Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  “I don’t have what you’d call a real educational background,” he said in a manner that was defensive. “School wasn’t a priority for me.”

  Quietly, she asked, “Your parents didn’t encourage you?”

  He smiled with such sarcasm, she was prompted to find out why. “Your mother?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Your father?”

  “Unknown whereabouts unless he writes and needs money from me.”

  That he could be so cold about it saddened and distressed her. What a different childhood he must have had in comparison to hers.

  “You?” he said. “Parents?”

  He spoke in incomplete sentences. As was her habit with her girls, she wanted to correct him, even though she understood what he was asking. But she refrained. No need to remind them both she was a spinster schoolmarm.

  “They passed away. My mother had me late in life. She and my father were in their forties.” The admission slipped out, surprising her. She didn’t normally divulge she’d been born to a couple past their prime. She was comfortable around elderly people because that’s who’d raised her. Although Jake didn’t know the actuality, The Aunts were seventy-one and had entered her life when she’d been nine years old.

  The pain-filled cry of a woman’s voice drifted down the stairs that led to the upper floors through the kitchen.

  Truvy quit breathing, looking across the table and holding Jake’s gaze.

  He was just as scared as she was. She could tell. Creases at the corners of his mouth went white as he clenched his jaw.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s normal.”

  She wanted to ask him how he knew. Had he been with women as they’d delivered babies?

  In a clear effort to bring her mind away from the thump of feet overhead and the whimpers of Edwina, Jake reached over and took her hand, giving her a deliberate squeeze. “For a woman who wins trophies by hurling basketballs, you have soft hands, Miss Valentine.”

  When he called her Miss Valentine, he uttered the syllables in a slow drawl that had the feel of warm honey. It was one thing to hear Moose Thompson say her name with his beefy inflection—“Miz V’lantine”—and another when Jake spoke it. She doubted he was emphasizing her unmarried status, but she caught herself being oversensitive. She felt like a withered-up crone.

  “Don’t call me Miss Valentine like that.” She pulled her hand free from his, feeling the calluses on his palm as it slid over her knuckles. “If you must use my name, call me Truvy.”

  “Truvy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how’d you get a name like that?”

  “I was named after the day I was born on. February the fourteenth. I was, as my mother said, a true valentine in every sense. ‘True V.’ became ‘Truvy.’ ”

  “I’ve never met another Truvy.”

  “It’s not likely you will.”

  After she replied, she wondered if he’d meant a woman named Truvy, or a woman like her. She wasn’t skilled in male-female conversation, the subtleties of small talk between the sexes. This was the first time she’d revealed this much about herself to a man. Was his meaning that she was unique? Did she want him to think she was unique? Nobody had ever—she abruptly quit the thought. She’d never learn how he intended the comment, because she’d never ask him to explain it.

  A span of silence wore on between them, as neither said anything further. A log in the stove fell, crackling and popping as it burned. The noises upstairs came in intervals; a soft whimper, a drone of undecipherable instruction, a stifled sob, and then Tom’s voice of assurance.

  Truvy didn’t know how much more she could take of the endless hours in which nothing seemed to happen; then immediately, she was sorry. If she was tired and anxious, dear Edwina had to be feeling that way ten times over.

  As each minute ticked off the clock, frightened anticipation worked up Truvy’s spine. She sat tall and unmoving. The longer the birthing took, the more her mind became congested with doubts and fears.

  The coffeepot ran dry once more, and she rose to fill it when the sound of a baby’s cry came from above, piercing the tense silence in the hot kitchen.

  She looked at Jake. He stood.

  Footsteps sounded on the narrow wooden stairs behind her. She turned and saw Tom stopping halfway down. He wore a grin on his mouth as broad as idealism. Relief softened the corners. His rumpled shirt was marked with perspiration. “Edwina’s fine. It’s a girl.” He laughed heartily. “I have a daughter, Jake!” Then he went back up the stairs.

  Truvy let out her breath, unaware she’d been holding it.

  A girl.

  A baby.

  Something I’ll never have.

