Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  Edwina laughed, then winced like she sometimes did when the baby was kicking. She’d been doing that a lot this morning—even making slight gasps, as if the unborn child within her was overly active.When they’d drunk their tea at the dining-room table, she’d excused herself to go to the water closet.A short while later, she came back saying she was fine. But on the walk over, she’d stopped to catch her breath, resting her hand on the awning post in front of an office belonging to Milton Burditt, Esquire. A fine prickle of panic had skittered up Truvy’s nape. She suggested they go back home, but Edwina said she’d had her heart set on showing Truvy the dancing studio today. They wouldn’t stay long, she assured Truvy.

  “Yes,” Edwina answered after a soft chuckle, “he still has the big grizzly. Along with all those other little rodents he has stuffed, sitting on the counter and hanging on the walls of his sporting goods store.”

  “I’d like to see them while I’m here.”

  “I’m sure Tom would love to show them to you. Every single one.”

  Truvy walked to the phonograph and scanned the selections. “I like to listen to ragtime. All those nights when you went out and danced with your friends at the Peacherine Club, I stayed in and worked on my assignments. I should have gone with you. You always had more fun than I did.”

  “There are a lot of ways to have fun without going to a rag club.” She went to Truvy and selected a recording of “Maple Leaf Rag.” Cranking the handle on the phonograph, she lowered the needle until the snappy notes drifted out the trumpet. “I certainly can’t play tennis like you, and it looks fun.”

  “I could show you how. It’s easy.”

  “Easy for you to say. Look at me.” She held up her arms, turning her body sideways. The full gathers of her toasted butter-colored skirts and overblouse were obvious through the opening part of a Brinkley coat. “I’m rather ungainly at the moment.”

  Truvy thought she looked beautiful. She’d never considered that a woman who carried a child would be so pretty. But Edwina was. Her cheeks were a dusky rose, her complexion the color of cream. She was stylish in her braided hat and soft white gloves without even trying. Truvy had taken over an hour to fix herself up; almond green bouclé etamine, the light wool fabric keeping the chill at bay. The walking costume had been more money than she should have spent. Ready made, it had to be altered—the hem lengthened, the cap of the sleeves untucked a few inches.

  “I think you look lovely.”

  “Lovely and expectant,” she replied warmly. “With three full classes in my books, waiting to be taught waltzes as soon as I find them a teacher.” She shuffled lightly, her palms covering her belly. “I did have one hired. She fell on the ice and sprained her ankle. So I’ve had to—” She bit off her sentence with an abrupt intake of her breath. “I think . . .”

  Truvy’s eyes widened. “You think what?”

  “I think . . .”—she lowered herself into one of the few plush velvet chairs that sat next to the wall—“. . . think you’d better go get Tom for me.”

  “Why?” Truvy practically screeched, knowing full well why. But she’d never been with a woman whose time was due. Clearly early. By a week. How fast was the delivery? Her insides quaked.

  “Because something just happened and I need him and Dr. Porter.” She frowned, exhaling shallowly. “You’ll have to get Tom at his store. It’s on Old Oak Road. Down by the train depot.”

  “To the right or the left once I’m outside?” Truvy rushed. The streets they’d taken to the studio from the Wolcott house had her sense of direction twisted around.

  “Right. A few blocks. There’s a tin bald eagle over the door. Wolcott’s Sporting Goods and Excursions on the sign.”

  She put a hand over Edwina’s, meaning to calm her, but Edwina seemed level-headed. It was Truvy who was coming undone. “All right. Okay. Yes. I can find that.” Struggling to capture her composure, she drew her shoulders back and collected herself.

  Truvy would have been fine, out the door and on her way at a sensible but urgent pace, but it was Edwina’s parting word—uttered so quietly and sounding so fragile—that made her fly out the door, the tiny whisper trailing after her.

  “Hurry.”

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Like a litany, it repeated in Truvy’s head, over and over, as she traversed the board walk in high-fashion shoes that pinched and hindered her flight. She glanced once at the street pole sign to read if she was on the proper road. Dogwood Place. Edwina hadn’t said anything about that. Old Oak Road. Just a block down was Sugar Maple Street. That should lead to the train depot.You’d think . . .

