by L. J. Wilson
On a Sunday morning, having chewed the little information he had to bits, Sebastian spoke abruptly to Nolan Creek. “I’m going out—for a walk. Stop me and I’ll knock you on your ass. So if that’s been your fantasy, then go for it.”
Nolan Creek looked up from his reading. Behind his glasses was a wide-eyed gaze. The look drew down Sebastian’s frame, which only added to his determination. “I… I can’t allow that. The Reverend, he’d… ”
His keeper was a master carver, devout sect follower, and a pacifist. But Sebastian couldn’t take anymore. He grabbed him by the collar, prepared to make good on his threat. He hauled back a fist that would pound forward with weeks of pent up frustration. He saw the pure fear in Nolan Creek’s face and jerked him closer. Through gritted teeth he asked, “Is there anything you don’t fear?”
“No. But I fear nothing more than the afterlife punishment that awaits me.” He winced, bracing for the blow.
Sebastian let him drop back onto the chair. Walking out the cabin door, he spoke over his shoulder. “You’ve let me pass, Brother. You’ll have to answer for it. Keep your mouth shut and I might come back.”
Sebastian headed down the briar covered path. He jogged a few yards and stopped. After so many days inside, the daylight was piercing. He slowed to a walk, coming to the sect’s town center. It connected to another dirt road—the way out. The unknown made Sebastian hesitate. How long until the Godfathers found him? What direction would he go? He’d overheard the brothers’ talk. The closest town, North Good Hope, was more than twenty miles away. The isolated location was what Evie had said—interlopers were unwelcome. Standing alone, unattended, Sebastian felt like a prisoner of circumstance.
In the cabin there was no electricity or phone, but he remembered seeing telephone wires the day he’d arrived. Somewhere, there had to be a phone. But who would he call? Andor? He could demand to know if he had a plan. Or was dumping his son in this fresh hell the solution? Then Sebastian thought better of it. Maybe abandonment was a message, meaning Andor had washed his hands of Sebastian. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Andor wasn’t much of a father, he wouldn’t call the two of them a family, but the idea of being completely alone gnawed at Sebastian’s gut. He thought of his Uncle Paulos—but his father’s younger brother wouldn’t act without Andor’s approval. Sebastian considered Bim. Bim was smart. He’d have solid advice.
With that idea in mind, Sebastian started toward the buildings— houses, barns, a couple of awkward storefronts. It looked as if the Reverend had built his own sovereign state in the middle of rural Pennsylvania. Right now, the place looked like a ghost town. There wasn’t a person in sight. Sebastian heard faint singing. He squinted toward a distant building. It had to be the meeting hall—that was how the brothers referred to it. Sunday. Of course, they were all inside.
That was a good thing. Now was the perfect opportunity to find a phone. Sebastian moved deeper into Good Hope. Early October was in the air, and Sebastian noticed his breath as he walked. He’d tugged on a corduroy shirt that morning, a worn favorite he’d stuffed in the duffel bag. At the moment, he wished the shirt had a lining. Jesus, he hadn’t even packed a coat.
At the third house, Sebastian stopped. He smelled cinnamon. He turned in a tight circle. Like their plain dress, dull conversations, and communal lives, the houses of Good Hope reflected order and uniformity, one mirroring the next. Each had an identical postage-stamp lawn and post and rail fence, though he managed to zero in on the one manufacturing the enticing aroma. A few steps and he could see through the front windows. Sebastian wasn’t a peeping Tom, but seconds later his stare was pinned to a paned window.
Inside was Evie Neal. From where he stood, Sebastian had a clear view of a small dining room that led to the kitchen. He was surprised by how accurately his mind had mimicked every Evie detail—even the way she moved. She flitted about, tending to whatever was making his mouth water. Through paper-thin walls he could hear humming—something different than the voices he’d heard singing. He listened harder. The tune, some silly popular song—it’d played constantly in the pool hall.
