Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  With heartfelt appreciation, Truvy declined Edwina’s generous offer by informing her she’d already spoken to Mrs. Plunkett before coming over and that Mrs. Plunkett was delighted to have her remain as a guest. Delighted was putting things mildly. Mrs. Plunkett was overwrought with joy and weeping that Truvy could be with her longer. Oddly, the good news gave Mrs. Plunkett a sick headache, causing a postponement of their trip to the dressmaker’s that morning.

  Quietly thinking about how to get out of any future appointments with the modiste, Truvy let Edwina’s observance hover between them.

  Edwina spoke up. “Truvy, this isn’t so bad. I’m sure Mrs. Mumford will come around. And more time away won’t make the reasons why you love teaching so much go away. If anything, the separation should reinforce your convictions, and when you go back, you’ll be an even better teacher.”

  Truvy tried to make light of her situation. “At the very least, I’ll return a better ironer.”

  Edwina laughed.

  The train’s steam whistle blew in the distance, a reminder to Truvy that she wouldn’t be on the outbound train tomorrow. “It’s just so hard to accept.”

  Edwina’s lips pressed together in thought. “Then we’ll just have to see what we can find to keep you busy.”

  Truvy switched plates on the sadiron. “There’s no questioning what I can do while I’m in Harmony. I’ll be spending my days with you helping take care of Elizabeth.”

  “Oh, good heavens,” Edwina said, fingering a pin from the pin cushion, “this is supposed to be a holiday for you. I wouldn’t dream of your devoting all your time to me. It’s not necessary. I received word from Marvel-Anne. She’s on her way home.”

  “That will be nice for you to have her back. You’ve missed her.” Truvy sprinkled water from a sieve-capped bottle onto wrinkles on a handkerchief of Edwina’s.

  “Yes, I have.” Edwina lowered the shirt, and rested her hands on the table. “Now . . . I wonder if Miss Gimble, the Normal School teacher, needs assistance. I can ask.”

  Truvy didn’t want to be a charity case. “Edwina, that’s very thoughtful of you, but I’d feel it my duty to tell Miss Gimble my circumstances. I haven’t divulged the truth to anyone else. I didn’t give Mrs. Plunkett a reason why I was staying, and she was so elated, she didn’t ask for one. Only you . . .”—the iron’s handle warmed Truvy’s hand, much like Jake’s mouth had warmed hers last night—“. . . only you know the whole truth.” Only you and Jake Brewster.

  She didn’t reveal that last part, not wanting Edwina to make anything of her and Jake. There was nothing to make anything of. So he’d kissed her. So he’d given something to her she would never forget. That wasn’t a reason to pair them up.

  Edwina’s astute gaze leveled on Truvy. “Who else knows about Miss Pond’s telegram besides me? You can’t fib worth a fable.”

  Quietly, Truvy bit the inside of her lip.

  When she made no immediate reply, Edwina guessed. “Jake Brewster.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hah! I knew it.” Edwina smiled with a gleam of mischievousness in her eyes. “The way you two came in from the veranda—I saw the blush on your cheeks.”

  “It was cold outside.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It was.” Truvy clunked the iron down on the stove plate too hard and the burner rattled.

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful that you’ve confided in him.”

  “It was nothing like that. I told him only so he wouldn’t keep pestering me.” She frowned. “He can behave like a recalcitrant student.”

  “A student—Jake?” Edwina said with a furrow to her brow. “Have you taken a hard look at him? He’s not boyish in the slightest.”

  “I can see that.”

  The two of them continued with their chores, working in silence. After a while, Edwina mumbled something about a student, then suddenly cried, “I know what you can do!”

  Edwina rose, pacing the kitchen, hands on her hips. “I told you, the woman I hired to give dancing lessons twisted her ankle and I haven’t been able to get another instructor to replace her. Until now.” She pointed at Truvy. “You’ll take over my dancing classes. You can be a teacher while you’re in Harmony.”

  Truvy was so taken aback by the notion, she couldn’t speak. She thought. And the more she thought about it . . . the more the idea blossomed with promise. A dance instructor. Young ladies wearing their best dresses with elastic bracelets on their wrists and gold watches pinned to their bodices. Young men in their binding-trimmed Prince Albert suits. Freshfaced. Eager to learn.

