Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  “Tip your head a little,” he suggested.

  She lowered her chin a bit. In a quick examination of her hat, he found a lot of ribbons, feathers, and pieces of green stuff. A gleaming gold-filigree knob caught his eye.

  “This fancy gold thing your hat pin, Miss Marshall?” She started to nod, but he stopped her by cupping her cheek with his left hand. “Don’t move your head.”

  “Yes . . . that’s my hat pin,” she whispered in a voice that broke. He noticed she kept her eyes downcast so he couldn’t see their color. But he remembered they were brown. She sure had soft skin; she felt like velvet beneath his palm. And Pap was wrong, she did have freckles. Three. On the bridge of her nose.

  “What are you waiting for?” Mrs. Dodge inquired.

  Pap piped in, too. “Yeah, Frank. Just yank it out.”

  “I will.” Frank grasped the pin and eased the eight-inch length of wire from her hat. As soon as he had it in his hand, Amelia skirted out from under his touch. Her eyelashes flew up, and she stared at him as if he were on fire. He lifted his gaze to her uncovered hair. He liked the color brown. Not too plain and with threads of gold woven throughout.

  “Thank you,” she supplied, keeping that peculiar look on her face as he handed her the pin.

  The duck-wing hat dangled from the end of Pap’s hook, and he had to dump the sack of bottles and cans in order to grab hold of the brim to assess the damage. “Never caught me a mallard before. I’ll unsnarl it for you, Miss Marshall.” He wiggled the hook out without any regard for the delicacy of the hat’s ornaments.

  Narcissa Dodge laid a hand on Amelia’s shoulder and spoke in a quiet tone. “I’m not feeling well, Amelia. I think it’s the heat. I want to go inside and lie down before we start the chicken.”

  “Of course. I’ll go with you.” She took her hat from Pap, who offered no apologies. Then, shifting her head at a slight angle, she returned, “It’s been a . . . an experience, Mr. O’Cleary.”

  “That it has, Miss Marshall. I’m anxious to see you at the saloon for your first lesson.” He picked up the gunnysack. “When do you think that will be?”

  “This week I’m sure.”

  “Hey! Tomorrow’s the start of this week. So I’ll see you soon, Miss Marshall.”

  “I . . . yes, I suppose you will.” Amelia turned, put her arm around Mrs. Dodge, and the pair walked toward the house.

  Pap smiled after them, and Frank bent down to retrieve his bat and pole.

  “What do you think, Frank?” Pap asked with moon eyes. “Did I make a good first impression?”

  “Well, Pap, if you’re asking my opinion, I don’t think you ought to aim for a summer wedding.”

  Chapter

  5

  The sun mercilessly beat down on Amelia’s hat as she struggled to push her Acme lawn mower across the carpet of lush grass in her rear yard. She shouldn’t have let seven days lapse between the cuttings, but the mix-up with the piano had thrown her off schedule. And now the lawn had grown too tall, and she had to use every muscle in her body to maneuver the unwieldy machine.

  She would have adjusted the cutter bar, only she wasn’t sure how to or if she had the right tool in her household set. Most likely, Coney Island Applegate would know. He was the towheaded nine-year-old boy who used to mow her lawn for a nickel. That was before a nickel was a nickel saved.

  As the four blades sliced the grass, Amelia let her mind wander to Narcissa. She was worried about her. Lately, Narcissa’s health had been failing. At first, she had only complained of dizzy spells; but now, it seemed as if she didn’t have any energy left, and her appetite had dwindled to almost nothing.

  Last night after Sunday supper, when she and Narcissa were in the kitchen washing dishes, Amelia made Narcissa promise she would visit Dr. White for a check-up. Narcissa had sadly waved off Amelia’s concern, stating she was nearly twice Amelia’s age and her body was slowing down. The disclosure had hurt her friend, for Amelia knew how much Narcissa wanted a child; but she and Cincinatus had never been able to conceive one.

