Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  Spying a feather from a hat, and the familiar shade of blue cape, Jake found Truvy toward the rear of the large theater. She saw him at almost the same time. She smiled at him and waved. He did likewise, then sat down in the second row.

  Looking at the floodlights beaming on the stage and its curtain, seeing the master of ceremony in his fine suit-tails, Jake was brought back to other places, other times. And in spite of the speed of his pulse, it seemed to him that it was all right that history was left behind. He wasn’t that man anymore.

  The other sponsors who sat beside him conversed with one another, going on about the sport in loud voices, reliving past competitions and arguing who was the best strongman. They all knew who he was, of course. Everyone had met at the Brooks House hotel last night and had a good time reminiscing. It was a new era for strongmen, and Jake had no desire to chase it.

  For now, Jake lost himself in thought.

  About a special woman.

  Never in his days had he let himself be pulled in by a woman on the day of a contest. Not once. Not when he was married to Laurette. Now, he slowly turned his head, looked up in the theater seats once more, and caught a glance of Truvy Valentine.

  Her head was close to Edwina’s and they were talking.

  God, Truvy was beautiful—her face, her hair, her eyes, her body, and those long legs that wrapped around him when they made love. Everything about her made him want her for the rest of her life. The trouble was, she didn’t see things the same way as he did.

  For the past week and several days, they’d spent every night together at her apartment. He arrived at an hour of the evening when the street traffic had ceased and he left well before dawn. Protecting her was uppermost in his mind. He would never let her be talked about.

  In these past days, he’d taught her parts of his world. The Irish jig, for one, a dance he’d learned in Queens. She’d caught on much better than she had the waltz. He’d had her to his apartment last Wednesday when the gym closed for the evening; he’d cooked her dinner—steak and salad and even an apple cake for dessert. He never minded cooking. In fact, he liked it.

  He’d done everything he could to make Truvy fall in love with him, but she hadn’t changed her mind about their relationship. But neither did she go on about returning to St. Francis. He sensed she had doubts of a future there as a teacher—and they were of her own accord, not because some benefactress was teaching her class. If Truvy was questioning her future . . .

  So Jake was going to take matters into his own hands. And it did have to do with that Valentine’s Day dance. He’d already put the ball in motion when he’d written to Truvy’s aunts. He’d gotten the address from Edwina.

  Now all he could do was wait.

  And hope two militant suffragists from Emporia, Kansas, had romantic hearts.

  FEBRUARY 12, 1902

  GOOD NEWS STOP ISSUE OF MRS. MUMFORD’S PRESENCE HAS BEEN RESOLVED STOP RETURN TO ST. FRANCIS IMMEDIATELY STOP YOUR GIRLS ARE WAITING FOR YOU STOP WELCOME BACK STOP LUCRETIA POND

  The telegram from Miss Pond arrived yesterday. Truvy had read it a half dozen times. She’d just come back from the train depot after getting her ticket reprinted for Boise. She’d leave the day after the Valentine’s Day dance, on February 15, in three days’ time. She’d spend the night of her birthday packing for a place she never thought she’d reluctantly be going back to . . . because of Jake Brewster.

  In her waking hours, she welcomed the renewal of their togetherness.

  Last week, at the Mr. Physique competition, her gaze had strayed to him more often than it remained on the stage. He occupied a seat in one of the front rows, critically observing and cheering on the members of Barbell Club to compete with other bodybuilders. Harmony’s hometown man, August Gray, won, and there had been rousing applause. The night had been a triumph for Jake, and he’d spent it with his friends and colleagues at the gymnasium.

  Truvy wished she could have congratulated him then, given him a hug and a kiss firmly on the mouth. She’d saved it for the following evening when he’d come to her apartment. They’d lain awake most of the night, touching and holding each other, talking about the event. She listened to Jake, letting him go on about this and that with enthusiasm in his voice. Then she’d given herself to him, exploring, learning, searing him into her memory for when she had to leave.

