CHAPTER 4
For Charity, the ride to Mother Dane’s house felt like a walk to the gallows.
While packing the buggy, Buddy Pierce and his men were helpful but oddly subdued. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Buddy never met her gaze. The other one, the tall, skinny man with eyes that matched his russet hair, stared at her for much of the evening. When told of their destination, Buddy reacted as if Mama had suggested he drive them off a cliff. They had something stuck in their craws, and that was for sure.
Charity put it aside. Her own woes had her so tightly wrapped that she had no time to ponder what might be ailing them.
Now they stood before the Danes’ front door, bags in hand, to beg entry to the enemy camp. Mama had no sense for propriety, that was nothing new, but it had never stung Charity so cruelly before. Behind them, the men mumbled and shuffled their feet, overly preoccupied by something in the distance.
A loud ruckus came from inside, dominated by Mother Dane’s deep, commanding rumble and punctuated by Emmy’s shrill pleas. When the massive oak door began to open, it was all Charity could do not to turn and bolt. As if she read her daughter’s mind, Mama tightened her grip on Charity’s arm.
Mother Dane’s broad smile greeted them. “Why, Bertie, bless my soul, what a pleasant but thoroughly unexpected surprise.”
Her considerable girth, clad in fashionable big sleeves and full skirts, took up most of the doorway and prevented Charity from seeing around her. Forced to cast manners aside, she rose on her toes and peered over Mother Dane’s shoulder.
“We need shelter, Magda,” Mama said.
Mother Dane stepped aside. There would be questions later, but she’d heard all that was necessary for now. Mama needed her.
“Set those bags at the foot of the stairs, gentlemen; then hang your hats in the hall and have a seat in the parlor. I’ll fetch some coffee. You all look like you could use it.”
Mother Dane hadn’t really asked, just issued the order. Like everyone else in Humble, the men complied without hesitation. After a tearful hug with Mama, Mother Dane hurried to the kitchen to keep her end of the bargain.
A quick, furtive check of the room told Charity that Emmy wasn’t present. Whether upstairs or hiding in an adjacent room she couldn’t tell, but sooner or later a confrontation would be unavoidable.
Like Cleopatra awaiting Mark Antony, Mama settled onto a plush, button-tucked divan and held court with a broad smile. The servant waiting to be served. Long graying strands streamed down each side of her face, and Charity wished she’d learn to pin up her hair.
The men sat stiffly across from Mama on the matching couch. Charity sank into a big green chair and willed it to swallow her whole.
“See? I told you, sugar,” Mama said. “I knew it’d be all right. Magda wouldn’t turn us away just because of Emmy and that no-account Daniel Clark.”
All three men shifted their gazes to Mama, waiting to hear what she had to say next. Charity tensed, prepared to save herself from humiliation if it meant swooning at their feet.
“Here we are.” Mother Dane entered the room as she always did, like an actress on cue. She approached them smiling, but a brief, nearly imperceptible frown directed at the top of the stairs told Charity that Emmy had escaped to her room.
“That was quick,” Mama exclaimed.
“Already had it brewed. I’m used to making a big pot for Willem and me. When he’s on the road, it’s too much, but I don’t know how to make it taste good otherwise.” She set the tray on the low table and looked around at her guests. “Now it won’t go to waste.”
After seeing everyone properly served, Mother Dane lowered herself to the divan beside Charity’s sprawling mama. “Now then, what’s this all about, Bert?”
Mama passed Mother Dane her cup then sat forward and rubbed her hands together like a child with a secret. “You won’t believe what’s going on out at our place.” She narrowed her eyes and jabbed her bony finger at Buddy Pierce. “That one. That boy right there has the gift, Magda. He can take one look at the ground and find treasure.”
Now she had Mother Dane’s rapt attention. “Treasure? Oh my, honey. Do go on.”
Mama’s dancing eyes returned to Buddy. “Tell her, son. Tell Magda what you found on my land.”