  Filled with indecision, she skidded but balanced herself by digging her heels into the iced-over snow. Stuff and fiddlesticks. The mild oath swam in her mind—words she’d heard Edwina use. If Truvy had had her Spaldings on, she could’ve made a fast and competent sprint across town.

  Quickly approaching Sugar Maple, she looked down the slight incline of street to the south. That had to be the way. Keep going. Run. Then again, she didn’t see any depot.

  The uncertainty that flashed in that split second caused her to slide at the corner with the grace of a duck landing on a frozen pond. She barely had time to put her hands out when she plowed into a man’s back as he seemingly came from nowhere around a building’s edge. The force of her assault had no effect on him; he didn’t falter an inch. If it hadn’t been for the thick fabric of his shirt, which she now gripped, Truvy would have been on the icy ground.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she blurted,“but I’m in a hurry.”

  He lowered his chin and slightly tilted his head. Not enough to see her but enough to cause the bristles of an unshaven jaw to snag in the netting on the crown of her hat.

  “This is a new approach on studying my anatomy.” When he spoke, she felt a baritone rumble dissolve into the heat of her crushed breasts. “No need to hurry. Take all the time you want.”

  She knew the voice. Should have recognized the breadth of shoulders in the red plaid blur that filled her vision.

  “I don’t want to feel your muscles, you big toad.” She disengaged her hands from him, shoving him away as she stepped carelessly backwards and nearly slipped once more.

  Jake Brewster turned toward her, realizing who’d been molded against his back. A quirk lifted one brow; his smile was intimate.

  She ignored the lurch in her thumping heartbeat.

  “I’ve got to find Tom Wolcott,” she announced in a shaky voice. “It’s a matter of . . .”—against her will, her eyes moistened, hotly tearing from fear, frustration, and urgency—“. . . of extreme emergency.”

  The rakish light in Jake’s eyes darkened. “Edwina?”

  “Yes. She’s at the dancing studio.”

  “I’ll get Tom. You get the doctor.”

  “Where’s his office?”

  Putting a large hand on her waist, he propelled her to the corner with a firm arm. The hard contour of his bicep pressed against the boning that ran down the side of her bodice. For an instant, she felt his fingers brush over her spine. Gently. Thoughtfully. She didn’t dwell on the notion that he might be comforting her as he pointed the way. “Keep going on this street and turn up Hackberry Way. It’s on the right.”

  He was gone before she could thank him.

  Chapter

  4

  T he zebra clock tolled the hour. Four strikes.

  Stretching the kink in her tired shoulders, Truvy stood at the Wolcotts’ kitchen sink with her hands on the enamel rim. A small flame flickered overhead from the lamp. She viewed her reflection in the window glass; her hair was askew, pins not fully in place. Smudges shadowed her eyes, and the color of her complexion seemed dull. She looked through the image of herself and out into the dark yard.

  Dawn wouldn’t arrive for another three hours.

  “You can’t make coffee worth a damn.”

  Unbidden, she smiled. Her eyes focused on the man sitting behind her. She didn’t have to turn around to see him. His
outline was clearly visible in the pale light bouncing off the mirrorlike window.

  Jake leaned over a cup of coffee, his strong hands around its tiny circumference.

  Defensively, she explained, “It’s because I’m a statistic. The American Collegiate Journal claims female college graduates make poor homemakers.”

  “So do stunningly beautiful women.”

  Turning, she folded her arms across her breasts and slanted her gaze at him. The hair above his ears was trimmed in a way that she found appealing. A day’s growth of beard made his facial features appear less chiseled. He’d removed his heavy red plaid shirt, revealing a long-john shirt with its sleeves cut off just below his shoulders. She should have been offended by the liberty and said so. But the honest truth was, the exposed skin on his arms, bronze and smooth as if made of marble, fascinated her.When he put his elbow on the tabletop, momentarily rubbing his brow, she watched, trancelike, the dance and play of the bands of steel that seemed to occur with every motion he made.

