Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

A young man in a blue uniform stood on the stoop wearing a navy bill cap with pull-down ears. A small Santa Claus head with a flaxen beard was pinned on his lapel.

  “Telegram for this address.” He held out a steel-clip wooden board and ink pen. “Sign here.”

  The envelope beneath the clip had her name plainly typed on the front. Anticipation fluttered in her stomach as she read the sender’s address. The telegram was from Boise. From Miss Pond.

  Truvy hastily put her signature on the correct line. She slipped her hand into the deep pocket of her skirt and gave the boy a few coins. “Thank you.”

  Closing the door, she walked to the staircase and sat down. Neither one of the Plunketts was aware she’d left the parlor. Just as well. She wanted to be alone when she read Miss Pond’s reply.

  The envelope’s seal tore easily, and Truvy withdrew the message that had been transmitted by telegraph. The paper felt flimsy in her fingers. She began to read beyond today’s date:

  RECEIVED YOUR LETTER STOP THINGS NOT RESOLVED STOP SLIGHT PROBLEM STOP MRS. MUMFORD TOOK OVER YOUR CLASSES STOP FEEL CERTAIN SHE WILL LOSE INTEREST SOON STOP WILL KEEP TRYING TO RECTIFY SITUATION STOP HAVE FAITH STOP LUCRETIA POND

  Truvy read the telegram three times, shocked, stunned, and filled with a disbelief that left her shaken. She visibly trembled—her fingers, her knees, her body. It was a good thing she had the bottom step as support. Her chance to return to the life she knew was being pulled out from underneath her. The frankness of the telegram hit her like a sharp thunderclap.

  Truvy had known Mrs. Mumford was a former teacher. She’d boasted about her credentials many times over. She’d been the head of the English department at Smith College. If Mrs. Mumford wanted to come out of retirement and teach at St. Francis, how could the school committee tell her no without risking her sizable donation?

  And yet, Miss Pond felt certain she’d lose interest. Well and good. But in the meantime . . . Mrs. Mumford was in Truvy’s class. Teaching her girls. The very thought washed over Truvy like a violation; it was the ultimate injury, a horrible penalty. If she’d been terminated, it would’ve stung less.

  What was she to do now?

  She had to leave for the Wolcotts’ in half an hour for dinner. How could she go over there for a holiday gathering and be gay when she just wanted to bury her face in her hands and cry?

  Truvy lowered the telegram into the pool of fabric in her lap. Her vision blurred; fear chilled her to the bone.

  Heaven help her.

  A teacher was like a candle. Without the flame of her pupils’ desire to learn, she would grow dimmer and dimmer until she was alone in the darkness.

  The candles on the Wolcotts’ Christmas tree made the icicles look like they were dancing while they collected colors from the glow of flames; the reflections shot onto the walls and ceilings, reminding Jake of a shadow boxer.

  The house smelled like spices. From the tree came the scent of pine and fruit. Sugared apple and orange ornaments gave off a tart-sweet fragrance. Iced ginger-bread cookies hung from the branches. Cranberry and popcorn strings draped in loops over the needles.

  Throughout the parlor and on the front entry table were those horn-of-plenty things filled with nuts, raisins, and hard candy. A colorful mix of wide ribbon candy and candy canes was arranged in a glass dish on the center table.

  While he stood next to the fireplace mantel, Jake sucked on a length of peppermint, rolling it between his tongue and his back teeth.

  The aroma of beef ribs and roasting chestnuts came in from the kitchen. Mrs. Dufresne had done most of the cooking while her husband, Shay, looked after their baby boy. Tom’s brother, John, and his wife, Isabel, had come all the way up from California, bringing their fifteen-month-old daughter, Bijou.

  Sitting near the pile of presents beneath the tree, the curly-haired Bijou gazed upward; she reached out with her pudgy fingers to grab a gingerbread man. She sampled the man’s head, gumming and chewing with contentedness while drool ran down her chin.

  She was a damn cute little button. Innocent. Much loved.

  A rush of memories came to Jake and he cursed them. Holiday cheer and its symbolism made him confront the truth: he had a childhood that stunk.