Buddy leaned forward and smiled. With his hands clasped in front and long arms propped on his knees, he began to talk. He told about when he first caught sight of Mama’s chicken, and how he realized the goo on its feathers must be oil. He explained how he rushed back into town, praying the whole way his crew had arrived with their equipment so they could do their tests.
He lit up as he talked, and Charity wondered at the source of his excitement. Was it the thrill of discovery or the joy of helping someone less fortunate that stoked a fire in his eyes?
Whatever inspired his zeal, she enjoyed watching and listening to him very much. His deep voice and dulcet tones so soothed her, drowsiness set in and she found it hard to sit upright. Snuggling deeper into the plush green upholstery, she laid her head against the overstuffed arm while Buddy’s muted rumble became a nest of bees in her head.
“Charity? Wake up, dear.”
She bolted straight up, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth and searching the room for Buddy and his men.
Mother Dane offered the crook of her arm to pull up on. “They’re gone, honey.”
“Oh my. I fell asleep.”
“You sure did.”
She looked back at the big chair and pictured herself lying there. “Did I do anything ... unladylike while I slept?”
Mother Dane laughed, not out loud, but Charity knew because her bosom shook. “Child, you snored so rowdy-like you ran those nice young men plumb out of the house, and all the while your mouth was wide and drooling like a hound at suppertime. We couldn’t make polite conversation for all the racket, so they left.”
“Mother Dane!”
“Got quite a kick out of it, they did. Especially that good-looking one.”
“Did not!”
The shaking grew violent, and Mother Dane’s hearty laughter filled the room. She pulled Charity close for a hug. “Come on then, sleepyhead. Your bed is made and calling for you.”
“Where’s Mama?”
“Upstairs in my bed. It’s more comfortable. I set up a cot in the room for me in case she needs anything. Bert was plumb tuckered out, so I promised I’d see to you. I put your things at the opposite end of the hall like always.”
Just like Mother Dane. Always tending to Mama.
“Did Emmy...?”
“Never graced us with her presence. She’ll be down soon enough, though, or starve. I certainly won’t be taking up a tray.”
Charity rested her head on Mother Dane’s shoulder. “Oh, it’s all so awful.”
“That it is, sugar, but time has a way with these things.” She held Charity at arm’s length. “Besides, it’s not all bad news. Young Mr. Pierce said you and Bertha may come by some money.”
Charity grimaced, and Mother Dane took her by the chin. “Mercy, what a face.”
“I don’t want those filthy oilmen’s money. Mama said she didn’t either. She said they come in and lease up all the land, getting rich off good-hearted people who don’t know any better.”
“Uh-uh, sugar. Not this time. Mr. Pierce told Bert she could drill out the oil herself and keep the money.”
The words caught Charity off guard. “Mama? Drill oil? That’s crazy talk. She don’t know the first thing about it.”
Mother Dane laughed again. “Sweetie, you’re wide-eyed as a hoot owl. That young man didn’t mean for Bert to do the work herself. He meant she could finance it and keep most of the profit.”
Charity blinked. “Finance it? With what? It would be easier for Mama to do the drilling than to come up with that kind of money.”
“Mr. Pierce is going to help her get it done. He has a plan. Something about leasing some of your land to pay for it.”
All Charity could do was stare.
Mother Dane gathered her close again and patted her back. Then she turned her to face the stairs and urged her toward them. “Come now, child. I’ll walk you up. I know it’s a lot to take in, especially when you’re still half asleep. I promise things will look better by the morning light.”
“I declare, Mother Dane, I don’t see how.”
Alone in the big four-poster, Charity marveled that it seemed as grand as it had when she was a girl. In this very room, she and Emmy had wrestled, giggled, and whispered until the wee hours. Emmy started out in her own bed, but when the household fell silent, she would sneak down the hallway and throw herself, all gangly legs and tousled hair, into bed with Charity. In those days, they had no notions about rich or poor, fidelity or deceit.
She couldn’t remember a time when Emmy wasn’t a part of her life. Their mamas grew up together in East Texas. When Mama married Papa and moved to Humble, her best friend soon followed. Even after Mother Dane married into money, the two were inseparable. It took Mama eight years to conceive her only child. She liked to claim she held on to Charity until Mother Dane could meet Uncle Willem and hang up her old maid hat because the girls were meant to be reared side by side.