  The fire they’d kept going in the cast-iron stove radiated through the room with almost unbearable ripples of heat—a heat she didn’t dare admit had more to do with the man sharing the room with her than the actual fire.

  She forced herself to stay focused on the chapter called “Adaptation.”

  The parties must have similar tastes, aspirations, hopes, and desires. One must not be an advocate of temperance and the other of drinking. One must not love tobacco and the other hate it. One must not be highly educated and the other an ignoramus, with no love for knowledge and wisdom.

  She wasn’t sure she despised smoking and drinking. She’d never tried either. And really, Jake might be rough around the edges, but she didn’t think of him as an ignoramus.

  It is not necessary that the wedded pair be alike in all things.

  That line gave her optimism. Not that she was thinking of wedding Mr. Jacob Brewster. Heavens—that was the last thing on her mind.

  And yet, he scrutinized her as if she were a mysterious prize in a raffle basket . . . something he wasn’t sure he wanted, but the anticipation of the unknown contents made the basket tempting enough to bid on. When he looked at her like that, her insides turned over.

  She’d caught him watching her several times. It unnerved her. Made her feel as if she had a thread loose at her neckline. Once, she lifted her hand to her collar to check that everything was in place. Not a stitch of fabric out of order. Why, then, did he go on so with a lingering perusal that left her senses scattered?

  With a blink, Truvy brought her thoughts to the present. “I wouldn’t have assumed that. What does a woman’s beauty have to do with keeping a house?”

  A cynical frown caught on his mouth. “They’re too preoccupied with it to do anything but make sure they look good all the time.”

  She detected bitterness in his tone—and a voice recalling experience. Or perhaps it was the hour and the tension that stretched through the waiting. They’d been keeping vigil in the kitchen, Truvy brewing pots of strong coffee, while Tom and Dr. Porter were upstairs with Edwina. Her labor had been progressing for sixteen hours. The last time Tom came downstairs to get a crockery of lard, a bottle of vinegar, and ice pieces for the doctor, he’d said Edwina was holding her own. She was ready; the baby wasn’t.

  Truvy couldn’t dream of what it would be like to have a husband at her bedside when she delivered their child. Even more so, she couldn’t envision being a wife. Or having a home of her own. They were thoughts she never dwelled on. Because her life was full.

  She was happy. Honestly.

  But at the moment, she was beside herself with worry. What was the lard and vinegar for? Were they a telltale sign something was going wrong? She felt helpless and awkward, unequipped to take on the responsibility of friend and helper at a time like this. She didn’t know what to do.

  So she made coffee.

  Terrible coffee. She knew it. The problem was, she didn’t know how to brew it. She guessed the measurements of grounds to water. Fumbled at the mill, grinding until the beans were dusty brown flakes.

  Because there was nothing to do but wait and stay alert in case she was needed, Truvy poured herself a cup of the awful coffee. She splashed a liberal amount of cream and stirred in a lot of sugar into oily, dark coffee to make it more palatable. She joined Jake at the table, sitting across from him but not meeting his gaze.

  “I take it you don’t know how to cook.” His statement was matter-of-fact. Not condescending, but she took it wrong just the same.

  “No, I don’t,” she responded more harshly than she should, giving him a quick glance.

  She knew she had failings. That she wasn’t marriage material. That her choices in life had led her to be teacher and substitute mother to students while she had their attention in her classroom. She could nurture a young lady who was in the throes of sorrow over her economics grade. She could comfort her if she injured a limb on the playing courts. She was a good listener. She was a good motivator.

  She simply wasn’t a good cook. Or any kind of cook. She’d never taken the time to learn. It had never been a priority for her. The Aunts were kitchen-minded—so content to create, they had never asked for help. And she hadn’t had the interest in inquiring.When she’d left Emporia for Chicago, the campus had provided her meals. As did St. Francis, fully prepared by the refectory cooks. She simply sat and ate and enjoyed. It wasn’t important enough to learn on her own.