  Without effort, he could think of all the Christmases he’d missed. The way he’d grown up without a mother. Hard knocks. Tough luck. What kind of parents set out to short their kid? His. Or so he’d always felt. He’d always blamed them.

  On Christmas Day, the inevitable questions pulled at him.

  He wondered about his father. Where he was. What he was doing right now. What the past would have been like if his mother had stayed. He might have had a brother or a sister. Was the woman who gave birth to him alive or dead? He’d never know. There was no way to trace a ghost—he didn’t want to, anyway.

  He’d forgiven her, he supposed. Hell, he’d forgiven his father, too.

  Yes, Jake had missed out on a lot of things growing up, but that was life, for Christ’s sake. For a while, bitterness and anger had eaten him up. But he had a clear mind now. You couldn’t go on living with regrets. Too many “what ifs.” So he wouldn’t go down that road. Ever again.

  But he did know that if he ever had kids, he’d do it right. And seeing Bijou next to that tree made him think about fatherhood. Made him kind of long for the chance.

  Only thing was, he had to get the married part right first.

  Music played on the Victrola, cutting through the parlor’s blend of voices and conversational laughter. The tune was a Joplin rag, its beat foot-tapping. Jake needed to ask Edwina what was going on with that dance teacher. The Mr. Physique contest was six weeks away and the boys really needed those lessons.

  The doorbell cranked and the door was opened by Tom. Truvy moved into the vestibule, which was decorated with fir wreaths and holly-berry garlands.

  “Merry Christmas,” she greeted Tom, handing him a twig basket with a red cloth over it. “This is for you and Edwina from the Plunketts.” She held out a tiny package and added, “And this is from me.”

  Tom took them both as she removed her gloves and hat and set them on the hall tree. Snowflakes clung to the shoulders of her cape, speckling the dark fabric with white. Tom helped her from it and laid it on the stair risers. “I’ll bring your wrap upstairs to the bedroom in a minute. Come on inside where it’s warm.”

  Jake studied the frosty pink color on Truvy’s cheeks and her lips. Her hair was twisted high on the back of her head, and there were tendrils at her ears. She wore the blue velvet dress she had had on when she got off the train, only now he could fully appreciate the whole design. Before, all he’d seen was the way the skirt gathered at her flared hips. Without her cape blocking his view, he was able to see the top part was one of those blouses with a lot of stitch folds and lace frills. He once heard Edwina talking about the style. The belt was the kind a lady could hang a purse off of. Chattle-something. He couldn’t recollect the exact term.

  In any case, he liked how Truvy was put together.

  Truvy entered the parlor and said her hellos while Jake stayed back in the corner. She hugged Edwina and took hold of Crescencia Dufresne’s hand. She politely nodded during an introduction to John and Isabel Wolcott. John bent and picked up Bijou; he held her out for inspection, but Isabel looked disapprovingly at the cookie smeared on Bijou’s cheeks. The baby was whisked off to be cleaned up.

  Shay poured Truvy some eggnog. She took the cup but didn’t taste the creamy drink. She looked into the depths of the cup, then back at Shay while keeping a hospitable expression on her face. Jake couldn’t blame her for not downing a sip. He hated eggnog, too.

  Jake shoved off from the fireplace and went toward the group. Truvy’s eyes met his on his approach, surprise catching on her brows. Apparently she hadn’t been informed he’d be at the Wolcotts. He knew she would be. Tom had told him.

  In fact, today Tom had told him a few things about Miss Valentine.

  She was twenty-five. Had lived wi
th two widowed aunts before going to college. Her life was education. Economics. Politics. Current events. And she was a sports coach for young ladies at the school.

  Interesting revelations.

  With the lid blown off the coaching, he got the distinct impression she’d been screwing with him the other day about that liniment. The why of it was what he wanted to know.

  “Miss Valentine, may I have a word with you?” Jake asked, excusing her from Shay. He took her by the elbow and steered her to the crackling fire in the hearth.

  “Mr. Brewster, I just arrived,” she protested, delicate cup held carefully in her hand so the eggnog inside wouldn’t spill. “I really would prefer to converse with the other guests.”

  “You don’t want to talk to me?”

  “Not in particular. No.”

