The Bridegrooms

by Allison K. Pittman

  “Now, darling, she didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Doc!”

  “Well, maybe she didn’t, but honestly, what’s a man like Kenneth supposed to think when he can’t even take me out for a walk without having the whole family staring out the window?”

  “Kenneth, is it?” Vada smiled. “It seems earlier this morning you had far choicer names for the boy—er, excuse me. Man.”

  “Don’t be bitter, Vada. It ages you.”

  “Just tell me,” Vada said, controlling her voice, “when did you start roaming around, hand in hand, unchaperoned with boys you presumably hate?”

  “People change, Vada. You might not realize that since you’ve been such an old fussbudget since you were—”

  “Girls!” Doc instantly brought them back to childhood, usually a comforting place to be, though tonight his intrusion felt condescending. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen and see what Miss Molly has for us in terms of pie?”

  “None for me,” Vada said, her eyes boring into Lisette’s.

  But to no surprise, her sister was more than willing; she and Doc left the parlor, whispering together. After they left, Vada studied the picture on the mantel, the one that once held a photograph of her mother and now kept the image of little Lisette. Not for the first time, Vada felt a pang of jealousy over the closeness between the two of them.

  She hadn’t been much older than Lisette was in this photograph when their mother left. Vada had to take on the role of motherhood right at the moment, whereas Lisette was allowed to be a little girl to this very day. She, Hazel, Althea—all of them held jobs when they were Lisette’s age—at dressmaker’s, sweeping up shops, setting type. But heaven forbid the baby sister use even one moment of her time usefully.

  Suddenly she was exhausted. Maybe she was the old fussbudget Lisette accused her of being. She certainly felt bent and old, like her very bones were dissolving within her. She’d lay money down that Lisette had never been this tired. Not a day in her spoiled little life. This wasn’t a fatigue that came from dancing and ice cream socials. This came from a day of having a head battered with one decision after another and a heart pulled back from certitude.

  She left the light burning in the parlor, in case Doc decided to come back in, and fairly staggered out, grasping the banister preparing to climb the stairs when she heard a soft knock at the front door.

  “What’s the matter, Kenneth?” She spoke to herself in low, breathless tones. “Not enough spooning for one night?”

  Fully intending to send Cupid out into the night, she grasped the front door handle and yanked, immediately wishing she’d thought to check through the window first.

  “Bon soir, mademoiselle.” LaFortune leaned against the door frame. “I didn’t think that little Spider-boy ever gonna leave.”

  “I believe I asked you not to speak to me again.” Vada tried to close the door, but he blocked her effort, filling the gap with a soft wool sweater—green, from what she could tell in the darkness.

  “I aim to come give you a bon merci. Now, I could charge in there or—”

  “You’re not coming in here.”

  “Alors, no choice.” He bent low, assuming the form of a bull ready to charge his way through—including having fingers posing as horns—and made a menacing snorting noise.

  “Mr. LaFortune, please!”

  “Cinq minutes.” He held up an open hand. “Five minutes, or prepare to suffer the consequences.”

  Now it was she who pushed her way through the door, squeezing out the narrow opening, as if that would keep the others in the house from hearing the skirmish. Once Vada was on the other side, she found her hand clasped in his, and she was being pulled down the steps and around into the dark alcove beneath them.

  Soon after, her face was pressed against soft wool covering hard muscles; her feet were clear off the ground and she was twirling—whispered laughter floating through the top of her hair.

  She wanted to yell, “Put me down!” Knew she should yell it, in fact. But it happened so fast, by the time her feet were firmly on the ground again, she could only wish for one more twirling moment.

  “I was amazing today,” he said, holding her steady. “First at-bat, home run! Second time, triple! Third time, triple again. It was magic. I was magic! And all because of ma belle ici!”

  Again her feet were suspended. Again the world spun beneath her. And this time, when he set her down, she clung to him, forgetting for a moment why she ever tried to send him away.

  “Don’t be silly. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Beg contraire. Have you forgotten les boutons?”