But like their impromptu meeting in the cabin, Sebastian couldn’t look away. Thoughts of finding a phone, even the desire to leave began to ebb. She stood out in this place of dull repetition. Of course, it didn’t entirely explain the knot in his gut the second he saw her. He tracked Evie’s movements as she reached to a high shelf. A bottle tipped, its contents splashing onto the front of her blouse. “Oh for the love of…” replaced the happy humming.
It was the most interesting thing he’d seen in weeks, and Sebastian was mesmerized as Evie stripped off the blouse. He was torn between staring and turning away. To his surprise, he did the gentlemanly thing and focused on his scuffed work boots, even stepping back. But his boot tangled in an evergreen shrub and while trying not to make a sound, Sebastian fell, landing flat on his back. When he looked up, Evie Neal peered down at him. She wore a slip and an awed expression. Her gaze canvased the street behind him. Cracking open the window, she said, “Hurry around back. It won’t do either of us any good if someone sees you.”
The only thing moving faster than Evie’s feet was her heart as she raced to the kitchen door, flinging it wide. “I didn’t know if they’d sent you away. I… I’m not to come anywhere near the cabin.”
“Then I probably shouldn’t be at your kitchen door.”
A gulp wedged in her throat. “No. I don’t suppose you should.” Neither of them moved.
“Especially wearing… in, um, that…” His index finger trailed through the air in front of her.
Evie locked eyes with the cool green of his, and an idea about removing the space between them drifted into her head. She’d nearly forgotten her blouse-less state. “Oh… oh my gosh, how stupid of me,” she said, crossing her arms over the slip. “I spilled cooking oil. Then I heard… ” Evie darted away as Sebastian picked up the conversation.
“Uh, if it helps, you’re still more dressed than most of the women on my side of the tracks.”
Inside the laundry room, Evie grabbed a clean blouse and plunged her arms into it. Hastily, she worked the buttons and returned to the kitchen door. “Yes, well, we’re not on your side of the tracks, are we?” He hadn’t budged, still standing on the rear porch. “On the other hand, I suppose that makes us even.”
“I think I’m still ahead. I was only wearing a towel.”
Evie gathered her wits and the blush she felt rising. “What are you doing roaming about?”
“I was looking for a phone.”
She opened the door wider and he came inside. Everyone in Good Hope was sitting in the meeting hall and Evie felt sure no one had seen him. Safely inside her kitchen, in the bright morning light, Evie allowed herself a lingering gaze. His strong frame was more mesmerizing than she recalled—and truth be told, she’d recalled it more than once. He looked better too—healthier. The fit of his T-shirt was snugger, outlined by an open corduroy shirt. It looked soft, like perhaps he wore it often. Evie inched her hand forward. The desire to touch it—maybe him—was vivid. She jerked back her hand and the forward thought. “We don’t have a phone.”
“You don’t…” He tightened his wide brow. “Then why did you invite me in?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you tripped outside and…” She moved her hands to her hips. “Why were you peeking in my window?”
“I wasn’t. I mean, yes. I was. First it was the smell of whatever you’re baking. And then I saw it was you inside—these houses, well, it’s not like you can help but see in a window.” Sebastian folded his arms. “Why aren’t you at church with the rest of them?”
“It’s the Widow Vale’s birthday. I was asked to make cinnamon cake as a treat for after the service. She has no other family, so it seemed someone should… You have to serve the cake right away. It’s best warm, and…” She pointed at the stove, but the gesture was weak. The heat pulsing between them was twice the temperature of the oven. “You sho
uld go.”
“Right. Especially if you don’t have a phone.” He stepped toward the door but turned back. “You were humming a song I knew. A silly love song.”
“Well, perhaps you think it’s silly—”
“No. The name of the song, ‘A Silly Love Song,’ Beatles ex, Paul McCartney. Wings.”
She knotted her brow tighter.
“Never mind.”
Evie pointed toward the radio in the other room. “If no one is here, sometimes I listen to popular music. I just have to remember to put the station back before my father… My mother never minded, but he…”
“Your mother, she’s not here.”
