Hidden Dreams

by Darlene Franklin

  Flipping back a few pages, she went over the sketches of the endangered birds Wallace had made for her. His sketches made more sense to her than the terse descriptions used in his bird manuals. The Henslow sparrow came to life with his colored pencils in a way that saying it had a “streaked chest, olive nape, and two stripes on the lower face” failed to conjure up. What colors were the stripes? What was a nape? What was considered the lower part of a bird’s face? She thought of a bird’s head, not its face. But once Wallace showed the details with a few lines with his pencil, she could recognize it through the binoculars immediately.

  She reviewed the list as she studied each sketch for details: spruce grouse, upland sandpiper, black tern, common tern, and sedge wren, as well as the sparrows and the eagle she had encountered on their first hike together. He made learning easy.

  Mary Anne hoped Wallace would never find out the most important purpose the pictures served.

  “Here you are.” Wallace had sneaked up on her and startled her. She dropped the sketchbook and it opened to her unfortunate picture of the titwillow.

  “What is this?” His broad lips widened in a smile.

  “It’s a titwillow. You know, ‘titwillow, titwillow!’ from The Mikado?”

  “I’ve heard of it.” He grabbed the sketchbook before she could pick it up.

  “It’s just a bit of foolishness I made up. We were talking about the show this morning, and I wondered what a titwillow might look like.”

  Wallace leaned his head to one side while he studied it, but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed the hours they spent together, whether they were skating on the ice or hiking through the woods looking for Wallace’s beloved birds. The longer she stayed in Maple Notch, the less she wanted to leave.

  * * *

  Wallace had hung the picture of the titwillow Mary Anne had sketched on the cabin wall in the spring, back in May. When he moved out, he would add it to his attic room. The childish lines added to its charm, giving it a cartoonlike quality that captured the personality of the Pooh Bah in The Mikado. He had seen the comic opera, not the Broadway version which she had enjoyed, but one put on by the University’s musical society.

  The more time they spent together, the more he enjoyed her company, and the less he could imagine living without her. That day was arriving all too soon.

  She had once spoken of leaving by the Fourth of July at the latest. Now the holiday was only three days away. She had more than recovered from the accident; she said she was in the best shape of her life, after all the walking they had done. Her car was repaired, a feat accomplished during a long two days she had spent away from the cabin, repairing the car and making his truck sing.

  Nothing kept her here any longer. He took heart from the fact she hadn’t mentioned leaving for several weeks.

  He could worry about that tomorrow. Today, he found contentment in her presence as they revisited the places where they had seen the most birds. In addition to the time she spent helping Clarinda around the house, Mary Anne had become an integral part of his work. Every specimen he spotted, she verified. Sometimes she even corrected his findings. Because of her help, the book had progressed much faster than he had imagined possible.

  He could see the dedication of the book now. “To Mary Anne Laurents, my...” Collaborator. Coworker. Second pair of eyes.

  Wife, a voice from deep within said. His traitorous heart jumped at the thought while his brain argued against it. Their close partnership explained his feelings.

  A small part of his brain disagreed. But you’ve spent time with women all your life. You lived in an all-girls’ school when you were in high school. And none of them, not even Margaret Landrum, appealed to you in the same way.

  Those years didn’t matter. In high school, he didn’t think about girls except to notice the pretty ones.

  After college, a man’s thoughts turned to family. Mary Anne had certainly dominated his landscape for the past three months. Besides that, she was pretty enough to capture any man’s attention.

  Someone knocked. “Wallace?”

  He shut down the thoughts racing around his mind and opened the door to today’s guest.

  And perhaps to the future as well.

  Chapter 12

  Wallace delayed the inevitable parting of his partnership with Mary Anne as long as possible. Her assistance had resulted in his finishing the required research ahead of schedule, in mid-July.

  Beside him, she lowered the binoculars and sighed. “No sign of the sedge wren.”

  She used the name with such familiarity that Wallace chuckled. On their first search to look for the bird, she had no idea what sedge was. Then again, neither had he until he looked up the definition. Sedge referred to ground covering: not grass, but grasslike, with triangular stems and leaves growing in three vertical rows with inconspicuous spikes. He’d sketched both grass and sedge a dozen times before he felt comfortable telling them apart.

  Mary Anne studied those same sketches, until she could differentiate between them at a glance. At her suggestion, he planned to include sketches of the birds’ habitats in the book.

  Disappointment shivered through his veins. “Are you sure?” He reached for the binoculars. When they spotted the nest in May, he’d been so hopeful, and they’d seen the wrens several times since. Slowly he lowered the glasses. “Just the empty nest.”

  “And feathers. As if they had been torn apart.” Mary Anne wiped at her eyes. “How sad. It makes me think about that verse. ‘Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.’”

  There she went again, knowing the right Bible verse to quote. She had one of the best memories of anyone he had ever met.

  She continued. “Jesus is trying to make us recognize that God cares for us. ‘But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.’ But after watching the birds this summer, it just makes me feel sad.” She put a straight line next to the entry for the sedge wren, indicating its absence. “I suppose it makes God feel sad, too.”

