“I don’t have all day,” Olympia snapped, heading for the examining rooms. “Some of us aren’t lucky enough to have the State of Mississippi funding our every moment.”
He took a moment to breathe deeply before following across the waiting room. It wouldn’t do any good to fight with Olympia Crawford. It had been a long time since he’d been home, but he still remembered how to “yes, ma’am” like a good Southern boy.
Five minutes later, satisfied that the walls of Crawford House weren’t being poked like pincushions, Olympia stood at the hallway that led to the kitchen area. “And remember, everything else is off-limits to you people. We don’t want sick folk wandering through and making a mess on the carpet.”
“We’ll be sure to let the patients know that the entrance is around the back.” Jem shrugged off the you people and checked his watch. He had barely enough time to grab his white coat and find a pen.
“Auntie?” The soft voice froze him in his tracks.
“Lucy, I was checkin’ on the walls.” Olympia shouldered her purse and leaned forward to peck her niece on the cheek.
Jem was suddenly aware of his hands, the heat of the summer morning thick on his skin. He nodded at Lucy, managing to avoid her gaze completely. She was wearing jeans and a Bulldogs T-shirt, but he couldn’t help the memory that flashed through his mind of that pale-pink dress. His mama’s words echoed in his head: Be careful.
“Go ahead to the kitchen.” Lucy guided Olympia toward the hall. “There’s sweet tea in the fridge. I just made it.”
“Are you home again today? They must be cutting your hours at the center.” Olympia didn’t wait for a response. “I suppose I could stay for a glass before I meet Michelle at the Emporium. I’ve been invited to be on the planning committee for the next cotillion, and I promised to lend my expertise in organizing such a large party.”
“Lovely. You go on head to the kitchen and get settled. I’ll be right there.”
Olympia gave a little shrug and left, the sound of her heels seemed to Jem like the bang snaps the kids like so much on the Fourth of July. The silence slowly expanded in the room and he felt Lucy’s eyes on him.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft. “I’ll do my best to keep her on our side of the house.”
He nodded, glancing in Lucy’s direction. “Is the interpretive center hurting for money?”
As soon as he asked the question, he wanted to take it back. Money wasn’t the best topic to broach first thing in the morning, no matter the person. Add in Lucy’s current financial issues, and it was downright rude.
“No more than usual. Struggling to procure funding is a reality of life at a battle site. We’re not alone in that, I’m sure.” She didn’t seem to mind the question. Stepping toward Leticia, she held out a hand. “I’m Lucy Crawford.”
“Right, sorry.” Jem made quick introductions, feeling the burn of falling short of “good manners.”
“This is your house?” Leticia asked, her eyes growing wide. “I could get lost in a place like this. I bet you got lots of bathrooms.”
Lucy grinned. “Not as many as we should have. It’s an old place. They didn’t value the morning beauty routine the way they should have in 1855.”
“You’d think they’d have needed a lot more time than we do.” Leticia frowned. “Just getting ready with all those layers and buttons and things. I’ve seen those costumes. Dr. Stroud is always tryin’ to get me to come to the reenactments. He said all I’d have to do is hold down the men while he pretends to hack off their legs.” Leticia stacked a few papers on the desk and shook her head. “Now he’s got my husband caught up in it, too. I found Eddie tryin’ to knit some socks. He says he can’t have nothing that’s not handmade or from the Civil War, and of course there’s no Civil War socks left, so he’s got to make some himself.”
“I think the men had it better, back then. Our last reenactment, I needed two hours and three helpers to get into my costume,” Lucy said. “I wasn’t even playing an upper-class lady. Just the washerwoman for the regiment.”
“Why’d you want to play somebody like that?” Leticia gave Lucy a once-over. “You like slummin’ it? I know a girl like that back home in Detroit. Her dad was the fire captain and she dressed like she live on Gratiot Avenue.”
Jem opened his mouth to defend Lucy, but she was already answering. “There weren’t many wealthy women on the battlefield, unless they were nurses, and there were even fewer African American women.” She paused, as if not sure whether to continue. “I was thinking of doing something different this year.”
