Summer Lightning

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Mr. Armstrong shook his broad head. “Doesn’t seem to me they discussed it much.”

  “Of course they didn’t, Pa. Why make plans for something that wasn’t ever going to happen?”

  Jeff sat down and refused the pie Gary offered. “So what did you do when Sullivan showed up?”

  Flexing his meaty hands inward and outward until his knuckles popped like firecrackers, Mr. Armstrong said, “We had a little heart-to-heart chat. Told him that Dulcie had changed her mind and wasn’t planning to change it back. He demanded to see her but he didn’t press the point.”

  “He’s a coward,” Gary said curtly.

  “And the boy was itching for a fight, too. Seems a pity.” Mr. Armstrong chuckled suddenly with a rattling sound. “He would have turned that pretty boy into something fit only for sausage.”

  “Well, you taught me everything I know,” Gary replied, looking fondly on his father.

  Jeff stood up. “I’m glad everything’s worked out so well. If Sullivan’s smart, he’ll be on the next train out of town.”

  Gary followed Jeff out of the kitchen. “Listen, Mr. Dane,” he said, catching up.

  “I don’t want him coming around Dulcie again,” Gary said.

  “Without her money, he doesn’t have much reason to stay,” Jeff said. “But if you want my advice . . .”

  “Please, sir.”

  “Marry her at once, without the frills and nonsense the women want. Marry her and take her away from Richey if you can. Once she’s seen what the rest of the world has to offer. I’ll lay you whatever odds you name, she’ll want to come home again.”

  “I hate to keep her from the wedding she wants ...” the young man said hesitatingly. “But I’ll see what good putting my foot down will do.”

  Just then, Vera came out. Catching sight of them, she said, “They’ve agreed on a flat round hat, worn low on the brow with a floating veil behind. Dulcie doesn’t want to cover her face at all, because she thinks people will laugh if she does.”

  Gary glanced at Jeff who gave him a nod of encouragement. “Sorry, Miss Albans,” the younger man said. “I don’t think Dulcie will need a new hat. Excuse me.” With the air of one who goes to beard lions in their den, Gary went into the parlor.

  On the road back, Jeff and Vera strolled as old friends do, not speaking, not touching. He was thinking of Edith, wishing she were here beside him instead of at home. If she were here, he could have taken her hand, stopped for a kiss, whispered heated words in her inclined ear. He decided to refuse more coffee if Vera should offer it. He wanted to get home quickly to Edith before she went to sleep.

  The late sunset had turned the few clouds into candy mounds of pink and gold. The luminous twilight flowed relentlessly across the sky. A cool breeze whispered of coming relief from the heat of the day. Except for a cat momentarily turning luminous eyes toward them, the road was eerily deserted, though the moon, like yellow lamplight, showed comfortingly through the shades and shutters of the clouds to the east.

  “Hush,” Vera said, stopping and catching Jeff in the crook of his arm. “Did you hear something?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t . . . footsteps?”

  He didn’t hear anything but the creaking of branches and the lonesome hoot of an owl. “There’s no reason to be on edge,” he said, moderating his volume out of respect for her nerves. “Why shouldn’t someone be walking along here, just like us?”

  She returned his smile. “Oh, you’re right. It must be nerves. Or the cat’s wife.”

  But as soon as they walked on, paradoxically, Jeff began to feel jittery himself. The footsteps were like an echo, but the rhythm was wrong. They seemed to be coming from behind them, but the sound bounced strangely in the close air. He couldn’t be sure. This time, Jeff stopped Vera.

  “Hold on,” he said loudly. “Your shawl’s caught a button.” While he pretended to free the imaginary tangle, Jeff listened hard, filtering out the sighing of the breeze and the rustling leaves.

  The footsteps were closer. Listening, Jeff picked up an unevenness in the way those booted feet struck the hard packed road. “It’s all right,” Jeff said. “Somebody’s coming out from town. Drunk, maybe, by the sound of it.”

  “I thought they were following us. . . .”

  “Your nerves can play tricks on you in the dark, Vera. Why, once I ... listen to me, I sound like my father.”

