“Who is it, Molly?” Vada insisted, though the sinking feeling in her gut already provided a name.
“Oh, somethin’ exotic. Trippenshire? Trip—”
“Triplehorn?” Vada and Hazel spoke in perfect unison.
Molly snapped her fingers. “The very one! And with your father out again—back to that ballpark, Lord bless him. Stayin’ for the game today he is. I told him he should do that very thing. Poor man needs to enjoy himself a little more.”
“Mr. Triplehorn’s downstairs now?” Hazel asked, her voice shaking.
“He is, indeed. And I told him I’d fetch one of the young ladies to speak with him, and then I come up the stairs to find the souls of my sweet girls taken over by a pair of brawlin’—”
Vada pushed past Molly and turned to see that Hazel followed her into the hall.
“Stay here,” Vada said. “Talk to Althea. And Molly.”
“What should I tell them?”
“Everything. Some secrets are easier to share.”
Vada had long ago perfected the art of descending the stairs quietly, knowing exactly which ones were likely to elicit a protesting squeak. She moved slowly, stealthily. Lord, give me the words to say. She paused at the hallway mirror long enough to smooth her hair and give a quick pinch to her cheeks.
As impressive as Alex Triplehorn’s size was when she met him in the Hollenden Hotel restaurant, and as menacing as he’d appeared in the streetlamp shadows, nothing compared to the mass he claimed standing in the Allenhouse parlor. His eyes were level with the uppermost bookshelves, and he ran a thick finger along the titles.
“Mr. Triplehorn?”
He turned around, clasping his hands behind his back. “Miss Allenhouse. We meet again, under less confusing and startling circumstances, I hope.”
Vada replayed the escapades of just hours ago and smiled.
If he only knew.
“What is the reason for your visit, Mr. Triplehorn?”
“I would prefer to speak to your father.”
“He isn’t here, and quite frankly, I think it would be best for all of us if you were to leave right now before he comes home.”
The pounding in her head had narrowed to a sharp, precise pain, and it served to truncate her conversation, making her sound more powerful than she felt.
He moved to the mantel, strolling the length of it, looking at each picture in turn. “No picture of your mother.”
“No. There hasn’t been for some time.” Still, even then, she could see her mother’s image—so much like her own—buried in the top drawer of her bureau, now nestled next to Eli’s letter.
“Too bad. Marguerite was a beautiful woman.”
“We really must insist that you leave. Again.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You speak for your father?”
“I’m speaking for our family.”
“A family I have wronged. And I feel I must make amends.”
Whatever threat he’d represented, whether his size, his stature, or history, diminished with the ticking of the clock. He seemed to shrink to the room, or maybe the room grew to encompass him. Either way, before her very eyes, he became nothing more than a man, a tormented one at that, and her own tormented soul reached out to him.
“Why?” She approached him. “Why now?”
“My business kept me traveling much of the time. And I guess”—he looked up to the ceiling—“I didn’t want to face what I did. But when I happened across your sister’s advertisement in the Cheyenne paper, and I knew I was coming to Cleveland…it seemed like a sign.”
“From whom?” she asked, remembering LaFortune’s powers of spiritual interpretation.
“I’m not a man to believe in God.”
Until that moment, it was a question she’d never allowed herself to ponder, but now, facing the man who might have the answer, she asked, “Did she?”
A bittersweet smile curved his full lips. “After she got sick—Do you want to hear this?”
She clenched her jaw and nodded.
“After she got sick, she used to say she felt like God was punishing her. For”—his voice caught in his throat—“for leaving you. All of you.” He looked closely at the picture of Lisette. “Is this the baby?”
“That’s her. She is twelve years old in that picture.”
He lifted the frame and brought it closer to his face. “What color is her hair?”
“It’s like caramel.”
“Then I saw her. One afternoon when I was waiting for your father. She’s a lovely girl.”
“Yes.”
“And she looks nothing like me.”
“No. So it would appear that your business here is concluded.”
He replaced the frame but made no attempt to leave. “I still would like to make some restitution to your father.”
“And what restitution could you make, Mr. Triplehorn? Can you bring his wife back?”
“Of course not. But, having been alone for so many years now, I think I better understand what I did to him.”
“Is that what you think? That our lives just stopped the moment you—the moment she left? Because it didn’t. Yes, we were all very sad for a while.” She thought about Althea’s lingering silence. “But we’re stronger than that. We’re fine. And for the pain that lingers, well, there’s nothing you can do about that. Only God can touch our hearts that deeply.”
“And has He?”
“Perhaps, because of your visit, we’re in a place to ask Him to. But I know this for sure. Your presence here, unannounced, can only cause our father pain. And I think we both agree that he’s been hurt quite enough.”
“Still I—”
“Take heart in this. Whatever happened all those years ago, it was my mother who hurt him. He didn’t love you, Mr. Triplehorn. Your actions alone could never have left so deep a wound. You did not betray him. You did not leave him. If she had the sense to seek God’s forgiveness for her actions, then she must have been content to meet Him without asking the same of my father. You owe us nothing. We wish you no ill will.”