So they had been, and they’d loved each other since Emmy first toddled close and touched Charity’s face. How could Charity bear life without her best friend?
She pictured Emmy lying in her bedroom at the end of the hall, and her eyes flooded with tears. She almost wished the door would fly open and Emmy would sail into the room. The desire to reconcile consumed her. The pain caused by what Daniel and Emmy had done paled in comparison to the hollow ache in her heart.
I could forgive her.
The thought struck like a blow. She lay in the darkness and reeled from it.
When the next idea came, it took her breath. She could tiptoe down the hall and climb into bed beside Emmy. They would whisper and giggle tonight and save the serious talk for morning. It would be harder by the light of day, but they’d work it out. They always had.
Before she changed her mind, Charity slipped from the bed and opened the door. The polished brass banister reflected the moonlight shining from the gabled windows, providing a lighted marker along the corridor. Outside Emmy’s room, she paused. Her heart pounded, but she wouldn’t allow herself to go back. Turning the knob, she winced when the hinges creaked then drew a sharp breath when a rush of frigid air hit her face. Emmy’s bedroom was colder than the guest room had been. Much colder. Charity shivered in her thin nightdress.
The outline of Emmy’s body lay still under the quilt, so she hadn’t heard the door. Charity approached the high bed, her mind awhirl with all she planned to say. She smiled in the darkness, imagining her friend’s reaction, though if she couldn’t stop shivering, she’d scare Emmy awake.
A stiff gust of wind lifted the curtains. For pity’s sake, no wonder. She’ll have us frozen by morning.
Charity backed away and tiptoed to the window to close it. Her hand rested on the sash when something in the garden below caught her eye. The full moon revealed a lone figure dressed in nightclothes and wrapped in a long white shawl. She stared at the fair-haired apparition in disbelief.
Crossing to the bed, she threw back the quilt. Three plump pillows mocked her. She whirled and rushed to the window, prepared to call out, but something about Emmy’s lovely profile stopped her. The upturned, moonlit face held a look of longing so intense it pricked Charity’s heart.
Emmy feels what I feel. Her heart is so broken she can’t sleep.
She considered the trellis. She wasn’t afraid of heights, but climbing the rickety framework in her nightdress seemed foolhardy. Nevertheless, she pulled the garment high and prepared to swing her leg over the windowsill just as another figure emerged from the shadows.
Emmy rushed to meet Daniel. He took her in his arms and pressed her head to his chest, her long nightdress billowing about their legs. Charity tried to turn away but couldn’t. A single tear fell and splashed against the windowsill.
“I hate you, Emily Dane.” She knew she whispered, but the words thundered in her head. “Oh, how I hate you.”
In the moonlight, the couple seemed to merge into one, and the scene burned into Charity’s eyes. Careful to be quiet, she lowered the heavy window and turned the lock. Blinded by tears, she stumbled across the room and slipped into the hall, easing the door closed behind her.
CHAPTER 5
Charity swept through the kitchen door to find her mama in front of Mother Dane’s cast-iron stove. At the dawn of a new day, Cleopatra had traded her couch for an apron and skillet. Dwarfed by the huge black contraption, she looked even smaller than usual, reminding Charity of a little girl playing house.
Barefoot as usual, Mama stood like a crane, one foot propped against the opposite knee. She gazed out the window, a shaft of light bathing the side of her face, and her eyes squinted against the rising sun. Without looking, she took an egg from a basket on the sideboard and cracked it into a big yellow bowl. Lifting the bottle of milk, she poured a dollop over the eggs, never spilling a drop.
Anyone else might think the view past the checkered curtains held her fancy. By the dazed look in her eyes, Charity knew the confines of the carnation-weave wallpaper held her body, but her mind and spirit soared somewhere in the distance. Drifting off that way, among Mama’s many other odd habits, had led the townsfolk to think her peculiar at best. Some even called her insane.