  “And I suppose you do.” A listless energy enveloped her. He’d been up all night, just as she, yet lack of sleep didn’t seem to affect him at all.

  “I do.”

  She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. “You do?”

  “Yeah.” The depths of his eyes seemed ethereal. That silvery green in the flickering haze of lamplight. She didn’t want to tear her attention away from them. “I live alone. I take care of myself.”

  “Well . . . that’s interesting.” Blood raced through her at the thought. He lives alone. Just like she did in her apartment at St. Francis. They were two independent people. They had nothing in common. That much was evident in the little time she’d spend in his company. It was clear he took life without an iota of seriousness. He talked in innuendoes. Made comments that no decent gentleman would. And yet, she found him . . . likable.

  It was honorable of him to stay with his friend, Tom. She shouldn’t be such a crab. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. This whole business of babies . . . of marriage . . . of zebra clocks . . . and dogs and cats and . . .

  . . . domesticity.

  She was out of her element in this environment.

  “I’m an interesting man, Miss Valentine.” He cracked a smile, then ate a few of the Powell’s candied walnuts in a canister resting on the table. The way he let them drop into his open mouth mesmerized her. He had nice teeth. Even and white. She studied his jaw. The same scruff-bearded jaw that had abraded the netting of her hat. A shiver coursed through her at the memory. It seemed scandalous to think about. A man’s chin tucked into the feminine frills of a lady’s hat, his mouth but a few inches from her forehead. It had been as close as she’d ever come to being kissed.

  Not that he’d been thinking that.

  Clearly, no.

  “Are you interesting, Miss Valentine?” he asked, leaning forward and coming nose to nose with her, practically touching her. The sweet candy on his breath aroused her senses. She could almost taste the walnuts herself. She could see a few grains of sugar on his lips; her mind spun with dismay as she wondered what it would be like to have them pressed against hers.

  Heat blanketed her skin to a degree that she felt perspiration trickle down the valley of her breasts. She found it difficult to sit still in his presence. She needed something to do, something to distract her. Without regard, she ate a walnut. He stared as she chewed, then swallowed. A lump settled into her stomach. She instantly wished she hadn’t eaten the candy. “I don’t know what you’d call interesting.”r />
  “Sports trophies.”

  The coffee cup she’d brought to her mouth stilled. “They’re nothing.”

  “They’re something.” Her eyes leveled on the but tons trailing down the neck of his altered long-john shirt. She could see his pulse beat at the hollow of his throat. The cotton fabric molded over his chest and showed every contour and detail of body definition. He was perfectly comfortable, but she felt as if she would wilt. “How’d you get them? I thought you were a teacher.”

  “I am a teacher.” She didn’t want to tell him she was an athletic coach. If he knew, he’d look at her differently, talk to her differently. It was vain to want his gaze on her as if she were pretty. But she did.

  Sentimentality. Weak constitution.

  She shied away from answering directly. “I teach economics—political, not ‘home,’ obviously. What do you think of President Roosevelt?”

  “I couldn’t say. I don’t know him.”

  “Neither do I, but I have an opinion on his policies.”

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  A surge of invigoration came to life in her fatigued thoughts. “But you live in the United States, Mr. Brewster. Surely you have an opinion on how your government is run.”

  “Not really.”

  “I can’t believe that. Everyone should have a vested interest in how our White House is operating. Don’t you care that the U.S. Congress adopted two amendments this past March to the Army Appropriations Bill providing U.S. intervention abroad?”

  “I don’t live in any white house, Miss Valentine. I make my stake in a room at the gymnasium, so I wouldn’t know about any amendments.”

  “It was in all the newspapers. Because of Cuba.”

  “I read Sporting Life.”

  Truvy fought the urge to bring her hands to her cheeks and stare at him, completely dumbfounded.

  Barkly wandered into the kitchen, his toenails clicking across the planks of the floor. He lowered his muzzle on Jake’s knee and gazed up through his bloodshot eyes. Jake gave his ear an absent scratch.