“But will you tell him I stopped by?”
She thought about that evening, all those years ago, when she and her sisters learned of their mother’s death. All those questions. How? And when? Could Doc have somehow saved her? The man who held the answers stood before her, but she no longer desired to know. There was quite enough pain to erase already. No need to add another circumstance.
“Someday. When we are happier than we are now and sitting and talking of inconsequential things. When he is stronger.”
“He has a right—”
“To peace. Which he has worked very hard to find. I think it best neither of us take that away.”
He twirled his hat for a moment, before reaching his hand out to Vada. “Then I wish you good afternoon, Miss Allenhouse.”
She offered hers in return, feeling it swallowed up in his massive palm.
“And give my best to your sister.”
“I will.”
“And to that young man of yours. He seems quite attentive.”
“He is,” she said, unwavering. “Let me show you to the door.”
They said nothing else as she walked with him to the front door, which he opened, hesitating on the threshold. “Do you think I might write your father a letter?”
“Address it to me,” she said before closing the door behind him.
Once he was on the other side, she rested her face against the cool smooth wood, gathering strength before climbing back up to Hazel’s room. There she could see that, even if they hadn’t strained themselves listening at the stairs, Hazel had informed them of who Alex Triplehorn was and why he was here.
“Oh, ya brave soul.” Molly lifted her apron to wipe an errant tear.
“What did you tell him?” Hazel asked.
“I told him to leave us alone.” And that would have to do for an answer. The three women parted for her like she had just freed a nation. She collapsed on Haze
l’s bed, flinging her arm over her eyes to block out the light.
“Everybody out,” Molly said. “Poor thing’s not slept a bit, I’d wager. Althea, it’s time for your young man to start on his supper. I strained a little bit o’ prunes into the broth, just to keep things movin’ along if ya know what I mean.”
“Vada?” Hazel sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry for those horrible things I said.”
Vada dropped her arm but was unable to open her eyes. “It’s all right. And I’m sorry I slapped you. It’s been a really terrible day.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
She lolled her head from side to side.
“Would you like to hear something nice?”
“Very much.”
“Okay.” The weight lifted, there was a rustling of paper, and the weight returned. “I got a new letter from Barth today.”
“Another one?”
“Which is why I had no right to be so cross with you this afternoon. Listen?”
“Please.”
Hazel gave something between a squeal and a clearing of her throat before beginning. “‘My darling Miss Allenhouse. Although I have not yet received a reply from my previous letter—in truth I put it to post just two days ago—I’ve taken barely a breath since then that was not taken in your presence, for indeed you are with me always. I drink the words off your page, carry them in my heart. Speak your name. Hazel. Hazel. Hazel. You surround me here—your name the color of the sage when it sparkles wet with rain. And I imagine your scent to be as sweet. I hear your voice as on the breeze, and with it I hear the voice of God compelling me to declare my love…’”
That was the last word Vada heard. Love. And she carried it with her into the black.
17
Vada’s first thought was that she’d slept through both the day and night, waking to the predawn darkness. But the unmistakable odor of Molly’s Irish cod cobbler hardly heralded breakfast fare. It must be evening, and suppertime at that.
An entire day without food following an entire night without sleep raised a debate within her about which of the two needs she should meet. If her body would cooperate and get her downstairs, there was little doubt which would win.
Now, to move.
The right arm that had been flopped above her head was still there—or so she assumed, given no trauma had occurred to sever it. She could feel nothing beyond her shoulder, and even that was a knot of numbness. It simply would not move on its own, so she was left with no recourse but to bring her left arm over her head to scoop the right one off the pillow and drop it down by her side.
Sitting up was an arduous task, given only one functioning elbow, and she struggled until her legs dangled over the edge. Somebody had seen fit to remove her shoes. She wriggled her toes, thinking that, until her arm recovered, she’d remain shoeless.
A chorus of popping sounds sang out as she rolled her head from side to side. Not even the slightest tingle invaded her right arm, so she braced herself with her left hand and rose to her feet. The sticky-sour taste of hunger filled her mouth, and she worked her tongue along the inside of her lips, first opening them, then smacking them once, twice, before erupting into an enormous yawn.
A thin ribbon of light outlined the door just before it opened, revealing Hazel’s distinctive silhouette. “You’re awake?”
“Just barely.”
“Garrison is downstairs.”
“What?”
“Thursday night. Supper.”
“Oh, of course.”
She began a stumbling walk toward the door, only to be corralled back by Hazel’s guiding arm.
“Let’s clean you up a bit first, sis.” Hazel guided Vada to her desk and sat her down in the chair. Then, one by one, she took the remaining pins out of Vada’s hair until it tumbled loose around her shoulders. The only sound in the room was that of the brush working first through the knots, then making long, smooth strokes from the top of her crown down to the ends splayed out against Hazel’s palm.
“Do you want me to put it up?”
“No,” Vada said. “Just plait it.”
She felt Hazel gather her hair and separate it into three sections, creating a long, loose braid hanging straight down her back.