  Disappointment came in a twinge that tightened the pressure against her ribs, making her corset feel sizes too small, laced beyond comfort. The squeezing hurt snuck up on her, catching her unaware. This feeling had no place or reason in her heart. It was just there, sudden, surprising.

  The words from the book came flooding into her mind: Sexual emotion is absolutely necessary to conception. The child is made in a moment. The best qualities of mind and body are most desirable.

  She’d never know what that meant.

  She bowed her head. To her dismay, she wanted to bury her face in the corded muscles of Jake’s chest, have him soothe her—make her feel normal, accepted, without motherhood being a part of her life.

  Then, she felt arms around her, pulling her close, fitting her head in the perfect hollow between his shoulder and neck. As if he knew. And yet, how could he know the extraordinary void that welled within her?

  His large hands stroked her back, up and down. They rubbed, quieted, comforted—offered a silent message of understanding. She laid her cheek at the collar of his shirt, the fabric pleasantly warmed from his skin. She felt his body, hard and strong beneath her palms as they hesitantly rested on the expanse of his chest. His chin rested on the top of her head; then he inhaled, subtly, slowly, as if pulling her fragrance into his lungs. The gesture made her conscious of the fact she’d washed her hair with lemon verbena that morning.

  He encircled her tighter, holding her within a sanctuary of safety. Here, in his tender embrace, she didn’t feel like a maiden auntie, a plain, nobody woman that no man wanted.

  A woman who thought she was fine on her own, without a man.

  He said only one word, his moist breath tickling the shell of her ear as the sound passed through his lips.

  “Truvy.”

  Emotional as she was, she wanted to cry, but she refrained. She wouldn’t let herself lose all control. She felt better now, ready to go on with her duty to her friend.

  Realizing that, she had to prove she wasn’t a sentimental fool. Freeing herself from him, she put on a brave smile. “Well, I’d best see what needs to be done for Edwina . . .”

  He lowered his arms to his sides. “Yeah, sure.”

  She dared not recognize the light of confusion in his eyes. Or was that a trace of regret?

  “I’ll chop some more wood.” He put on his red plaid shirt, fastening the buttons with one hand.

  The porch door opened and closed.

  Frosty air swirled into the warmth of the kitchen, but that wasn’t what caused Truvy to shiver. She still heard the mellow sound of her name coming from his lips: Truvy.

  Velvety smooth, the lingering notes of it remained suspended in the room.

  The heavy iron weight of a barbell brought out the veins on Jake’s biceps as he curled the bar up in a wide arc. Sweat glistened on his forehead, trickled between the swells of his pectorals, and dampened the body hair beneath his arms. He brought the bar high, elbows close to his body, his feet shoulder-width apart. Following the same half circle, he lowered the barbell again, resisting the weight all the way down until his arms were fully extended.

  He was in the middle of his fourth set, and his muscles were in the beginnings of failing. His biceps screamed in agony. But he didn’t stop. He clenche
d his teeth so hard, his jaw ached. His extensor forearms burned as he brought the barbell up to the sixth and final range of motion.

  Following through, he lowered the weight toward the floor. As the globe-shaped ends hit the carpet, a small cloud of white chalk puffed beneath each ball. Straightening, Jake shook out his arms as he gazed at his reflection in the gymnasium’s mirror.

  Although not in competition shape, he was dense and cut with muscle. No shirt covered his chest; well-defined ridges and valleys contoured the expanse of skin, which was covered with a light amount of chest hair. A pair of gym trunks, cut off high at the thigh, molded tightly over his buttocks. His shoulder breadth had a good deltoid development that increased his front lat spread when he posed. Obliques and abdominals were taut but not thick.

  He stood at six feet five inches and weighed two hundred and fifty-seven pounds. When he’d been in prime form, he weighed two hundred and seventy.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he flexed his fingers in the fingerless leather gloves he wore. Then he moved his hands over the barbell with a closed grip, putting extra stress on the outside heads of his biceps. With his intense physical strain and mental concentration, his next set was slower but remained tight. The stretch of muscle went to a full extension, then came all the way back to a position of complete contraction.

