With every passing year, it seemed Charlotte’s expression became more dour, her attitude more bitter. Long ago, when the letters from her father still trickled in on rare occasion, Alaina learned not to ask questions of his whereabouts. And Charlotte had never made it a habit to mention him, her opinion boldly stated when she tossed the unread letter into the cookstove. But despite the veil of uncaring her mother hid behind, the letter stating her father had died had shattered something deep inside Charlotte.
Lord, what can I do? She heaved a sigh. It seemed the prayer had become a litany of late.
Alaina stopped at the open window and rested her hands on top of the broomstick. She rested her chin and closed her eyes. Why am I so confused one moment and so sure of myself every time I look at Jack’s smile or hear his laughter? She pondered the half prayer and stilled herself to hear God’s response.
The jangle of a harness outside the window snapped her to attention. Within seconds, the first drops of rain plinked against the window. Alaina slid the window shut, breathed on the glass, and wrote, I love you, Jack.
He had promised to come by after work so they could announce their engagement to her mother together, but the glow of the surprise was dimmed by Mary’s tongue souring the secret and by Charlotte’s staunch rejection of Jack. For whatever foolish reason, Alaina had thought maybe her mother’s opinion of Jack would soften if the engagement became a reality.
Alaina lifted her mother’s spare dress from a peg and folded it over her arm. She would try and talk to Charlotte one more time, during supper, before Jack arrived.
❧
Her mother got home later than usual. Splotches of rain dampened her hair and dotted her apron, but Alaina didn’t miss her brief look of relief when she smelled supper cooking.
“Supper will be ready soon,” Alaina offered unnecessarily.
Charlotte removed her apron and sagged into a kitchen chair. She flexed her fingers back and forth. “Rain always makes them worse.”
“Maybe you should soak them tonight. I could run downstairs and buy some salts—”
“No need. I’ll live.”
And with that comment, Alaina knew her mother’s petulance over their morning conversation had been remembered. She busied herself spooning up the beans and biscuits, wishing she had taken the extra time to purchase a chicken for frying. She set the plate in front of her mother and took her seat opposite.
Her mother picked up her fork, stopped, met her gaze, and nodded. “Go ahead.”
Alaina said a brief blessing that she suspected her mother forgot altogether when alone. She lifted her fork and tried to drum up a way to approach the subject of Jack without a wall going up between them. That was the trick. But Alaina could see no way to make that happen.
Best to be direct. It was easier. “I wondered if we could talk about Jack.” Before her mother could finish chewing and give a caustic remark, she hurried on. “He’s coming over tonight to ask permission to marry me, and I’d like for you to grant it.” She bit the inside of her lip when she could think of nothing else to say.
Her mother set her fork down and stared at her. Alaina held her breath, waiting for the storm of her mother’s emotions to break in with an angry flow of words. Instead, her mother blinked and averted her face. Charlotte’s shoulders stooped, and her hands covered her face. Not until Alaina saw her shoulders heave and heard the first faint sniff did she realize what was happening.
Anger she could handle. Her mother’s outbursts had become commonplace, but never before had she witnessed her mother’s tears. She rounded the table and knelt beside Charlotte’s chair. Glints of silver in her mother’s hair reminded Alaina that she was the age her mother had been when she’d given birth to her. If only her father hadn’t left them.
Her mother jerked to her feet. “I don’t wish to be disturbed this evening. Jack Kelly is no longer welcome in this home, Alaina. Not tonight or ever again.”
Alaina rocked back on her heels as her mother swept past, and the sound of the bedroom door lock clicking into place echoed deep in her spirit.
❧
Jack braced his feet apart and tilted his head way back to mark his target. His fingers jingled the pebbles in his trouser pocket. Alaina’s window above the general store proved a challenge. He contemplated the nearby tree, but the lower branch he used to swing up had broken. He would have to think of something else.
He plucked a single pebble from his pocket and held it up between his thumb and forefinger to draw a bead on the window. A flick of his wrist and the pebble sailed through the air and tapped against the wood planks. Jack mentally adjusted his arc and launched another stone that hit the window with a gentle tap. Another followed. Then another. He waited in silence for any sign Alaina might have heard.
As he surrendered to the notion he would have to send a few more through the air, a dim light flickered and then flared to life. The window slid open, and Alaina gazed up at the sky, into the tree, then down at the ground. She gasped at the sight of him. “Jack!” She clamped a hand over her mouth, and her face disappeared from the window.
Jack grinned. He had surprised her.
She reappeared.
“Come down,” he said in a loud whisper. The sight of her stole his breath. Her long hair tousled around her head. He could almost smell the warm scent of her skin.
Alaina didn’t reply but again disappeared. The window whispered shut.
He waited at the base of the large maple, its branches studded with sprigs of small, spring leaves. He slicked a hand over his hair, still damp from his bath, and pursed his lips to whistle a tune before realizing the danger. Midnight was not the time to sing a cheery tune in the middle of the street. He satisfied himself with pacing in front of Heiser’s store.
