Summer Lightning

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Hello! You must be Mr. Dane’s Cousin Edith! I’m Dulcie. Come on in.” She stepped back, nearly knocking over a white Devonshire vase, filled with every color of gladiola.

  “Oops,” Dulcie said, grabbing and righting it. She moved very quickly for a large girl, especially one who seemed all legs and arms. Edith was reminded of the large daddy longlegs that used to inhabit the attic at a former flat of her aunt’s.

  Jeff held out the basket. “Here’s some things from Dad.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Dane the sweetest thing?” Dulcie asked Edith.

  She smiled, hoping she wasn’t committing herself to an opinion. It all depended on which Mr. Dane Dulcie meant.

  “I mean,” Dulcie rushed on heedlessly. “For a grown man to spend his life in a calico apron . . . that’s sweet!”

  “He seems to enjoy it,” Edith said, now certain.

  “Oh, I don’t see how he could. I hate cooking.”

  Since Edith had already been awakened by Sam’s joyful, tuneless yodeling while he baked, she felt sure he enjoyed doing the baking. And when she’d seen his high, light meringues, garnished with blackberries and mint leaves, she had known he loved it. He’d whipped a pint of fresh cream to be served alongside the delicious circles of sweet puffs.

  Dulcie peeked inside the basket. “Ooh!” Turning her head, she called, “Mother!”

  “Yes? Coming.”

  The woman who came through the arched doorway did not present the image that Edith had expected after seeing her garden. Mrs. Armstrong dressed with Quakerish plainness, as befitted the wife of a preacher and the mother of hopeful girls. But on closer inspection, Edith saw that her hazel eyes had the same zest for life that her garden expressed.

  She greeted Edith and said, “Arnie Sloan has told me so much about you, I feel like we’re friends already.”

  Edith had never been greeted with such warmth. She couldn’t quite meet the Armstrongs’ eyes. To know she was there under false pretenses was as embarrassing as the time her garter fell in the greengrocer’s.

  She said, “You have a lovely garden, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  Jeff heaved a sigh, “I’d better be going along to the meeting, Edith. You’re going to have a fine time. I’m leaving you in the best of care.”

  “Ooh, you darling!” Mrs. Armstrong flung her arms around his waist. “You can’t go ‘less you give me a little kiss. Just a little smooch . . .”

  “Why sure, you beautiful creature, you.”

  To Edith’s surprise, Jeff swept Mrs. Armstrong into a bear hug while Dulcie turned her dark brown eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation. “Mo-ther!”

  At the end of the hall, a man appeared who looked more like a blacksmith than a preacher. “What?” he bellowed. “My wife in the arms of another!”

  Edith backed up, her hand fumbling for the white vase. Was she about to witness a sensational scene of adultery revealed? She couldn’t quite believe it of Jeff, yet the evidence was before her very eyes.

  He put the preacher’s wife behind him, valiantly. “You’ve surprised us, sir.”

  “And in front of my daughter!”

  Edith decided the vase wouldn’t stop such a big man from tearing Jeff into little bits. Blindly, she sought behind her for the cast-iron fruit bowl also on the table.

  The preacher walked forward and sadly shook hands with Jeff. “If you want her, my son, you must have her. I’ll want five dollars and a good cow.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Armstrong shrieked, stepping out from behind Jeff and punching her husband in the upper arm. “Is that all I’m worth to you? After twenty-four years of marriage?”

  “Has it really been twenty-four years?” her husband asked wonderingly. “It seems like yesterday you were batting your lashes at me.”

  “I never . . .”

  Mr. Armstrong peered into his wife’s eyes. “Why, you’re mighty pretty, Miss Drake. I think I’ll follow Jeff’s example.”

  Once more Mrs. Armstrong was swept into a strong embrace. This was no mock kiss, however, but a thoroughgoing effort. On both sides.

  Edith took her fingers from around the foot of the bowl. Obviously, this melodrama had been a joke. She turned her eyes to Jeff, who winked at her. Instantly, she dropped her gaze. Would he be insulted that she had thought the worst of him?

  Dulcie said, “Fa-ather! Really!”