  “At least the bald eagles have fared well this summer.” Wallace shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe God doesn’t want the United States to lose its national bird.”

  The glance she threw his way said she didn’t appreciate his attempt at humor. “So God plays favorites with birds, then?” She shook her head. “The only bird we haven’t checked this week is the sandpiper. Tomorrow.” She closed the notebook and tucked it into her satchel.

  With unspoken assent, they headed back to the cabin. “I suppose you’ll be needing this now.” Mary Anne dug the sketchbook out of her pocket. Her fingers brushed his as she placed it in Wallace’s hands. Her touch sent a longing through him, a desire to walk hand in hand with her through the trees.

  She cocked her head to one side, light playing on skin that had tanned under the summer sun, a smile offering her lips for exploration.

  The sketchbook dropped to the ground as he intertwined his fingers with hers and drew her close. He looked into her eyes, asking permission.

  No stop sign appeared, only yield. Beneath the maple trees in the middle of the Vermont woods, he gently touched her lips with his, claiming them as his own.

  She stepped back without speaking. She didn’t have to. A shy smile lifted her lips, and a new light shone from those lobelia-blue eyes.

  * * *

  On the one time Mary Anne had gone to a speakeasy, she hadn’t enjoyed the caresses her drunken escort had planted on her lips. The more alcohol he had imbibed, the more insistent he became. When he refused to take “no” for an answer, she ran out of the basement and found the nearest cab. Later, her friends had laughed at her. “Normal” girls liked a man’s kisses.

  Wallace’s single, gentle kiss had awakened more in her
than half a night in the clutches of that gorilla. Not a day had passed through the rest of July and now most of August without her reliving the tender moment.

  Oh, how she wished she still had a reason to spend time with Wallace several times a week. How thankful she was that she didn’t. If she spent much more time with him, she didn’t think she would ever leave Maple Notch.

  She had awakened from a dream that ended with that kiss, and it had dominated her thoughts throughout breakfast.

  Clarinda cleared her throat, and Mary Anne realized she had been drying the same dish far too long. “Sorry.” She placed the plate on top of the stack and slid them into the cabinet.

  “You know, you could take the food up to the cabin the next time Wallace needs some supplies. I have a list, right here.” Clarinda waved the page in front of her. “You should get out of the house. Go into town, do some shopping, pick up the things he’s asking for. You would understand what he needs more than I do.”

  “I don’t think he wants to see me.” Mary Anne’s voice sounded as stiff as a boiled shirt, but she didn’t know how to change it. “He’s been avoiding me.”

  “And you have stayed in Maple Notch just to help me with my children this summer, and to learn how to can applesauce and corn.” Clarinda shook her head. “It hasn’t been that long since Howard and I were courting. Things don’t change all that much between men and women from one decade to the next.” She handed Mary Anne a saucer to dry. “And if it means anything, I’d love to have you for a sister-in-law.”

  Heat from her embarrassment raced into Mary Anne’s cheeks faster than it ever did from the hot steam rising from the dishwater. She held the saucer in front of her face in an effort to hide, although she suspected Clarinda saw everything.

  Clarinda handed her the next saucer and pulled the towel down from Mary Anne’s face. “Go shopping, and then go see Wallace. He’s a man. He’s not going to budge, so it’s up to you.”

  Mary Anne’s chin rose at that. “I thought the man was supposed to chase the woman.” She dried the saucer quickly and added it to the stack in the cabinet.

  Clarinda sighed. “Maybe some men. But Wallace has been afraid of his feelings since our parents died. He became the man of the family. Of an entire group of schoolgirls, for that matter. I think it’s the only way he survived a difficult time, but it’s hurting him now.”

  “But he’s working on his book...” Mary Anne stammered.

  “Then he’s ready for a break. Believe me.”

  Mary Anne accepted the shopping list Clarinda handed to her. Trapped. “I’ll go tomorrow, then.” Before morning, she could come up with an escape plan. She’d been doing it all her life.

  After dinner, she joined Clarinda and her husband for the nightly family time. Howard read from the Bible and each child prayed. Even little Betty talked to God, remembering “Kitty’s new babies” and “the poor birds that get lost.” She had taken Mary Anne’s stories about the missing birds to heart, and Wallace was missing it.

  They listened to their favorite radio shows on a state-of-the-art Radiola. After the radio hour, Clarinda or Howard read. They read everything. Some books even Betty could understand, adventures about a jungle boy named Mowgli. Howie liked to act out the different animals in the stories. Other stories, by a man named F. Scott Fitzgerald, reminded her of the life she had left behind in New York.

  Tonight, she didn’t enjoy the family time as much as usual. Even after everyone else retired to bed, Mary Anne remained awake. Instead of finding a way to avoid Clarinda’s request, her traitorous heart dreamed of Wallace’s reaction when she arrived at his doorstep.

  She paced the hallway outside her room, pausing at the foot of the attic stairway. Not for the first time, she wished she dared go into Wallace’s room, but he deserved his privacy. She wouldn’t intrude unless invited.

