Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  Please forgive us for not writing sooner. We have all thought about it scads of times. But with winter break and us going home to our families—and then Mrs. Mumford—our good manners were neglected. We regret the lapse in deportment.

  But now that we have gathered together, we’re all agog to tell you what has transpired at St. Francis in your absence.

  Clara Jane received a marriage proposal from her Harvard beau. (I told him I’d have to think it over, but of course I’ll say yes.) Essie accepted a social engagement from a boy at Ward’s. (Parlor games, but Miss Pond doesn’t know it.) Verda Mae has decided never to wear flounces again because they make her look plump. (I would consider lace ruffles.) Impi stuffed her shirtwaist with her pillow case. (I did not!) Laura said she kissed a man who called her snookums. (I’m not telling who.) Essie learned ‘Oh Promise Me!’ on the organ so she can play it at Clara Jane’s wedding. (If my parents will let me travel to Vermont for the ceremony.) Our Annabelle tried a switch from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. (The length of golden hair is four feet and looks real when pinned the right way.) And myself, I am planning on taking a governess position in Atlanta at the end of our term. (She’ll get paid thirty-five dollars a month!)

  As for Mrs. Mumford . . . she is tolerable. But she’s not you. We wanted you to know how sorry we are that you got into trouble for reading that book to us. Laura dis creetly looked for a copy at the Boise library, but natu rally they didn’t have one. Could you explain what it meant when you read “gratification of normal impulses”? Until then—

  Your very devoted students,

  Miss Myra Jepsen, Miss Clara Jane Hill, Miss Impi Tretheway, Miss Annabelle Gardner, Miss Carolee Weaver, Miss Verda Mae Johnson, Miss Essie Kerwin, Miss Laura Case

  The words in the letter filled Truvy’s head as she lowered her arm, the stationery firmly in her hand. She hadn’t expected the painful squeeze to her heart from having read their news. Not since the day she’d left St. Francis did such a strong sense of loss assail her. The result of her departure was clearly not as traumatic for them as it had been for her. The girls were getting along as if nothing had happened. They had not written Mrs. Mumford is an ogre. You must try and return at once. They had not written Miss Valentine, you are irreplaceable. Just: She’s not you.

  Begrudging them their focus on their own lives would be unforgivable on her part. They were young ladies, on the brink of womanhood, facing marriage and opportunities. They were eager to venture out of St. Francis, to learn more about life. Of that, she was proud. But she could no more give them a detailed definition of what The Science of Life meant about “gratification of normal impulses” than she could stand five feet two inches. Doing so would mean her sure termination.

  She was now faced with how to reply and remain true to her standards and to her students’ inquisitiveness—and to the promise she had made Miss Pond.

  Miss Pond.

  Truvy opened the second letter. The sentences were concise, and she read them in a rush.

  The financial committee has voted on disciplinary measures and has agreed that no further action is needed. Your leave of absence has hereby been lifted. There remains one problem: Mrs. Mumford is still in your classroom. But I see signs of her interest waning. Her affiliation with the Boise Belles is overshadowing her duties. They’re putting on a production of Ye Ancient Dames and she has her heart set on playing the lead. Should she land the part, which I’m quite certain she will do, you’ll regain your position. I hope this news pleases you. I’ll send a telegram as soon as the outcome is final.

  Truvy folded the letter and slowly returned it to the envelope. She had assumed that when she received notification of Miss Pond’s decision, her trunks would be halfway packed before she read the signature in closing. Instead, she stood in the large studio with her emotions in a whirl of uncertainty. The steadfast determination she’d felt less than two weeks ago had begun to trickle away.

  For the first time since leaving Idaho, Truvy questioned returning to the school. And not for reasons she could have ever foreseen.

  Her gaze went to the closed curtains and she walked to the long row of windows. Opening the curtains, she looked out the windowpanes, searching for a glimpse of Jake in the gymnasium. The reflection of wedged sky in the square of glass didn’t reveal signs the building was occupied. Jake’s business had been closed for several days. He’d told her he’d sustained some damage to his floor. Yesterday, a carpenter had come by and repaired it. She assumed Jake would reopen today.

