Heaven Sent

by Pamela Morsi

  "What is it?" Hannah asked her, but when she only answered her sister with a pleading look of dismay, Violet took up the questioning.

  "Wasn't that Will I heard ride up?" Violet questioned. "What are you doing still in the house?"

  Myrtie darted glances back and forth between the women and then with a somewhat indecisive whine, said, "No, it wasn't Will."

  The older women waited in silence for a moment, expecting Myrtie to continue. When she didn't, Violet and Hannah exchanged confused looks.

  "Well, who was it?" Hannah asked.

  Myrtie took a deep breath and then looked sympathetically at Hannah.

  "You'd best set another place," she said finally, lines of concern marring her pretty face. "Papa has invited Henry Lee for dinner."

  Hannah set down the plate she was holding as if it were a hot skillet. Glancing through the door behind Myrtie, she saw nothing but wasn't reassured.

  "He's out there?" she asked nervously, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Myrtie nodded furiously, her face contorted with misery. "I'll help you, Hannah," she offered. "If we hurry, we can still have you fixed up nice before you see him."

  "See him?" Hannah asked stupidly, and then as if suddenly getting a grip on her senses she quickly reached behind her and pulled the ties on the apron and handed it to Violet.

  "I have no intention of seeing him," she told them. "I'm going to my room. You'll just have to tell him that I am indisposed. I can't see him."

  "Hannah!" Violet sounded dismayed and almost angry. "He's made the first move, you can't just ignore it."

  "I have to. I can't see him. I just can't."

  As Hannah turned to go to her room, Violet grabbed her arm. Her worry and concern for her stepdaughter altered her normally placid visage into a reflection of anguish.

  "This is your future you're throwing away. Please don't do this."

  Hannah pulled away without answering and hurried to the sanctuary of the bedroom. She couldn't face her husband. Her feelings were so raw, and so near the surface, she feared she would shame herself.

  * * *

  The supper table that night was a curious affair with everybody talking cheerfully and all feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Even Will and Myrtie, normally so wrapped in their own world, seemed to be caught up in the problems of Henry Lee and Hannah.

  Henry Lee had nearly turned the buggy around four times before he finally made it to the reverend's place. And then, to find that his wife wasn't even willing to sit at the same table with him was humiliating. He had been ready to leave right then. He had tried to make his excuses, but Violet would hear none of it. He had come to supper and he would stay and eat, Violet insisted. Despite her usual cheery temperament, she brooked no argument.

  So he did eat what he could. It had been so long since he'd had good food that he should have been diving into his plate. But he was having a difficult time forcing anything down at all. Being told that almost everything on the table was cooked by the woman he had come to see didn't help a bit. He wanted to cherish this meal, probably the last she would ever cook for him. But every time he looked around the table and was reminded that she wasn't there, his throat tightened with grief.

  As Henry Lee sat in the kitchen, Hannah paced in her room. She told herself that she would take a much-needed nap and that when she awoke, the man in the kitchen would be gone forever. Although she'd stripped down to her chemise and drawers, the idea of sleep was totally ridiculous. The blood seemed to be pounding through her veins and she couldn't, for the life of her, even sit still. Lying down would have been impossible.

  Her mind played over and over the memories of Henry Lee. It was as if there were no other memories in her life, no life at all before he became part of hers. This room that she'd shared with her sister for five years now only represented the one night the two of them had been here together. That one night when she was so embarrassed and frightened, and he was so kind. And that wonderful morning when she had first discovered what it felt like to be held close by a man.

  Before the dreamy smile could take over her face, she pushed the memory away. All the kisses they had shared, all the incredible heat that she had learned from his body, couldn't change the facts. Her husband was a moonshiner and he intended to live his life on the wrong side of the law. She could not approve of that, not ever.

  He was a gentle man, and he was good to her, she couldn't deny that. He was not frivolous and shallow as she had thought at first. Nor was he shiftless and lazy. She remembered her surprised pride when she heard about him bringing in his hay alone.