“You’re gonna be a nurse this time? Dr. Stroud’ll be so happy to have you in his surgery tent,” Leticia said.
“Actually, at the reenactment in September, I was thinking of dressing as a man.”
“Like one of the regular soldiers?” Leticia asked.
“Sort of.” Lucy took a breath. “There were some women, not a lot, that disguised themselves as men so they could go into battle. We just acquired the diary of a woman named Hattie Winter who went to war as a man.”
“Wait, so you’ll be a woman, dressed as a man? Who’s gonna be able to tell?”
“Probably no one, really. Just like Hattie.” The edges of Lucy’s mouth turned up.
“But why she’d do that? You’d think a woman would want to stay where it was safe. I mean, nobody wants to be in a war.”
Lucy glanced up at Jem, her dark eyes fixed on his. He wanted to look away, wanted to make his excuses and leave the room. But he was frozen to the spot, waiting for her to speak.
“Some women signed up to fight as men because they wanted to defend their communities, just like the men could, and some women disguised themselves so they wouldn’t be separated from their husbands. But Hattie . . .” Lucy never dropped her gaze, but he saw her swallow hard. “Hattie was looking for the man she loved. He had been conscripted, and she couldn’t bear waiting for him any longer, so she volunteered.”
“Huh,” Leticia said. “Did she find him?”
Lucy shook her head. There was the faintest sheen of tears in her eyes. “She never saw him again,” she whispered.
“Well, that’s downright depressing.” Leticia sighed. “I don’t know why you people are so hung up on the past. There’s nothing we can do about it, and it seems to be all sorts of sad stories. You should focus on something real.”
“It is real. And if we forget Hattie’s life, we won’t ever learn the lesson she left us.” Lucy was speaking to Leticia, but her meaning was for him, her eyes only for him.
Jem heard his own words echoing back at him, from just a few nights ago: If we simply forget the most painful episodes of the past, we might make the same mistakes over again. He felt a stab, somewhere near his heart, right under his ribs, and almost clapped a hand to his chest, as if to ward off the emotion.
Jem wanted to reach out to her. He wanted to tell her that all was forgiven and it was all right to move on, because regret poisons a person as surely as jealousy. He should say something reassuring, about being friends and how he was over her, over everything that had happened . . . except that he’d be lying. The realization was like a kick to the gut.
“I’d better get ready,” he managed. He turned on his heel and walked across the waiting room, heart in his throat.
“We’ve gotta prepare for the morning rush.” Leticia sounded faintly apologetic.
“I understand. Nice to meet you, again.” Lucy’s voice was strong, as if she hadn’t just been on the verge of tears.
Jem pushed open his office door and stared unseeing at the tidy desk. He’d have patients in a matter of minutes and he couldn’t focus. His mama had told him to watch out and he was trying, but he couldn’t very well refuse to talk to her. His life was slowly unraveling, just when he thought it was finally coming together. A girl had once broken his heart, and now she was threaten
ing to bring it all back with a few well-chosen words.
He slipped off his jacket and grabbed his white coat, stuffing a pen and a prescription pad into his pocket. Nobody could ever accuse him of being a slow learner, but Lucy was a lesson he never seemed to grasp. He’d only been in Tupelo a month and already his mind was wrapping itself around the idea of her, nestling into all the familiar hollows of pain and regret. He’d only needed one summer to fall in love with Lucy, but it had taken ten years to get over her.
And darned if he was going to let it all happen again.
“I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place.”
—ANNE ELLIOT
Chapter Eight
“I was worried you’d forgotten me in here,” Aunt Olympia said. Her iced-tea glass was empty. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. One foot wiggled impatiently, like a metronome on high.
“Sorry.” Lucy dropped into a chair and took a deep draft of the slightly diluted sweet tea. It wasn’t even July and the heat was unbearable. She felt the humidity weighing on her like a quilt, suffocating and relentless.
