by Sierra Rose
Silence for a long moment, during which the coffeepot burbled to remind the diners of its presence. A few moths determined to get at the lamps committed suicide by slamming their velvety bodies against the window glass, and the low-burning fire sent a sudden cascade of sparks up the chimney.
The doctor paused in his non-stop consumption of victuals to peer curiously from one Forrester to the other. Deliberately he put down his fork, cocking his head to one side like some hungry robin eyeing a worm. “Unless there’s somethin’ else.”
With a tender movement, Ben took his wife’s hand in his own to hold tightly and possessively. “Whatdya think, darlin’?”
Her face held all the luminosity of an oil painting. “I think it’s time, Ben, dear.” Her glance went around the table, touching upon each and every one of her relatives and guests. “We’re going to have a baby.”
Letting out a shriek to wake the dead, Molly almost jack-knifed out of her chair in a rush to reach her sister for an expansive hug. “Oh, Camellia, Camellia! Oh, that’s splendid news!”
For a few delightful moments all was chaotic. The sisters joined together with an excited embrace, and the men were exhorting congratulations and best wishes. There were a few tears, fluttery confusion of words with one talking over the other, and some fervent back-slapping for Ben, who appeared slightly sheepish and yet proud, at the same time.
“No wonder you looked like the cat that swallowed the canary,” grinned Paul, once things had settled a bit and everyone had resumed their seats.
“Coulda knocked me over with a feather when she first told me,” Ben said seriously. “And she insisted that the reason she’d been carpin’ at me so much was only because of the condition she’s in. And then she put all the blame on me!”
“Well, it does take two...” murmured the doctor, with a gleam in his eyes.
“But I just figured, hey, I can put up with it.” Ben, feeling generous in his teasing, slid one arm around the back of his wife’s chair. “Unless...” he paused, pursing his lips judiciously as he looked her up and down, “that’s her normal state of mind. In that case, I may have some problems.”
Laughter followed, interrupted by a flood of exuberant questions from the girls. When was she due? April. “The nicest month of the year for a baby!” trilled Molly, who hoped to be in a similar condition herself at some point. Any names chosen? Not yet, although the couple had talked about a few. How had Camellia been feeling, with all these changes going on? Peckish. Rather like a seasick voyager, in between landings. Not terribly pleasant, it was true, but bearable.
And Gabriel would be attending her confinement?
“I would be honored to do so,” said Gabriel gravely, but with a smile. “This man here has been my good friend for more’n five years. There ain’t nothin’ I’d like better than to bring his child into the world. And yours, too, Camellia, my dear.”
“We’ll be aunts!” Hannah suddenly realized, in hushed tones, connecting with the other two prospective aunts in wide-eyed delight.
When the group had finally exhausted the happy subject of what spring would usher in to the Forrester household, Camellia asked whether Paul and Molly had finally set themselves a wedding date, so the family could make their plans.
“Absolutely.” To give a full answer, it was apparently necessary that Molly once again leave her seat to clamber onto the ready lap of her betrothed, to entwine herself around his neck for even more closeness. “The first Saturday in November. The fifth. That should give all of us plenty of time for every sort of arrangement. And for my gown to be finished.”
“November fifth,” Camellia repeated, pleased. “Well. I think that will require a few meetings for just us sisters—no males allowed—to talk about all the details.”
Giggling, Molly touched the tip of her finger to the tip of his nose. “And plenty of those. We must certainly work on the inside of Paul’s house, for one thing.”
“What’s wrong with the inside of my house?”
“Paul Winslow, please.” Molly sounded like an impatient mother chiding her child for some mischief. “Do you even live in that place? Do you spend any time there?”
“Not much,” he admitted cheerfully. “Mostly I’m at the jail. Or, lately, with you.”
“Oh, my goodness, then where shall I start with what needs to be done? Have the walls ever been painted? Have curtains ever been hung? Have you ever once thought to add all the little feminine pieces so dear to a woman’s heart?”
“Frou-frou stuff,” said Paul, with a hint of scorn.