  “That’s not such a bad thing,” Vera murmured.

  They could see the man now, strutting along with a military air. Catching sight of them, he began to whistle “John Brown’s Body,” and to swing his arms and legs in time to the music. The slight drag of his left leg and something familiar in the set of his shoulders told Jeff this martial figure’s identity.

  “It’s Dad,” he said, hurrying forward. Vera caught up her skirts and sped along behind.

  Stopping at attention, Sam snapped off a salute. Instantly, however, he half-crumpled, catching his right hand in his left and pressing it to his chest. “Damn it to tarnation,” he rasped.

  “What’s wrong?” Jeff asked in alarm. He laid his hand on his father’s back, leaning down to see his face. The purple swelling of his father’s cheekbone and the trickle of blood at his swollen lip were black and sinister in the moonlight.

  “Dad!”

  Sam straightened up, giving him a beatific if lopsided smile. “Don’t worry son. Those’ll heal up in no time. What’s worse is I think I broke my hand on the bastard’s jawbone.”

  Edith was waiting up for them when they came home. Her eyes widened at the sight of the gaudy silk sling Vera had rigged for Sam. It was bright stripes of green and orange with a wiggly figure like a tadpole in the weave. But more startling than the sling was the air of triumph about the battered older man. He seemed to strut as proudly as a general returned from victory.

  “Vera cleaned him up some,” Jeff said, coming down again after he’d helped his father to bed. “I haven’t seen Dad this elated since Maribel was born. You would’ve thought he’d done the whole thing himself. Mother said he was even worse when I came into the world.”

  “I assume then that he vanquished Mr. Sullivan?”

  “According to Dad, the other fellow is still lying in an alley somewhere, broken and bleeding. And I believe him. Dad’s fist doesn’t travel far, but he could knock down my Black Prince with it, if he put his mind to it.”

  “He hasn’t killed Mr. Sullivan?” Edith thought she sounded too hopeful, and added, “That is, he hasn’t really killed him?”

  “I doubt it. But it’ll be a long time before he wants to come back to Richey. Dad left him money for the train ticket before he pounded him.”

  “Isn’t it strange?” Edith mused, picking up her candle from the mantel. “He’s so concerned for Miss Albans and Dulcie that he’d actually put himself in harm’s way for them. Mr. Sullivan is, after all, a much younger man.”

  Jeff glanced at the ceiling. “Seems to me Dad’s getting younger all the time. Hey, you’re not going up to bed already?”

  “It’s very late.” She traced the porcelain candleholder with an idle finger. “I am curious to hear how you spent your evening with Miss Albans. She is a lovely woman, isn’t she?”

  She dared to risk a glance at him. Her heart hoped to see dislike or, better yet, indifference on his face when he spoke of Vera. The worst would have been an expression of adoration, but mild admiration was bad enough. Yet, true to her code, Edith civilly wished that Vera and Jeff had a most pleasant evening.

  “Yes, she’s pretty in her own way. Makes a very poor cup of coffee, however.”

  “She can cook, though?”

  “Sure. The food was terrific. And she keeps her house nice and neat. You ought to see what that girl can do with furniture somebody else junked.”

  “Old furniture can be very fashionable, I hear.”

  “Yeah.” Jeff began to advance on Edith. The house was quiet, except for the soft tick of the clock’s swin
ging pendulum.

  Edith retreated, slowly. He reached out suddenly and took the candlestick away from her, placing it on a table as he passed. She said nervously, “I wonder if she could show me what she’s done. I’ll have to buy my furniture secondhand too.”

  “I’m sure she would.”

  “What about paint?”

  “You shouldn’t wear it. Your cheeks are pink enough.” Spreading his arms out, Jeff grinned as he herded her into a corner. “I like pink cheeks. They make a girl looked like she’s been kissed. Or is about to be kissed.”

  She turned her face abruptly away. Though his mood was playful, she had ample experience by this time to know how quickly wildfire could consume them both.

  Jeff shrugged. “I’ll take what I can get,” he muttered.

  As she felt the warm touch of his mouth roam over her cheek and throat, she wanted to grab him tight. Feeling the heat move from the surface of her skin to inside, she begged, “Oh, please. Please, Jeff. Stop.”