  She also remembered the depths of pain in his eyes when they had shared their childhood grief at the loss of their mothers.

  He was strong and worthy and admirable. He could make her heart soar and her pulse race with desire. But he was a moonshiner. A purveyor of that evil elixir that could turn a man into an animal. Despite that, she knew she loved him.

  She saw him again, in her memory, on that day under the catalpa tree. Armed with a singletree, he had come running to protect her. He had shown tenderness and offered comfort. Teasingly, he'd agreed to slay all her dragons, to keep her safe from lizards and spiders. And he had made her body sing with passion. It was a husband's bargain he had offered. And she had accepted it so casually, never dreaming of the leap of faith he was taking.

  She, the pious preacher's daughter, had been willing to accept him as a husband, graciously forgiving him for his good humor and frivolity, when he had proved himself to be a hardworking farmer.

  But he had accepted her, believing her to be a sinful and wicked Jezebel willing to draw an innocent man into scandal to guard herself. Even being saddled with another man's child had not deterred him from trying to be a good husband to the woman who had deliberately tricked him into marriage.

  Henry Lee was just that way. He accepted the cruel and difficult life that heaven had handed him and he made the best of it.

  Looking beyond her obvious misdeed, he sought the strengths in Hannah, to see what was really true about her, what was really inside. It was not a condescending forgiveness that he offered, it was acceptance of the human frailties of all and an opportunity to move on without penance or remorse.

  "It's too bad, Miss Hannah May Bunch," she reviled herself, "that you aren't a good enough person to be able to do that. You know already that, inside, he is a man of tenderness and depth, inestimable value and honor. But you are willing to discard all of that because, outside, he doesn't live up to your measure."

  Hannah stopped her pacing. Leaning her head against the wall, she covered her eyes with her hands. Violet was right. She was throwing away her future, her only chance for happiness and, for the life of her, she didn't know why.

  * * *

  The long, uncomfortable meal in the kitchen was drawing to a welcomed conclusion. Violet was just getting ready to ask if everyone was ready for dessert when she heard the door to Hannah's bedroom opening. As if frozen in place, everybody waited as footsteps came determinedly down the hall.

  As Hannah stepped into the doorway, Henry Lee immediately rose to his feet. His good manners prompted Will and the preacher to quickly do the same.

  The couple stood at opposite ends of the table, drinking in the sight of each other. It felt so good just to see, just to know, just to remember.

  Hannah was wearing the silver-leafed blue calico that Henry Lee had given her, the one she had worn on her glorious Cinderella night in Muskogee. Her hair was loosed from its stiff confining braid and worked into a gentle topknot that softened her features. Her cheeks flushed with excitement and her eyes softened with love, she had never looked more beautiful.

  "What a delicious dress!" Myrtie exclaimed. "I've never seen you wear that before."

  "It's my favorite," Hannah answered her sister, as her eyes remained on her husband. "I saved it for a special occasion."

  The silence lengthened, until Violet broke it abruptly. "Sit, Hannah, I'll get you a plat
e. Henry Lee, you want more of those potatoes?"

  The food was passed around another time and everybody at the table took another portion as if the meal that had gone on before had never existed.

  She had changed her mind! The reality screamed through Henry Lee's brain as he ate now with a vengeance, not tasting a thing and not taking his eyes off her for a moment. He was almost as ill at ease now as he had been when she was in her room. What did this mean? Was he to be accepted, forgiven, or simply offered another chance? The anxiety almost overwhelmed him. But it felt so good just to look at her. He had forgotten how desirable she really was.

  "Are you feeling better?" he asked, giving her a polite alibi.

  "I have never felt better in my life," she answered, wanting him to have no doubt that she had stayed away because of him, and now she was here because of him.

  "You do look very well," Henry Lee said, thinking that she was even prettier in reality than his memory had been able to render.