  The picture her mind painted of the dancing studio was wonderful. But there was a slight problem. The fact of the matter was, she’d danced very little in her life. She’d been to dances, but mostly as an observer. More often as a chaperone. From the sidelines, her toe tapped to the beat, her heart kept tempo with the music. She had it in her to move to the music, but she’d never learned how to artfully do the steps. The one time Coach Moose Thompson had asked her to waltz, she’d stepped on his toes so badly, they didn’t finish the dance. He never asked her again.

  “Well? Say yes!” Edwina’s cheeks were pink from excitement. “It’s the perfect arrangement for both of us.”

  As much as she hated to, Truvy had to confess, “I’ve had very little dancing experience”—she also hated to pass up an opportunity—“but if you have tutelage books, I could gain some skills. I’m a fast learner.”

  “I do have a book. Dance Fundamentals. It shows the basic moves for the shuffle, two-step, polka, waltz, and beginning ragtime—step-by-step. You can acquaint yourself with it without much effort. Dancing is easy. Like this. Watch.” Edwina stepped forward on her left foot, closed her right to the left, put her weight on the right, and stepped left again. She repeated the moves. “You try.”

  With her interest captured, Truvy set the iron on the plate and rounded the clothing board to meet Edwina. She hummed a tune as she ran through the steps again. One. Two. One. Two. It didn’t appear too difficult. Much easier with Edwina than with Moose.

  “Left foot first,” Edwina instructed.

  Truvy did so. Then the right. She followed Edwina’s lead. With each repetition, she embedded the memory of the steps more until she wasn’t thinking, she was dancing.

  “Quick. Quick. Slow.” Edwina closed the space between her feet. “Quick. Quick. Slow.”

  Determination dazzled Truvy as her legs moved to the rhythm. “I can do it!”

  “Of course you can.”

  Breathless, Truvy hugged Edwina. “Thank you,” Truvy said. “Thank you for thinking so much of me.” Being a dance instructor would be challenging; just the thing to keep her mind focused on a purpose, and not on Jake Brewster. Jake Brewster? He’d barely been in her mind since yesterday. Hardly at all. Perhaps a little. Constantly. His mouth, his face, his eyes, his body, his easy-going mannerisms—they’d all intruded in her sleep, and they were the first thing to fill her mind this morning when she woke.

  Truvy needed to be giving these lessons more than Edwina knew. Even so, to be fair, she had to state, “But after I begin the lessons, if you don’t feel I’m competent enough to stand in for you, please tell me. The academy is a reflection of your name and I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

  Edwina squeezed her, then leaned back. “Don’t worry. The students at Wolcott’s Dancing Academy aren’t enrolled for competitions. They’re there because dancing gives them an activity.” Then she added with a laugh, “Or their mothers are making them.”

  Truvy looked at the stack of ironing in the basket, then back at Edwina with a helpless smile. “When shall I start?”

  Edwina’s mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “Right away. Because just yesterday, I was queried about the classes from an eager gentleman.”

  “I’ll do my very best with him. Even if he’s a reluctant candidate, one whose mother is sending him to dance, I’ll induce his desire.”

  Edwina’s laugh was mar
velous, undiluted. “Why, Truvy! That’s exactly what I had in mind for this special gentleman.” She stretched her arm out to touch her shoulder. “Right now, I have classes scheduled for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And—”

  “—tomorrow’s Friday!”

  Truvy could barely contain the anticipation that filled her—the first piece of optimism she’d experienced since leaving St. Francis.

  “Pass.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Check.”

  “Call.”

  “I’ll take that and raise your bet a Boar’s Head Red.” Smoke curled into the next words uttered. “What are you going to do, Bruiser?”

  Jake leaned back in his chair, tilting on the rear legs. A fat Havana was stuck inside the corner of his mouth. He puffed, looked at the five cards in his hand, then at the men around the table. Milton Burditt, Lou Bernard, August Gray, Gig Debolski, and Walfred Kudlock. Tom Wolcott sat across from Jake, his concentration not on poker as he tossed his cards facedown.