Charity took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “I’m leaving, Mama. I will not stay in this house another minute.”
Mama glanced over her shoulder. “You hush now. And close that door. They’ll hear you.”
“There’s no one awake to hear. Besides, I don’t care.” Charity swept past the threshold and did as she was told. The careful way she eased the door shut contradicted her bold statement.
The frustrating little woman chuckled and went back to her task. “There’s no one awake because they were up half the night. Made quite a ruckus, they did, pounding on doors and spitting like cats.”
Charity squirmed. “They weren’t the only ones up all night.”
Mama kept a stiff back to her, but the motion of beating the eggs set her thin frame to dancing. “Couldn’t sleep, huh? Is your conscience sore, daughter? The Good Book says, ‘The wicked are like the troubled sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt.’” She chuckled. “Sounds like our bog, don’t it?”
Charity banged her fist on the table. “No, it doesn’t. It’s nothing like our bog. Mercy! You sorely vex me sometimes. When you talk like that, I go to thinking—”
Mama turned, her movements slow and deliberate. “Go on and say it.”
Charity felt her stomach fill with mush. She couldn’t meet those burning eyes.
“What’s the matter? Lost your nerve?” Mama’s work-worn fingers had gone white around the spatula. “Let me finish for you, then. You go to thinking I’m loony like this town has me pegged. Now ain’t that so?”
Charity fixed her eyes on a crack in the floor. “I’m sorry, Mama. I know you’re not loony. Only sometimes you act so strange.”
Her long silence made Charity nervous, but Charity knew enough to stay still and wait.
“Come over here, daughter.”
She dared a quick glance at Mama’s face. “Ma’am?”
“Do as I say.”
Eyes still downcast, Charity crossed the room. Her mama laid down the spatula and faced her. “Now then, you look me square in the eye.”
Charity’s head hung lower.
Mama hooked an index finger around her chin and raised her red-hot face. “Go on, take a look. Look deep in my eyes, clear past the faded skin and wrinkles. That’s it. All right, tell me what you see.”
She searched the soft green eyes. “What do you mean? I don’t see anything.”
Mama released her chin. “And there’s your problem.” With that she picked up her utensil an
d returned to the eggs.
Frustration crowded Charity’s throat, making her voice come out shrill. “You’re not making any sense.”
The spatula went down again, and Mama wiped her hands on her apron. “Let me tell you what you missed.” She raised a finger and thumped herself hard on the chest. It rang hollow in Charity’s ears like the sound of a ripe melon. “Underneath this pruned-up skin, back behind these tired old eyes, I’m still just a girl. No different from you, except on the outside.”
Charity shook her head. “Don’t be silly. You don’t have pruned-up skin or tired eyes. You’re not yet fifty.”
Mama placed both hands on Charity’s shoulders. “It’s the road I’m walking, but it don’t matter none to me. Just because I’ve got a few years under my belt, folks expect me to act like I swallowed a bucket of starch. Well, I won’t. That ain’t me.”
Charity knew Mama wanted some sign that she understood, but she could only stare back and nod.
“Baby, these bodies age, and there’s nothing to be done about it. If we’re lucky, if we don’t fight it, our souls stay young forever. I won’t put no face on for the world. I tried for your sake, but I cain’t do it no more. It plain stifles me.”
She reached around to set the skillet off the fire. “I’ll tell you something else. Your papa never tried to change me. Never once made me feel crazy. But then, I reckon he was the last soul on earth willing to accept me just how I am.” Her gaze jumped back to the checkered curtains, and Charity’s heart pitched and dove for her feet. She suddenly knew exactly where her mama’s thoughts had been when she entered the room.
She held out her hand. “That’s not true. I—”
“Bertha Maye!”
Mother Dane’s strident voice struck panic in Charity’s heart. She spun toward the kitchen door. “I have to go, Mama. I have to leave right this minute.”
“Just where do you think to go?”
“I pondered that all night. First, I’ll check the hotel. If they don’t have a room for us yet, I can put our names on the list.”
“And then?”
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