  "Thank you. You look well yourself," she responded both truthfully and with concern. He was as handsome and vital as ever, but she found herself thinking that he looked tired. He'd lost weight and there were new lines of worry in his face.

  Farnam Bunch was nearly choking on the couple's strained politeness and the undercurrents that seemed to be shifting across the room.

  "Henry Lee brought me the blackberries that you put up," her father said, hoping to shore up a sinking conversation. "He said that he'd never cared for them, but he was sure if you made them, they were bound to be good and he wanted someone to be able to enjoy them."

  "That's nice," Hannah said, but never allowed her glance to stray from her husband.

  "I remembered that you said they were your father's favorite," Henry Lee told her.

  "I'm surprised that you remembered that."

  Henry Lee's eyes were dark and fathomless, and his voice was breathy with emotion.

  "I remember everything."

  Hannah felt the words shiver through her in pleasure. She also remembered and although she didn't speak a word, her hot look conveyed that fact to Henry Lee.

  When Violet decided that surely they had lingered at the table long enough, she rose. "You don't need to bother with the dishes, Hannah. I'll take care of them."

  In truth, Violet would have been hard pressed to get Hannah to help. For once in her life, she seemed unconcerned about the necessary household chores. She was totally wrapped up in Henry Lee.

  As her father seated himself in a rocking chair on the front porch, it was only natural that the young people "walk out," the traditional way for courting couples to be alone while still under the watchful eye of a chaperone.

  Hannah walked calmly next to Henry Lee. They were not touching in any way, but they were close enough to touch and Hannah didn't seem either shy or ill at ease about that. It surprised him a little, but pleased him a great deal. They followed Will and Myrtie as they sauntered around the yard whispering and laughing in front of them.

  Henry Lee found that the amusing small talk that always came so easily to him in his business failed him as he walked with the woman he loved. Not one diverting tale came to his mind, and had it not been for Hannah, filling him in on the doings at the church, there would have been no conversation at all.

  Will and Myrtie made an abrupt detour in their route and Henry Lee would have followed, except for Hannah's hand on his arm.

  "I'm sure they are headed for the arbor swing," Hannah told him. "That's their private place on Saturday nights."

  Henry Lee nodded and, gently placing his hand on the back of her waist, diverged from the direction of the swing. The night was not yet cool, but a breeze made it comfortable and the hefty slice of moon in the sky lighted their path and gave silvery highlights to their faces.

  "We didn't have a private, Saturday night place," he commented, matter-of-factly. "This is the first time we have ever walked out."

  Hannah nodded. "It does seem strange, doesn't it?" After a moment she added, "It might have helped if we had."

  Henry Lee thought about that.

  "Yes, I guess it would have. You would have known about my business before we married and you could have been saved from tying yourself to me."

  "Maybe," she answered. "But the point is, we never walked out because you never even knew that I was alive before you woke up in the wellhouse that morning."

  Henry Lee found it difficult to argue with that. He had hardly given the plain, hymn-singing daughter of the preacher a second thought. But looking at his wife now, he couldn't imagine that she and that other Hannah Bunch were the same woman.

  "I didn't know you, and I thought you were surely too good for me anyway."

  Hannah shook her head ruefully and offered an ironic little laugh. "One thing I am not, Henry Lee, is good. You of all people should know that. What I've done to you, forcing myself into your life. That's a terrible sin."

  "Don't talk like it was a mistake, Hannah. I guess you'd say I'm not much of a believer, but things happen for a reason. I believe that. This whole thing was meant to be, I'm as sure of that as anything."

  He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close beside him, and planted a sweet, chaste kiss in her hair.

  "Hannah, there are things about me that you don't know. Things besides my whiskey making that maybe you've got a right to hear."

  He took a deep breath and glanced up at the moon, gathering strength to share words he had kept to himself for a lifetime.