“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?” Alaina’s whisper cut across his thoughts, and he turned. She seemed to float toward him in the moonlight. Tendrils of hair brushed her cheeks and neck, a dark contrast against her creamy skin.
He took a step closer. Words stuck in his throat at the weight of her beauty. He caught her hands and lifted them to his chest. “I knew you would think I’d forgotten, so I wanted to surprise you.”
“I knew you must be working on your plans again.”
“It came to me tonight at the end of shift. I had to get it down on paper before I forgot. I think this time it’s really going to work. You understand, don’t you?”
Alaina blinked and stared at the ground.
Her hesitation made him nervous. “Mr. Fulton also asked me to look at the South Fork Dam. He’s afraid it’ll collapse under all this rain.”
She tilted her head back, the slender column of her neck exposed in the pale moonlight. “More rain on the way, I’m afraid.” Her voice sounded tremulous.
He grasped her hand and kissed the palm. “I wanted to be here to tell your mother the news, but Mr. Fulton gave me three days to report so I’ll need to go tomorrow after shift. I’ll come tomorrow evening as soon as I can and we’ll tell her then.”
Her expression went solemn, and when she opened her mouth to speak, he pressed a finger across her lips. “Wait, I have a surprise.” Jack released her hand and plucked something from the ground at the base of the maple.
“A rose,” she breathed.
“Mrs. Sanford’s first. She’ll skin me for cutting it, but I’ll tell her it was for you and she’ll get that dreamy look and I’ll be off the hook.”
In awe, he watched her bury her nose into the rose’s blush petals. As she breathed in the sweet fragrance, an incredible vulnerability swept over him as he was reminded of his commitment to care for this woman. Slowly, he raised his hand to spiral a tendril of her hair around his finger. He released the coil. It stroked her cheek, and he mirrored the touch with his hand. Dark and luminous, her eyes caught at his heart.
He took a step closer and satisfied himself with brushing his lips against the cool skin of her brow. “When will you marry me?�
� His voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat.
Her gaze seemed fastened on his shirt. In the length of time it took her to answer, his mind tripped over what her hesitation might mean.
He drew away and held her by the shoulders. “Alaina?” Her head sunk lower. He felt the first indication of the depth of her distress in the vibration under his hands. The soft love in his heart bled away under the heat of his rising terror. “Lainie?”
“My mother knows we’re engaged. She made a terrible scene this morning and then hardly talked to me after supper. She said—”
Her words choked off, and Jack’s heart froze. He gave her a soft shake. “I’m here, Alaina. Tell me.”
She raised her face, and he saw the despair in her expression. “She said you were no longer welcome in our home.”
He pressed her close and willed himself to breathe as the next logical question begged to be asked. “How?”
Her shoulders quaked. “Mary. It’s my fault, Jack.”
His anger flared hot but cooled quickly. He couldn’t expect Alaina not to share with her friend. She had to talk to someone, and Mary was the logical choice. He just wished the meddling girl would learn to keep a secret.
Alaina became silent in his arms. Her hair was silk under his stroking hand. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want her to think I’m being obstinate. If I don’t do as she asks, she’ll accuse me of being an ungrateful daughter.”
“You aren’t. You know that, don’t you?”
She nodded against his chest.
Recalling Big Frank’s admonition, some great truth swelled in his heart. “Your mother is just hurt over your father leaving all those years ago. You can’t blame her for that.” He pulled back from her and tilted her chin upward. “You can’t blame her for being afraid for you.”
“She thinks you’re like my father. Every time I told her you had forgotten a date. . .well, I finally stopped telling her because she would always say you were just like him.”
“Meaning your daddy.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I wish I remembered him.”
Jack pulled her close and buried his face in her hair. And I wish I could forget mine.
Seven
May 17, 1889
Jack’s report on the South Fork Dam took longer than he thought. The crinkled, yellow edges of the Tribune, dated 1881, reported that two of Johnstown’s own men had inspected the dam and felt it stable enough to withstand the pressure of extra water. Those with doubts felt that even if it broke, the water had plenty of room to spread out before it hit Johnstown.
He laid the paper down on the rough tabletop in his small room and steepled his fingers under his chin. Exhaustion filtered through every muscle in his back.
The short, steep train ride up to South Fork after his long shift had given him time to study the terrain in detail and expanded on his own personal worry. The valley from Johnstown to South Fork was narrow, meaning the water would be like a huge, tall wall, barreling down the fourteen-foot drop to Johnstown like water in a sluice. Johnstown would be the dumping ground for every drop that came down the mountain. He ran the scenario of such a wall of water over in his mind, and every time he came up with the same answer—it would be devastating.
Jack rubbed at a spot above his eye where a dull throb had begun. He pulled over a stack of letters Fulton had given to him to examine. Correspondence between Morrell and B. F. Ruff, president of the club, read like the chronicles of two men used to having their own way, Morrell at least possessing the kinder tone of the two. Jack made a mental note of Morrell’s suggestion that Ruff put in a drainage pipe and his offer to help finance the reconstruction of the dam. He searched through the stack for Ruff’s response and didn’t find one.