“My dearest darling, I don’t call decent seating frou-frou. Or carpet for the floors. Or plenty of lamps to see what we’re doing.”
“Now, wait just a minute, Molly. You know I can’t afford—”
“Oh, Paul, silly man.” With another giggle, she slowly traced the lobe of his ear until he was beginning to squirm beneath her with self-consciousness—and possibly something else. “Of course you can afford it. We’ll get so many of those things at a discount from Ben’s store, won’t we, Ben?” She turned an enraptured face toward her favorite brother-in-law.
Ben ignored the connection to clear his throat meaningfully. “More to the point, just when did you see the inside of Paul’s house?”
Molly had been so bubbling over with happiness since she and Paul had become a couple that it would be difficult for anyone to scold her, especially someone taking on the paternal role of heavy-handed father. Ben was doing his best. Molly simply sidestepped any criticism.
“Oh, he took me there a few weeks ago, didn’t you, sweetheart?” she said airily. “He wanted me to make a list of everything we’d like to have done to the place.”
“Chowderhead,” muttered Gabriel, reaching for the muffin plate. “Big mistake, my friend.”
“Well, I don’t know that it’s fitten for you to be visitin’ a single man’s domicile, plighted or not,” Ben kept on doggedly. “There’s still the neighbors to consider. And somea them waggin’ tongues—”
“—can be vicious,” Hannah finished for him. “Just for once, Molly, be a little circumspect.”
“Of course I shall, all you nervous Nellies,” the girl pouted and flashed Paul a piquant glance. “But I did need to measure spaces. We simply must have room for my piano, you know.”
Paul groaned. “Her dadblamed monster piano. That thing will be the death of me.”
Complacent, yet sympathetic, Ben nodded. “You better get used to it, son. Every last onea these Burton ladies will lead all of us sorry males a merry dance b’fore they’re through.”
The main meal was finally finished, although Gabriel was still picking for pieces here and there, like some vulture at a carcass. Hannah and Molly helped clear away the worst of the debris while Camellia brought out the chocolate cake and began slicing to be served.
Settled again, with murmurs of appreciation from her guests at each forkful, Camellia asked about Letitia, who had sat remarkably quiet throughout the festivities. “And what is happening with you and your suitor, dear? Are you getting along well?”
The question, and the concern behind it, caught Letty unaware. The sip of coffee she’d been in the process of swallowing went down the wrong way, and she engaged in a healthy spate of coughing before, red-faced, she could answer.
“The relationship,” came the reply, at last, “is on hiatus.”
Camellia exchanged a surprised glance with Hannah. “Hiatus? Dare I ask why, Letty?”
“You may ask. I prefer not to discuss it right now.”
“Oh,” said Camellia, baffled and a little hurt by what seemed a rebuff. “Well, of course. Whenever you’re ready. Um. More cake, anyone?”
Within the next hour, the women had cleared the table and were washing, drying, and putting away all the hot, clean dishes. The kitchen was restored to its usual orderly state: towels rinsed and hung out to dry; cloth brushed free of crumbs, floor swept, everything returned to where it should be.
While the
work was going on, the males had settled like a herd of overstuffed water buffalo onto the parlor chairs and divan, much more comfortable than those formerly occupied around the table. The ladies, chores finished to their satisfaction, joined the group for small talk, specks and spots offered sleepily, in between an occasional yawn.
“We need a nightcap,” Ben decided, rising. “Who’s for a small snort of whiskey?”
Molly, already ensconced on a padded footstool at her beloved’s knee, looked up with her trademark dimpled grin. “None for me, thanks. That lovely fruit wine is about all that I can manage. Just where did you procure that, Letty?”
“At Ben’s mercantile,” she responded simply, as if it were to be expected. “He’s actually stocked a goodly supply of wine. And I was just in the mood for it.”
“Huh. I noticed you were lickin’ your chops after every glassful.” The doctor just had to get in his own opinion. “Does that mean you plan on gettin’ so sloshed that somebody’ll have to pour you into your bed tonight?”