  There was a loud smack as Mr. Armstrong came up for air. His wife looked dazed and she held onto her husband’s thick arm as though to keep from going over weak at the knees.

  Jeff said, “Oh, woman, woman. Faithless . . . I go my way. Brokenhearted.”

  He dragged his feet all the way to the door, while the Armstrongs laughed at him. “Alas, cruel fate,” Jeff moaned. “Edith, I’ll pick you up at four o’clock. If I don’t drown my sorrows in the watering tank first.”

  “I hope you won’t,” Edith answered with a smile. “I’d hate to walk all the way back to the ranch.”

  He gave her a quick, frowning glance as he opened the front door. Mr. Armstrong said, “Wait a minute, Jeff. Are you going to the fair-committee meeting?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me come along too. I’ve heard a distressing rumor about the games of chance—that whiskey is to be one of the prizes. Now it’s bad enough that the Red-Eye will be open during the fair hours but we mustn’t allow . . .”

  Jeff held up his hand. “You don’t have to convince me. Come along to the meeting. I’m sure the boys will hear you out.”

  “Thanks. Let me get my coat. I’ll meet you out front.”

  As the door closed behind Jeff, Edith felt as though she’d been abandoned by her last friend. She looked toward the Armstrongs, trying to smile.

  Mrs. Armstrong said suddenly, “Gracious! You must be thinking we’re all touched, Miss Parker. Such awful behavior in front of a stranger!”

  “I thought you were wonderful!” She relaxed. Maybe it would be all right. A rush of enthusiasm carried her into making an impertinent suggestion. “Have you ever thought of taking that performance on the stage?”

  Mrs. Armstrong shook her head, a motherly smile on her lips. “We don’t believe in acting in public. And no dancing.”

  “Mo-ther,” Dulcie said. “Miss Parker isn’t going to kick up her heels in the hall!”

  “It’s best she should know these things. And shouldn’t you be doing your hair? The other guests will be along in a moment.”

  “Am I early?” Edith asked, instantly sure she was imposing dreadfully upon this nice family.

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “Everyone else is late.”

  “Jeff said . . .”

  “Men!” Mrs. Armstrong looked lovingly up as her large husband came into the hall again, working his arms into the sleeves of his black coat. “They always think things like this start on the minute, as though we’re running a railroad. And as for you, Ezra Armstrong . . .”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” He rolled comical eyes at Edith and hooked a thumb at his wife. “You see who’s master in my house.”

  “We said a long time ago that you’ve got the church you can be boss of. The house is my business so git!”

  “Yes, madam trail boss.” He snapped off a salute as he left, his wife and daughter gazing after him lovingly.

  Edith left her eyes stinging, and didn’t know why. She blinked the water away fiercely. “Is there anything I can do to help you get ready?”

  “Lands sake, child, no. You’re our guest. Go and have a sit-down in the parlor. I’ll come in a minute. Got to get those children washed.”

  Obediently, Edith went into the rose-pink and wisteria-purple parlor. It was hot there, for the morning sun illuminated the triple windows at one side. She wished she hadn’t put on that extra petticoat, but had thought “better safe than sorry.”

  A small, uncomfortable-looking chair beckoned to her. She moved it into a corner and sat down. It gave way beneath her.

  Unable to jump up in time, Edith crashed to the f
loor. The fall rattled her right to her teeth.

  The Armstrongs came rushing into the room. There were a lot of Armstrongs. Three boys, ranging from a young man to a tow-headed boy with two missing teeth, pointed at her. Two young girls, one with slightly lowered skirts and one still in pigtails, giggled. The oldest boy of the group, tall and dark, shook his head. He came over to offer her a hand and hauled her up out of the destruction. All that remained of what had been, no doubt, a treasured relic of the house were a few pathetic sticks.

  “I’m so sorry,” Edith whispered. She wanted to rub where it hurt but she folded her hands instead.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Armstrong asked. “I should have warned you. That old chair isn’t fit to sit on.”

  “Wasn’t fit, Ma,” the young man said. He must have been nineteen or twenty. “I don’t guess it can be fixed now.”

  “I’ll be happy to replace . . .”