“You want me to wrap it around? Or leave it so it’s all ready for when you go back to bed?”
“Leave it.” Her arm was just beginning to tingle.
“And why don’t you just put on your housedress for supper?”
“My housedress? With Garrison downstairs?”
Hazel giggled. “It can’t be any worse than what you’re wearing now. And I think he’ll understand. He knows you’ve been sleeping.”
“Oh, what he must think of me.”
“He thinks nothing, Vada. Just that the stress of the past few days caught up with you. And by the way,” Hazel said as she helped Vada undress, “I talked with Lissy and told her I personally would shave her head at midnight if she even hints to Garrison that something might be wrong between the two of you.”
Vada braced herself against her sister’s shoulder, wincing at the pain in her wakening arm, and walked out of her skirt. “Thank you for that. Do you think there’s something wrong between us?”
“I know Garrison loves you.”
“Really? How do you know that?”
“Because he looks for you. Every time he walks into a room, it’s like his eyes can’t rest until he sees you.”
“Then I’d better get downstairs.” She stepped into the soft cotton dress and allowed Hazel to fasten the plain wooden buttons that crept up one side of the bodice. A contrasting ruffle hid the row of buttons, forming a three-sided square under her bust and up to both shoulders. Nowhere near as fashionable as what she’d worn all around town today, the dress was nonetheless infinitely more comfortable, and the thought of putting shoes on underneath it seemed completely superfluous.
“How do I look?” She assumed the fashion pose of a Harper’s Bazaar model.
“Like you and Garrison ought to follow me to the frontier. You’d be high fashion out there.”
Every Thursday, the Allenhouse family ate in their formal dining room. And if ever there was a night to invite a guest, Thursday was it, as this was the final meal of the week to be prepared by Molly. Often she cooked two entrées, several side dishes, and even more than one dessert—all intended to see the family through the weekend.
When Vada and Hazel came down, everybody was seated at the table—Doc at the head, with Lisette and Althea to his right. The chair to his immediate left was empty, waiting for Hazel; Garrison sat in the chair next to her. Vada’s place was at the foot of the table and had been since Garrison first came to dinner. Before that, there had always been an empty space at family dinners.
They walked in with Lisette in midcomplaint about her Kenneth not being invited to supper. “It was the most awkward thing telling him I couldn’t go walk with him because we have this family dinner. And then not to invite him. What must he think of me?”
“I courted your sister for three months before I was invited in to dinner,” Garrison said. “It was mid-December and Molly made corned beef and cabbage. I ate so much, children thought I was old Saint Nick and followed me all the way home.”
Only Doc granted a polite chuckle.
“And what a fine pleasure it was to see me boy-o with such an appetite after feedin’ all these girls.” Hazel’s voice was a perfect match for Molly’s, and the two sisters came to the table in the midst of laughter.
“Well, look at you, Vada,” Lisette said, absently tapping her spoon. “Planning to do a little dusting after dinner?”
Oh, how she wasn’t in the proper humor to suffer Lisette’s jabs, but before she could open her mouth for a retort, Garrison was on his feet, taking her hands and leading her to her place. Good thing he did too, as she couldn’t bear to look up to find it for herself.
“I think you look perfectly lovely, darling,” he said. �
�I’ll never understand why you women don’t dress more comfortably all the time.”
“Because you men wouldn’t look at us if we did,” Lisette said, prompting Doc to deliver the first admonishment of the evening.
Soon after, Molly came in with a soup tureen clutched in the crook of her arm and asked if anyone had thought to say the blessing.
“Not yet,” Doc said. “We were waiting for Vada.”
“An’ bless your souls you did,” Molly said. “Looks like the rest did you a bit o’ good.”
Doc asked Garrison to say the blessing, as he often did, and Garrison stood at his place, reaching down to join hands with Vada and Hazel. Molly plopped the tureen down on the table, bringing forth a blurp of bright orange soup, and quickly made the sign of the cross before stepping between Althea and Doc.
“Kenneth is Catholic too, you know,” Lisette whispered broadly over her sister.
“Saints be praised for that,” Molly replied before dutifully bowing her head.
“Our Father in heaven,” Garrison began. Vada felt the first tear squeeze through her closed eyes at the sound of his voice. “We thank You for this bountiful meal, and we ask a blessing upon the hands that prepared it. We thank You for bringing us safely to gather here, and we pray for those who have no one with whom to share their food, and for those who have no food to share. Gather us close unto Your bosom, Lord, and may we be ever mindful of Your presence. Grant us wisdom, and bind us together in Your love. Amen.”
A chorus of Amens followed, and Vada quickly swiped away the tear before Garrison was back in his seat.
Molly moved along behind them, ladling bright orange soup into the shallow bowls at each place.
“Carrot?” Doc asked after taking the first sip.
“Creamed with some of that sweet canned milk,” Molly said, bursting with pride.
“Well, it’s delicious.” Just as the table was quick to chime in their agreement with Garrison’s prayer, so did they show their appreciation for the soup with short, mumbled sounds of satisfaction interspersed with clinking spoons.
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