  Dawn’s light shone through the windows, reflecting off the mirror. He was a lone man exercising in Bruiser’s Gymnasium on a frigid morning when nobody else was up. Except Truvy Valentine, whom he had left at the Wolcotts’ an hour earlier.

  He willed his thoughts of her to dissipate, focusing on the movement of weight and his ability to follow through the motion.

  Highly oxygenated blood pumped through him, elevating his exhausted mood after a long night of coffee and waiting. He counted out the repetitions in his mind.

  Two. The speed with which his lifeblood surged into certain vessels more quickly caused his skin to flush. His heart beat at twice its normal speed.

  Three. His sweat became profuse; his breathing became increasingly noisy and difficult.

  Four! Engorged with blood, his entire anatomy enlarged.

  Five! A feeling of heat and heightened sensitivity charged his body’s surface. The sensations were strongly erotic. The “pump” climaxed through him, a point of intensity, of emotional excitement. A warm, prickly sensation made his body feel like liquid fire.

  Six! On a groan, he lowered the barbell and backed away, throwing his head back and taking in deep gulps of air. With splayed fingers locked on his hips, he walked a small circle, channeling the euphoria that aroused his body. It beat within his chest, pulsed through his veins, scorched his skin.

  He sank onto the padded leather of the preacher’s bench and rested his elbows on his knees. Breathing came in a rush as he stared at the gym. He let his mind wander to the woman he’d been trying to put out of his head by working out.

  Truvy. The echo of her name brought with it the memory of soft, pliant warmth, of breasts crushed next to his chest. Her hair smelled like lemons or flowers. He couldn’t decide. It was an exotic mixture of both. The perfume clinging to her skin was that of coffee because of the grounds that had flown out of the mill every time she dumped them into the blue enamel pot. Between the three, he thought she smelled kissable. The way she rested her cheek on his chest, eyes closed, with her lashes demurely down, he’d imagined delivering the lightest, most tender kiss he could give her. There. On those long lashes.

  But that moment hadn’t been about him, his wants. It had been about hers.

  She’d simply wanted him to hold her. She’d said as much without the words. So he had. And in doing so, he wanted more. She projected an energy and spirit that undeniably attracted him to her.

  He recalled her fervent political opinions, the way her lips had parted in surprise. Her confusion at his lack of interest. What would she think of him if she knew the kind of boyhood he’d come from?

  Who he’d been. Where he’d been. What he’d done.

  Jake combed a hand through his damp hair. His reflections of the past had him looking back on a life lived hard and fast, in the limelight. He closed his eyes. The backs of his lids burned with dryness from lack of sleep.

  He’d been twenty-five and had things he’d only dreamed about. Luxury, fame, wealth, and success. And a wife.

  Laurette Everleigh. A famous dancer, she was renowned across the country for her beauty. Unmatched in womanly sensuality, she’d come to the exposition to perform. Ziegfeld hooked them up for some publicity photographs, and the next day, the Chicago Daily News headlined them as the “most magnificent-looking couple of the century.”

  A week later, they were married.

  At the end of his six-week run in Chicago, they were divorced.

  She left for Boston with a five-grand settlement out of him. He went back to New York worth twenty-five thousand dollars. He hadn’t seen her since.

  He broke his partnership with Ziegfeld, then performed in several theaters in Manhattan. Over the years, his father came to several of his shows, asked for money—which Jake gave him—then disappeared again for months. During the nineties, Jake invested in several ventures. He backed a Klondike mine, only to have it go bust. He lost a lot. But had enough money left to realize that the big city made him reckless, self-indulgent, and free-spending.

  So he followed the advice of Tom Wolcott and came west to Montana to open a gymnasium. Jake and Tom had met in San Francisco some years back. Tom was bartending at the Lucky Nugget, and the two of them found they had a lot in common. Both had wastrel fathers and neither one of them had a mother—although Tom knew his mother had passed away. The two of them were independent and business-minded, and when Jake had settled back in New York, Tom moved on to Washington and finally Harmony. He’d told Jake about the town, his new wife—Edwina—and had been after him to come. Jake finally took him up on it.

