Summer Lightning

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Vera stood up. “I shall probably dislike you very much tomorrow, Edith. But I can’t help being grateful today. I’ve been carrying around this secret like a lead weight. It’s a little lighter now.”

  “I’m glad you feel better,” Edith said. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Victor?”

  “No, Dulcie.”

  Vera blinked and turned back. “Dulcie?”

  “You can’t let her marry him. Not knowing what you know.”

  “Maybe he’s changed. People do change.”

  “Do you believe that he has, so much as to make Dulcie a good and loving husband?”

  “I can’t think why else he’d want to marry her. She doesn’t have any money he can take.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What can I do?” Vera demanded with sudden passion. “I’ve built a life here . . . I can’t just throw it away. I’ve done that once and the consequences were terrible. I can’t do it again.”

  “What about Dulcie?”

  “Dulcie has made her bed ... no, I don’t mean that. Of course she mustn’t marry him. He’s as cruel as ... the letter I found after he left me. . . . But what can I do?”

  “Go to Mr. Armstrong. He would never let Dulcie...”

  “No, I’d have to explain to him. He might kick Tate down the church steps but he’d also denounce me.”

  “He wouldn’t. . . .”

  “Yes, he would. He’d pray for me publicly, naming names and announcing exactly how I’ve strayed. I couldn’t stand it. All those people staring and whispering at me.”

  “I know how you feel,” Edith said, shuddering. Thinking of how intensely the pastor had exhorted his flock to cast away their sins and make their souls white again, Edith could believe that Mr. Armstrong would act as Vera had said. Also, the outraged father in him would likely overcome whatever assurances of secrecy he might promise Vera.

  “We must do something,” she repeated in a determined tone.

  Vera shook Edith’s sleeve lightly between her fingers. “It’s not your problem, Edith. It’s mine, and I’ll think of something. If I have to, I’ll go to Mr. Armstrong before Dulcie gets married. Milliners are supposed to be wicked, abandoned women anyway. They’ve been whispering about me since I came, so what’s the difference?”

  After a moment, she answered her own question. “The difference between a lie and the truth, that’s all. Well, I can start all over again, but . . . God, I don’t want to!”

  “Don’t want to what?” said Sam, coming up to them. They’d been so absorbed in their conversation that they hadn’t heard him until he spoke. Now both girls whirled around as though caught in some petty wickedness.

  The instant Vera saw him, she began to back away. One hand went out to him, but with the fingers splayed as if to warn him off. “No,” she said, in a gasping voice, “I really can’t.”

  Edith once more put a supporting arm around Vera’s waist. “Don’t fall,” she said, stopping her short of the tombstone.

  Again, Vera fought for her self-control. “Thank you.” She turned a trembling smile toward Sam. “I’m not feeling very well. I shouldn’t have tried to come to church today . . . I felt so strange when I woke up.”

  “Maybe you should have the doctor come by,” he suggested.

  “Yes, yes, I will. Funny, I felt fine yesterday, but I think maybe I overdid things. Got too tired. I was sicker than a dog last Sunday with that head cold that was going around.”

  “I know. I missed seeing you in church.”

  “You did?” Vera frowned as if his confession annoyed her.

  “Let me drive you home,” Sam said.

  Vera stepped free of Edith’s restraining arm. Her bright smile once more firmly pinned in place, she said, “No, thanks, Sam. I appreciate it, but no, thanks.”

  Twitching her skirt to the side so she could pass Sam without touching him, Vera walked away without a backward glance. Her back was straight as a soldier’s going to face the enemy’s firing squad.

  “She’s a funny woman,” Sam mused.

  “You like her?” Perhaps her matchmaking fervor showed in her voice for he looked around at her and grinned.

  “I like everybody. Always have. That’s why I get along so well. Never argue, never fuss.”

  “Yet Jeff tells me . . .”

  “You can’t believe a word that boy says. Where he gets such ideas . . . you don’t know the half of it.”

  “Are you warning me, Sam?” Not that she intended to listen. The moments she had with Jeff were too precious to let a harsh reality come between them.