  Amelia didn’t want to believe Narcissa. Even the change in a woman’s life didn’t make her deteriorate in just a few months. No, something was wrong; and as Amelia huffed to turn the roller and wheels around the trunk base of her silver linden tree, she began to fear the worst for Narcissa.

  The branches provided a canopy of welcome relief, and Amelia paused to revel in the linden’s offered shade. Its creamy white flowers scented the air, and the peaceful drone of bees flitting about provided Amelia with music. She leaned her back against the smooth bark and wished she was finished with the sizable lawn so she could sit on the veranda and sip a glass of lemonade as cool and refreshing as the one Mr. Brody had made her.

  Thinking of the quenching drink, Amelia slid her backside down the trunk and sat on the cushion of her two petticoats. She placed her feet apart, then hiked her pale blue percale skirt above her knees in an unladylike manner. The air felt good on her legs. She counted herself lucky she’d worn her short muslin drawers, only thigh high, and lightweight cotton hose.

  She closed her eyes and promised herself she’d get up in just a minute. She hadn’t slept soundly last night, her slumber distracted with thoughts of Frank Brody. She kept on reliving that fleeting moment on Narcissa’s walkway when he’d removed her hat. She’d been thrown willy-nilly into a whirlpool of feelings outrageously different from the ones she’d felt for Jonas Pray. Her every nerve ending had focused on the way Frank had held her cheek in his strong hand; the way he’d taken charge. Thinking about the familiarity of his conduct brought tingles across her skin. What had possessed her to stand idle while he plucked the pin from her hat?

  She knew better than to get caught up in a man’s presence. She had prior experience with the spell of attraction. Her world had gone up in a poof the last time she went under. She had to be strong and resilient, just as Mother and Aunt Clara would have been and would have expected from her. No more backbone of jelly. From now on she would be firm and impenetrable because people tended to make the same mistakes over and over if they didn’t nip them in the bud.

  That decided, Amelia vowed to attack the lawn without bending to the power of the tangled green turf. She would cut the whole of it in no time flat. All she needed was another minute to gather her strength. She was feeling rather drowsy and enjoying the shade too much to leave it just yet. She would . . . soon. When her feet didn’t hurt anymore. . . .

  * * *

  Sometime later, Amelia felt a tickle on her leg or, actually, her skin where her stocking ended in a roll and her embroidery-hemmed drawers began. Too sleepy to move, she dozed off again and hoped whatever it was would stop. It didn’t. She lifted her hand to swat at that spot; then in the recesses of her mind, she came awake with the thought of insects. Perhaps ants, or worse yet, a big hairy spider.

  Her eyes flew open and she bit back a scream when she gazed at her leg only to find nothing there. But someone was next to her, and from the pristine white of the trousers, she knew exactly who before raising her chin to see her guest.

  “Frank . . .” His name left her lips in a rather sleep-scratchy voice, and too late, she realized she’d been dreaming about him and inappropriately called him by his first name. When he said nothing in return, she followed the line of his intense gaze.

  He stared at her exposed legs . . . her drawers and her hose. In a scant second, she grabbed hold of her skirt and sailed the fabric across her limbs in a flurry of starched white and blue. Thoroughly embarrassed, she scrambled to her feet—or at least tried. She became entangled in the volume of material and stumbled. She felt a supportive grip on her upper arm, but slapped at Frank’s hand.

  “You needn’t concern yourself, Mr. Brody. I’m capable of standing on my own.”

  He merely laughed and let her go, only so she could sway toward the tree and push off from it with disgust at her sudden clumsiness.

  “You caught me unaware,” she snapped, feeling undressed. H
er resolve to be firm and direct seemed to be melting under the hot sun. Bringing her trembling hands upward, she adjusted the cockeyed tilt of her gardening hat. What must he think of her? Napping outside with her limbs exposed. Surely her face outshone the red cherries in Beamguard’s Mercantile. “I thought there was a spider on me.”

  “There was,” he stated in a rich voice, “but I flicked it off with my finger.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she suspected the story he gave her was far from the truth. “Humph. I was mistaken. There was a big spider on me. The kind with,” she paused and looked into his smiling gaze, “blue eyes and black hair. I believe Beadle’s Gardening Handbook calls them wolf spiders.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right.” She took hold of the handle on her lawn mower. “One thing about these Acme mowers—they’re big enough to run over either a wolf or a spider.”

