When Stars Are Bright

by Amber R. Duell

  “I’ll pick you up right here in nine days,” he says.

  I sigh and glare across the car at him. “This is a mistake.”

  “Wait for me at eleven,” he continues, pretending not to hear me. “It’ll be fine, and when I bring you home, I think your mother will finally believe in us.”

  “The only way my mother will believe your intentions are true is if we—” Get married. My heart thunders. An engagement won’t win my mother over; they can be broken. We’ll have to be legally wed in front of multiple witnesses before she trusts a single word out of his mouth. Even then, I doubt she’ll do more than tolerate him. When she makes up her mind about something, that’s it, but if he does propose…“Are you trying to tell me something?”

  He gives me a coy smile. “It’s been hard not seeing you every day. I want to fix that.”

  I lean across the seat and rest my head on his collarbone, listening to the rhythmic sound of his pulse. Engaged. If he means it, if he proposes in front of his parents’ guests, all this lying and sneaking around will end. No one will be able to keep us apart. I’ll be Mrs. Van Buren, and we’ll be able to spend every day together for the rest of our lives.

  “All right.” He kisses me quickly. “Get going. The sooner your mother yells, the sooner it’ll be over.”

  I grunt at him and push the door open. “She’s terrifying when she’s upset.”

  “Be careful you don’t end up an appetizer.” He pulls me back across the seat. “One more for luck.” He’s smiling so wide, his kiss is barely more than a touch of the lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “If she doesn’t eat me first.” I slip from the car, sticking my tongue out.

  He shakes his head. “I’ll wait here until you get inside.”

  I stare down the hill at the soft glow in the window. Without seeing her, I know my mother is at our small, round table, her elbow resting on the lace tablecloth. When I walk in, she’ll be the first thing I see.

  “I love you,” Christian calls out the car window in a hoarse whisper.

  I blow him a final kiss over my shoulder and race down the dirt road with the emptiness of the field nipping at my heels. The darkness glares at me, taunting me for my fear of the never-ending black void I was left to die in seventeen years ago. I hold my breath until I reach the low stone wall around our property and fly through the gate.

  Two years ago, my mother painted our front door orange. She said it was different. Fun. That it gave a bit of cheerfulness to the cottage when tulips weren’t in season. I laughed at her then, secretly thinking she lost her mind. It’s just a door, and we don’t have disposable funds for something so senseless. Staring at it now, surrounded by the night, I’m glad she did it. The splash of color offers a promise of better, safer things on the other side.

  Of course, actually going inside will make the dark less scary, too.

  But it’s exchanging one frightening thing for another. I can practically feel my mother’s anger churning on the other side of the painted wood. Behind me, the night pricks at my back. I glance over my shoulder at Christian, and he waves from his car at the top of the hill. Puffing out my cheeks, I exhale slowly. I can’t stand out here all night. It’s better to get it over with, but my hand refuses to do more than grip the doorknob.

  One more time, nine days from now, and she’ll never have to yell at me again.

  I cringe and push inside. My mother sits exactly as I thought: in a chair between the brick fireplace and table, facing the door. A white nightgown hugs her small, hunched frame, and a heavy shawl is pulled tight over her shoulders. Her gray hair is flat on one side—she slept at one point tonight. The tea kettle hangs over the fire pit with only orange embers glowing in the hearth, and our aprons hang on coat hooks nearby. Her fingers hit the tablecloth like tiny hammers, over and over.

  “Hello.” I shut the door quietly, lowering the wooden latch in place, and walk across the multi-colored rag rug. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I know you did.” She presses her lips together to give me the look, and sets her glasses on the table with strained gentleness. Dents remain on either side of her nose where they dug into her wrinkled skin.

  I shiver, my nerves on edge. “I didn’t want to wake you to let you know I was leaving.”

  “No.” Her low pitch makes me cringe. “I would’ve stopped you, and you couldn’t have that.”