  The fact that he wasn’t there made her feel empty.

  It was an inconvenient moment to recognize she was falling in love with Jake Brewster.

  Under the spell of that admittance, she felt the heat that was radiating from the Acme warm the back of her neck. She still wore her cape. Turning, she went to the heater and paused.

  Next to the pipe collar lay Jake’s cigar.

  She brought the tightly rolled cylinder of fine tobacco to her nostrils and sniffed. She closed her eyes as a cynical inner voice questioned the choice to be made between conformity and rebellion.

  At this moment, the answer was easy.

  There was a fire in the dance studio.

  From the gymnasium, Jake saw a billow of white smoke clouding up the window. Moses Zipp, whose barbershop backed the alley two doors down, could see it, too. Standing in the narrow alleyway, Moses turned and ran toward Birch Avenue—a man whose mission was to get the fire department.

  Jake, on the other hand, had his own alarm that went off.

  He had left his cigar over there that morning, and he hoped to God it wasn’t what was torching the place.

  Flinging the back door open and fumbling with the key to Edwina’s place, Jake unlocked the studio door and slammed it open so hard, the hinges groaned. His sharp gaze cut through the hazy smoke and went straight to the heater.

  But there was no fire. No smoldering cigar.

  The choking coughs to his left made him frantically look down. Sitting on the floor, with her back propped up against the wall and her bent knees pulled up next to her breasts, Truvy held a cigar between her fingers and thumb.

  His Ybor.

  “J-Jake.” His name was mingled with smoke that she exhaled, and her voice wavered as if her stomach was turning upside down.

  Relief, irritation, and surprise clashed inside him. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Smoking.” She drew in another puff, then promptly coughed so hard it was like the sound Barkly made when he treed a squirrel—a deep and throaty bark.

  “I swear, Truvy, you’re going to puke if you draw that smoke into your lungs one more time.”

  “But . . . I wanted . . .” she wheezed, “. . . to give cigars a try . . . while I had the opportunity.” Disregarding his advice, she took hearty puffs on the cigar, emitting tufts of smoke that rolled out the open door into the alleyway.

  Jake remembered Moses Zipp.

  And the fire department.

  He reached down, grabbed Truvy’s hand, and yanked her to her feet.

  “Ahhh—you’re making me dizzy!” she protested when he pulled her out the door, shut it in place, and dragged her into the gymnasium. He let her go only to lock the gym door; then he took her by the upper arm and hauled her into his office. After he released her, she wobbled, face on the greenish side. She made a valiant effort to keep the cigar clamped between her lips, but it began to sag, ready to drop and scorch the papers on his desk.

  Raising his arm, he ordered, “Give me that.”

  She parted her lips and the Ybor dropped into his open palm.

  He crushed the burning cigar end in the bottom of his ashtray.

  The color on Truvy’s cheeks would have fit in just fine at a St. Patrick’s Day celebration. Her eyelids were heavy. She kept swallowing, licking her lips. He knew the signs. She was going to upchuck on his floor.

  “For God’s sake, don’t do it here!” he ordered, then pushed her through his kitchen and
beyond, into first his bedroom and then the lavatory.

  Two seconds later, she vomited into his water closet.

  He held onto her shoulders until she lost whatever she’d eaten that day. Then, on a whimper, she slumped against the wall on her feet. He kept a hold on her while one-handing the cold-water spigot on his sink faucet. After dunking a towel into the basin, he squeezed most of the water out and pressed the cloth to her forehead.

  “I’m feeling under the weather,” she mumbled, her eyes closed and water trickling down her cheeks. “I believe I have one foot in the grave.” Her melodramatic declaration was out of character. Something must have set her off into the doldrums.

  “You’ll live.” On that, he pulled the chain to the W.C.