  He liked Harmony, liked the feeling it gave him. The street blocks were those of your typical small town, named by a theme. In this case, the theme was trees. The citizens seemed chronically short of cash but always took care of their own. Anonymously, Jake donated to the church fund through his bank account. Only the Reverend Stoll and Mr. Fletcher, the manager of Harmony Security Bank, knew about it, and Jake said he’d knock Fletcher into next week if he ever revealed Jake’s identity.

  When he wanted a woman, he sought them in nearby Waverly or Alder. Nobody in town would put up with womanizing right under their noses. They were a stiff bunch but a good bunch of folks.

  Tom and Edwina were the best.

  At that thought, Jake rose and grabbed a copy of yesterday’s newspaper that had been left in the smoking lounge in the men’s dressing room. He brought it to his office and sat down.

  From his bottom drawer, beneath a box of striking-bag inflaters, he took out a pair of plain spectacles and a dictionary. Wiping the glass lenses on the fabric of his gym trunks, he held them up for inspection. Clean and clear. He fit the straight temples on his ears.

  The papers and brochures and booklets and receipts scattered over his desk took on a clarity and deeper definition of light and dark. The miniature world of fine text print came into sharp focus.

  He refused to put on the gold-rimmed peepers if anyone was around. A big guy like him wearing a pair of glasses presented a weak constitution. It wasn’t good for business. Strong men had strong eyes.

  Jake flipped the newspaper to the front page, leaning closer for a study of the words.

  Matthew Gage, the editor of the Harmony Advocate, had written up a commentary on the U.S. Supreme Court and Puerto Rico. The headline read: UNITED STATES SUPREME COURT EXHIBITS POWER.

  Opening the Webster’s, Jake searched for the word exhibit. At times, it could be a slow process because his attention veered to the multitude of other words. Other definitions. They came at him in an explosion of black ink. He absorbed as many as he could. He wanted intellectual power. To memorize the whole diction
ary in his head. So as his gaze skimmed down the columns, he looked up the other ex- words.

  excruciate: to inflict severe pains upon; torture.

  He didn’t know that was how to spell xcrusheate.

  Dragging his finger down the page, he mumbled letters: “exc . . . excu . . . execu . . .”

  exercise: to train by use; exert; practice; employ activ ity.

  He knew that one.

  exhibit: to present to view; display.

  Jake continued with the opinion piece that stated inhabitants of Puerto Rico and other U.S. overseas territories were U.S. nationals, not citizens, and that the Constitution applied only in territories incorporated by the U.S. Congress. Roosevelt had his nose in it.

  Overseas territories.

  U.S. Nationals.

  Constitution.

  U.S. Congress.

  None of that mattered diddly-squat to Jake. But because Truvy thought the president’s policies notable, he found himself thumbing through the entire newspaper, looking for things he could find on Teddy.

  He didn’t want to confront the logic behind such an effort.

  It was better for him to think he’d suddenly grown a taste for politics than had a desire to hunt down facts so he could impress a woman named for her birthday.

  Chapter

  5

  “W ell, what do you think?”

  Truvy stared at the pair of fancy mittens made of cardinal Saxony wool with yellow bows on the wrists, then at Mrs. Plunkett, who sat on the edge of the parlor chair with her hands pressed together in anticipation.

  Momentarily, Truvy’s voice eluded her. “I—I think they’re quite lovely. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Oh but, my dear, I wanted to.” Her rosy cheeks blossomed like ripe apples. Her ample bosom swelled with pride. “I made an exact pair for my Hildegarde when she was sixteen.”

  But I’m twenty-five.

  “Try them on.” Mrs. Plunkett’s cheeriness was a stark contrast to the doldrums she’d been in that morning.

  Truvy put one mitten on, then the other. They had no fingers, but the knit was soft; they reminded her of her childhood in Kansas, where she spent many winters building snowmen and being pulled on a sled by her uncles. She held her palms up for Mrs. Plunkett’s examination.