  “Heck, no. You’re a sensible woman — I saw that as soon as I met you. But that boy of mine ... the stories he tells about me would shame a politician.” He started walking toward the church, and Edith matched her speed to his crooked gait.

  “Like what?”

  “Like how he tells people he doesn’t know what side I fought on in the late war. Did he tell you that?”

  “Well, he mentioned . . .”

  “Now see! See!”

  “Which side did you fight on?”

  Sam stopped and ran his finger around under his tight collar. “All right, so maybe I did wear gray for a little while . . . but it was sheer force of circumstances that made me do it. I was captured, you see. And a more raggle-taggle bunch of half-wits you never saw in your life. They were all city boys out in the middle of the swamps. Why, only Lucifer himself knew. They sure didn’t have any idea.”

  “So you . . .”

  “I had to help ‘em out or the lot of ‘em would have died standing up. Though I wasn’t a webfoot myself, my uncle and I spent a lot of time fishing and camping on rivers, so I knew a little bit—which was whole encyclopedias more than they did.” He kept his smile in place, but his eyes sobered. “Not a one of ‘em was older than twenty. I saved them in the swamp, but I couldn’t save them from the madness of a nation at war with itself.”

  He blinked and gave her a wide grin. “Now what call does my son have to tell people I couldn’t make up my mind which side I was on? Course, I had to sign up with the Confederate Army, or those boys would be in trouble. And if I was getting pay from both sides, you can’t say I didn’t earn it. Besides which, I paid the North back . . . but I’ll tell you about that some other time.”

  “Please do. I can’t wait to hear more.”

  “Really?” Sam looked surprised and pleased. “Nice of you to say that, Edith. Awfully nice.”

  He quietly led her back into the church, the singing of the congregation covering their entrance. Jeff was the only one to frown at them. She patted his hand reassuringly as she sat down. Maribel immediately wiggled her way back onto Edith’s lap.

  By the time the last hymn had been sung, the little girl was a dead weight on Edith’s shoulder. While the rest of the congregation, including Sam and Louise, went out into the cool blue twilight, Jeff and Edith stayed behind. He held out his arms for his daughter.

  “I don’t mind,” Edith said, shifting the child higher.

  “No, come on. I know she’s got to be heavy on you.”

  “A little, but never mind.”

  He reached for Maribel and the little girl half-woke up to look around. Then she slumped limply, trusting her father to catch her. She clung to his broad shoulder, settling easily down again into sleep.

  “There’s a lot of hay in the wagon,” Jeff said as he moved out into the aisle. “She’ll get a good nap and be full of beans later on.”

  Paul Tyler was waiting at the door, two elderly ladies beside him, their mittened hands tucked in the crook of his elbows. There was a strong family resemblance between the two ladies. They were on the short side, but broad in their black silks. Like Paul, they had brown eyes and their hair was still dark.

  “I don’t have to ask you,” Jeff said, “I can tell you’re glad to have your boy back again.”

  “So happy,” Miss Minta said. “But he’s hardly staying a we
ek, bad boy.” The adoring look she turned up to her nephew’s face belied her querulous words.

  “That’s youth for you,” Jeff answered. “Always on the go, these young whippersnappers.”

  “Will you listen to Grandpa!” Paul scoffed. “I don’t know, my darlings, maybe we shouldn’t invite him to supper. He looks like he could use a nap instead!”

  “Will there be some of Miss Minta’s crullers?” The little lady nodded. “And Miss Hetty’s potato salad? Then get out of my way, whippersnapper, there’s work for men!”

  The aunts giggled as Jeff pressed past them. Edith noticed that both ladies looked up to Jeff with affection which, if not as glorified as that showed to their nephew, was still strong. As the three women fell into step behind the men, Miss Hetty said, “Dear Jefferson has been so kind to us, Miss Parker. He fixed our shed roof last spring and . . .”

  “Don’t forget all that wood he brought us in the fall. We never had to pay a penny to have it chopped, either.” Miss Minta raised her eyes to heaven. “Surely he’ll be rewarded. In the meantime, however, if he wants my crullers, he may have as many as he wants.”

