Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  When Jack came later that afternoon, his first question was, "How's the brew? Any ready for a thirsty friend?" He lounged gracelessly across three barrels, "Any luck with the different mixes yet?"

  Stephen shrugged, looking doubtful. "So far I haven't come up with anything that Peter will even try. No matter what I do it's never going to match a good ale—not even a good small beer. It's all second rate ... maybe not even that. About the best I can say for it is that it is drinkable."

  "That should count for something. Maybe I'd better sample it again. My judgment is always good on these things."

  "You'd do damn near anything for a free beer." Stephen laughed, drawing Jack his mug. He got up and handed Jack the beer and a mash oar. "Keep the mash stirring for me, will you? I want to catch Henry before he goes into town. I need some supplies. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  "Hey! Wait a minute. I came over to see if you're going to the dance Saturday night."

  "I haven't thought about it. Maybe."

  Jack hesitated. "Think Callie would go with me?"

  "Callie? No."

  "Why the hell not? What is it with that girl? I don't think she likes men. Every time I get around her she's as sldtterish as a new colt. Why don't you think she'd go with me?"

  "I didn't say she wouldn't go with you. Just that she

  isnt," Stephen said gruffly. "Keep that mix stirring. Ill be back shortly."

  "Wait a minute! What do you mean, she isn t? You'd better tell me what's what. Do you want her for yourself ? Is that it?"

  "Just leave her alone. That's all."

  "Oh no, it isn't. That's not enough. If you want her, well, then 111 step back as a good friend, but otherwise . . *

  "Otherwise just never step in. Stir!" Stephen said and left.

  Stephen had been gone about twenty minutes when Callie stormed into the brewhouse. "There it is! I wouldn't have believed it!"

  "Hello, Callie darlin," Jack drawled

  "Where is he?"

  "Gone. You don't need Stevie, not when Tm here." He grinned happily and put his arms around her waist, cuddling her playfully.

  "Let me go, Jack."

  "Don't be like that I just want to have a little fun."

  "Jack! Let me go."

  He aimed for her lips and got the sharp edge of her jawbone. "Let me go!" she breathed through clenched teeth. As his grasp tightened, she reached for the mash oar.

  "Ouch! Damn woman!" he cried, hand over his ear. She swung again, catching him across the rear end. "I let you go! Be damned, you banshee—leave a n*an his healthy limbs!"

  "Get! Out! Go!" she cried, swinging wildly as she chased him from the brewhouse.

  Stephen stopped at the edge of the walk, but too late.

  "You! Stephen! Indians indeed. The Berean tribe it was!"

  "Callie—I'll give it back. Callie, calm down. For God's sake, watch what you do with that oar! Calliel— look, look IVe got another kettle. You can have yours." He backed away from the oar whizzing past him, "Callier he cried as he tripped over the garden border, falling hard on his back.

  She walked toward him and then began to laugh. She placed the oar gently across the flat of his belly. "Seeing you flat on your back in the poison ivy makes it all worthwhile—thieving Indians and all."

  Stephen didn't have the courage to look to see if he was really lying in poison ivy. He just lay there thinking about Jack running down the path, and began to laugh again.

  Chapter 21

  The first months in Poughkeepsie were the busiest and most exciting Callie had ever known. There were never enough hours in the day for any of the Bereans. Peter had been right when he had told them that everything for which they labored here would be theirs in a special way. Each of them had a sense of pride and accomplishment that seemed unique to them, and each of them changed in accordance with the new state of well-being.

  Rosalind had come into her own after Jamie was born. She was slim again, and could fit into the most daring and beautiful gowns. And for once she found she had as many outlets as she wished for all her pent-up energies and her dreams. Here they could be real. Peter bought her a small, shiny black buggy, which she could drive herself. From the moment of the buggy's arrival, Rosalind was off on her round of visiting their neighbors and becoming involved in the local ladies' societies. Somewhat sheepishly she admitted to having learned to quilt, giving them all a good laugh

  and Rosalind a feeling of warmth and belonging to the family she'd never had before.