  Another Thursday night of cards, beer, cigars, and conversation. Only Walfred and Gig were in the game, upping his opening bet.

  Jake held onto a full house. A tight hand. But they were playing deuces wild. Five of a kind were a possibility. Royal flushes were more probable but outranked by the quints. Looking at the stack of chips he had in front of him, he contemplated the risk of losing. He rubbed his fingertips over the abrasive beard on his jaw, doing a mental tally on how much he had.

  About fifteen bucks and some change.

  The colorful pile of bottle caps heaped in the center of his kitchen table could be worth five dollars. They didn’t play for cash. Poker playing was a strategic exercise for the brain—and a damn good excuse to knock back some suds with friends. It had taken about a year of them all drinking beer and saving the bottle caps to collect enough “chips” to make playing worthwhile.

  Each bottle cap had been given a denomination. Your Wild Goose, blue with the red goose, was worth a penny. Flying Dog, yellow with the leaping dog, was worth a nickel. St. Andrews Ale, black with a white cross, was worth a dime. Heinrich’s Lager, green with a silver gryphon, was worth a quarter. And Boar’s Head Red, black with the gold pentacle, was worth a buck.

  “I’m in,” Jake said, tossing in a Boar’s Head Red cap with a flick of his thumbnail. “What do you have?”

  Walfred unveiled three tens.

  Gig showed a straight in mixed suits.

  Jake cracked a smile, then fanned his cards face up on the table. “Full house.”

  “Dang!”

  “Horse apples!”

  Tom rose and scooted his chair in. “I’m done for the night.”

  “You’ve only been here a half hour, Wolcott,” Milton observed.

  “A half hour too long.” Tom went for his hat and coat. “I never should have left the house.”

  “Edwina wanted you to come.” Jake shuffled the cards.

  “I know what she said, but it’s not what I wanted. I’m going home to my wife.”

  Walfred snickered behind his hand while August shrugged with a smile.

  Tom shot them both hard stares. “Just you wait, my friends. It will happen to you, too.” Then to Jake. “And you, too.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Jake said in defense.

  Buttoning his coat, Tom said, “G’night, everybody.”

  “See you around, Wolcott,” Milton replied.

  Jake called after Tom, “If you need anything, Tom, let me know.”

  “Will do.”

  Raking the pot toward him, Jake made an offer to the boys with a lift of his chin: “Go and get yourselves another beer out of the icebox before my block melts down. I’m getting a delivery on Monday. No point in wasting a lager while it’s cold.”

  “Thanks, Bruiser.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The clink of caps rolling fused with Jake’s next words. “You three go on and get another one, too.”

  The trio who’d quit the game quickly rose and made a stampede for the zinc-lined Alaska.

  While they were gone, Jake slumped, his back against the spindles of his chair. He’d been playing cards, drinking beer, and telling jokes for hours. All to keep his thoughts from wandering to Truvy. It wasn’t working. She was in the back of his mind all the time.

  He hadn’t seen her since Christmas. Not since he’d kissed her.

  Bad move on his part. Dangerous. His thoughts hadn’t been clear ever since. Knowing he was the only man to kiss her made his blood rush—as it did now at the memory of her mouth beneath his. Warm. Pliant. Sweet and soft. Untried. The fact that she’d confided in him about her personal life—it made him wonder if she could ever view him on her intellectual level. Not that he was as smart as her. But there was more to him than she knew.

  He’d started reading Crime and Punishment. Raskolnikov was all right as a protagonist, but Jake had one hell of a time pronouncing his name every time he came across the lengthy, foreign spelling. He wasn’t all that sure why Raskolnikov wanted to transact business with the pawnbroker when he was so mad, but Jake did get that the man was planning some kind of crime. That’s where Jake’s interest started picking up. But the wording was heavy for him and a chore to read. Even so, he’d been forcing himself through the pages.

  Truvy’s statement about his being tasteless, and her all but telling him he wasn’t brainy enough to understand the book, had prickled beneath his skin like a thistle stuck to the underside of a coat. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to know something was there, irritating.