“Now, Gabe.” Across the short intervening distance she slanted him an inscrutable look. “I wouldn’t be of much use to you tomorrow, were I to be fighting the plague of a hangover, would I?”
“Bless my buttons, no. But I reckon everyone is entitled to fall off their pedestal now and then.”
“More’n you realize,” muttered Paul.
Clearly, due to an absence of perfect timing, only he and Molly were privy to information about the dustup that had occurred between this newest courting couple. He wasn’t about to spill the beans, not until Letty herself was ready to confide in the others. This tentative separation was her news, after all; he had no business sharing it.
Ben, waiting patiently for the thread of discussion to end, shifted from one foot to the other. “Ahuh. Do I hear anybody acceptin’?”
Two, from both the doctor and the sheriff; the ladies, some still sipping the wine, others well past, declined. Camellia shifted uneasily in her chair. “Ben, dear, didn’t you and the boys consume quite a lot of strong drink before supper?”
“Aw, shucks, honey. One drink each, that’s all. The bottle was almost an old soldier, anyway. Gotta go uncork a fresh ’un.”
Ben had just disappeared into his library when a knock came at the front door.
What now, when the family party was soon to be breaking break up? Letty, seated nearest, sighed and decided to perform the familiar task. Entranceway open, she squinted into the dimness.
“Oh!”
“Letitia,” acknowledged Reese Barclay in a stiff, formal tone.
“What are you—I mean...Why are you—”
He was standing hipshot at the threshold, Stetson in hand, brows quirked. “I heard your relatives had gotten back from their trip,” he said quietly. “I stopped over, hopin’ I might come in.”
“Who is it, Letty?” Camellia, surprised by the lengthy pause, called out.
Taking up her skirts, she stepped aside and bid him enter.
“Why, it’s her young man,” Gabe realized. “H’lo, there, Reese.”
His greeting sounded much friendlier than Paul’s, which was cool, and Molly’s, which was decidedly hostile. In fact, Paul was already on his feet and moving to Letitia’s side, as if to guard against any untoward antagonism from the unexpected visitor. Hannah, who was as ignorant as Camellia about what had transpired during the last several days, could only glance from one to the other with curiosity and a sense of odd, rising tension.
Camellia’s delighted, “Good evening, Mr. Barclay, and welcome,” did little to ease what seemed to be waves of ill will emanating from several of those present. Like clouds of black ink, only these invisible, thrown off by octopi. “I’m Camellia Forrester, Letty’s oldest sister. I’m very pleased to meet you at last. Won’t you have some coffee with us? And there might be some cake left, if Gabe hasn’t eaten it down to the crumbs.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
Despite the fact that his air of chilled aloofness was perplexing, she gave hospitality a game try, anyway. “Then, please do sit down and join us. We’ve only begun—”
“Thank you, ma’am, but not right now. Is your husband around?”
“Why, yes, he’s gone to—”
“We got fresh company, Cam?” Ben, all unsuspecting of the edgy atmosphere that had taken hold of the parlor just within the last minute or so, emerged from his library with whiskey bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.
The softened light, at this time of the evening, was dependent upon hearth fire, kerosene lamps, and flickering candle flame. Not the brightest of illumination, to be sure. But enough for all those in the room to see Ben’s rugged face drain of blood and go white under its tan.
“Company, indeed. This is Letty’s young man, Ben. This is—”
“Cole,” said Ben. And the bottle slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and fell to the floor with a crash.
There might have been no others about, scattered here and there, but these two men and whatever shared history lay between them.
“Cole?” Camellia turned to stare. “No, Ben, darling, you have it wrong. This is Reese Barclay.”
“His name is Cole Reese Forrester,” said Ben in a harsh, clotted voice. “And he’s my brother.”
Chapter Twelve
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN eight o’clock of a crisp October evening; it might have midnight of the same day. Sisters, friends, in-laws and future in-laws: not one person was stirring from his or her seat after the shock of that revelation.
