If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  "Oh Henry Lee, did you do this for me?"

  "No. I did it for our marriage, and our children, and for myself. I want to know if I'm good enough to win even when I play by the rules."

  Hannah went into his arms and laid her head lovingly against his chest.

  "This business is not a sure thing, like whiskey," he whispered gently over the top of her head. "Morelli and I are in a partnership with some land, just south of Tulsa. There's some good wood there we can use. It'll save us from having to buy from somebody else. I've got enough money put by to give us a good start, but I can't promise that you'll be dressing in silks."

  "I'd be looking mighty foolish hoeing my garden in silks!" she said humorously.

  "It won't be nearly as exciting either. I doubt seriously if we'll have even one visit from the Federal marshals."

  "Well, we will just have to find our houseguests elsewhere!"

  They laughed together for a minute, then Henry Lee held her at arm's length to look her directly in the eye. There was no humor in his look. He wanted her to understand the gamble they would be taking and that, success or failure, she would be a part of it.

  "There is always a risk in any business, I want you to realize that. But if we work hard and pull together in this, we have a good chance of making a go of it."

  "I know you can do it, Henry Lee. I said I'd be beside you for better or worse, and I think the worst is already behind us!" She embraced him lovingly, then he raised her chin with a teasing smile.

  "There is one thing I need to do, before we start off on this new business venture."

  "What's that?"

  "I need to build myself a wellhouse. If my wife takes it into her head to venture out at night, I want to make sure she never finds anybody but me."

  Something Shady

  Chapter One

  CLAIRE BARKLEY GLANCED nervously around the deserted hallway of Venice High School. The only sound discernible in the warm stillness of the afternoon was the distant thud of hammers and screech of saws as the workmen in the still-unfinished part of the building continued their toil. The new school building, a marvel of the latest in fireproof architecture, was two levels of locally produced brick, winged with grand staircases on each end. A real, permanent public high school had been the dream of the parents of the Venice, Missouri community. Claire, like most of her classmates, accepted the new school and all that it represented with indifference, it being the prerogative of youth to disregard what their elders value.

  The click of heels at the far end of the hall caused Claire to flatten herself against the threshold of the nearest door frame. Holding her breath, she watched Miss Dudley, the high school girls' Commerce teacher, walk toward the south doorway without even raising her head from the papers she was riffling through. When she was safely out of the building, Claire let out a great sigh of relief. She was so nervous her palms were sweating. And so excited her heart was pounding like a drum. The last thing in the world that she wanted was to have to explain her presence to some starch-hearted adult.

  Adults never listened anyway, Claire thought to herself. And anytime that they did, they always managed to hear something she had never said. Except for Aunt Gertrude, of course. Aunt Gertrude was not at all like the others. The truth of that statement washed over Claire with a pale shock of embarrassment followed by cheeks flushed with mortification. Aunt Gertrude was more different than she'd ever imagined.

  Quickly she checked up and down the length of the building again to assure herself that she was alone. She had to find Teddy and talk to him. She had to talk to someone or she would simply burst with the news. Once more she began to tiptoe down the shadowed side of the hallway.

  Claire Barkley was a plain-looking young woman of sixteen years. Her straight brown hair was tied severely at the nape of her neck and then twisted in three long sausage curls that hung halfway down her back. Her features were slightly sharp, but softened by wide doelike brown eyes made larger by round gold-rimmed spectacles. Her clothes, while well cut and of fine quality cloth, were as brown and dowdy as she was herself. She had no sense of her own style and the fashion popular with the other high school girls, the middy dress with its loose sloppy blouse and circular skirt, was not at all attractive on her chubby, wide-hipped frame.

  Claire Barkley was exactly what she appeared to be, a bookish banker's daughter. But, she was more. And today that extra aspect of her nature was heightened. Heightened by the secret that she carried. A secret of scandal.

  With continued surreptitious caution and light careful steps, she made her way to the library room. He would be there as he was every afternoon between the end of classes and the beginning of football practice. She knew his schedule and his habits as well as she did her own, though she'd never deliberately taken note of them. There had simply always been a bond between the two of them. It had been there in her earliest memories and it was still as strong today. For all these years she'd marveled at it, but now she finally understood it. She now knew exactly why.

  Soundlessly, glancing up and down the hallway to assure herself that she had not been seen, Claire slipped through the doorway. The room was nearly empty. Not just deserted, empty. It still smelled of fresh lead paint, and the hint of sawdust in the air itched her nose.

  The plan for the high school library room was a grand one. The entire outside wall was a row of tall graceful windows that poured light in from the afternoon sun. Long study desks, sturdy enough to last several generations, gleamed with un- scarred newness. Rows and rows of fine oak bookshelves stood in precise lines three feet apart. Map tables stood conveniently at the end of the shelf ranges. But there were no maps upon them. They were as empty as the bookshelves. In fact, the only books in this library were the ones sitting open in front of Teodor Stefanski, whose brow was furrowed in concentration as he studied.

  'Teddy." Claire whispered his name in deference to the quiet of the room.

  The young man looked up, surprised that his lonely study place had been invaded.