  Mrs. Armstrong shook her head. “Can’t be done. Miss Parker. Wouldn’t be worth it, anyway. Piece of old junk. Put it right out of your mind.”

  “But really . . .”

  She wasn’t allowed to finish her offer. Her hostess led her by the hand to the plush settee. “You just sit down. I’ll get you a cup of tea. You must be shook from head to foot.”

  “I am, a little. Thank you.”

  Edith sat and sipped her tea, ignoring the younger children who peeked in the window, discussing her. The young man came in to sweep up the pieces.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Parker,” he said, “This old thing needed repair anyhow. And I didn’t want to do it.”

  “You would have done it?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged as though it were an everyday accomplishment. “I like to make stuff. I carved that bird behind you on the wall.”

  The bas-relief songbird looked as real as Orpheus, though still the native brown of the wood. She almost expected the bird to flap its wings and fly away. “It’s very good,” Edith said. “You’re obviously talented.”

  “If you don’t mind ... I know we just met an’ all, but could I do a carving of you?”

  “Of me?”

  All the members of the Armstrong family were tall, though most of the children were blond. While his hair was a dark, curling mass, his eyes were an intense blue she hadn’t seen in his parents. His arms dangled out of their too short sleeves, his hands surprisingly delicate in form. She could believe he was an artist.

  Edith decided he’d probably done likenesses of all his family and friends. Perhaps he’d even made a carving of Jeff. She’d like to see it, if he had. A new face, even one like hers, must be welcome to an artist’s eye.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gary. An’ if you want, I could get the materials right away. I’ve got a couple of nice blocks all sanded and . . .”

  “Now isn’t a good time, Gary. There’s the sewing circle. I’ll be in town for a week though, at least.”

  “Sure, sure. I know. It’s just . . .” He blushed, the color coming and going like a tide. His hands twitched as though they already held his tools.

  Edith gave an encouraging smile. Artists were often shy, she’d read, and being shy herself, she knew what it was like. She would have been hard-pressed to say which of them jumped higher when the first knock sounded at the front door. A gabble of female voices began the moment Mrs. Armstrong opened it.

  Glancing around to address a word to Gary, Edith found she was alone in the parlor. But not for long.

  A phalanx of women entered, all friends. Edith could tell by the warmth that flowed around them. It was as strong as love, though of a different order. She had no hope that she could ever be part of such a group.

  They looked at her with curiosity gleaming in their eyes. She rose to her feet, shaking out her skirt, and offered a calm smile. They couldn’t tell how her heart was beating, or that the tea in her stomach had suddenly turned sour.

  “Now, girls,” Mrs. Armstrong said, bustling around to the front. “This is Miss Edith Parker, Jeff Dane’s cousin. She’s come to stay with them for a little bit.”

  At first, there had seemed to be dozens of women crowded into the parlor. Soon, though, Edith realized there were only five, including Mrs. Armstrong. Two names caught her attention.

  “I’m Miss Climson, the schoolteacher.”

  “And I’m Miss Albans. Vera Albans. I do lots of things. Make hats. Sew. Anything, really.”

  “Vera,” Miss Climson said. “You mustn’t say you would do anything.”

  “Pretty much, S.J. Pretty much.” She looked at Edith with an inviting glance, one eyebrow raised above a blue-gray eye. Her hair was like hot gold, caught in a smoothly bulging style.

  Edith felt compelled to speak. "I ... I ... make things too. Um, flowers. I make paper flowers. And fans.”

  Mrs. Armstrong looked up brightly from her conversation with the other two ladies. “Did someone mention flowers?”

  “What a pity you don’t trim hats,” Miss Albans said. “I was hoping to hear what the latest styles really look like. They can’t be the way they’re described in the magazines. They just couldn’t be!”

  The ladies all laughed at her mock dismay. Edith joined in, a half-second behind. Secretly, she sighed in relief. At least she’d scraped through there, though why she hadn’t simply said she had private means? Perhaps because she could be plausible as someone who lived by selling paper flowers whereas she never could have passed for an heiress.