  Keeping the towel on her face, he aimed her out of the lavatory and into the bedroom. The room was dark, the shade on the only window lowered. Its wall colors and decor were on the earthy side, the hues of tanned leather. He owned walnut furniture, its heaviness making for a sturdy and masculine den. Everything fit together in a way he appreciated—the narrow wardrobe with its swing frame mirror, chest on chest, secretary desk, brass globe lamp he used for reading. He liked burnt umber and deep red together, so those were the two colors that made up his draperies and bed quilt.

  Once he maneuvered Truvy beside his bed, he ordered, “Lie down until your stomach settles.”

  To his surprise, she didn’t protest about the lack of propriety in the situation. She must have really felt like crap.

  As soon as she lay on the bed, ankles together and skirt properly in place, she took off the towel. She gazed at him, narrowing her eyes and then lifting her brows. Her lips parted as she gave him a long, drawn-out stare in silence. Sudden surprise flitted across her features as she said, “Now I know what it is. You’re wearing spectacles.”

  Jake bit down on an oath. He’d forgotten he had his glasses on.

  When he’d noticed the smoke in the dance studio, he’d been applying a coat of varnish on the new floor planks, a job that required keen eyes, so he’d put on his gold-rimmed peepers.

  Without a word, he unhooked the curved earpieces from behind his ears and slipped the glasses into the breast pocket of his shirt.

  Standing over her, he said, “I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “A brandy?”

  He shot her a look and clarified his statement: “A bicarbonate.”

  “Oh . . .” The disappointment in her tone was as obvious as the clang of bells and clatter of shod hooves growing louder across Dogwood Place.

  “What’s that?”

  “Fire wagons.”

  “Oh no . . .” With a loose curl teasing her earlobe, she struggled to sit up, then groaned and fell back. “A fire. It was me. The cigar. I have to go explain.”

  “Forget about it, Tru. The fire department will see there isn’t a fire at the studio and they’ll leave.”

  Clamping the towel back on her brow, she looked at him from beneath the fringed edge. She spoke in a weak whisper. “If the fire department found me—instead of you—smoking that cigar . . . I would have died.”

  “Forget about it,” he said again, then left for the kitchen. He mixed up a glass of soda and water, then brought it to her.

  He stopped shy of the doorway and stared at the bed, one thought freezing him: Truvy was the only woman he’d ever brought to his bedroom.

  Some of her curls were out of place. She scratched her nose, then gave a long, shuddering sigh and turned her head. With luminous eyes, she looked at her surroundings as if suddenly realizing where she was.

  “This is your bedroom,” she commented.

  “Right.” He walked into the room.

  “I—I shouldn’t be here.”

  “No. But you are.” He sat on the side of the bed, dipping the mattress beneath his weight. “And you’re staying until you get blushing pink back on your cheeks.”

  Absently, she lifted a hand to the side of her face.

  “Drink this.”

  “Thank you.” She took the glass. He reached behind her and plumped up the tapestry pillows so she could partially sit up.

  She took a sip of the cloudy mixture, grimaced, then blinked. Her lashes fluttered next to her pale complexion as she added in a low tone, “And Maynard thanks you for rescuing his mother.”

  Jake had never considered parenting a pet, but if that’s how she wanted to look at it, who was he to say otherwise? Seeing what she’d been through, he wanted to cheer her up and offer the right thing. “I’m sure you’re treating him like a son.”

  “A . . . son.” Moisture glittered in her eyes. Her lower lip grew plump and pouty. “Yes. Maynard’s the only child I’ll ever have.”

  Sweet Judas. He’d said something wrong.

  “Truvy, I didn’t mean—”

  “What’s that smell?” she asked, then rubbed her nose again with her free hand. “It’s strong.”

  “Varnish,” he supplied. “I was painting the floor.”

  She drank more of the bicarbonate, then leaned back on the pillow and held the glass out for him to hold for her. “Why is it you’ve never worn your glasses before?”

  “I do. You just never saw me.”