“She’s gone. She died last winter.” Evie hadn’t said it out loud to anyone—not since that fateful January night. There’d been no need. Everyone in Good Hope knew Elizabeth Neal was dead. Tears welled. “I’m sorry,” she said, words at an impasse.
“Don’t be. My mother’s gone too—a long time.” His fingertips came forward, but Evie was quicker, brushing at a lone tear. “I was never allowed any.”
“Medical help?”
He shook his head. “Tears.” Silence and the lingering scent of cinnamon filled the kitchen.
“Why are you calling someone?” she said. “To take you away?”
“It crossed my mind. I, uh, I need a plan. We both know I don’t belong here. And it’s not likely that I’m going to let Reverend Kane decide my fate.”
“He doesn’t decide—” Evie couldn’t argue the point. “Who were you going to call? Your wife?”
“My… I don’t have a wife.”
“Oh. I see. You’re like Nolan Creek then.”
Sebastian’s jaw dropped. “Like? Uh, no. Not if you’re suggesting I’d like to date him.”
Evie’s brown eyes blinked into his, but she didn’t respond. The thought was too bold.
“I wanted to call a friend—Bim. He’s a doctor.”
“A doctor?” she said.
“You sound surprised.”
“It’s just that… I’ve never met one. So, yes, that surprises me.”
“You’ve never seen a doctor—not for anything?”
“No. I told you that. Reverend Kane… the Fathers of the Right.
They don’t believe in medical intervention.”
“Yes, but I thought you meant… Well, I’m not sure what I thought that meant. Jesus, that’s a little like playing God, don’t you think?”
“They… we…” Evie struggled, lifelong rules dictating her explanation. “We leave it up to God’s will.”
“And it couldn’t be that God saw to it penicillin was invented?”
It was amazing. Another person agreeing with the dark thought in Evie’s head. Yet the doctrine of the Fathers of the Right ran deep. “It’s not what we believe,” she insisted.
“Sounds more like you don’t believe in freewill. There doesn’t seem to be much of that here—medicine, marriages, choices. How old are you anyway?”
“Nineteen. And you?”
“Twenty-four.”
Except for widowers and Nolan Creek, Evie had never met an unwed man of that age. “How very unusual—don’t you want to be married? To have children?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head hard. “Absolutely not—especially the kids part.”
“And you’re sure you’re not like Nolan Creek?”
“Will you stop. I’m very sure. Not like him, or any of them,” he said, cocking his chin toward the streets of Good Hope.
“We’re good people, Bash. At least none of us is running for our lives.”
“Even so, your way of life… It is 1977.” His hand brushed by the plainly furnished room. “If it wasn’t for the oven, maybe the lamps, that radio,” he said, pointing to the brown, square unit on a dining room server, “I’d think I’d fallen through a time warp.”
Evie considered his point of view and reiterated hers. “Whatever our time, no one from here wants you dead.”
“Yeah. That’s true,” he said. “You do know part of my secret, my reason for being here.”
“And the rest?” she said, aware of the dangers bred from curiosity.
“The rest. It’s…”
“I know. Complicated.” Evie waited, tipping her head at his silence. “We lead simple lives, Bash. We’re not stupid—you’d be wise not to make that mistake about me.”
“I can see that,” he said. “I won’t—ever.” Their gazes tied tight as a wild vine. “Do you have any of your own, Evie… secrets?”
“And if I did, I’d tell you because…?”
A smile edged into his rugged features. Ezra’s grin was mischievous, pretty. This man’s was so different—like the beauty you might find in a thick forest. Evie felt dampness in her palms, and each beat of her heart, the breaths in between. It was incredibly wrong—all of it. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog that had rolled in with Sebastian Christos. His smile faded, and her dreamy thoughts blurred. “I haven’t told anyone the part of your secret that you did share. So if that’s what you’re standing here wondering—”
“I’m not. I knew… I had a feeling I could trust you.”
“Strange. I found myself making the same claim about you to my friend, Hannah. I don’t know why that should be. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.”