  He laughed deeply, then stepped aside.

  She swept her gaze over him, once again reminded of his good looks. But she wouldn’t waste thoughts on such silliness, so she checked the time from the chatelaine watch pinned to her bodice. “It isn’t noon yet. You should be sleeping.”

  “I don’t sleep in on Sundays and Mondays. I’m closed for business.”

  “Oh.” She lifted her brows but refused to be taken in by the easy smile on his nice lips. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Brody?”

  “Not really,” he admitted. “But from the crooked rows in your lawn, it looks like you need me to do something for you.” He lounged next to her linden tree with his arms crossed over his chest. “Did you do the front yard by yourself?”

  “I did,” she challenged. She’d thought she’d done a darn good job of the lawn, this being her first time behind the Acme. So she’d run over the flower head of her cobalt hydrangea, fleeced the tops of her forget-me-nots, and nicked the thick base of her pecan tree. And maybe the perimeter of the yard still had green fringe six inches tall in a two-inch width where the right wheel of the mower prevented her from cutting a clean edge. She’d clip the rest with her grass shears when she got a chance.

  “You should have one of the boys in town do this for you.”

  “I did. Titus and Altana’s son was cutting it for me, but—” She stopped herself short. She couldn’t tell Frank Brody she’d run out of money. Neither could she think of a good excuse why she’d let the boy go. “But . . . never mind, is all. The reasons are my own reasons.”

  “Their boy’s the one named after that amusement park in New York?”

  “Yes, he is. Coney Island.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Coney Island. He owns Hamlet.”

  “Unfortunately,” she countered, thinking of the black Hampshire boar with a white belt, who periodically came through her fence and rooted up her petunias for a shady place to sleep.

  “I kind of like Hamlet. He comes around the saloon every once in a while sniffing for slop.”

  “He should be kept in a pen, just like any other pig,” she replied. “Now I’m sure you didn’t come to discuss Hamlet or my lawn, Mr. Brody. What did you come for?” She eyed him with subtle curiosity.

  He stretched out his arm and she refrained from taking a step back. “You left your glove behind in the Moon Rock a couple of days ago.”

  Looking at the scrap of delicate white in his large hand, she took the glove from him and stuffed it into the band of her yard apron. “Thank you. It wasn’t necessary for you to come over.”

  “I wasn’t sure when I’d see you next.” Frank slid his hand into his trouser pocket and came out with a tissue-wrapped fancy candy. “You want a lemon drop?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He removed the paper and slipped the hard candy into his mouth. Rolling it around his tongue while he sucked on it, he said, “You haven’t come back to the saloon to take out your busts, and frankly, I’m concerned.”

  She knew he was teasing her. He had to be. No man would make mention of such a thing if he weren’t trying to get her goat. She wouldn’t let him see he was unraveling her. She’d simply ignore him.

  But she couldn’t stop staring at his lips . . . the way he licked them . . . the way he made a faint suction sound with his tongue around that blasted piece of candy. The smell of sugary lemons lingered in the air, and she felt the pinch of steel from her corset cut into her ribs.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a lemon drop, Miss Marshall?” he drawled.

  “No,” she shot back, gripping the mower’s maroon handle more resolutely. “I don’t want a lemon drop. I want my piano.”

  There, she’d said it.

  The gist of the situation hit her as if she’d been smacked on the top of her head with a walnut. The only reason he unnerved her was because of the upright. Because he had it and she didn’t. That’s why she put so much stock into watching him . . . having sordid thoughts about him. It was only natural she think about him when she was really thinking about the New American.

  “I figure you do,” was all he offered.

  Amelia didn’t want to dawdle with Frank anymore. He’d gotten her upset when she told herself she wouldn’t let him upset her further. She’d mapped out the next few months, resigned to giving lessons in his drinking parlor. She hadn’t penned in time for arguments with the saloon’s owner.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Brody, I need to get back to work. Again, thank you for bringing my glove by.” She wouldn’t be rude to him, despite the temper he put her in. “Good day.”