  I lower myself into the rickety chair across from her and weave my fingers through the frayed lace tablecloth. “Moeder—”

  “Don’t you Moeder me. Where have you been?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. Her calm fury is worse than screaming. A brewing storm. “Dancing,” I squeak.

  “Dancing? Where on earth would you be dancing at this hour? It’s not proper, Lina.” She stands, wisps of thinning hair swaying around her face, and points to the window. “That boy is destroying you. Do you know what people assume when they see you together? Do you realize how hard it will be to find a decent husband when he’s finished with you?”

  A fire burns its way up from my toes. If I can’t marry Christian, I won’t marry anyone at all. She never found a husband, and we’re doing fine on our own. We might have to prove ourselves capable more often, but there’s food on the table and clothes on our backs. If she doesn’t need a man, then neither do I.

  But I want one. I want Christian.

  “We haven’t done anything wrong.” I focus on tiny brown tea stains dotting the lace. “I don’t care what people think.”

  “You don’t care?” Her voice quakes, but doesn’t rise. “I’m not going to be around forever. What will you do when I’m gone? Hm? You need someone to take care of you, and you’ll never find anyone if the whole town thinks you’re a trollop.”

  “Moeder!”I gasp, my eyes wide.

  “I’m not saying it’s true, Lina, but you need to realize fairy tales aren’t real.” Her voice drops and falls flat. “I know he’s rich and charming, but you’re too trusting for your own good. You always have been. I’m an old woman—when I die, I need to know you’ll be okay. You’re worth more than this.”

  “Worth more than what?” I ask, matching her tone. “I think I’m worth falling in love with. I deserve to be happy.”

  “Yes, you do, but you won’t find happiness with Christian Van Buren. Men like him don’t marry women like us. They marry other socialites, not field workers. Not—” She catches herself and shakes her head. “Not… you.”

  “The first time Christian saw me, I was covered in dirt and sweat after spending an entire day planting tulip bulbs,” I tell her. “He doesn’t care about that. If you get to know him, you’ll see he isn’t how you think he is.”

  “That doesn’t mean—” My mother flops against the back of the chair and holds her forehead. “Let’s pretend for a second his intentions are good. His parents will never allow you to get married; his father came by just this afternoon.”

  My stomach lurches. “Why would Mr. Van Buren come here?”

  She sighs, looking more tired than she has in a long time. “I debated mentioning it, but it might do you well to have some tough love. You need to end it with Christian, or they will.”

  “Why did he come here?” I ask again. My heart races, my palms sweaty.

  “To get you to stay away from his son.” She slams her fists down on the table, and I jump. Her mouth turns into a frown, and a familiar, faraway look enters her eyes. “In fact, he wants to preserve the family’s reputation and his wife’s mental state so badly that he’s willing to pay us off.”

  My heart shatters, a million pieces scattering around me. Christian will never be able to bring me to the party, let alone propose. His parents have too much to hold over him. If they force him to choose between his inheritance and me, what will he do? “Did... did you take the money? We could use it, and I know you hate Christian, but please tell me you didn’t.”

  “What kind of mother do you think I am?” She huffs. “I kicked hi
m out of here faster than that fancy auto of his could take him. That doesn’t mean I disagree. This relationship can’t go anywhere, Lina. It won’t. He’s going to marry someone his parents choose, and you’ll be cast aside. I don’t want to watch you go through that. Things have gone on long enough. You have to end it.”

  “End it?” My throat tightens. Does Christian know what his father did? Is he really just toying with me? No. I can’t let people plant doubts in my mind. We love each other and we will lead a happy life together. Everyone will see how well we fit. We’ll prove them wrong. “You don’t know him. He’d never do that—he loves me.”

  “Lina, you’re barely seventeen. There are a lot of things you don’t understand yet.” My mother stands with hunched shoulders. Her eyes glisten, but she holds firm. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t up for discussion.”