  Miss Hetty nudged her sister and said, “You must be thinking us rude as pigs, my dear. We hope you’ll be able to join us for supper too.”

  Edith yanked her attention back to the aunts. She had been listening more to the bits of Paul and Jeff’s conversation rather than to the women who walked with her. She thanked them and said, “I’d enjoy that, but, you know, Sam has the children. Why not invite him? I’ll stay with the girls.”

  “Oh, we spoke to Mr. Dane when he left the church,” Miss Hetty said. “He has something to do tonight.”

  “He didn’t say what,” Miss Minta added.

  “We’re having Miss Climson, too. Paul insisted.”

  “He insisted most strongly.” The two aunts looked at each other and giggled as though they were no older than Louise and Maribel. Then they caught Edith’s eye and forced their faces to be solemn. Except that bubbles of laughter kept escaping Miss Minta.

  Having heard a snippet of Paul’s conversation, Edith felt she understood. “She’s a remarkable girl,” he said. “Astonishingly well educated, too. Almost makes me an advocate of higher education for women, though I’m not sure it’s right for every girl.”

  Jeff’s reply had been muffled. “Maybe,” Paul replied. “But living here I can’t blame her for being a little sharp. God knows I wouldn’t have amounted to much if I’d stayed. Richey’s no place to live if you’re ambitious.”

  Edith felt reassured after she took a hard look at Paul Tyler. His face gave away his admiration and respect for the schoolteacher, but there was none of the white soul-incandescence of love immeasurable. Edith hoped this meant there was still hope for Jeff.

  He shouldn’t have all choice taken from him. Miss Albans, to Edith’s mind, was still in the running. The seduction she had hinted at need not cast her out from the bonds of matrimony and indeed might even make her a more desirable prospect. After all, men cheerfully marry widows every day.

  Edith accepted the ladies’ invitation gratefully. She tried pretending that the ride home in the dark, with Jeff beside her, was not the chief attraction of the evening ahead. He was not for her, and that was how it should be. Edith only wished that knowledge was not so deeply depressing.

  “Are you making up another story?” Jeff asked as he drove the buggy to Misses Tyler’s house.

  “No,” Edith said, coming out of her reverie. “I was thinking about Miss Albans.”

  “Yes . . . Miss Albans . . . was she all right?”

  “She really didn’t look well.”

  “If you want to, we can stop by her place on the way home.”

  Edith smiled at him. “You’re very thoughtful.”

  “I’m being selfish. You wouldn’t want me to marry a sickly woman, would you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’ve been thinking . . . if I’m serious about this marriage thing, I ought to do something about it, don’t you think?”

  Edith placed her hands in her lap and put on her most businesslike expression. “What had you in mind?”

  “Formal calls. Hair slicked, clean shirt, bouquets of flowers maybe. What kind do you like?”

  “Oh, I like ... all sorts of flowers. Daisies always seem cheerful and don’t commit one to anything the way roses would.”

  “Roses commit you?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly red roses . . . they indicate an undying passion. Pink roses are safer, and yellow roses are a mark of warm friendship. White roses are, naturally, a token of purity.”

  “I bet they’re your favorite,” Jeff grumbled under his breath. “What about violets?”

  “Surely you can’t get violets at this time of year.” Edith considered deeply as they passed the houses and shops, yellow lamplight revealing and concealing their faces as they drove along. “Definitely daisies,” she said in judgment. “Especially if you are going to be courting more than one at a time. Or are you planning to begin with one and then go on to the next?”

  “One at a time is less confusing,” Jeff said, as they turned into the yard. “Let’s see how Miss Climson strikes me tonight.”

  As he helped Edith down, he said, “I’m glad I made you come to Richey. Imagine, I might have given red roses to Miss Minta and be committed for life. You saved me from a bad blunder.”

  “My pleasure,” Edith answered. She hid her disappointment well. Jeff’s hands hadn’t tightened for even one instant as he lifted her down. Perhaps he was seeing reason. Edith stifled a wish that he’d still be blind.