  The spark in her eyes was as hot as the fire’s blaze. From its reflection, he noticed that she had a few freckles on the bridge of her nose, that her face had been dusted with a very fine powder. “How’s the knee?”

  She frowned. Dourly. Those lush lips of hers didn’t look nearly as good when used to express displeasure; her smile was a lot better. “I told you, there’s nothing wrong with my knee. It was a minor sprain. I’m not troubled by any pain.”

  Relaxing, he folded his arms over his chest while momentarily keeping his doubt in check. “The liniment worked.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t use it.”

  “No.”

  The tactless cut-and-dried reply elbowed him in the gut. She could have at least tried to snow him. “Why not?”

  “Because it wasn’t necessary.” The cup of eggnog in her hand obviously became a decoy for her attention so she wouldn’t have to talk to him. Without apparent regard for her dislike of it, she drank some, then promptly shivered. On a grimace, she licked her lips and said, “Too sweet.”

  He took her cup from her and set it on the mantel. “Nice recovery. It’s not the sugar. It’s the rum. Beer drinkers don’t drink grog. A whiskey every now and then—but no rum or sherry.”

  “That’s not why I don’t care for eggnog.” A reluctant laugh came from her throat. “You may think it’s because I pine for beer, but the truth is—I’m not partial to nutmeg.”

  Standing there, she looked both pretty and ready to fracture. The cold flush to her cheeks had faded. Her mouth and cheeks were now drained by a paleness.An unreadable misery clouded her eyes. A look of dejection passed over her features. She had one hell of a black dog on her back.

  He figured he had nothing to lose by asking—she was already in a mood. “Why didn’t you tell me you taught sports?”

  No surprise registered in her voice. No reaction. It was as if she knew he’d find out eventually. “Why should I have?”

  “It’d add to our conversations.”

  “I don’t see how conversations about things like pulled groins would. Frankly, that’s not a problem I’ve encountered. Now if you’ll excuse me, although I’ve found your lesson on beer versus rum entertaining, I’m not up for a debate on any athletic topics.”

  “I’m not one of your students, Tru; you can talk to me.”

  Pausing, she faced off with him. “I believe I just was.”

  His steady gaze bore into hers with silent expectation. “What’s wrong? You’re in a sour mood for Christmas.”

  “Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la,” she sang in reply, then grabbed her eggnog from the mantel. “I most certainly am not.”

  But he wasn’t blind to the quiver in her voice, to the shimmer in her eyes and the way she swallowed down her upset.

  “Let’s go into the kitchen and dump that”—he hooked her elbow through his—“and then we’ll have a little talk and you can tell me what’s biting you.”

  “I don’t want a little talk. I don’t want a big talk. I don’t want—”

  But he was already walking down the hallway that led into the kitchen. He pushed the swinging door in and nearly stopped short before going inside.

  The tiny room was filled with women. Crescencia and Edwina sat at the table snapping green beans. Isabel Wolcott had Bijou propped on the counter while she wiped the child’s chubby hands off with a dishcloth. Some kind of red stuff covered her fingers, her plump cheeks, and was dribbled down the front of her white dress.

  All the ladies looked at him and Truvy.

  Seeing Jake, Bijou scrunched her upturned nose and grinned. She had only two teeth—both on the bottom. She pointed at him and snorted.

  He’d never had a kid snort at him before.

  Isabel shook her head with a smile. “She got into the candied cherries.”

  “Bawr!” Bijou laughed, still pointing. “Bawr!”

  Barkly, who was sitting on his haunches begging for what was left of the cherries in the jar, howled.

  “Barkly, hush up.” Edwina quieted the hound, then her attention went back to Jake and Truvy. Pleasure sparkled in her voice. “It’s nice to see you two together.”

  “Mr. Brewster was j-just . . .” Truvy stammered, slipping out of his arm, “sh-showing me where to put my cup. My eggnog . . . I’m done.”

  Jake went with the lame excuse because he’d been the one to use it first. He took the cup from Truvy’s fingers and poured the creamy eggnog down the pipes, then set the empty china in the sink.

  “Bawr! Bawr! Bawr!” Bijou snorted. Her tiny upper lip curled into her small nostrils, and she systematically sniffed air in and out of her nose.