  Holding tight to the handle, she shoved off. The whir of the blades thankfully snuffed out the wild pounding of her heart. There was something about Frank Brody that put her into a tizzy every time she was near him.

  Amelia had barely gotten a few feet when he stepped beside her and plucked her hands off the bar. “Slide over, sweetheart. This is a man’s job.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of—”

  “—going into the house and getting me a glass of something cold to drink.”

  Her mouth slacked open as her mind fumbled for a fitting retort. She watched him retreat, his long legs making fast work of the row she’d started. He made the job look so effortless, it pained her to think of the aches her joints would have tonight when she soaked in her tub.

  Words to make him halt were on the tip of her tongue. She’d tell him to stop and let her do the rest. But when she took a deep breath and saw the expanse of the yard left to mow—over a half acre with a colorful border of flowers, vines, shrubs, and shade trees—and all she’d done was a twenty-yard loop . . . well, pride sort of simmered away to steam.

  Just this once.

  “All right, Mr. Brody,” she called after him over the grind of well-oiled gears. “You may cut my lawn, but remember”—she raised her forefinger—“I started it for you.”

  With that, she turned and headed for the whitewashed steps leading to her kitchen to make him a strawberry shrub.

  An hour later, Amelia stood with her hand on the outdoor pump while Frank stuck the revolving Crown lawn sprinkler into the ground. “Okay, prime it.”

  She pumped the handle vigorously, and water immediately shot through the hose and sprayed a wide stream of water. “Uh oh . . .” she murmured. She forgot she’d already primed the pump when she watered the front lawn.

  Frank jumped back and ran, but too late. His shirt received a strong dousing, so did his pants.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she offered. “I had the hose out in front before.”

  “I gathered that.” Frank shook off his hands. The fabric of his light blue striped shirt had turned transparent, and she could see the mold of his chest; the way his flesh sculpted the strong bones and sinewy muscles that made him a man. “Damn good thing it’s a hot day and I could use a cooling off.” He plucked the gusseted row of buttons away from his skin.

  Amelia fought the urge to stand over the sprinkler and cool herself off. She noted the way droplets clung to the ends of his hair and glistened along his
jaw. He removed his hat and slapped the band on his thigh. Then he used his bare forearm to wipe his brow, the movement prompting her into action.

  “Let me get you a towel.”

  “Don’t bother.” He put a light hand on her wrist. “I’d rather drip dry.”

  She looked down where he touched her, mesmerized by the warm summer-hued color of his skin. She recalled watching him through the mesh of her screen door while he’d stopped his mowing to roll up his sleeves in a casual manner. Nothing about him spelled formality, but it was his lack thereof that had her entranced.

  Amelia withdrew her hand. She felt a moment’s awkwardness while looking up into his face. She couldn’t think of a thing to say to him. He’d done a fine job on the yard—better than she ever hoped to do—and she didn’t have any spare money to pay him for his trouble.

  Frank didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. He splayed his fingers, combed them through his wet hair, and put his hat back on. “Do you have any more of that red stuff to drink?”

  “Strawberry shrub.” Her voice was shakier than she would have liked.

  “Yeah, that stuff. How come it’s named after a plant?”

  Amelia thought a moment, then lifted her brows. “I don’t really know. I never questioned my aunt Clara or my mother why. They always called it a strawberry shrub. Or a raspberry shrub or currant shrub.”

  “Whatever’s in it tastes almost as good as a sling.”

  “A what?”

  “If I told you the ingredients of a sling, it’d ruin this conversation.”

  She croaked, “No doubt liquor.”

  “No doubt.”

  Frank headed in the direction of the veranda, and Amelia was helpless but to follow. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him on her porch or not. Her nearest neighbors, the Applegates, lived two vacant lots over, and Altana sometimes called on Amelia when she sought gardening advice. How would Amelia explain Frank to her?