The Virtuous Woman

by Gilbert, Morris

  She went into the kitchen and found Francis typing rapidly. “Hello,” she said cheerfully. When he turned to look at her, she saw his eyes widen with surprise. “I’m going for a ride, and I want you to go with me.”

  “You mean on that motorcycle? I hate that thing!”

  She playfully grabbed his hair. “You’re going with me, so don’t argue. Or do I have to get my blackjack?”

  “Ow, you’re pulling my hair out!” He freed himself and stood up. “I’ll fix you breakfast, but no motorcycle ride for me.”

  She pinched his arm, which drew a yelp from him. “You’ve pinched my arm black and blue over my grammar, so I’m gonna pinch you every time you say no to me. Now, fix me a good breakfast. I’ll eat it, and then we’re going to New Orleans.”

  Francis laughed. “You must be feeling better.”

  “I am. I feel great!”

  “I wish I did. I keep worrying about that manuscript.”

  “Just forget about your book. I want some pancakes and sausage and a big pot of coffee. We’ll take some in the Thermos.”

  “What about your lessons? How am I going to make you into a refined lady when I’m on the back of a dumb motorcycle?”

  “You can teach me as we go.”

  Her good humor was infectious, and Francis laughed. “I don’t think I want to teach you anymore, Grace. I don’t want you to be smarter than I am.”

  “No danger of that,” she said, squeezing his arm firmly. “Now, fix those flapjacks!”

  Francis did her bidding, and as soon as she had finished eating, she said, “Throw the dirty dishes in the sink and get your helmet.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Yes you do. I got one for you yesterday.” She pulled a leather helmet and goggles out of the closet. “Here, put it on.”

  Francis fumbled at the helmet and snapped the strap under his chin. “I feel like an idiot wearing this thing.”

  Grace pulled the goggles down over his eyes. “Now you’re ready for anything. Let’s go.”

  They left the house, and after she had kicked the machine into life, Francis got on behind her. He reached around her waist and held her tightly. “Don’t hold on so tight!” she protested.

  “I will too,” he shouted over the roar of the engine. “If I fall off, I’m taking you with me.”

  “I know what you’re doing. You’ve been looking for an excuse to hug me, and now you’ve got it.”

  He squeezed her harder and said, “If you’re determined to go, then let’s get going.”

  “All right. Hang on, Mr. Key.”

  Francis actually enjoyed the ride to New Orleans, especially since he got to hold on to Grace. Feeling the wind in his face and conscious of every bump in the road under them, he found himself enjoying it greatly but would never admit it to her.

  As they entered the city, she hollered back, “Let’s go to the French Quarter and get us some good hot Cajun food.”

  Francis agreed, and they found an excellent restaurant and devoured some of the best Cajun cuisine they’d had so far in Louisiana. After eating, they wandered slowly around the French Quarter watching the street entertainers. One man played an accordion so enthusiastically and sang so fervently, albeit off-key, that Francis put a dime in the cup at his feet. “God bless you, brother,” Francis said.

  “Why, God bless me! That’s right enough, sir. Thank you very much.”

  They wandered into the cathedral and sat down for a while, soaking in the peace they found in the cool silence. When they finally emerged, Grace said, “What was that, Francis?”

  “What was what?”

  “What was that I felt inside the cathedral?”

  “That was the presence of God.”

  “Let’s go back. I want to feel it again.”

  He laughed. “You can feel it just as well at home.”

  Grace stared at him. “I don’t believe that. Otherwise, why build cathedrals? Why not just stay home?”

  “I think it’s just a special quiet place after all the noise of our lives. Sometimes I find God’s presence when I’m sitting out on a creek even more than I do in a church. Finding God, I think, is just a matter of waiting for Him no matter where you are. You can even be close to God driving a motorcycle.”

  She loved it when he spoke like this, helping her understand the mysteries of God. He took her hand as they continued down the street. She was startled, but his grip remained firm, and she liked it. It gave her a sense of belonging she had never felt before.

  Late in the afternoon, Grace said, “I guess we should be heading home.”

  “You don’t have to work tonight, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Good. Then we can have a grammar lesson when we get back.”

  “No, I’d rather do something exciting.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything but work on grammar! You’ve done a lot for me, Francis, but I’m always gonna make mistakes in grammar.”

  “We all do. You’ve learned so much, Grace, you’ll do fine anywhere you go now.”

  She beamed at his praise. “Come on,” she said. “On the way home we’ll think of something fun to do when we get back to Baton Rouge. Maybe we’ll go down on the river and watch the big boats.”

  “That sounds good.”

  They got on the cycle and left New Orleans, Grace operating the machine with care, for the local police officers were not known for their generosity with speeders. Once they had left the city limits, she felt free to speed up until they were flying along at a fast clip. Francis was holding on tight, thinking what a nice day it had been. Suddenly, however, he was thrown forward roughly against Grace. He grabbed at her wildly. “What is it?” She did not answer, for she was intent on avoiding the danger ahead. He peeked around her to see that a big semi was blocking the rather narrow highway. He quickly spotted a car that had been knocked off onto the shoulder on the left-hand side. The stationary truck loomed ahead of them, and he thought, She’ll never miss it!