Even Camellia, she of the welcoming warm heart when it came to guests in her home, could not get her throat to open for speech as to whether everyone was comfortable—clearly, no one was; whether anyone wanted more coffee—clearly, no one did. It was more likely that the entire household would soon be taking their turn at that bottle Ben had dropped.
At the moment, only Letitia managed a word. A squeak, actually. “Brother?”
Time stopped, out of mind. This pause, this interlude, where all movement was stilled and all sound was silenced, might have been inserted whole and entire into a bell jar, crystal clear but frozen.
Ben, his voice no longer harsh but husky, had repeated the name: “Cole.”
Those watching were astonished to see the tears in his eyes.
“Cole,” he said again. “And I had thought never to see him again in this lifetime.” And lumbered forward with arms outstretched, to wrap the newcomer in a breath-clenching, lung-crushing bear hug.
At least three of the ladies were weeping quietly but ashamedly into their handkerchiefs. Letitia
alone was too stunned to feel, even to react, as her brain cells attempted to process what had just taken place, and what this astonishing disclosure might mean.
Somewhere, in the depths of her confoundment, came the flash of a mental question. Was this the barrier that had kept—was keeping—the two of them apart? If a confrontation between the brothers were the only obstruction preventing marriage, then hadn’t that problem just been resolved? Why wasn’t Reese sitting here beside her right now, apologizing, explaining, supporting?
Once some of the hullabaloo had died away, and Ben had pulled the younger man down onto a chair for a confab about what he’d been up to, Reese did finally glance her way. It was, oddly enough, a sorrowful, poignant glance whose significance was lost upon her. He had come a long way; he had a long way still to go. And they two, seated barely ten feet apart, might have been separated by the steppes of Siberia in distance and chill.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Camellia could no longer sit quietly and decorously in one area. She rose with alacrity to demand, “Where on earth are my manners?”
“What is it, Cam?” Molly and Hannah asked almost in unison.
“Well, for one thing, any sort of sustenance makes talk easier. And, for another, I do declare, my nerves are just jumping all over the place. I feel like a bug on a hot rock, and I have to move or get swallowed up by some big ole fr
og. This is a night for news!”
“A real celebration,” said an astounded Gabe, who seemed to be barely recovered from the latest volley.
“Come on, girls, let’s get some coffee going. Or tea. Or more of that wine, if we have any left. Reese, you—oh, my word, Ben, I simply can’t imagine where to start. Don’t you say a word until we have some refreshments put out, y’ hear? I want to listen to every detail.”
Bubbling over in a way the staid, practical matriarch of the Burtons never had—the excitement of all these wonderful announcements, her newly disclosed pregnancy, or a combination thereof?—she bustled toward her workplace, with her nonplussed sisters trailing after.
The four men, ordered to sit around like statues, obeyed. But all with smiles or broad grins or expressions of wonderment that, in this whole world, such a coincidence could happen. From the kitchen came fluttery murmurings of, “I just can’t believe it!” and “Who would ever think—?” and “Truth is stranger than fiction!” (although it was never quite clear just where that last comment might fit in.)
At one point, in the wait for servings of whatever to be brought in, Ben reached out, clasped his brother’s hand, and shook hard. Then emotion got the better of him. Swiping a sleeve across his eyes, he shambled over to stir the fire into greater flame and turn up the wick on several lamps for more illumination.
At last, a tray with hot tea, cups, and all the trimmings was brought in, and Camellia, spreading her green-sprigged skirts, settled in beside her husband like a little broody hen. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “The best we could do on short notice. Letty, dear, would you pour?”
Ben took in the elaborate preparations of silver and china, and his heart almost melted into mush. “Cam, darlin’, we don’t really need to—”
“We do, indeed. With everything that has happened here tonight, all the incredibly good things coming to this family of ours, it is a cause for celebration. Now. Letty. Pour.”
No one dared disobey a request (command?) made by Camellia in that tone of voice. She would certainly prove to be a strong, disciplined mother to her child, thought Letitia somewhat disconcertedly, as she came forward to comply.