  And yet, thoughts of her filled his head. They shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be tempted. Hell, he knew the reason why.

  Sex.

  He was long overdue to ride over to Alder for a night of enjoyment. The trouble was, he had no inclination to make the effort. Not while Truvy was in Harmony making him envision that pink underwear she talked about. She’d said it was satin. He knew about the petticoat. He’d caught a glimpse that night he caught her in the Plunketts’ yard up to no good.

  He wanted to kiss her warm mouth again, feel the silkiness of her curls.

  Why her? He knew lots of women in Alder who had pliable lips and soft hair.

  But none had Truvy’s legs. Especially not what Truvy’s legs would look like in a pair of pink satin drawers. That was something altogether more—

  A knock sounded on the locked gymnasium’s door and Jake went to see who it was. Darkness had just fallen, so whoever wanted him didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.

  Clovis Lester, navy knit cap on his towhead and winter overalls snapped at his scrawny shoulders, thrust out a note for him. “Mrs. Wolcott told me to deliver this to you right away. She’s payin’ me a whole quarter and I’m going to buy a bunch of candy with it.”

  With the cigar still caught by his lips, Jake took the envelope,then felt inside his pants pocket for some coins. “Here, kid. Buy yourself a soda pop while you’re at it.”

  “Gee, thanks!”

  Clovis ran off into the dim night and Jake closed out the cold.Walking, he tore open the seal while reentering his office. He went through the door to the kitchen of his apartment where he sat back down at the table.

  “Bad news, Bruiser?” Gig asked.

  “Don’t know. It’s from Mrs. Wolcott.”

  Jake hoped the print was large and clear, because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Thankfully, the words popped from the snowy white paper, neat and highly legible.

  “What’s it say?”

  Jake read aloud.

  Official Notice

  Edwina Wolcott’s Dancing Academy will reopen tomorrow morning, December 27th, for lessons beginning at 11 A.M. The following students are enrolled in the 2 P.M. class: Lou Bernard, Milton Burditt, Gig Debolski, August Gray, Walfred Kudlock, and Jacob Brewster.

  “Hey, Bruiser, I didn’t know you’d be tripping the light fantastic with us,” Milt commented, lifting his beer bottle to his mouth.

  “I’m not.” Sweet Judas
. He hadn’t enrolled. “This is a mistake.”

  “You say that like dancing is for Willie boys.” Walfred’s frown cut into his chin.

  Lou set his beer on the table. “Yeah, I got that impression myself.”

  “Well get rid of it,” Jake returned belligerently, “because you need the lessons to give you grace and body movement.”

  “Seems to me,” Milton piped in, “what’s good enough for us should be good enough for you, Bruiser, if I could say so.”

  “You just did,” August pointed out.

  Jake tapped the cherry of his cigar in the ashtray. “I’m not entered in the Mr. Physique contest. If I was, then I’d probably be taking the lessons.”

  “Probably?” Gig was doubtful.

  “All right. No. I wouldn’t. Why should I?” Jake came back, his tone stilted. Dammit, Edwina’s mistake was costing him.

  Jake’s jaw took on the same tenseness as his biceps after a hard workout at the punching bag. How in the hell could he get out of this and still get them to go for those lessons? It wasn’t as if he was against dancing. In fact, he was a faultless dancer. But being stuck in a dance studio for an hour while a teacher made him two-step wasn’t his idea of an hour well spent.

  “I’ll tell you why you should—because men can still be men, even if they’re learning how to dance. And anyone here not willing to prove it is a Willie boy, more so than the guy willing to put on the dancing shoes.” August’s challenging remark hung in the smoky air.

  Jake crushed the tip of his Havana, killing the cigar with three stabs. “I already know how to dance.”

  “Is that so?” Milt propped his elbows on the table. “Where’d you learn how?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  Gig asked, “When’s the last time you danced?”

  “How in the hell should I remember that?” Jake’s annoyance gripped him in his gut; he knew they were leading him into something, and for the life of him, he didn’t know a way out.

  “If you can’t remember,” Milt declared, “then it’s time for a refresher course.”