  Grace slowed the cycle as much as she could and leaned sharply to the right, pulling Francis with her. They missed the back corner of the truck by a fraction of an inch. In fact, Francis thought he had grazed it with his left forearm.

  The bike spun out and deposited the riders on the thick grass by the side of the highway. Francis’s first thought was I’m glad we’re not on the concrete. He lay on the grass for a minute while he determined he wasn’t hurt.

  Grace rolled over and squatted in front of him. “Francis, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m all right,” he said as he sat up. “Just roughed up a bit.”

  “I was so afraid!” Grace cried, hugging him.

  “I don’t see how you managed to miss that truck.”

  “I don’t either. It must have been the Lord.”

  “I think so. Come on. Let’s see if anybody’s hurt. That wreck must have happened just before we got here.”

  The family in the car had been shaken up, and the wife had sustained a severe cut on her arm.

  “Do what you can for her, Francis, while I find a place to call for an ambulance and the cops.”

  “Hurry as quick as you can,” he said.

  As Grace climbed back on the bike and left the scene, she was aware that her heart was beating fast, and her hands were unsteady. She had had close calls before but none quite this close. She knew they had been only inches away from death or serious injury. She raced to find a phone, saying over and over, “Thank you, God ... thank you, God ... thank you, God.”

  ****

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget this night,” Francis said in a subdued voice when they finally arrived home.

  Grace was thinking of how close death had been. The family in the car and the truck driver could have all been killed, but they had miraculously survived with only minor injuries. Grace and Francis had waited with the others until the ambulance and police had arrived. They had given their part of the repo
rt and then come directly home.

  “I really thought we were going to hit that truck,” Francis said quietly.

  “We could have easily been killed,” she said. “What were you thinking about when you saw that truck?”

  He looked at her, startled. “Thinking about? You mean just before I thought we were going to die?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought of how many things I’d never get to do.”

  “Like what?” she pressed.

  “Mostly of how I’d never have a family.” The accident had sobered him, and his face still had a pallor to it. “I’ve always wanted a family more than anything—a wife and kids and a house somewhere.”

  “I didn’t know that, Francis.”

  “Well, it’s true, and for that split second I thought I’d never have it, and it made me very sad. What did you think about?”

  “I thought about you,” she said simply.

  Her answer caught him off guard. He put his hands on her forearms. “Not about yourself?”

  “No. I guess I got used to facing danger in that stupid carnival act I was in, but I did think about you. You’re so talented and have so much to give, and I felt terribly sad that I had ruined it all for you.”

  He tightened his grasp on her arms, and she grew very still, her eyes steadily on his.

  “The other thing I thought of,” he said, “was how much I love you and how very thrilled I would be if you would agree to marry me.”

  Grace could barely breathe. “Do you really love me?”

  “You must know that, but I don’t know how you feel about me.”

  She had difficulty speaking. “I ... I love you too, Francis, but ...”

  “But what?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “You know what kind of life I used to lead. I wasn’t a virtuous girl.”

  “But you are now. God has made you into a virtuous woman.”

  He slipped his arms around her as she whispered, “I wish I hadn’t done all those awful things. I know God’s forgiven me, but I still wish I’d lived differently.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. All those things are forgotten.” He kissed her, and she began to weep as she clung to him. “Don’t cry for yesterday, Grace. Today is the day the Lord has made.”

  The two stood there embracing, and finally he kissed her again. “You didn’t answer my question. If I’m a success and get my book published, will you marry me?”

  “You are a success,” she said firmly. “And yes, I’ll marry you! I love you, Francis. I don’t know when I started loving you, but I know you’re the kindest man I’ve ever known.”

  Francis smiled. “I’m not very big,” he said with a grin.

  “You’re big enough for me to marry!” She put her cheek next to his. He may not be a very big man on the outside, but that doesn’t matter, she thought. He’s big on the inside, and that’s all that counts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Babe’s Admonition

  Francis pulled the truck up in front of the airfield office and turned the engine off. Grace was watching him with a peculiar expression in her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded.

  “Is this going to be hard for you, Francis?”

  “Is what going to be hard for me?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Will it be hard for you to say good-bye to Babe?”

  “Of course not,” he said quickly. He reached over and twirled a strand of her strawberry blond hair around his forefinger. “Are you going to be jealous, Grace?”

  “No, I don’t think so. As a matter of fact, I feel sad about Babe.”

  “Sad? Why is that?”

  “She’s missing out on so much. She’s got it in her to be a very good woman, but she’s not willing to trust God.”

  He released the strand of hair and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sad for her too, but it’s not too late. She’s young. She can change. Come on, let’s go in.”

  “Are you sure you want me to come?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  The two got out of the truck, and Grace stopped long enough to check the ties that held down the motorcycle and their luggage. “This is all we’ve got,” she said with a laugh. “A few suitcases, a typewriter, a couple blankets, and a motorcycle. Not much in the way of worldly goods, is it?”