Another newspaper article in the stack reported on Daniel Morrell’s acceptance into the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. An interesting fact that caused Jack to wonder if the membership had been a bribe on the part of the club. On the other hand, Daniel Morrell might have wanted to get an inside view of the club’s doings. Could be that he was fully satisfied the club was doing all within its power to insure the safety of the dam and he simply wanted to be a part of such an organization. They would never know for sure, due to Morrell’s death almost four years earlier.
Jack turned over his own ideas of the dam’s issues and wrote his concerns on paper. To his eye, the dam buckled in the middle, the very place it needed to be strongest and highest. The drainage pipe was still a concern, and now with the heavy spring rains, if that earthen mound became soaked through. . .Jack wrote on paper his gut instinct—the dam remained unsafe.
He stretched, blew out the lantern, and uncurled from his chair. The dull throb in his head had become a steady ache. As he stripped off his clothes and lay his head down, his thoughts turned to Alaina. Longing swelled his heart. Her tears tore at him, and her mother’s constant disapproval of him chipped away at his patience.
He flipped onto his back and lay with his arm across his eyes. Charlotte Morrison had no way of understanding Jack’s drive. He sometimes wondered if Alaina understood or just endured. Sleep didn’t fold him into its velvety arms as he’d hoped. Drafts floated in from the cracks in the walls and made him shiver. He pulled the blanket tighter around his chin and opened his eyes to the dark, hollow ping of rain against the roof.
With a grunt, he swept back the covers, crossed to the old kitchen cabinet hung on one wall, and retrieved a tin can. Even in the dark, he could see the water stain on the wood floor. His toes curled at the cold wood as he set the can beneath the spot where the leak always occurred. He squinted up to where the dull whitewashed ceiling sported a ragged gold ring. The first drop of water hit him on the forehead. Jack moved aside and tugged the can closer to the spot where he had been standing.
He stretched and scratched his chest. The clouds let loose with a tirade, and he waited for the inevitable. A sloppy ping let him know the can still lay out of line with the leak. He groaned and gave in, lit the lantern, and brought it back to the dark splotch of water, centering the can directly over the spot.
His landlady, Widow Sanford, had just had a bathroom installed in her home, along with a phone and steam heat, but the small shack Jack rented remained without those amenities. His relief at being left out of the so-called improvements was great. The last thing he needed was a rent hike.
He eyed the report on the table and allowed himself to dream about the benefits getting the promotion would give him. He had allowed Alaina to see the outside of his place only once and vowed then and there that he would not marry her unless he could provide better than the one-room shack.
The rhythmic ping of the water stripped him of his exhaustion. He went down on his knees beside his narrow cot and pulled out a box. Its top, carved with flowers and hearts, sketched in his mind a vision of his mother’s long fingers tracing the same design, a sad smile on her face. He removed the lid and plunged his hand into the box to lift out the Bible. Her Bible, now his.
At the table he pulled the lantern close and opened the fine-tooled leather cover. Little notes in the margins, as familiar to him as the scar on the back of his hand, made him feel closer to his mother and, in turn, he felt closer to God. He turned to his favorite verse and read it, his mind automatically taking on his mother’s voice as he repeated the words to himself.
“Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fulness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.”
Psalm 16:11. How many times had he heard his mother quote the scripture to him in his years growing up, even in those gray days after his father’s death?
He squeezed his eyes shut, hands clenched tight. He saw Alaina’s longing eyes as she expressed her desire to remember her father. Heard the flat sound of his mother’s voice after that terrible night when she sat him on her knee and told him the news. Only later did he understand the shame that she had endured when the truth was made
known.
Jack swallowed hard. He shut the Bible and noticed an edge of paper sticking out. Thinking to uncrease a bent corner, he traced the place with his finger and discovered a folded paper behind a loose cover flap. Jack tugged at the corner. It caught where the glued edge of the cover flap held it in place. With his finger, he pulled the flap away and tugged out the folded pages. He recognized the handwriting immediately as that of his father. He scanned the contents, realizing his mother must have kept the letter for a very good reason.
Dear Olivia,
You don’t deserve this. Maybe your mother was right all along, you should have married Frederick Thomas. I don’t know. I do know that you will be better off without me, as will Jack. I haven’t touched a drop in over a month, just as I promised you, but another type of failure greeted me this afternoon while you were out—our bank failed. We’ve lost everything. It’s too much for me. You’re strong, Livey, much stronger than I. You’ll survive and make a better home for Jack alone than you ever would with me in the picture.
I do love you. Please believe me, and when the time is right, tell Jack I love him, too.
Yours,
Don
Jack let the letter flutter from his hands to the floor. He leaned forward as if punched in the gut and pressed his thumbs against his eyes. Flashes from the past sliced through him, the last one from the day he watched his mother lowered into the ground. If not for his remembrance of her favorite verse, he might have been overwhelmed by his grief. Jack sucked in a deep breath and held it.
God, give me strength to forget. To forgive.
He released his breath and felt the tendrils of exhaustion weaving through his body.
Eight
May 18, 1889
Promise of Tomorrow Page 4