  "Claire?" His puzzled expression showed a hint of concern. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

  She walked toward him, willing herself not to fidget. 'Teddy," she said, "we have to talk."

  Immediately he rose from his seat with as much gentlemanly grace as any slightly overgrown, awkward young man could manage and pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  As she sat down, he gazed at her questioningly. The two had been friends since childhood. At one time their talks had been an hourly occasion. Teddy never had a thought or a scrape that he hadn't shared with Claire, and she hadn't believed that things were real until she'd told them to Teddy. But high school had changed that a bit. Their exchange of confidences had dwindled down. They both had other friends. He played sports. She was in the Lady Lits, the school's reading club. They moved in different circles. Still, it was not as if some event had broken their friendship or as if they had ceased to be interested in each other's lives. The direction of their paths simply no longer ran parallel, but this afternoon they were about to converge once more.

  Teddy gave her a warm and familiar grin. "If you're worried about your place at the head of the class," he said with gentle teasing, "I can tell you with some certainty that me and John Milton are not getting on so well."

  Claire smiled back at him, nostalgic at his banter. Academic competitors as well as playmates, their early years had been indelibly woven together. When they had discovered that due to the two-year difference in their ages Teddy would be going off to attend Miss Duberry's Day School, while Claire would be staying home alone, the two had created such a row with their parents that ultimately the adults had been forced to take action. Little Claire, not yet five, had been led before Miss Duberry to demonstrate that she could read and write as well as any of the teacher's current students. And Teddy's father, at turns strict and indulgent, tempted the head mistress with a new roof for her building. Finally, the old lady agreed that certai
nly Claire Barkley should be allowed to attend school along with Teddy Stefanski. They had been in the same classes together ever since.

  Now Teddy was the star fullback of the Venice High School football team. A big, strong, good-looking Polish immigrant's son, his father owned the most prosperous business in town, Stefanski Brickyards.

  As Claire gazed across the table at his so-familiar face, sandy hair, and pale blue eyes, she sought something concrete, something definite. She sought something she'd had no cause to look for in the past.

  "Well, Claire?" he asked curiously. "What is it?”

  She took a deep breath, gathering her courage. "I've discovered a rather startling bit of information."

  Teddy raised his brows in unspoken question.

  Claire trembled slightly and found herself too embarrassed to look him in the eye. "I don't know quite how to begin," she admitted.

  Teddy heard the anxiety in her voice. "Begin with one precise thesis statement defining the nature of your discussion," he said.

  When she glanced over at him sharply, his smile was warm and reassuring. "You're the one who helped me with English, remember?"

  She nodded. She did remember. But somehow what she had to say could not be summed up as easily as an essay on progress or a diatribe on politics. Claire bit her lip nervously, her cheeks were pale with concern. "Some things in this world cannot be confined to a precise thesis statement."

  "Then be as imprecise and rambling as you need to be," he old her. "You know that whenever you talk to me, Claire, I'm listening."

  She turned her eyes from him to gaze out the new twelve-light windows that let the sunshine in to warm them and kept the crisp autumn afternoon breeze outside. Protected. They had always been protected. She turned to face him once more.

  "Two days ago," she began, "Mama sent me up to the attic to find my old skates. Lester the Pester had been whining for week about wanting skates; the little brat can't even wait for winter to get here. Mama said that he could have my old ones, and nothing would do but that he have them immediately."

  Claire heard herself rambling nervously and hesitated.

  Teddy gave her an understanding grin. Lester Barkley, age eleven, was the bane of his older sister's existence. Teddy easily concurred that the pesky rascal should be placed behind bars at the earliest possibility.

  "My offer's still open to drown him in Mueller's fish pond," he said.

  Claire smiled slightly and shook her head. "Once I got into the attic," she continued, "I began looking around. You know how it is up there."

  Teddy nodded. He had spent more than a couple of rainy afternoons with Claire rummaging through the worldly possessions of the city's first family.

  "I was looking through some old dresses, the funny ones with the bustles in the back. I thought that they must be Mama's because they were very dazzling and brightly colored."

  She hesitated once more, nervously biting her lip. "Underneath them there was a book."

  "A book?"

  "A ... a journal, a diary I guess." Claire covered her cheeks guiltily. "Honestly, I thought that it was Mama's, probably some of her recipes."

  "But it wasn't," Teddy said.

  She shook her head. "It was written by Aunt Gertrude. It was ... I suppose it was Aunt Gertrude's journal."

  "Really?" Teddy sounded more delighted than horrified. Like Claire, Teddy had long been an admirer of Miss Gertrude Barkley, Claire's eccentric aunt and Venice, Missouri's, major literary figure. Aunt Gertrude lived a solitary, but rather unconventional life in the Barkley house, tending only to her immense flower garden at the side of the house and to her writing. And periodically she scandalized the entire town with her startling ideas and outlandish behavior. Her two published novels were considered reprehensible and highly improper though most of the townsfolk who said so had read them both from cover to cover.

  But to Teddy and Claire, the sprightly, bright-eyed spinster could always be counted upon to be a sanctuary in times of trouble. And Teddy and Claire had run into it upon several occasions. Despite being a spinster lady and a bit of a scandal, when Gertrude Barkley spoke, both her brother, George Barkley, and Teddy's father, Mikolai Stefanski, listened.