  These past days had been heaven. They’d played Ping-Pong; he’d made her a wonderful dinner and taught her lively dances. He’d also convinced her to get rid of her high-heeled shoes and go back to her Spaldings. She hadn’t laced or buttoned or slipped on stiff leather shoes in ages.Now she wore her athletic shoes all the time. And with a confidence she’d never had before when she’d worn them in public. Jake had given her that, done that for her. She would take him with her in her mind, keeping him close to her heart, and move on with her life in a way that would be forever changed.

  She’d been expecting Miss Pond’s telegram. But when it arrived, she’d been devastated to receive it. The words were short and to the point, filled with an unwritten eagerness to have Truvy come back to the academy, to take charge, once more, of her girls.

  Days ago, she’d finally penned her students a letter. It had taken many tries, and many drafts, to get the wording just right. They’d wanted to know about natural impulses. About the book, The Science of Life, and its deeper meanings. Well, for Truvy, the book now seemed ludicrous, a waste of her time and energies. If she hadn’t been worried about starting a fire, she would have burned the tome in her heater—and good riddance.

  Natural instinct. Normal impulse. Sexual emotion. Fruitful desire.

  Rubbish. The only thing that mattered was love itself and how it made a person feel. And none of those overly poetic words used in the book could adequately describe the feeling.

  Truvy had taken hours to write down her thoughts, carefully and in her best penmanship, and she’d mailed the letter off. While sitting at the table in her apartment now, she recollected most of the words she’d said.

  Love is a pleasure of the heart, the most precious possession a man and a woman can share together. It is humbling and pleasing. Emotions grow to ripeness, stimulated every day in ways a person cannot imagine unless in the throes of it. Love is full and vibrant. And sometimes, it is difficult to know at what moment it began. It is the greatest of bonds and the whole of exis tence. To know love, just once in a person’s life, is a joy beyond compare.

  And also the bitterest of sweetnesses when a woman had to leave the man she loved . . .

  But Truvy must. Because of one truth. No matter how much she loved Jake Brewster, she couldn’t ignore one thing: She was good enough to make love to but not good enough to take to a town dance.

  The Valentine’s Day dance.

  It was silly, she knew—wanting to go. Blame it on her birthday and the fragility of her heart. But she was hopelessly crushed he hadn’t asked her to accompany him as his partner.

  She wouldn’t take Edwina up on her kind offer to go with her and Tom. Truvy didn’t want Jake’s not asking to mean anything; it had been she who had set up the rules of their . . . affair, not him—so it wasn’t his fault.

  Affair.

  She didn’t dare say the word. She barely could think it.

  But she was conducting a scandalous love affair with a man who enjoyed their time together—and to be completely fair, she enjoyed it, too. Beyond that, there were no ties, no commitments, no proposals—good heavens. Proposals. Where had that come from?

  A wedding proposal from Jake Brewster was as likely as the sky turning red. As red as the hearts symbolizing the day of Truvy’s birth. In three days, Truvy Valentine would turn twenty-six . . . and find herself forever a bona fide old maid.

  Chapter

  20

  T ruvy tidied up the dance studio, going through the room one last time. She made sure the recordings were neatly put away in their brown sleeves on the cabinet shelf. Not a trace of dust covered the black, wildflower-t
rumpeted Victrola or its cabinet stand. A coat of wax shined the floorboards. The wall of mirrors had been cleaned of smears and smudges.

  Standing in the middle of the room, Truvy grew tearful and quickly put sentimental thoughts away before she became overwrought. Although she’d started off on the wrong foot—literally—she’d grown to like this room and the music and the dancing. Edwina would be closing Wolcott’s Dancing Academy until another teacher could be found to take over the classes.

  Yesterday, the bird watchers and Mrs. Plunkett had given Truvy a small farewell party after their last two-step lesson. They’d brought cake, bottles of soda pop, and charming little send-off gifts. Truvy had been touched by their thoughtfulness. The students from the Normal School had composed a poem for her and recited it to the beat of a Sousa march. The Barbell Club had had its last class before the Mr. Physique competition. Although she saw some of the men from time to time on the street, they hadn’t exchanged many words. Oddly, they’d been looking at her as if trying to figure something out. But nobody spoke to her.