If that party had been an exercise in humiliation, then today’s brief conversation with Jem was the master class. She hadn’t gone into the clinic area with an idea of anything more than shooing her aunt away. But she had stayed, and stayed, until she was pouring out her heart in a kind of coded message.
“Paulette said she was coming by this morning. Maybe she forgot, too,” Aunt Olympia said.
Lucy said nothing. She didn’t understand herself anymore. It was one thing to plan on dressing as Hattie at the reenactment to satisfy some deep need inside to be someone else, someone strong and inspiring. It was another to blurt out those plans to Jem while standing in his waiting room, fighting back tears and praying that he understood.
She’d felt the emotion welling in her throat and willed it down. Jem had taken one look into her eyes and turned away. Politely, gently, but he had still left the room as quickly as possible. What more did he need to do? What did he need to say before she understood there was no chance of forgiveness? And the worst of it was that she didn’t expect anything from him. Reconciliation was impossible. But a part of her wanted to tell him she was wrong, in any way she could. If only she could hear him say that he forgave her, maybe she could let it all go.
“Did you hear me?” Olympia leaned forward.
“She doesn’t usually drop by on Mondays,” Lucy said, snapping back to the conversation. Paulette liked to come around when she knew Lucy was at work because it was a lot easier to get a hard-cash loan from their daddy without Lucy’s interference. “Is this about the wedding?”
Her aunt sat up straight. “What wedding? Whose wedding? I didn’t get any invitation to a wedding.”
Lucy went to the mail holder and brought back Rebecca’s invitation. Her aunt read it over and shrugged. “That’s real quick. I wonder if they’re having a shotgun wedding.”
“She’s leaving for England in a few months for a sabbatical.”
“Huh. I bet they come back with a baby. That’s how those Northerners are. Even when they get married, they seem to have a baby just a few months later. They never do anything in the right order.”
Lucy wanted to roll her eyes. She knew plenty of Southern girls who had their babies a little “early.” Babies all take nine months. Except for the first one. Those can come anytime, her mama liked to say.
“And what is this Regency theme? Is she dressing like a princess? Brandi McQueen had a princess-theme wedding. There were the sweetest little glass-shoe party favors, and the cake looked just like the one in the Disney movie. She looked lovely comin’ to the church in that white carriage, just like Cinderella, but her dress was so big it took four people to get her out of the little door.”
“It’s supposed to be like Jane Austen’s England. I saw a picture of the dress and it’s beautiful, but very simple.”
“I don’t think those two things go together at a wedding.” Aunt Olympia frowned. “She’s going to regret not putting time into her planning.”
Lucy pulled out her phone. “Let me show you a picture she sent me. I’m going to be a bridesmaid, and my dress is in the same style.” She scrolled through her texts until she found it. “See, it has a silk ribbon at the waist, and then it falls straight down, with a sheer, embroidered overlay. Mine is pale blue, but I’m not sure if all of us have a different color.”
Aunt Olympia squinted at the screen. “She has to be havin’ a baby. Nobody would wear that unless they were hiding a baby bump. It looks like a potato-sack dress.”
Lucy hated the term baby bump but said nothing. “I think they look timeless and elegant.”
“But there’s no shape.” Her aunt shook her head. “A woman has to be able to show off her figure in a dress. She should have asked Paulette to plan her wedding. She has great style.”
Lucy shrugged and put the phone back in her purse. “So, if Paulette isn’t coming here about Rebecca’s wedding, what is she planning?”
“Well, she wants to have a dinner here. Her friend took a liking to Jem and they want to show him a good time.”
Lucy didn’t ask who the friend in question was. She had a perfectly clear mental picture of Regan, wrapped in Jem’s arms, swaying together on the dance floor. Her aunt seemed to think it was just fine for a girl such as Regan to fall in love with Jem. Lucy wasn’t sure whether it was because her aunt’s opinion of Jem had changed or because Regan was white, and Lucy wasn’t brave enough to ask.
“Why does it have to be here? They could have it anywhere.”