  “You do in front of people?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He was uncomfortable with the line of conversation they were drawing, but after she’d done something as intimate as throwing up in his W.C., he figured he owed an honest answer. You couldn’t get much more personal than puking in front of a person. “I don’t think glasses suit my business.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Strong men have to have strong eyes.”

  “President Roosevelt wears glasses and he’s a very powerful man.” Her gaze drifted to the bedside table where Jake kept Edwina’s book. He used his carte vista as a page marker. It wasn’t in the text very deep, a clear sign he hadn’t progressed far. “You’re reading Crime and Punishment.”

  “When I get the chance.”

  “I couldn’t read beyond the first chapter. It bored me.”

  Jake felt his mouth curve, and his pulse quickened. “It did?”

  “Completely.” She reached for the glass again.

  He asked out of curiosity, “What do you like to read?”

  She sipped the baking soda elixir, then lowered the volume of her voice when replying, “Madame Bovary. I’ve read it four times.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A French doctor’s wife . . .”

  The subject matter didn’t sound compelling to Jake.

  “. . . who finds herself,” Truvy added, “ruled by her passions. The natural instinct in a woman that demands fulfillment.”

  There must have been sex in the book. Or a damn good hint of it. Soft pink touched her cheeks. She was recovering from her ordeal; he was discovering he was glad she’d smoked his Ybor. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here. With him. In his room. Talking. As if it were the most natural place for her to be.

  He didn’t want her to leave.

  He stared at her, pensive and fascinated. The fine brown hair of her right eyebrow was ruffled from the towel, which had fallen off. He watched how the beat of her pulse lightly drummed at her temple. The skin of her forehead looked like silk. He found himself pleasantly aroused—not to a sexual degree, but by her voice, her presence.

  “The ending is tragic. After she’s lost everything, she realizes that Dr. Bovary was the one true constant in her life. The one man who . . .” Truvy’s eyes met his and her words drifted to nothing.

  Jake’s body felt heavy and warm. Her gaze melted into his; he fought a compulsion to cover her lips. But it was the tender contemplation in her eyes that stopped him. That, and the quiet confusion that gripped his chest. There were a hundred definable things about her that attracted him. And a hundred undefinable ones beckoning him to discover.

  “Would you be . . . that is . . .” She fought with words, then came right out and
asked, “Is there a chance you’re marriage-inclined?”

  The question threw him. It seemed to come from nowhere, and without thought, he gave his stock answer. “Not hardly.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She struggled to pull in a breath, and he wished he hadn’t said what he had.

  Only . . . he didn’t tell Truvy his response was reflexive and questionable in light of the fact it was her asking him if there was a chance he’d ever propose. He’d never asked a woman to marry him before. He and Laurette had fallen into bed one night and gone over to the justice of the peace the next morning. He’d been convinced he loved her like crazy. It wasn’t until his divorce that he’d realized he’d been in lust with his wife, not in love.

  Up until this point, he’d thought love made fools out of men.

  Now he wasn’t so sure he wasn’t the biggest fool of them all.

  Chapter

  16

  T he apartment came with an oil stove that had only one burner three inches wide. A griddle fit over the iron plate and could be heated to a sufficient cooking temperature, as Truvy found out while attempting to fix herself a scrambled egg and cut of ham. She’d watched Mrs. Plunkett several times to know the pan required a fair amount of lard.

  Using a spoon, she scooped a large portion of the white fat and whacked it into the griddle. The fat sizzled and splattered as she cracked her egg.

  Maynard chirped from his cage and she glanced at the green-and-blue bird. In a short amount of time, she’d gotten used to him—but not to his sleeping schedule.

  He flew from his perch to his seed bottle, making a mess with the hulls of feed. They sprayed out of the cage and littered the table. He was messy, but he was a companion.

  The only companion she hoped to have in spinsterhood.

  She hating feeling sorry for herself. As she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with her knuckle, she vowed she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself.

  Quit being foolish.

  But she hadn’t been able to forget what she’d asked Jake Brewster. Nor the reply he’d given her. She’d known he was a man who’d say he’d never get married.