  "Skut Watson was not my father, Hannah," he told her, carefully avoiding her face, unsure of her reaction. "My father was an army major named Walter Henry Lee, who was once the post commander at Fort Gibson. When my mother knew him, he was at least twice her age, married, and with grown children. She knew all that, of course. It didn't matter. She was young and pretty and wild, and he bought her presents and paid her for her services. She was his mistress and when she began blossoming with me in her belly, he sold her to Skut Watson for cash."

  They had stopped still in the yard and, taking a cleansing breath, Henry Lee turned to look at her.

  "That's who I am, Hannah. Three parents and all of them put together not fit to wipe the boots of my wife."

  Hannah wrapped her arms around her husband's waist and looked determinedly up into his eyes.

  "That is not who you are, Henry Lee!" she contradicted. "Do you remember what Harjo told us about his birth, how the midwife said he would never walk? He walks, Henry Lee. He even dances. Maybe those three weren't the best start for a child in this world, but you've overcome that handicap. You're walking as straight and tall as any man in these territories and you've even learned to dance."

  Henry Lee felt a strange surge of joy. He nodded, too full of feelings to speak words. He turned her again to the path and gently urged her beside him. They walked in silence for several minutes. There was something comforting in just being together. Simply sharing the close proximity of the other created a kind of haven. He realized that no matter the terrors and hatred of the outside world, with Hannah beside him like this, believing in him, sharing his sorrows, he could survive the worst. Having Hannah as his woman could ease a world of hurt.

  The solemn stillness of their introspective moments was finally broken by Hannah as she questioned him about the church pews. With enthusiasm he related the work he had done and his pride in his finished product.

  They talked of the harvest and weather, the pigs and the pecan trees. Not once did either mention their marriage or the trouble between them.

  Taking her hand in his he set a course to the left and a couple of moments later they stood in front of the door to the wellhouse. Neither could hide from the funny, terrible, embarrassing memories associated with the small building.

  "I guess we do have a private, Saturday night place, after all," he said, giving her a bantering smile.

  He opened the door to the cool interior and they seated themselves in the doorway with their feet on the steps.
>
  The moon, the night, the memories, the quiet between them seemed to stretch too long and both became somewhat ill at ease. Hannah, seeking something to do with her hands, reached down next to the steps to pull the long grass that grew unmolested there. She jerked her hand back with a startled cry.

  "What is it?" Henry Lee asked urgently reaching for her injured hand.

  "It's just a sandbur," Hannah answered him, somewhat embarrassed at her reaction. "I'm not hurt, just startled, I guess."

  "Let me see."

  She gave him her hand and he held it gently in his own as if it were a treasure. Tenderly his rough finger sought the place of her injury.

  "Does it still hurt?"

  "No, it's fine, really."

  Henry Lee brought his lips to the upturned palm he held in his hand and gifted it with a healing kiss. The sweet tenderness of his lips coupled with his hot breath on her skin sent a current of fire up her arm. Henry Lee felt her reaction, which was no less startling than his own, and he reveled in it.

  "Kiss me, Hannah," he whispered to her. "Oh, how I have ached in my bed at night dreaming that you would kiss me."

  Hannah raised the hand he had so lovingly pleasured to his cheek. She felt that slight roughness, evidence of the lateness of the day, and she slowly moved her face toward his. Tilting her head slightly to meet his mouth, she drew closer and closer to the wonderful lips that she sought. An instant before the kiss was met, Henry Lee raised his hand and, with his index finger, gently urged her lips apart.

  "Open for me, Hannah."

  She did, both her mouth and her heart.

  With the earnest yearning of their fragile love, they kissed softly, delicately, with such reverence for the emotion between them.

  They drew back to look at each other, to see if the sorcery that held them was mirrored in the eyes of the other. Finding the truth there, they offered another gentle kiss, and then another. Again their eyes met, seeking, exploring, testing. Tiny little kisses, gentle little bites, were not dangerous. Just a diminutive peck. A whisper on the lips. A brief spark of jeopardy. A chancy taste of the forbidden. Then with a sigh of gracious surrender, Hannah grasped his muscled forearms and kissed him dangerously.