  A belated knock at the door sent Mrs. Armstrong scurrying off again. Miss Albans leaned over toward Miss Climson. “That’ll be Mrs. Green, S.J.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Miss Climson had brought out an elegantly embroidered pillowcase. Spreading it carefully across a tea towel laid over her dark brown skirt, she began to attach blonde lace to the edge. Her stitches were tiny and meticulous, for which she donned steel-rimmed glasses that she’d also removed from her work bag. Glancing at Miss Climson’s work, Edith could see that each stitch was precisely the same size as all the others.

  “Isn’t that beautiful!” Edith said, reaching out to touch the elaborately entwined design of birds and vines.

  “Please don’t,” Miss Climson said without missing a stitch. “I am trying to keep it clean.”

  Edith recoiled. “I apologize.”

  This was one of the women Jeff had in mind. How could he consider her? She’d always be telling Louise and Maribel not to touch things.

  Miss Albans leaned closer to Edith, whispering, “Don’t mind S.J. She’s . . . particular, that’s all. But nice, once you get to know her.”

  Out in the hall, a woman’s voice was engaged in a lengthy explanation. “So I went back for the pound cake and forgot my sewing. Then the dog shook himself all over the clean floor and you know how water spots ruin varnish so the only thing to do . . .”

  Miss Climson set another stitch. “Mrs. Green does occasionally take a breath,” she commented quietly.

  She glanced up. Edith did not need her special sight to recognize in the teacher a capacity for laughter like a spring of joy. “She . . . she does?”

  “Oh, yes. However reluctantly.”

  Mrs. Green was still talking as she came in. She broke off in the middle of a rambling story about what her youngest had said to come up to Edith. “I’ve heard so much about you. I couldn’t wait to meet you. Tell me, is it true what they say?”

  “About what?” Edith asked.

  “About the county fair, of course.”

  “The county . . . ? I’m afraid I don’t know anything . . . when Jeff comes back . . .”

  Miss Climson stepped in. “You know we’re having the big fair here in Richey this year. I hope the weather will be fine for it. The children are so excited about it all.”

  “The weather will be fine, S.J., but what about the fair? Is it true that there will be professional horse racers?”

  “What?” the other ladies asked, turning from their work and their own conversations.r />
  Mrs. Green nodded emphatically. “Yes, I heard it yesterday from Mr. Bradley. He swore to me that it was true. Professional riders, that’s what he said. He referred to them as ‘jockeys.’“

  Edith spoke above the resulting babble. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Impossible,” Mrs. Green said. “Perhaps you just missed hearing about it because you were so busy with the rest of the organizing. I’m sure you’re doing a fine job but if you need any help, feel free to call on me.”

  Edith’s head swam. She stammered out a polite “Thank you.”

  Vera Albans came to her rescue. “No, no, Adelia,” she said, patting the plump redhead on the arm. “This isn’t Leena Michaels from Cat’s Wallow. This is Miss Edith Parker . . . you know. Jeff’s cousin. Arrived yesterday.”

  “Oh, of course. I’d heard from Arnie that you’d come for a visit. I’m a scatterbrain. Do please forgive me.”

  Mrs. Green had a smile that lit up the room like a candle on a frosty night. Actually, with her deep bosom, bright red hair, and comfy build, she would be able to keep Jeff warm without a blanket on the coldest night Missouri could throw at them. But what about summer? He couldn’t have two wives—one for snow and the other for summer?—could he?

  A cool, collected brunette like Miss Climson would make an excellent antidote to Mrs. Green’s exuberance. But what about poor Vera Albans, left out? Perhaps she could take spring, for she was pretty as a rose. Pity there wasn’t a fourth candidate to occupy and console Jeff’s autumns.

  Edith shook herself, realizing she’d gone too far. She was to help Jeff Dane to find a wife, and she’d already married him off to four women, one of whom didn’t even exist.

  Mrs. Green looked around the room, greeting everyone. When Mrs. Armstrong came in again, bearing a fresh pot of tea, Mrs. Green asked, “Where’s that nice little chair? Have you finally decided to have Gary fix it?”

  Mrs. Armstrong put the tea tray down on the table. “Miss Parker, shall I freshen your cup?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Mrs. Green said again, more loudly, “Are you having Gary fix the general’s chair?”