  She’s right—it isn’t up for discussion. No one can tell me who to love, and there’s nothing she can say to make me change my mind. “I’m not giving him up,” I say quietly.

  “You don’t believe me, but this is for your own good, meisje. You may see him once more to tell him goodbye, but that has to be it. I’ve lived a long life so you need to trust me on this. You don’t know what the consequences of your match could be.” She stretches her back with a small grunt and retreats toward her bed. “The wash is still on the line. Bring it in before it rains.”

  I open my mouth to beg her not to make me go outside, but there’s no talking to her tonight. She snaps the hanging floral sheet across her corner of the one-room cottage. Looking out the back window in the direction of the clothesline, I grind my teeth. She doesn’t understand; she’s never had someone like Christian.

  I spare a glance at my own bed, at the blankets heaped at the foot from my mother’s search, and ball my hands into fists before heading out the back door. There’s no one to watch my back this time, but I can always grab a chicken from the coop, and throw it at anything trying to eat me. At least I’m not under house arrest again. If I behave for the next nine days, I’ll still make it to the garden party for one of the most important days of my life. Because Christian will come for me.

  He will.

  I could leave now. If I went to him, he would run with me. We could come back after we’re married, and then there’s nothing they can do. Except his family could still disinherit him. I wouldn’t mind; hard work doesn’t scare me, but he’s never been poor. I don’t want him to resent me later when times are tough.

  Wind rattles the window beside me, its bitter talons slicing through the thin fabric of my dress. I shudder as the gust howls across the empty field and disappears. More than the darkness, more than the creaking trees, the unnerving stillness bothers me the most. I try to remember animals are more afraid of me than I am of them, except maybe the wild boars, and there’s no such thing as the boogieman. For some reason, my brain can’t reconcile that as truth. Any number of things can hide in the dark. When people say there’s nothing to be afraid of, they’re only fooling themselves. No one can ever be sure of what’s lurking in the shadows until it’s too late.

  I press my lips into a straight line, and hurry off the back stoop. A fat raindrop splats against my arm and thunder cracks in the distance. I grab the large wicker basket beside the door, dragging it across the lawn in a near sprint.

  “Please don’t rain yet,” I say, looking up. Clouds eclipse the stars now; it won’t be long before the sky truly opens.

  Standing on my tiptoes, I pluck round wooden clothespins from the line, and drop them into the basket. A new gust of wind whips the first sheet around my body. I bat it from my face, and tug it away from my legs, but the wind keeps me trapped. I spin around, my back to the fabric, and wad it into a ball against my abdomen. Once it’s safely stuffed into the basket, I hurry to free our dresses. Another drop of rain lands on my cheek, then another on my neck.

  I fumble with the pins holding down my mother’s stockings and lightning breaks the sky. I pause, my fingers curling around the clothesline, and let the rain pelt against me. Let it wash away the words my mother said and the doubt that clouds my thoughts.

  Nine days. I quickly pluck the stockings free. Then I’ll be the future Mrs. Lina Van Buren. I smile, my giggle lost to the storm.

  The orange glow of dawn illuminates the cottage. I want to grip the sun and foist it higher in the sky, skipping the next few hours until I meet Christian. Only a few hours. I grin into my pillow. Finally, finally, finally.

  “Rise and shine,” my mother says from the other side of my curtain.

  I pull the covers up to my chin and force a pained groan. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” She whips the curtain back.

  I groan again and curl my legs up to my chest. The last three days have been spent planting the seeds of a faux illness. A cough here. A sniffle there. Leaving half my soup uneaten and going straight to bed. It twists my insides to orchestrate such an elaborate lie, but I can’t meet Christian and work the Bakker’s farm.

  “What’s wrong?” my mother demands.

  I fidget, keeping my back to her, my face half hidden beneath the covers. “I don’t feel well.”