  In the morning, after Clarinda rebuffed Mary Anne’s halfhearted attempt to change her mind, she went to the barn. She ran her hands along the gleaming hood of her coupe. In spite of the many changes Mary Anne had made, she still loved her car. The road option remained open: she could go back to her room, grab her suitcases and take to the road again.

  Opening the door, she climbed into the driver’s seat. Resting her head against the back of the seat, she imagined the roar of the engine, the glint of sunlight on the paint, the rush of air blowing in her face. She could almost feel the rumble of the road beneath the wheels as trees and towns flashed by. If she made the trip, she would drive during daylight and enjoy the view. Daddy had talked about making a trip one day, driving from Maine to Florida. Except that would take her past New York.

  Even if New York no longer posed a problem, and while her four and a half months in Vermont seemed like a lifetime to her, her pursuers had long memories and an endless thirst for vengeance. She wasn’t sure she wanted to return.

  She touched her hair, now with a lot of brown mixed in with the bleached color, with fingernails kept short, practical for work around the house. Her fingers had roughened with the weeks of housework, and her feet hadn’t seen high heels for weeks. The Mary Anne who sat in the coupe now was a different woman from the Marabelle who had arrived back in April. She decided to take the family’s Model T instead.

  A few minutes later, she entered the general store. It carried a variety of art supplies: colored pencils, yes, but also things like chalk, charcoal and watercolors. Mary Anne studied the trays of colored pencils. She knew the colors Wallace needed, the precise shade of the stripe on a Henslow sparrow and the wings of the sedge wren. But she had never imagined that so many choices existed: four shades of brown, more yet of green and blue. After a lengthy perusal, she chose the ones closest to the birds he hoped to recreate on paper.

  After she finished shopping, Mary Anne stopped by the soda fountain. “Want an egg cream today, Miss Laurents?”

  Mary Anne smiled. During her first visit to the general store, she discovered the soda jerk didn’t know the recipe. She told him it was a mixture of chocolate syrup, seltzer water and milk. Neither eggs nor cream were used, which had surprised her the first time she had seen it made.

  “Of course.” She gave a passing thought to drinking it fast, before the foam went flat, the way purists claimed it should be enjoyed. But today she wanted to savor the flavor slowly.

  Maybe her favorite drink would help her build up the courage she needed to face Wallace after he had withdrawn.

  Only time would tell if it was a good idea or not.

  Chapter 13

  Wallace rolled the thin sheets from the outdated Remington No. 2 typewriter that Aunt Flo had given to him. After removing the carbon paper for a second use, he separated the three copies of page two hundred of his manuscript into different stacks. The first copy was destined for the publisher, the second for his own records and the third for extra insurance.

  Typing six to eight hours a day in a stifling cabin wasn’t Wallace’s ideal way to spend a summer. Every day over the past month, and sometimes several times a day, he had longed to return to the cool woods with Mary Anne.

  No wonder he struck the typewriter keys hard enough to jam them more than once. When the keys stuck badly, he considered buying a newer machine. Or perhaps Mary Anne’s magic hands could fix this one somehow.

  Instead he managed to untangle the metal on his own, and he inserted a fresh page onto the roller. Unlike his fellow students, Wallace had used the Remington for most of his college papers. Since he found typing less stressful on his hands than longhand, not to mention easier for his professors to read, it made sense. With years of practice, he had become quite proficient.

  But this summer, his typing was worse than it had been on his first term paper. Most pages took two and many three attempts before he had a clean copy. Several times he had to start over when he forgot to mention a sketch.

  Th
e sketches had proved troublesome as well. He had contacted the interested editor about colored illustrations, but received a negative response. Color added too much to the cost of printing. Wallace redrew his best sketches in pencil, wishing he had Mary Anne’s keen eye to point out any errors.

  Of course, Margaret Landrum had offered to help, more than once. She had even sought him out at the cabin, complaining that he should have telephone service if he insisted on living by himself. Resisting the impulse to point out the purpose of solitude, he deterred her suggestion with a comment about smoke signals.

  Her smoky gray eyes studied him without blinking. “I get the message. I thought maybe we could find something this summer, but... I left it too late.”

  After his fumbling apology, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t worry. Maybe God has an accidental meeting waiting in store for me some day.” She lifted her fingers in farewell and disappeared down the path.

  Mary Anne filled his thoughts even though he didn’t see her. When he realized she visited the cemetery on a regular basis, he dragged a large rock over near the fence for her to sit on. Once in a while, as he headed down the trail, he heard her singing and turned back. She knew where to find him, if she wanted to.

  With thoughts of Mary Anne intruding on his work, Wallace would never finish the manuscript before fall, when he had promised to pitch in with the harvest. He needed to keep his mind focused on important things.

  The man whose mind is stayed on Thee...The verse popped into Wallace’s mind. Mary Anne could quote it word for word.

  Resolutely, he stacked together typing paper, carbon, typing paper, carbon and a final sheet of typing paper before inserting it in the typewriter. The pages came out crooked on the far side of the roller. He yanked them from the platen, and a corner of carbon paper tore. After checking it, Wallace decided it wasn’t larger than the margins, and shuffled them to make them even.