  She pushed against his shoulder, wondering how her hands had come to be clutching his coat. He gave her a half inch of breathing space, just enough so he could look down into her eyes. “I don’t want to stop, Edith. You and I ... we were made to be together. Can’t you feel it? You feel so many things. You make me feel so many things. New things—wonderful . . .”

  He swayed forward, his hands gliding over and around her to pull her against him tightly. For the last time, Edith allowed her better judgment to be overruled. She kissed him with all the passion of a lonely woman who could see a pit of wretchedness yawning before her feet. When they parted, Jeff was smiling as happily as a bridegroom.

  “Edith,” he said. “When are you going . . .”

  “Sunday. After church.”

  “It’s a little soon but . . .”

  She pushed a little harder this time and he let her go. Filling her lungs with a quavering sigh, Edith said, “I can go back to St. Louis with a clear conscience. There’s only one young lady left, after all.”

  Picking up her candlestick, she held the white wick to the flame of the lamp. By concentrating only on the sparkling flame, she could keep from looking at Jeff. “I’m sure you and Vera will be very happy. She deserves happiness. So do you.”

  “Edith . . .”

  He sounded so hurt that she took a step toward him before she commanded herself. “Good night, Jeff.”

  “No!” He was in front of her. “This is crazy, Edith.”

  “I know.”

  “You . . . you like me, I know you do. And I’m so much in love with you . . . that’s right. Flash those big eyes of yours. I want them and ail the rest of you too- Now stop telling me I’m going to marry Vera Albans. I wouldn’t think for a minute of marrying Vera Albans. Not so long as you’re around.”

  As he pulled her against him, her candle fell to the floor. He ground out the sputtering wick with his boot toe without taking his eyes off hers. His kiss was a seal set to a promise.

  “When are you going to marry me?” he whispered. “Make it soon, darlin’. I’m dying for you.”

  * * * *

  In Edith’s dream, she became aware that two of the rose bushes in the garden were whispering to each other. She wanted to hush them because the gardener was saying something very important as he flourished her corset—stolen from her by sleight of hand. Edith tried to listen to the gardener but the roses were whispering very loudly now.

  “I told you it will be okay.”

  “But why’s it taking so long?”

  “They’re grown-ups. You know what they’re like.”

  Edith frowned and tried to hush them. But it was too late. She knew she’d never get back into her dream. Whatever the gardener had wanted to say would remain unexpressed. Opening her eyes, the first things she saw was two flowerlike faces, regarding her no less somberly for being upside down.

  Maribel and Louise’s worried expressions faded. “We didn’t wake you up? Gran’pa said we shouldn’t wake you up.”

  “No you didn’t.” She blinked in the morning light and sat up, rubbing the sleepiness from her face.

  “It’s just that the sooner we get to the fair, the more we can see,” Louise said.

  “I want to see the baby sheep,” Maribel announced.

  “A fine thing for a cattleman’s daughter to want,” Jeff said from the open doorway.

  Instantly, Edith pulled the sheet tight against her breastbone. Her gaze lifted to his face and then jumped away. He wanted to marry her.

  Last night, he’d asked and teased, making her laugh, never taking no as her last word. He had sworn to keep her up all night unless she promised to give him her answer later today. To escape before she surrendered, she promised. Edith knew what she must say, but how precious this last day with him would be.

  “I’m glad they got you up. Time’s wasting. And today’s a big day,” Jeff said with a significant glance. He leaned against the doorframe as though he had all day just to look at her.

  “We didn’t wake her up, Daddy. We were quiet as mice,” Maribel declared. “She opened her eyes right away.”

  “That’s right,” Louise said. “We only whispered a little.”

  He chuckled. “Only loud enough to wake the dead, I’ll bet.”

  “They were very quiet,” Edith said defensively. Glancing at the girls, she added, “But really, if you all want to go to the fair as soon as possible, you’ll have to let me get dressed. And I want to take another bath before we go.”

  “Aw . . .”

  “All right, girls,” their father said. “Git.”