  “I refuse to buy into your superstitions.”

  He took her face in his hands, her chin resting against the heels of his palms, his thumbs grazing the apples of her cheeks. “Is that all you do, cher, refuse?”

  She thought—well, as close as she could come to thinking with his face, his body so close to hers. There wasn’t room for logic; she had to choose between thinking and breathing. Instead, like a pellet wedged at the base of her neck was this pinpoint of resentment. A life full of people-giving and asking for less than she wanted. Never had there been a wanton moment—not even when she wanted one. And maybe there never would be again.

  The distance between them was so small, and it was getting smaller all the time, until he was nothing more than a blur. Nothing more than sweet clove-scented warmth coming toward her. She realized the clove scent was his breath, and then, it was her breath too.

  Once more, the ground gave away. But she wasn’t swirling. In fact, she was stock still, the brick wall of her home at her back, the brick wall of his body pinning her there. The hands that cradled her face now roamed at will, as did hers, delighting at the ripple of muscles, the softness of his sweater. Garrison’s body felt nothing like this. Garrison would never wear a sweater. Garrison wouldn’t even walk her home, not all the way, lest he—

  Oh, Lord! Vada pulled herself as far away as she could get, given the intimate quarters. “Garrison!”

  LaFortune laughed, a dangerous sound that seemed to originate in his nose. “It is impolite to say the name of one man when you are kissing another. But I choose to forgive you.”

  He swooped in again, but she dove under his arm, ending up behind him.

  “I can’t believe I let you—what was I thinking?”

  “You weren’t.” He put his hands on either side of her waist and pulled her close again. “Which is what makes it so enjoyable. Now, turn off that little brain of yours—”

  And he was kissing her again, one hand holding her close at the small of her back, the other tracing fire along the side of her neck. His lips trailed behind, nuzzling her jaw. Garrison never nuzzled—

  “Stop it!”

  And to his credit, he did, dropping his hands into his pockets and leaning back against the wall, leaving her free to leave. But she remained, still trapped by whatever force compelled her to follow him outside in the first place.

  “No need to fait fâcher with me.” His voice was low and drawling, just short of teasing, obviously trying to soothe her anger.

  “I’m not angry with you. It’s me. I should know better. I never do anything like this.”

  “But you such a beautiful young woman. You should be doing things like this every day.”

  He looked about ready to come for her again, and she held up a warning finger. Instead of backing away, though, he took that one finger and crooked it through his own, creating an open link between them.

  “I’m watching you earlier,” he said. “Through the window, looking quite the little mother spying on her chick. And I think what a shame for her to be the little flower behind the glass.”

  “I may as well be her mother. I’ve practically raised her since I was eight years old.”

  “Your maman, then? She dead?”

  Vada nodded. “But she left before she died.”

  “Comment?”

  She owed him no expl
anation as to how these events unfolded, but soon she found herself speaking into that great cavernous shadow under the stairs, telling him everything. About being a little girl waking up to a motherless home. About her father’s unrelenting pain. About she and her sisters growing up—each alone beside the other. Althea’s silence. Hazel’s discontentment. Lisette’s dangerous, wild nature.

  “And you, cher. What are you in all of this?”

  “I’m…” She looked for the word. “I’m lost. Everything I ever wanted—” She let out a soft, rueful laugh. “I can’t even remember what I ever wanted.”

  “You and les belles soeurs. Just four little duckies on a pond, eh?”

  “Duckies?”

  “It’s something we say. En baseball. When you have men on base, waiting to run home, and the last guy gets up to bat, and whiff, whiff, whiff. He strike out or hit a pop fly, easy out. And those three men, they just standin’ out in the field. Can’t do nothin’ but walk on in. And all them runs they were gonna score, just—pfft! Gone.”

  “Yes. I guess that’s us.”

  “Your maman, you never hear nothin’ from her again?”

  “No, not from her.”

  “And this man who took her?”