  All that was left for Truvy to do was close the windows and curtains and lock the door one last time. She turned toward the long row but was caught short by the opening of the studio’s front door.

  Putting her attention on the sound, Truvy smiled. Weakly. Almost in a hopeless manner . . .

  Jake filled the opening, tall and broad-shouldered. He was wearing a red plaid shirt and tan duckcloth trousers. He was without a coat, his cheeks flushed from the cold. A slant of midday sun cast its light on him as he entered. He had a heart-shaped box of candies tucked beneath an arm, and in his hand was a bouquet of the most beautiful red roses she’d ever seen.

  “Happy birthday,” he said in a low tone while walking toward her.

  Today was the fourteenth of February.

  “Jake . . .” Overwhelmed didn’t begin to describe how she felt. “How lovely.” The heady fragrance of roses overcame the studio. He’d taken her totally unaware. She hadn’t been expecting him to buy her a present. In her mind, she’d told herself it was better for him not to. But now she was glad he had. Romantically and utterly glad.

  She took the roses and brought them to her nose, inhaling deeply.

  “Chocolates. With chocolate truffle centers,” Jake said, giving her the heart-shaped candy box. She juggled the candy with the fanning bouquet of roses. A long white ribbon was wrapped around their stems.

  Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Jake removed his bowler and held the brim in his hands. Uncharacteristically, he twisted the brim in a slow circle as he spoke—a sign of nervousness. “Tru, I didn’t want to ask you until today. I didn’t want you to change your mind, and I had to take care of a few things.”

  Ask until today?

  Her heartbeat surged; her throat constricted.

  “Yes . . .?” She barely formed the word.

  He ran a strong hand through his hair, cleared his throat, then asked, “Would you do me the honor of attending the Valentine’s Day dance with me tonight?”

  The breath felt as if it were knocked out of her. So deflated were her feelings in that one instant—that single question—that she almost grew faint and weak at the knees. She’d been thinking about another question. Silly, oh silly her! Why had she even allowed her thoughts to run rampant like that? For even mere seconds?

  The dance.

  He wanted to take her to the Valentine’s Day dance. Why had he waited so long to ask her?

  “Oh . . . why . . . I hadn’t planned on it. I’m packing this evening.”

  “I know.”

  They’d had this conversation last night. She’d told him that tonight she would spend the evening alone, packing. And getting ready for the morning train out of Harmony. Jake never stopped her. Never talked about changing her mind, so she had pressed ahead, knowing that by the next night, she would be back home. In Boise, in her room at St. Francis, reunited with her girls.

  “This is short notice, Truvy—I’m really sorry about it. But I had to make sure something got here.”

  “The roses . . . they’re lovely.”

  “You’re even lovelier.” He held his face over hers and kissed her softly on the mouth. “Happy birthday, Tru Valentine. Will you come with me?”

  Heaven help her . . . how could she not?

  “Yes, Jake. I’ll go with you.”

  And it will be the last time I ever know bliss in your arms.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock. At your place. Right on the doorstep, for everyone to see that I’m there to collect my girl.”

  Her heart fluttered in her stomach. My girl.

  “All right. I’m on my way out now. I’ll be ready.”

  Jake left the studio and Truvy stood there a long time afterward, staring at her bouquet of roses and candy, thinking things that were too dangerous to think, wanting things she was too fearful to ask for—but determining that if she didn’t speak her heart . . . she’d always regret not telling him.

  Tonight, she’d tell Jake she was in love with him, that she expected no promise. No veils or doves. No rings or eternity. Just that she loved him, and she would always love him. And that he’d given her the happiest days of her life.

  Truvy set her gifts on the Victrola table and went to close the windows.