  “No, not much,” he agreed. “But it means we can travel light. Come on.”

  The two went inside and found Babe sitting at her desk. She did not get up but studied them with a strange expression. “I thought you two would be long gone.”

  “We’re on our way,” Francis said. “We just came to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” Babe said in a tense voice.

  “I’ll miss you, Babe,” he said. “I don’t know where we’ll wind up, but I hope we’ll get to see you again sometime.”

  Babe rolled her eyes. “You are something, Francis Key. You reject a woman and bruise her feelings until she’s like a piece of raw hamburger, then come by smiling with your cheerful little innocent face. I oughta kick your rear out of here like I did the last time!”

  He dropped his head. “Well, I wish you luck,” he said lamely.

  She got out of her chair and came quickly around her desk. Francis’s eyes flew open with alarm, and he took a step backward. “Now, wait a minute,” he said nervously. “You don’t have to—”

  Francis never finished his sentence, for Babe threw her arms around him and kissed him full on the lips. She held it for a long moment before pulling away, her hands on her hips. “Well, Grace, there’s one kiss you won’t get.”

  “I guess not.” She stepped forward and embraced Babe. She whispered, “I’ll be praying that you’ll find just the right man to make you happy.” Stepping back, she smiled and took Francis by the arm in a protective gesture.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna hit the little pipsqueak. Just get him outta here, will ya?”

  “All right, Babe. I’ll send you an invitation to the wedding,” Grace said and smiled.

  “Just take care of the little shrimp. And you”—she fixed her gaze on Francis—”you be good to her.”

  “I will. So long for now.” Francis turned and walked out, allowing Grace to go before him. When they got to the truck, neither of them said anything, but as he started the engine and looked at Grace, he was concerned to see a tear rolling down her cheek. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I feel so sorry for her.”

  Francis reached over and squeezed the back of her neck. “So do I,” he said softly. Then he gunned the truck, and as they left the airfield, neither of them spoke for a time. After a while he put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “You heard what she said. I’m supposed to be good to you.”

  She smiled brilliantly at him. “All right, Francis, you can start right now.”

  ****

  They drove hard all day, and when it started growing dark, they looked for a place to camp. An hour later they were sitting beside a campfire, roasting hot dogs. “You’re still burning yours,” Francis said. “Let me do it for you.”

  “I can roast my own!” Grace protested.

  “No, I’m the man; you’re the woman. It’s time you started practicing up on your obedience.”

  “What are you talking about?” She glared at him.

  “That’s what you’ve got to promise when we get married. To love, honor, and obey me.”

  “I never did like that part of the wedding ceremony,” she muttered. “But I have to admit, you are a better cook than I am.”

  Francis tossed the blackened wiener over his head and lanced another one onto the roasting stick he had cut. He held it carefully over the flame, and when it was done, he smeared mustard on a bun, inserted the wiener, and topped it off with bubbling hot chili he had heated in a can near the blaze. Grace bit into the hot dog and cried out, “Aaahh—that’s hot!”

  “Hot dogs are supposed to be hot, silly! You’d complain if I
gave you a cold one.”

  She made a face at him and bit into her dog. After having their fill, they drank coffee they had brought in a Thermos.

  “This is nice,” Grace said. “I hope we’ll always do things like this.”

  “It looks like we will whether we want to or not. Can’t afford to go first class.”

  Grace noticed that his mood had changed. “What’s the matter, Francis?”

  He rearranged the fire with his hot dog stick. “We don’t even have a roof to put over our heads. After we get married, we’ll have to honeymoon in the woods.”

  “No we won’t. Your book will be published by then.” She moved closer to him and put her hand on his knee. “Tell me, how do you get paid for writing a book?”

  “First you have to get it accepted by a publisher.”

  “I mean after that.”

  “The theory is that you sign a contract, and they give you what’s called an advance.”

  “An advance? What’s that?”

  “It’s money paid out against the royalties. For instance, they might give me a check for three hundred dollars. Then after the book has been out a while, they count up all the copies that have sold and see how much money they’ve made.”

  “Do you get half of it?”

  “Half! No! No writer gets half. Ten percent’s more like it.”

  “Ten percent! That’s highway robbery! Those thieves will be keeping ninety percent of your money.”

  Francis laughed. “Actually, they don’t even get half of it.” He put his hand over hers and squeezed it. “Half of the price of the book will go to the bookstore.”

  “That still leaves fifty percent.”

  “But the publisher has to spend a lot of money to pay their editors, hire an artist to design a fancy cover, print it, and distribute it, so depending on how many copies it sells, they might not make any money from it. They’re taking a chance with every book, especially if the author is not well known. The big writers, Hemingway and Faulkner, probably get fifteen or maybe even twenty percent. But I’d be thankful for ten.”

  “Let’s see. If a book costs a dollar, you’d get ten cents. Is that right?”

  “Just about.”