  She didn’t know why she told him, but soon every detail she knew about Mr. Triplehorn, every moment of that disastrous luncheon and yesterday’s confrontation, spilled out unchecked. Maybe because LaFortune seemed worldly enough, impetuous enough to help her understand. Maybe because he was recessed so far in the shadows, with only the tiny link of his finger connecting them, she felt she was speaking into a void, saying out loud everything she’d been forced to repress. All of her questions. All of her fears. And, finally, her resolve.

  “I’m going to see him again.”

  “Pourquoi ça?”

  “To tell him to go away.”

  “Which you did already, non? Twice?”

  “Things have changed.”

  “How, that?”

  She stepped back into the shadows with him and brought her hand up to touch his face. “It would be so easy…” To give in to this temptation, claim this moment for herself. But the denial of it made her stronger. Stronger than she’d been at the hotel that Monday afternoon. Stronger than she’d been on her steps last night. Stronger than she’d been just moments ago.

  He captured her touch, turned, and kissed her palm. Lingered at her wrist, her pulse pounding against his lips.

  “I am here just two more days.” His words felt delightful. “Will you spend them with me?”

  “No.”

  “It is far less dangerous than to run away, non?”

  She extracted herself, slowly, lingering, until she knew the darkness held nothing for her.

  “Good-bye, Mr. LaFortune. Et bonne chance.”

  THURSDAY

  A SECOND ENCOUNTER

  14

  Vada hadn’t slept. Not a bit. And it wasn’t because Hazel snored, and it wasn’t because she knew Althea was across the hall sitting straight up in the chair at Eli’s bedside. Vada didn’t spend time worrying about the Lisette and Kenny affair, except for a few minutes feeling a bit sorry for the young man, because he did seem sweet. Unlike her body, which remained comfortably settled and still next to her sister, her mind tossed and turned, reliving every moment of the day, all of it cowering in the encompassing shadow of Louis LaFortune.

  How many nights had her mother done this same thing, lying in bed next to Doc, filled with longing for Alex Triplehorn? Because certainly she longed for him. A woman doesn’t leave the life she created unless she longs for something else. And why would she invest the time in growing this family—marrying Doc, raising three daughters, conceiving a fourth—if she was going to be so easily uprooted?

  And yet, this was the stock Vada came from. The fruit of that kind of woman. And here she was in bed, longing…

  She would go to Alex Triplehorn today and tell him he must not attempt to make amends. Indeed, there were no amends to make. He hadn’t dragged Mother hogtied and kicking away from this family. She simply left. He hadn’t held her prisoner during the time they roamed and lived together, she simply stayed. He certainly didn’t ban her from stationery and pen, hadn’t withheld postcard privileges, barred her from telegraph offices. If Mother’s desertion proved anything, it proved that she was a woman who knew—and got—exactly what she wanted in life.

  Seventeen years ago, Mother decided she wanted Alex Triplehorn. Last night, in the alcove beneath the front steps, Vada understood why. Because there in the dark, when she wasn’t dwelling on her mother’s choices, she was facing her own.

  Long after the time she’d spent on her knees, her face now buried in the mattress beside her sleeping sister, she confessed, Lord, holy Father in heaven, forgive me. For my dishonesty with Garrison, for my behavior with him. And tonight… She couldn’t bear to form words around her shame. But God had been watching. He knew. Take away this taint of lust that has settled on my spirit. And have mercy on me, Father. And keep Mr. LaFortune away…

  But hadn’t she prayed that very thing over tea and lemon cake in Moravek’s? And hadn’t God allowed LaFortune to wander, unfettered, right up to her front door? She lifted her head from the mattress, looking up and out into the moonlight through the window.

  “Then be my strength.”

  As much as she knew that her Savior granted grace, that her sins were forgiven, she felt no comfort. Confession to Jesus wasn’t enough to grant her peace. That would only come with confession to the man she betrayed. The man who, if the embrace in his office stairwell was any indication, was just as capable of passion as was this passing stranger. How could she tell him, after all these years of faithfulness, that she’d chucked it all away for one moment of reckless abandon?