  Chapter 18

  Edith reached for another cheese-filled roll. As she leaned closer to Jeff, she whispered, “Have you noticed Miss Climson?”

  “Yes,” Jeff answered. “She looks nice. I told her so.”

  “You said ‘nice’?”

  “Yes. What else should I have said?”

  He filled his eyes with Edith. She wore a blue suit embroidered with white, a kind of a drapery effect hanging from her waist to about where he figured her knees would be. She’d done something different to her hair—it was softer, giving her the gentle appearance that suited her nature.

  Jeff would have liked to see her in red, about the color of the sofa they sat on. Red silk for instance, tight enough to show off her body, with her hair falling richly over her shoulders and the half-revealed curves of her breasts.

  He moved restlessly on the sofa, trying to remember what they’d been talking about. Miss Climson . . . that was it.

  “Nice isn’t something I should have said, I guess.”

  “Well, it isn’t very emphatic. And you want to charm her, don’t you? You should say something more . . .”

  “Are you enjoying those, Miss Parker?” Miss Hetty bustled into the room, balancing a tray with a dark blue bottle and some glasses. “Be careful not to spoil your dinner, dear.”

  “They’re wonderful.” It was obvious that neither aunt considered any of their guests to be older than about fifteen.

  As she set the tray down on the piano. Miss Hetty said, “We’ll give you the recipe for the filling. It’s the sort of thing every young girl should know how to make. Husbands do entertain their friends and expect their wives to be prepared.”

  She looked around archly. “Where have Miss Climson and Paul gotten to?”

  “They went out to look at the stars,” Edith explained. “He seems to know all the constellations.”

  “Oh, yes. He was always interested in things like that. He’s come back to us full of cleverness, hasn’t he, Jefferson?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He always was smart as a whip.” He watched the lady pour out a bright red liquid from the glasses. “Don’t tell me you’re giving us your famous strawberry cordial, ma’am!”

  “Oh, just a taste, just a taste. Even Mr. Armstrong doesn’t disdain to take a glass when he calls.”

  “What beautiful glasses,” Edith said. They matched the
decanter, a dark cobalt blue that was cut with white glass showing through in a pattern of flowers.

  “Our grandmother brought them from Europe.” Miss Hetty took a healthy nip from her glass. “I’ll go call Paul and Miss Climson in. It’s nearly time for supper and Minta gets so cross if we’re late.”

  As Edith lifted her own glass to her lips, Jeff said, “Be careful with that stuff. It’s lethal.”

  “Lethal?” Edith sipped cautiously. It was sweet as the ripe fruit of which it was made and it filled her mouth with the taste and fragrance of summer. “It’s delicious.”

  As she raised her glass again, Jeff pressed her hand gently down. “I’m telling you that raw whiskey would be less dangerous. This cordial doesn’t taste like it but it’s pure alcohol. I don’t know how they do it . . . there’s not another woman in town that makes it the same way. Last year that cordial put Mr. Armstrong’s district superior right under the table. But before that, he was laughing and singing off-color songs. And he’s supposed to be one of the toughest birds in these parts.”

  “That’s dreadful! They’re teetotalers, aren’t they? Didn’t Mr. Armstrong get into trouble?”

  “No. Seems this Mr. McCauley just thought he was extra tired from his trip. He never connected it with what he’d been drinking. But I’m telling you . . . watch out. ...”

  Miss Hetty came back, a frown between her thick brows. She looked pointedly at Jeff and then at the burl-wood clock on the crowded mantel.

  He stood up, putting his glass on the table. “If supper’s about ready, I guess I’d better get washed up.”

  “How grown-up of you to remember without being told, Jefferson. You remember where the pump is?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He winked at Edith, half-turning so he wouldn’t hurt Miss Hetty’s feelings.

  Miss Hetty took his place. Sitting down she sighed heavily.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “How kind of you to ask. Not really. It’s just that time flies so.” She lowered her voice and said, “I couldn’t mention this in front of Jefferson. Some things you just can’t talk about in front of boys. They will laugh and make silly jokes.”