  By a steady process, in direct proportion to Rosalind's success at becoming what she considered a "lady/' Callie was eased out of the task of being Rosalind's companion. Rosalind had become far too grand and independent to tolerate Callie's haphazard interest in clothes, committees, and charities. So Callie's first concern was now Jamie alone. But she also cared for the dairy. For all intents and purposes, Callie ran the house. She was housekeeper, governess, and scullery maid all in one. It was no small relief when a maid was hired to assist Rosalind in sorting out the complexities of how a 'lady" should spend her day.

  It was a hard year, but one Callie would always look back on as one of the happiest of her life. It was not only filled with work, but fun as well. And with the fun came a feeling new to her. Shyly she felt a tremulous stirring in Stephen's presence. It was a strange and confusing feeling, and she found herself avoiding him at times she might otherwise have felt free to enter his male world. And then there were times she seemed to be compelled to be around him no matter what. As her desire to be nearer him grew, her ability to act naturally, as she always had, became more difficult. Uncomfortable with her confusion over Stephen, Callie sought reasons outside of him for the cause, and she found them, unsatisfactory as they were. She was changing because her life was changing. All of them were becoming happier and more attuned to each other as their life developed.

  The farm was taking shape. It was an exciting process to live through. It was no longer Peter alone who could see what it would become. Outlines of future fields were clearly visible. The stakes had been driven into the ground marking the place and shape of

  the first brewery site—Stephens brewery. Day by day they were taking pieces of dreams and turning them into something real, something to be touched and seen. And best of all, they were happy doing it. As it had been when she had first come to live with the Bereans, the supper hour was again a raucous, happy time, filled with stories and laugTiter. She even enjoyed Jack Tolbert's jokes as long as he kept his hands and his intentions under control, which wasn't often. If he couldn't stir up trouble, he just wasn't happy. But he was a part of this new place, and without him it wouldn't be the same. So she liked Jack after a fashion, and sometimes admitted to herself she -would be happy if Stephen were as bold as Jack.

  The winter came on with a snowy blast, but it was nothing like the damp winters she had spent in Kent. There were none of the tensions to keep them worried and strained. Peter was home every night with Rosalind. Slowly the strain that had been present in their marriage began to lessen, and Rosalind was more often than not a cheerful, active participant in their fun. She even took part in some of the winter sports that seemed to abound. The people along the Hudson looked upon their winters as a time for great fun. With Jack leading them, they all took to the ice. The river the Indians called the Shatemuc, which seemed so powerful that nothing could stem its flow, froze over. At first there were only the skaters who dared to move on the ice, but as the winter went on, sleighs and sleds began to make their appearances.

  Jack was Poughkeepsie's official bonfire builder. He had claimed the title for himself, just as he bragged furiously that he could build a fire so warm and so large that it would keep the whole town warm till spring. No one disputed his claims. They were happy to let him do the work. In his own random

  way, he was as reliable as the rising sun. The bonfire was always roaring when everyone appeared at the river for a day of racing and skating.

  It was Jack who intr
oduced them to the people at the sleighing races. As a result Peter, in accordance with his habit of wanting the best ever since they had come to New York, purchased the finest and brightest sleigh made. His horses were matched and of good bloodline. It was difficult to know who was prouder of his new possessions, Rosalind or himself. In any case the tempo of the city and the constant community activity of Poughkeepsie gave him adequate outlet for his energies and the need for excitement he had been hard-pressed to control in Kent Winter Sunday afternoons were filled with talk of sleighs, horses, races, and competitors. Jack often popped into the dining room just in time for lunch, usually on the pretext of having "Great news!"

  "There's going to be a grand race today. Fellow by the name of Bates is visiting from Cooperstown. Thinks he can beat anything we can move on ice." He paused for a moment, letting Petar think. "Going to let him get away with that, Peter?"

  "What do you say, Stephen?" Peter asked, his eyes glinting with the challenge.

  "I'd end up with my head in a snowbank, is what I think," Stephen said. Peter made a face and Stephen went on. "But then maybe 111 give both you and Bates a run myself."

