her home for Thanksgiving. Before we left, he told me she was a perfect match for a rising young lawyer—vivacious, beautiful, and not above a daring, inviting look now and then. The better to charm stuffed shirts and politicians. He told me to give her a ring—the sooner, the better, like it or not.
I didn’t mind. She sure was beautiful.
“Mah-jongg or charades?” she asked, raising a shapely eyebrow.
“You choose,” I said. I didn’t feel like playing anything. After driving most of the afternoon, I’d much rather put my feet up and relax.
“I’m turning in,” Lucy said. “My head’s killing me.”
Tubby hooted. “It’s hurting me, too.”
She threw a small pillow at him on her way out.
On the sofa, Alice snapped her chewing gum. “Not charades. We won’t be able to hear the radio.” Her red hair billowed around a gold cord she’d tied across her forehead, its ends dangling by her left ear. Cute, if you liked the type. I didn’t.
Bob Barton pressed his ear to the radio cabinet, fiddling with knobs. Static hissed into the room as Honey moved to a corner cupboard and pulled out a flat mahogany box.
“This mah-jongg game is the only one of its kind. Dad made it.” She set the box on a long, low table in front of the sofa.
“Partners,” Tubby called, sliding closer to Alice.
“Without Lucy there are only five of us,” Honey said, kneeling on the rug to set out the tiles. “We can’t play partners.”
“I’ll sit out this time,” I said, ignoring Honey’s surprised, hurt look. “I’m tired from driving all day. I’ll catch forty winks in the library.”
The moment I crossed the hall, the fireplace lured me back to the blue armchair. I slid down until my neck rested on the back cushion. Warmth seeped into my cold joints until my eyes felt deliciously heavy.
A few minutes later, light fingers playing “The Skater’s Waltz” made me blink. I sat up and saw Julie at the piano, a soft smile on her lips. I studied her eyes, so clear and liquid brown. How could those beautiful, perfect eyes be useless?
I didn’t move. She was just as lovely as her sister, but what a contrast. Honey knew she was beautiful. Julie didn’t. Were there other differences beneath the surface? Intriguing.
At the end of the song, I couldn’t keep from clapping. She played wonderfully, effortlessly.
She froze like a frightened bunny.
“That was marvelous,” I said, trying to put her at ease. “One of my favorite pieces.”
“I—I thought everyone was in the parlor.”
I wracked my brain for an answer that would keep her from bolting. “Do you play mah-jongg?” It sounded lame even to me.
“A little.” She absently stroked the black keys.
“Why don’t we join the game? We’d make a third team.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “I’d rather not, thank you.”
“Why not? The gang is in fine fettle tonight. We’ll have a blast.” A burst of laughter came from the parlor, proving my point. I waited, fully expecting her to refuse, but she surprised me.
“Well…” She sighed, and a look—half hope, half fear—flitted across her features. “Maybe one game.”
“That’s the spirit. Let’s show ’em how it’s done.”
Chapter 3
Wake up, Julie!” Millie shook me the next morning, excitement in her words and urgency in her hands. “The kids are going skating. I’m going, too. Will you come? You had such a lovely time with them last night. Please say you’ll go.”
I pushed away her tugging fingers and sat up, rubbing hair from my face. “I can’t, Millie. Go ahead without me.”
“But why not? I’ll skate with you. It’ll be the cat’s pajamas.”
My skates were hanging in the back of the closet. Five years they’d hung there. The leather had probably cracked by now. I used to be a champion, but the accident had changed all that. Last year I’d slipped them on, but they brought up such pai
nful memories that I’d put them away.
“Ask Esther to bring me a tray, Millie. I’ll stay upstairs this morning.”
“I wish I could change your mind.”
As I slid deeper under the covers, I could hear Honey’s friends in the front hall.
Tubby sang loud and long until Lucy made him stop. His booming laugh filled the house.
“Let’s take a rope and play windmill,” Honey cried. “Millie, can you find one for us?”
“There’s one hanging by the back stoop,” she called from the top of the stairs.
I pulled the pillow over my ears to block out their voices.
Last night Jim and I had won two games. He was a sharpshooter. I smiled. I wasn’t a slouch at memory games either. We made such a good team I forgot to be shy.
A few minutes later, Esther huffed, “Here’s your breakfast, Miss Julie. You’d best come down for lunch. My poor legs can’t take those stairs twice in a day.”
With a murmur of thanks at her retreating back, I bit into a warm blueberry muffin soaked in melted butter.
I finished off the last crumb and drained my teacup. Setting the tray on the floor, I reached under the bed for a shoe box carefully tied with a red ribbon. Inside lay a stack of letters written on crackling paper. I couldn’t read them, but I still loved to hold them and smell them, remembering the boy who wrote them to me more than five years ago.
Puppy love, Father had called my feelings for Tom. I guess he’d been right. After twenty-three letters describing my charms and declaring his devotion, darling Tom visited me twice after my accident, then faded away. I never heard what happened to him. I only knew he hadn’t really cared.
In spite of that, I loved to remember that he’d found me appealing. Since my blindness, I was so clumsy. My curly hair felt like a tangle. My face seemed so stiff. What man would ever look at me twice?
I fingered the letters, remembering the look in Tom’s eyes when he told me he loved me.
The click of an opening door jerked me to reality.
“You’re not dressed yet?” Mother asked. “If you don’t want to go skating, at least you can come downstairs and help poor Esther roll out the biscuits.”