  As Maribel and Louise left, Edith dared to add, “You too.”

  “Oh, no. I claim special privileges.”

  He kicked the door closed as he came in. A naughty thrill skittered through her. He looked very tall. She shrank back against the headboard, trying to be stern and failing.

  “What ‘special privileges’?”

  “Just a good-morning kiss.” He strove for a light tone, but he had to clear his throat before he spoke. One of his knees sank into the mattress as he reached for her. His hands burned through her thin lawn nightgown, branding her shoulders. Edith braced herself for an onslaught of her senses that would leave her weak and trembling for nameless pleasures.

  Yet his kiss was a mere, gentle brush of lips. Edith murmured a vague protest and reached for him when he would have pulled away.

  He pushed her hands down. “Not . . . not a good idea.”

  “Oh!” Edith hastily caught up the sheet a second time.

  Standing up, Jeff said ruefully, “Really not a good idea. Hurry up and take your bath, though.” He let his gaze wander over the rumpled bed linen that imperfectly concealed the outline of her body. Holding up his hands as though to show he had nothing in them, he said again, “No, not a good idea at all.”

  After her bath, and wearing her nice gray dress, Edith went down to eat a catch-as-can breakfast. Sam was arranging and rearranging the long stems of his roses in a blue milk-glass vase, muttering to himself.

  “They’re beautiful, Sam,” Edith said, caressing an apricot bud. The fragrance was as intoxicating as wine.

  “I only hope Fred Grant has aphids and thrip. Did I tell you how he nabbed first prize last year? As underhanded a piece of skullduggery as any train robbery!”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  “He set his stems down on a slab of brick inside the vase—used one of those thick Wedgewood things from England so the judge couldn’t see through it. They were six inches above everybody else’s blooms. And I ‘spect he put a little red dye in the water to keep the color up.”

  Jeff called from the hall, “I’ve got your crate ready, Dad.”

  “Well, come here and help me, dang it. You think I can do it with one hand?”

  Under a flurry of orders from his father, Jeff lifted the vase as carefully as though it were a sickly baby. Sam danced around and fussed like a worried mother.

  Edith trailed behind the
men. She couldn’t quite meet Jeff’s eyes. Had he known how she wanted to keep him in bed with her? Had he felt the eagerness of her hands or the way her body had lifted against his?

  After Jeff lowered the roses into the crate, he packed it with straw. Edith returned to the kitchen for a broom to sweep out the mess they had made. While Sam fussed some more with his display, letting the straw drift from his good hand over the blossoms one strand at a time, Edith went ahead and swept the porch too. When she was finished, Sam was still at it.

  “Come on, Dad. They’ll be all right,” Jeff said.

  The girls came in, Louise balancing the box of chicks that she would show at the fair. Maribel looked at her grandfather’s roses and listened to her sister boasting of how she was bound to take first prize. The little girl’s lower lip began to tremble and two perfect crystal tears overflowed her lashes.

  “What’s the matter?” Edith asked, crouching beside her.

  The words were muffled but the gist was that everybody had something to show at the fair but her. Louise heard and said, “You should have thought of that before.”

  “Don’t even got a snake,” Maribel sniffed.

  Edith wiped away the tears with her handkerchief. “You should have something to show. What else is there, beside livestock and flowers?”

  Jeff stood above the little group. “There’s a prize for cooking or fancy work. There’ll be a display of farm machinery. Usually Roger Randall shows his mineral collection. Oh, and the kids have a pet-judging event.”

  “Pets?”

  “You know. Dogs, cats, rabbits . . .” He was dazzled by the smile on her face. But it wasn’t for him, it was for Maribel.

  “Would you like to show Orpheus?”

  The little girl’s eyes shone like river-washed stones. “Could I?”

  “That’s not fair,” Louise protested. “He doesn’t belong to her.”

  “I’ve been giving him his seeds,” Maribel stated.

  Edith bit her lip but didn’t hesitate. “Orpheus is yours, if you want him.”

  The embrace of two chubby arms was reward enough for giving up her only friend. “Come on,” Edith said, gathering Maribel up in her arms. “We’ll go get him.”