  Jack nodded his approval. "The more the better. If we can t beat him fair, we can always squeeze him in between us." He chuckled. "That might make for more fun anyway ... most likely it'll cause one hell of a brawl. Damn, I wish I could run too. The runner on my sleigh is bad from last week."

  "If you didn't run over every damned thing on the

  ice you'd still have your sleigh. But why don t you ride with me?" Stephen said,

  "Can't. I already promised I'd hold all the bets. I knew I couldn't run so . . ." He glanced over at Cal-lie. "Seeing as how I am going to be free all afternoon except for a minute or two at the start and a minute or so at the end, Callie, what about you coming down with me?" Ever since he had had time to reconsider the incident with the mash oar, he had been leaning toward the theory that Callie's reaction had really been a display of abandoned affection. His only concession to reason was that he decided to approach her in a more gentlemanly fashion than he had previously. "I'd be more than happy to escort you to the races today," he said sweetly.

  Stephen hid his smile behind his napkin. "She's riding with me, Jack. Sorry. Maybe some other time."

  Tm not riding with anyone," Callie said.

  "Yes, you are. I need the weight on that side."

  "How nice to be needed," she spat, and excused herself from the table. "Get yourself a rock."

  She was upstairs in Jamie's room supporting his back as he made his first round-bottomed attempts to sit up alone. He was a dauntless little creature, growing angry and red-faced each time he recovered from the surprise of falling over. Stephen came into the room, leaning over the crib.

  "Watch him, Stephen. He's almost got it. He starts out beautifully, but he rolls right over on his face. See—look what effort, and he never stops trying."

  Stephen's entrance distracted the baby for a moment, as did the bright scarf around his neck. Jamie reached up and grabbed the scarf, immediately stuffing it into his mouth.

  "Mary Anne will be up as soon as she has cleared

  away downstairs. She is going to look after the little lord of the manor until you and I come home from a trip on the ice."

  "Oh, Stephen, I'd dearly love to provide the weight for your sled ... it was such a nice thing for you to suggest, but I can t."

  "I didn't mean that, and you know it."

  She grinned. "Well, I can't anyway. Honestly. Jamie is so used to my being here, and no one else knows what to do for him. He needs me."

  "He'll manage without you, and I won't. I take what I said back. I do need the weight. I'll turn over for sure unless you're there."

  "Stephen, no, I can't go."

  But Stephen wasn't listening.

  "Good! There's Mary Anne now. No more talk from you. Go dress warmly and meet me outside in fifteen minutes."

  "Fifteen minutes I Oh, Stephen, at least let me get him to sleep."

  "Not a second longer, and you needn't give Mary Anne any instructions. I am as good a mother as you, and I have told her all she needs to know. Hurry up; you have only fourteen minutes now."

  "Yes, sir!" Callie saluted, then ran from the room.

  They got into the sleigh and Stephen headed toward the river. %

  "I've only watched the races before. It is a little frightening to think of really being in one," she said warily. She loved the ice, and she loved sleighing, but she had never seen a race yet that didn't end with someone spilled all over the ice. That did not seem like it would be fun.

  "Well watch the first one and see how rough it is going to be."

  They sat in the sleigh at the edge of the bank.

  There were three sleighs lined up on the river waiting for the starting gun. At either end of the half-mile length, barrels marked the turn in the track. At the sound of the gun they came down the straightaway toward the first turn, where Stephen and Callie were sitting. Stephen began to frown as soon as the first turn was completed. By the second lap it was clear that it was a two-team race. The third man dropped out, leaving Peter and Bates to finish.

  "That Bates fellow has his sleigh weighted somehow. Look how he takes those turns."

  "Maybe he really did put rocks in the back," Callie said.

  "I don't know what he did, but Peter is going to lose this race on the turns. Damn!" He sat for a second longer and then leaped out of the sleigh.

  "Where are you going? Stephen! What are you going to dor

  "Turn the sleigh for him," Stephen shouted as he ran, slipping onto the ice. He crouched at the end of the straightaway, waiting for them to come down for the beginning of the final lap. Callie squeezed her eyes closed as the sleigh came speeding toward him. He leapt, flinging his weight to the outside as he scrabbled to get a hold on the back of Peters sleigh. The sleigh swung 'round, righting itself to take the straightaway back. As he had throughout the race, Peter began to gain on the straightaway.