“It’s true that having a dinner here would be sort of strange, since he’s in the house every day. But he doesn’t come into this part, not even to the kitchen.” Her aunt frowned, the metallic-blue shadow on her lids wrinkling up like folds on a paper fan. “Maybe a garden party is a better idea.”
Lucy wanted to lay her head on the table. Garden party. The two most dreaded words in her aunt’s arsenal. Dr. Stroud’s party had been an indoor-outdoor party, where a guest might possibly find a place to stand, away from the guests and the noise and the dancing.
“Well, if she has it here, I’m sure I don’t have to be part of it.”
“Of course you do. Paulette is far too busy to plan everything. You can call the caterer and the bands, get everything set up. She’ll send out the invitations.”
“Paulette doesn’t even have a job. How is she any busier than I am?” Lucy was surprised at the anger in her voice. What Aunt Olympia wanted, Aunt Olympia got, whether or not it made sense.
The older woman sucked in a breath and sat up straight. “Is this the way your mama taught you, to raise your voice to your elders? You used to be such a good girl, always helping around the house and making good grades. Now you’re grown-up and you’ve got attitude.”
Attitude. It’s what someone said about girls who thought they knew better, when they didn’t know anything. A wave of remorse washed over her. Olympia was her daddy’s sister, shepherding the girls through the harrowing years after their mama’s death. Whatever she had done wrong, she still meant well. “I’m sorry, Auntie.”
Olympia sniffed. Adjusting the gold necklaces that lay against her blouse, she looked as if she might never get over the slight.
“Yoo-hoo,” Paulette called as she came toward the kitchen. For once, Lucy was glad to hear her sister coming through the house. “There you are,” Paulette said, launching herself at first her aunt and then Lucy. Her hair was newly styled in perfect waves that fell past her shoulders, light blond streaks highlighting the edges of each gentle curl.
“You look pretty,” Lucy said. Paulette made her realize how much she needed a trip to the salon. A girl could do only so much with her hair before she needed the help of a professional.
“Oh, you should head down to
Clarice’s. It took five hours, but I brought my iPad so I could still work on my designs for Regan’s new apartment. Clarice gave me a special price, only three hundred for everything, including all the styling products I needed.”
Lucy had just started to sip her tea and coughed, choking on the ice-cold liquid. “Three hundred dollars?”
Paulette rolled her eyes. “Auntie, tell Lucy that a woman needs to look put together and that costs money.”
“Sure, but maybe it could be your money and not Daddy’s money,” Lucy said. Anger made her chest feel tight and she pressed a hand to her forehead. Having the clinic move into Crawford House wouldn’t do a bit of good if Paulette wouldn’t stop spending.
“How do you know I didn’t pay for it myself?” Paulette stuck a hand on her hip and pursed her bright-red lips. Lucy had to admit her sister was stunning, in an expensive sort of way. Her orange, tissue-thin T-shirt left one shoulder bare, the wide neck scooping low over her chest. Delicate silver chains hung in long loops, dotted every so often with tiny gemstones. She had undeniable style and a feel for trends, but her interior-design business was more of a pro bono service for all her friends than anything that could pay her salon bill.
“Anyway,” Paulette said, “Daddy said he was happy I’m taking care of myself. Once you let yourself go, no man will look twice at you.”
Lucy forced herself not to smooth down her hair. She knew exactly what her daddy thought of his oldest daughter’s appearance and her chances of marriage. She really ought to go to the salon more often, if only to make Aunt Olympia and Daddy happy.
“So, tell us your plans for the party. Should I call Bitsy’s Catering? They make those delicious little shrimp soufflé puffs. Or maybe Danver’s? They catered the Ferrises’ party and the miniature bacon-wrapped sirloin-steak bites were delicious. Don’t call Tasty Kitchens. Laura Malveaux had them do her party at Christmas and the appetizers had hardly any meat to ’em. She wanted a refund, but that Missy told them it was a no-returns deal. She comes from nothing special, but that woman has more nerve than Carter’s got liver pills.”
Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread Page 11