  "So did you read it?" Teddy asked eagerly.

  No amount of begging, pleading, or cajoling had ever succeeded in the young people being allowed to peruse even one paragraph of Aunt Gertrude's infamous fiction.

  "I didn't mean to," Claire began plaintively. "I was just going to look at it for a second and then, well, I just got interested and the more I read, well, I couldn't stop."

  "You don't have to make your confession to me. I'd love to read it, too!" Teddy said immediately. "Is it from her childhood or after she started writing?"

  Claire swallowed nervously. "I suppose she was only a little older than us. It's dated 1898."

  "That's the year my father brought us to town," Teddy said.

  "Yes, I know."

  "Did she mention us?"

  Claire nodded. "Your father was building your house next door to ours. Aunt Gertrude watched you to keep you out of the way of the builders."

  "Really?" Teddy was surprised. "I thought Mrs. Thomas had always kept me. Miss Gertrude, too? Father never mentioned that."

  Claire sighed heavily and rubbed her temples. "There were a lot of things nobody ever mentioned."

  Teddy saw the pain in Claire's expression and his own brow furrowed with concern.

  "What is it, Claire?”

  "It's something . . . something rather shady."

  "What?"

  "Your father and Aunt Gertrude . . ." She hesitated, her face flaming with humiliation. "Your father and Aunt Gertrude had a love affair." She spoke the last words only a little above a whisper.

  "A love affair?" Teddy repeated the words as if he didn't understand them. His eyes widened and he sat back in his chair, stunned. "Father? And Miss Gertrude?"

  Claire nodded.

  Teddy sat, stunned, shaking his head. "I can't believe it."

  "I wouldn't have," Claire said. "But it's all in the journal. Their secret meetings, their vows of undying love, their . . . their—" Claire dropped her gaze unable to look at him. "Their lust of the flesh."

  The euphemistic term heard most often from the reverend sounded scandalous on her lips.

  Teddy choked.

  Claire covered her face.

  The silence in the huge, empty library was oppressive. The very predictable, understandable, familiar world of their childhood suddenly was turned topsy-turvy. The two young people stared out on a bleak adult horizon upon which they hesitated to embark.

  "Father and Miss Gertrude." Teddy's voice was still full of disbelief. "I can't even imagine it"

  "They've always been unusually friendly," Claire pointed out.

  Teddy nodded. "Father has never really seen any purpose in having friends, but he's always made an exception for Miss Gertrude."

  "Think of those long talks they have in the garden. That hazel tree they always talk about having planted together."

  "They talk about shrubbery and fertilizers," Teddy protested. "Don't they?"

  Claire shrugged. "According to Aunt Gertrude's diary, they've talked about more than that"

  Once more the silence of disbelieving contemplation settled upon them. The rustle of autumn leaves could be heard outside the window.

  "If they were in love," Teddy asked, "why didn't they marry?"

  "My grandfather was opposed to the match," Claire whispered, melancholy in her voice. "Your father being an immigrant and a Catholic, too. Grandpapa didn't want him in the family."

  Teddy nodded. He was not unfamiliar with prejudice. But as a star football player for the team, his Polish heritage and religious background paled in the minds of the townsfolk before his ability to move a small inflated pigskin forward for yards at a time. Teddy had no unusual accent and grew up in Protestant churches. He saw no limits or disadvantages in his own life, but he knew they had been ther
e for his father.

  Strangely, Mikolai Stefanski never spoke of the difficulties of life in his adopted country, he only spoke of his pride in being American.

  Teddy's father had been barely out of his teens when he'd come to America. He'd had a sick wife and then a young baby to support and only a strong back and a willingness to work to recommend him. A peasant's son, he could barely read and write in Polish. English had been a complete mystery to him. But he'd persevered, alone. Teddy had often wondered how.

  "Actually, it explains a lot," he said.

  Claire looked up surprised, then thoughtful. "Yes, it does," she agreed. "I always knew that I was nothing like Lester the Pester. I've always been more like you."

  Teddy couldn't follow her logic. His thoughts continued in their own direction. "I've wondered for years why Father never remarried. No wonder he wants me to stay and run the business. When I go off to college he'll have no one. A man like Father, a man with no friends, needs a wife."

  "And Aunt Gertrude should have had a husband, too," Claire said sadly. "She deserves one. She should have had one!"

  "Yes," Teddy agreed. "And a family of her own. She always liked children, us at least."

  Claire made a tiny pained sound and Teddy realized that she was crying.

  "Claire? What is it?"

  She was biting her lip, trying to hold the tears that were welling in her eyes.

  "Is there more?"

  She nodded as the tears burst through and trickled down her cheeks. She rummaged through her pocketbook until she found a hankie with which to dab her eyes.

  Teddy reached across the table to pat her hand. He had always dried her tears when they were children, but they were children no more. Ineffectually he offered what little comfort he could.

  Claire bravely looked up at him. She raised her chin with dramatic solemnity and spoke as if her words came straight from a morality play.