  “I suspected as much. You’ve been sluggish for days and that cough…” She leans over and places the back of her hand on my forehead. “You’re not warm.”

  “I don’t think I can go today,” I grumble.

  My mother is quiet for a moment. “I’ll send word to Mr. Bakker that we won’t be over today.”

  My heart races. It never occurred to me that she might want to stay to take care of me. I haven’t missed a day a work since I was a little girl, and surely now she knows I can take care of myself. “You have to go.” I fake a small cough. “The Visser widow and her daughters are looking for work, and if we aren’t there, he might take them on instead. Then what will we do?”

  My mother smoothes hair off my forehead. “But who will look after you?”

  “I’m just going to sleep, Moeder.” The words are bitter on my tongue. She will need to manage both our workloads without me, and the years are already taking their toll on her bones. After Christian and I are married, she’ll never work another day in her life. Even if things don’t go well with the Van Buren family and I have to work twice as hard, she’ll retire in comfort.

  “I’ll make you some tea before I go.” She tucks the blanket around me, and I wince against the comforting touch. “If you’re not better in the morning, we’ll ask after the doctor first thing.”

  “I’m sure all I need is a day of rest,” I say.

  She pats my shoulder and shuffles away. I’m sorry, Moeder. But she gave me a choice: lie or give up Christian. It isn’t really a choice at all. She hums as she moves about the kitchen, an old tune she always uses to help me sleep. I stare at the knot in the wood beside my bed and will away the burning in my eyes.

  She will be furious tonight but not forever.

  Not forever.

  I watch my mother disappear around the bend in the dirt road through the window beside my bed. I take a handful of breaths. My feet slap against the floor. The fire burns low in the hearth where she made my tea, and I move the heavy metal iron onto the brick base to heat.

  My Sunday dress drapes over a chair to be pressed for church in the morning. I lift the orange fabric and shake it out, scowling. The color isn’t my first choice, especially being as faded as it is, but it’s the best I have. I arrange the skirt on the ironing board and carefully arrange the pleats.

  A soft knock on the front door makes me jump. It can’t be my mother—she’s too far gone to be back so quickly and she wouldn’t knock—but we never have visitors. “Who is it?” I call.

  “Lina, open the door.”

  My lips part, my brows low. “Christian?”

  He told me eleven, but it’s barely eight. His father… Does Christian know what happened? If his father finally drew the line…Oh, God. I cross the room with shaking hands, my pulse thundering in my ears, and lift t
he latch. Christian pushes inside the moment the door cracks. I snap a knit sweater off the hook and throw it on to cover how thin my white nightgown is.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice too high, and cross my arms over my chest to hold the sweater in place.

  “I’m fairly certain your neighbors think I’m up to no good.” He ducks down and plants a swift kiss on my lips. My chest loosens at the ease of his kiss but only a little. “I’ve been parked over the hill for ages now.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to wait for your mother to leave.”

  He scans the cottage, seeing the inside for the first time. I shift my weight as he takes in the moth-eaten curtains, the cracked mantel clock, and scuffed cupboards. Bits of straw I should have swept away last night still litter the floor. All the while, he’s in a crisp black and white pinstripe suit that’s easily the nicest I’ve ever seen him wear. Finally, his eyes fall back to me, and my face burns.

  “You said to meet you at eleven,” I say before he can comment.

  A smile tugs at his lips. “I brought you something.”

  He brings his hands out from behind his back to reveal a navy blue dress hanging from his fingertips. A belt runs along the seam at the waist and white lace travels across the neckline, ending with a bow on the left shoulder.

  “You said you didn’t have anything to wear.” He clears his throat. “You don’t have to wear it, of course. Anything is fine, but I want you to feel as comfortable as possible today. So, I thought… I mean, if you want it…”

  “It’s perfect.” A knot loosens in my stomach, and I scoop the dress into my arms. The fabric is smooth against my burning skin. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be there then?” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “On the hill at eleven.”