  The sun had begun to sink and cast its glare at the panes. Reflections of light bounced onto the gymnasium windows, a few of which were open, too. A sharp orb of light from the sun made it impossible to see inside.

  As she closed first one, then another window, she could hear voices on the other side of the alley. Gig and Milton. August and Lou and Walfred.

  “We knew you’d do it, Bruiser,” Milton Burditt said. “Soon as we saw the roses and the candy, we knew what you were about.”

  Snickers.

  The set to Truvy’s shoulders softened at the mention of the flowers and the candy. She held back, beside the window’s edge, listening, not wanting to hear Jake’s voice in return. But he was there.

  The resonance in Jake’s voice rose above the sounds of the clink and clatter of gymnasium equipment. “This has nothing to do with the bet.”

  A bet?

  Dear God. A bet. They’d made another bet? About her?

  “Really now, Bruiser,” Gig broke in, “we knew you didn’t want it to be said you had more of a chance escorting Walter Zurick’s mule.”

  “And with a ribbon around its neck,” Walfred said, then chuckled.

  Guffaws.

  “I told you, this has nothing to do with any damn bet. And so help me God, if you fellows say another word about it, I’ll kick your butts out of my gym and you’ll never be welcomed back again. I’m taking her because I want to take her. If you want to find out why, then come to the dance tonight and you’ll see.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Milton chimed.

  August added, “Neither would I.”

  “Because this has nothing,” Milton declared on the sly, “to do with that—”

  Oomph!

  Milton Burditt had obviously been punched by a man’s fist.

  Truvy pressed her back to the wall, hot tears seeping into her eyes. She blinked, trying to keep them at bay, but she was unsuccessful. Hot, plump drops came streaming down her cheeks.

  How could she have been so gullible? She ached so badly inside, it was a physical pain in her ribs. Slicing and sharp. She couldn’t deny it: Jake Brewster and his buddies made bets. Bets about dancing lessons and bets about taking a woman to a restaurant for dinner.

  Why not make the biggest bet of all?

  Get Truvy Valentine to fall in love with you.

  Jake wore a new suit, its celluloid collars and cuffs still smelling like the cedar case at Treber’s men’s store. The tailored shirt was the best fine-weave cotton, so fine that it felt like silk. Hues of bottle-green with gold-thread trim made up the vest. The coat itself was black worsted and the trousers were the same, with pleats at the waistband pockets. He’d dusted hi
s bowler, washed his hair and combed it dry, shaved twice, and put on a splash of his favorite shaving tonic.

  The reflection in his mirror was one he barely recognized.

  Hell, he’d never looked so refined. Like a regular swell. A gentleman’s gent. Like somebody important.

  Smoothing his lapels, Jake checked his breast pocket to make sure that little something he’d put in there was still there. A smile touched his mouth.

  The clock in the office rang seven times. He was late. Damn, he’d spent too much time getting ready. But tonight was so important.

  Jake left his room off the gymnasium, locking the building and walking swiftly to Truvy’s apartment, the deep indigo sky overhead. Stars twinkled and a half-moon shone.

  The evening was brisk, but it invigorated him. In fact, he’d never felt so good. It was as if the pump of his heart surged through him, but he hadn’t even lifted an ounce of weight. The feeling was there naturally.

  Rounding the corner, he took the steps to Truvy’s, his hand loosely over the banister. Once at the door, his elation at the thought of Truvy greeting him was cut cold. Pinned on the door was a note addressed to him. He yanked the paper from the pin and held it to the moonlight.

  Mr. Brewster—

  See Mr. Hess to collect your partner for this evening’s dance.

  Miss Valentine

  The formality of the note didn’t sit well with Jake. Truvy hadn’t called him “Mr. Brewster” in too many weeks to count. What did she mean, collect his partner from Max Hess? Hess owned the livery below. Was Truvy down in it waiting for him?

  Jake swiftly went down the stairs and entered the side door of the livery with its odors of hay and manure and damp mud. Truvy wouldn’t be in here. Not in a party frock.