  Callie peeked through gloved fingers to see Stephen safely, if precariously, straddling the open space between the runners as the sleigh whizzed toward the final turn. Stephen jumped from the runners, running along behind while holding onto the back of the sleigh. As they came to the turn, he again leapt, slamming his body against the outside of the sleigh. The race was Peter's by no more than the length of the

  horse's head, but a win is a win all the same. There could not have been much more jubilation if it had been a grand national championship. Stephen and Peter were both mobbed by the onlookers. Next to the bonfire Jack leapt up and down like a frog on a lily pad. Bottles were passed, congratulations were offered, and already tall tales of the race were being formulated. It was some time before Stephen freed himself to come back to Callie.

  "That's enough racing for me today. How about you?"

  "I don't think I ever want to be in another/'

  "Another?"

  "Watching you ... it was awful. You could have been hurt, Stephen Berean. Don't you ever think?"

  "Not often." He grinned, pleased at what he could see in her eyes. She looked away from him. "Anyway we won, and I wasn't hurt." He reached over and pulled the scarf from her head. Immediately the wind caught her long hair and whipped it around her face.

  She scrambled to get the scarf back in place. "Look what you've done! I'll never get it untangled nowl"

  "You're getting bad-tempered," he said cheerfully. "I'm going to have to do something to improve that"

  "I am not bad-tempered!"

  "You are. And getting worse." He liked the rosy coloring coming into her cheeks, and the blazing liveliness of her eyes. And it was because of him. She cared. Though she expressed it in anger, he knew she had been frightened today because she cared about him. He didn't say anything else to her, but drove along, winding in and out of the narrow paths that best showed the rolling, snow-covered hills patterned and slashed with black, silhouetted trees. He turned toward her again.
She had become fascinated by the countryside as he knew she would.

  "I have a place I want to show you," he said.

  'The mountain?"

  "No. I've given up on the mountain—it isn't the same as the one at home. This is another place." He tinned the horses back to the east. She was surprised when he halted in view of the house.

  "Where is this place?"

  "Ill show you. We cant take the sleigh back there yet. We'll have to walk until I've cut the path wide enough for the horses."

  She climbed down holding on to his hand, and he took her into the woods at the edge of the new field. There was a small frozen stream that cut through the woods. Forty yards into the woods was a clearing, where the stream widened to make a small pool. With the snow and the barren trees in black relief against the whiteness, it was a fairyland heavily draped with ice formations dripping from the limbs. The total silence there folded them within itself and held them bound by its own eerie power.

  Neither spoke a word. It wouldn't have been fitting to mar such pristine elegance. Stephen had been there often. He had seen it decorated with the wild flurry of autumnal color and the dripping cloak of a rain shroud. He had seen it in snow before, but he knew the feelings that filled one the first time it was viewed, and he waited for Callie to fill herself with it.

  Snow fell gently, white flakes on her scarf, framing her face and fringing her long eyelashes. Stephen's lips on hers were warm and sweet.

  Chapter 22

  During the next year Peter found himself the bewildered and pleased possessor of the Midas touch. He was not alone with his success or his feeling that it could never end. The tenor of the times was jubilant optimism. Americans, particularly New Yorkers, felt that they lived in a world devoid of failure. Men bought heavily on credit; the amounts of money they borrowed and spent were staggering, and yet they continued their upward climb. Peter followed the lead of others. He dared anything and risked everything. He backed enterprises which in England would have been considered most foolhardy. But New York had al-s ready acquired a reputation for commerce, and in accordance with the city's nature, entertainment, ice cream parlors, races, and theater had become big and profitable businesses. There was no end to what Peter could do with his money, and there were no rules or laws to keep him from daring what he pleased. His speculations ranged from the most solid to the most frivolous, but his constant love was the hop farm in Poughkeepsie. However extravagant his behavior be-