“I’ve thought the same thing. Why do you suppose that is, instant trust?”
He wanted her opinion. It startled Evie. When she didn’t answer, he did.
“It’ll sound as crazy to you as it did to me,” he said. “But I keep thinking of two old souls inside two new people.”
What a lovely thought…
Sebastian cleared his throat. “Of course, my old soul probably comes with a record and a warrant.”
Evie laughed. “I can’t imagine any old soul that couldn’t use a little cleansing.” She felt it so plainly, something wondrous pulsing off him and into her. But Evie also understood that was all it could ever be. “If it’s what you want, I know where there’s a telephone you can use.”
“Right. A phone.”
She turned toward the oven and clock. “The cake has another twenty minutes. If we hurry, we can go to the Wheaton’s house. They have a phone—and a microwave,” she said over her shoulder. “Everyone will be in the meeting hall for at least another half hour.”
“Won’t the door be locked?”
She looked queerly at him. “Why would anyone in Good Hope lock their door?”
“Good point.”
“Just let me get my sweater.” Evie felt him follow as she moved through the dining area, retrieving her sweater from the adjoining living room.
“That’s your dress.”
He pointed to a dressmaker’s dummy. It wore her wedding dress, a modest white, floor length garb. The hourglass shape of the dummy—adjusted to mirror Evie’s frame—provided the only adornment. She brushed her hand over the dangling cuffed sleeve. “Mrs. Wheaton, Hannah’s mother, made it for me. I asked for lace at the neck,” she said, touching the high buttons that assured its demure look. “It was thought to be too revealing.” Evie touched the hook-and-eye buttons at the neck. “It’s a fine dress. Mrs. Wheaton does splendid work.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“Do you?” Evie asked, oddly interested in his answer.
“I don’t know anything about wedding dresses. But I do think the bride is supposed to love it.” He came closer, as if to get a better look. His green eyes cut from the dress to her. “Do you, Evie… love it?”
Nervously, she withdrew her hand from the dress, fingering a box of straight pins that sat on a nearby table. The metal pins rolled off her fingertips, plinking as they dropped back into the container. She stared at him. Sebastian Christos was wildly out of place next to the dress, perhaps her life. “I, um… I suppose. It’s a perfectly fine dress.”
“But are you in love with it?”
“The dress?” Evie said.
“The dress. Whate
ver comes with it.”
She cast her gaze over the frock, wrestling with weak enthusiasm. It was particularly noticeable compared to the belly flutter the mission stirred. “Love doesn’t have anything to do with it,” she said pragmatically. “It’s what I’m supposed to wear. It’s expected. The simplicity of the dress is symbolic of our lives, the basic way we live… of the bride.”
He frowned. “Simple isn’t a word I’d try to dress you in.”
Evie tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Then it’s good you have nothing to say in the matter. A white dress, a pure wife—in God’s eyes a right life,” she murmured. It wasn’t a bible verse, but one of Reverend Kane’s many mantras.
Sebastian stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “Right, I get it. White. Virgin—” He stopped as her eyes widened. “Purity,” he corrected, “and all that.”
Evie felt the push and pull of rules—the ones they lived by and the ones that could be broken. Every day the line grew fuzzier. “You’d think,” she said, her whisper more sedate than the dress. “In my case, I suspect beige would do just fine.”
She saw the shock on his face. Evie felt her own—admitting something so personal to a man who was no more than a stranger. Or perhaps an old soul from another life…
“Ezra?” he asked.
“Of course, Ezra. How could it be anyone else?”
He looked oddly relieved. “Ezra. Right. Besides, it’s none of my business.”
She’d never had such a forthright conversation—not even with Hannah. Evie turned fast, the sweater slipping from her shoulders. They both bent to pick it up. Crouched on the floor, eye to eye, their fingers tangled in the soft knit fabric. Evie wobbled and he reached, steadying her. “You’re right, Bash. It’s none of your concern. Not the dress… not Ezra.”