  Well, more than one moment, if she were to be truly honest. Her willful surrender to LaFortune seemed, in light of the circumstances, an inevitable misstep. She would need to acknowledge the enticement at the time she gave him the buttons. No, to the conversation at the ball field. In truth, at the moment she first laid eyes, then a comforting hand, on him.

  For three days he’d been a plague on her thoughts, slowly casting a pall on the heart that once was so full of love for Garrison. The love was still there, to be sure, but in light of these past days, it was a shadow of what it once had been. How would she tell him?

  Or should she?

  Two more days, LaFortune had said. Two days and he’d be on the train to Brooklyn or Chicago or Philadelphia—anywhere but here. Gone, and no doubt forgotten all about her. For three days she’d protected Garrison from this pain, surely she could shield him for two more. It would be easier once LaFortune was out of town, when she knew he wouldn’t show up unbidden on her doorstep. And then she and Garrison could continue on as they were before. The same slow, steady path of understanding. In time, this monstrous mass of self-loathing would diminish, become a pebble of memory she’d carry forever, like the shiny, smooth stone in Eli’s pocket.

  She might even come to forget about it for days on end. After all, that’s what happened with the pain she felt when Mother left. Althea allowed it to steal her voice, and Hazel wrapped herself up in it. But Vada had stamped it down, down, down, becoming stronger—the strongest person in her family by any measure. If she could walk away from that pain, she could walk away from this. Her life, as far as anybody knew, unscathed.

  What would her life have been if her mother had made the same choice all those years ago?

  Which started the cycle of thoughts all over again.

  The moment she heard Molly’s heavy step through the back door, Vada gave up any pretense of trying to sleep. She took her pink floral wrapper from its hook and tied the belt as she walked across the hall to observe the scene in her own bedroom. It was as familiar now as any other—Eli, still as a corpse, his hands heavy against his sides, and Althea, slumped in the chair, her head resting against the wall.

  Moving in, Vada noticed a new a
ddition to the tableau as Althea’s thin, small hand rested on Eli’s bare shoulder. She thought immediately of LaFortune, how his body felt beneath the thin layer of wool. Here was a touch far more intimate, yet without a hint of salaciousness. What she wouldn’t trade for such innocence.

  Her first instinct was to pad across the room, take Althea in her arms, and lead her, sleepwalking, to bed. Either her own or in with Hazel. But as Vada approached and Althea’s face became more distinct in the pale predawn light, she was struck by the peace she saw there. This was a choice Althea had made—to stay by this man’s side no matter the cost. Who was Vada to judge what constituted comfort?

  So, as silently as she entered, she backed away, padding barefoot downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Well, don’t you look like somethin’ the faeries rummaged out of the slop house last night?”

  “Good morning to you too, Molly.”

  “I’ll be gettin’ the coffee on as quick as I can, but it looks to me like what you’re needin’ is to march yourself back up those stairs and finish sleepin’.”

  “I tried.” Vada made her way to the table. “But I woke up a while ago, and it’s useless.”

  “Was it a bad dream?”

  “No. No dream.”

  Molly opened one of the drawers underneath the narrow table to the right of the sink where she stored her apron. “Sometimes there are things in this world that strike such fear in us; the only way to face them is in our dreams. Not sleepin’ is how we run away.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Oh, of course not.” The effort of wrapping the apron strings and tying them behind her left Molly a little breathless, and she sat in the chair opposite Vada to continue. “Known ya goin’ on fifteen years now, isn’t it? Even when you were just a little bit of a girl, you was always fearless. Protectin’ everyone. And ya know what?”

  “What?”

  Molly leaned close and rapped her knuckles on the table. “You didn’t fool me then either.”

  If only she were ten years old. She’d crawl into Molly’s ample lap, nestle down in her soft bosom, and talk and weep and sleep. Not that Molly would ever allow such piffery.