  Jake got a little self-conscious. “What’s the matter?”

  Isabel apologetically explained, “She’s calling you a bear.”

  Damn. Bears were big and hairy and they smelled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brewster, for your assistance.” Truvy placed her hands on her hips and addressed the trio of women, “Ladies, what do you have for me to do? I’d like to help.”

  Truvy was trying to make a fast escape.

  Barkly gave a thunderous woof again, wet black nose twitching in on the scent of those cherries.

  Edwina tossed snapped green beans into a pot. “We don’t need any help in here at all, Truvy. But I could use your assistance with Barkly. He’s being a pest after those cherries. Could you please take him outside and let him run around? Mr. Brewster, would you go with Miss Valentine?”

  “Sure.”

  Truvy immediately protested, “I’d have to go upstairs for my cape and I wouldn’t want to accidentally wake Elizabeth. You know how that floorboard in the bedroom squeaks.”

  “Not a concern, because my angel is right here.” In a wooden cradle decked out with blankets, the baby slept peacefully at Edwina’s feet. “And I have something you can use instead of your cape.”

  “I’d hate to trouble you—”

  “No trouble.” Listening to Edwina’s persistence, Jake bit his inner lip to keep from smiling. “Hanging on a peg in the storm closet, there’s a wool cloak I wear when I pin up clothes.”

  “I’ll get it for her,” Jake volunteered while walking Truvy through the mud room off the kitchen. He found the worsted gray cloak and settled it over her shoulders. In the small, closed-off space, he could smell the fragrance coming from the warmth of her skin, sweet, intoxicating. His fingers lingered at the cloak’s turned-down collar, lightly grazing her throat as he fastened the single closure. She stared at him, her mouth cinched tighter than corset strings, as she kept her arms stiffly at her sides. To his recollection, he’d never done up a lady’s garment before. He’d always performed the opposite service.

  “You do know it’s snowing,” she whispered, backing away from him as far as she could manage within the confines of the walls. “We’re going to be cold.”

  “I don’t mind the cold.”

  “You should. Bears hibernate.”

  Jake held the door open. “I’ll remember that for next winter.”

  As soon as the door opened, Barkly streaked past them—a loose-skinned tawny bullet—knocking his sloping shoulder into Truvy’s leg and putting h
er balance off kilter. To her chagrin, Jake settled an arm around her to keep her from hitting the door frame; then he steered them around the wraparound porch and toward the side of the house where a small series of painted steps led to a side garden.

  She was mindful of the way his wide hand rested on her back; her body seemed to suck the heat from his. Her skin grew hot and flushed at the same time—and the temperature had to be at least as low as thirty. Fire seemed to explode through Truvy’s blood. When breathing became an effort, she knew she never should have come outside with him. Her appeal to Edwina hadn’t worked, so she was on her own to get out of this.

  She couldn’t be alone with Jake Brewster. Not tonight of all nights.

  Not when her concentration was splintered with thoughts of failure and faults. She could barely form sentences coherently.

  “My hands are cold.” The complaint had a logical solution. “I need to go inside and get some gloves. So I’ll just—”

  “I have pockets you can use.” And so his tweed coat did.

  She couldn’t come up with an alternative plan for returning to the kitchen. “That’s all right.” She’d rather her fingers turn as numb as a snowman’s nose than cozily angle her hand inside one of his pockets.

  This was the first time she’d seen him wear a formal suit. Its color was a deep blue-black, single-breasted in style, with a white dress shirt partially in view. He’d forgone a celluloid collar, its absence obviously intentional because he’d left the top two buttons on his collarless shirt undone. Had the cuffs not been attached, she guessed he would have left those at home, too. And rather than wear knobby-toed men’s evening shoes, he had on a pair of Creedmoors. After buying six new pairs of shoes, she knew her styles. Creedmoors were hideously popular in the West. Made of kangaroo calf and supported by a boot heel, the shoes had an oil grain that was polished to a dull sheen.

  On any other man, the fashion mishmash would have been a horror. On him, she caught herself liking his overall appearance. It made no sense at all. The pit of her stomach tickled and her leg muscles froze. She halted and attempted to excuse herself from his company once more. “It’s pointless for the both of us to stay out here.”