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

by Pamela Morsi

  "Something more important than football, Mr. Stefanski? Why, in this town that could only be baseball and we can't play that game in this crisp fall weather."

  Stefanski furrowed his brow, but Gertrude looked close enough to detect an appreciable sparkle in his murky hazel eyes.

  "I listen to what is said," Mikolai admitted. "I know that my boy hits the line." He paused thoughtfully. "I just don't know why."

  Gertrude laughed then and shook her head, tossing those curls that weren't sufficiently secured by her hat.

  "I'm not sure I know why either," she admitted. "But I think I can explain the rules of the game."

  She stepped closer to him and he lowered his head slightly to listen to her words.

  "The field is one hundred yards long," she said as she indicated the distance between the two goalposts.

  Stefanski dutifully looked at them both and nodded.

  "Each team," Gertrude continued, "has a goal to defend, although they switch goals at the middle of the game."

  "Ah," Mikolai said, nodding. "That explains why they run one way for so long and then suddenly they run the other way."

  Gertrude laughed. "I guess it would be hard not to notice that," she admitted.

  "When a team gets the ball," she continued, "they get four chances to make ten yards toward the other team's goal. The chances are called 'downs.' Because they start with the ball down on the grass."

  Mikolai was listening intently.

  "Do you understand me so far?" she asked.

  "The team gets four downs to make ten yards," he said.

  Gertrude smiled proudly at him. "If they don't make the ten yards they have to give up the ball to the other team. If they do make the ten yards they get four more chances to make ten more yards."

  "Why four chances?" he asked. "Why not three or a half dozen?"

  Gertrude shrugged. "Actually it used to be just three chances, but they changed the rule a few years ago. I suppose it was just too hard for the high school athletes to move the ball that far. Usually on the last down, they kick it so that the other team will have to start way back next to their own goal."

  "That's a good idea," Mikolai commented. "So now I understand how they get the ball, but how do they make the points," he asked.

  "When they cross the line under the goalpost they score points," she said, pointing to the H-shaped structures at each end of the field.

  "How many points?" Mikolai asked her.

  "Different ways across the goal line mean different points," she answered. "A touchdown, that's when you deliberately carry or pass the ball across the goal line, is the best. It's worth six points."

  Mikolai nodded thoughtfully. 'Touchdown is best," he said.

  "If you drop-kick it from anywhere in the field and get it through the uprights on the goalpost it's worth three points."

  "Through the uprights?"

  "Between the top part of the H," she said.

  "But," she added, "if you drop-kick it for the extra point after the touchdown, it's only worth one point. You get a chance for extra points after the touchdown."

  "The touchdown is the best," he agreed.

  "Now, if you cross your own goal with the ball it's called a touchback and you don't get any points, unless the other team tackles you back there. When that happens it's called a safety and they get two points for that."

  "Who gets two points?"

  "The other team."

  "That doesn't sound very safe to me."

  Gertrude gave him a quick look and recognized from the glitter in his eyes that he was joking.

  "You're teasing me!"

  "I assure you, Miss Gertrude, that Polish gentlemen never tease," he said.

  "And you are a Polish gentleman?"

  "Certainly not!" he replied. "I'm an American workingman, caring only about football and given to teasing interesting women."

  Gertrude grinned at him broadly. He was amused and amusing. She felt suddenly young and happy and alive.

  From the corner of her eye she caught sight of her niece and turned to glance at her. The expression on Claire's face was dreamy and strange. Gertrude could not recall ever seeing the young girl look quite so fanciful and she stared back at her, puzzled.

  Mikolai must have seen it, too. Gertrude felt the soft, warm brush of breath against her cheek. Mr. Stefanski was leaning in closely to whisper.

  "Young Miss Claire looks wistful," he said. "I suspect it is time for her also to fall in love."

  "Fall in love?" Gertrude asked in a startled whisper. "What do you mean, 'her also'?"

  His tone was confidential. "My Teodor has been asking about love. I suspect it's just their time of life. Youth is so enamored of romance," he said.

  "Yes, I suppose so," Gertrude answered. Suddenly, quite uncomfortably, she realized that she was once more standing altogether too close to Mr. Stefanski.

  With deliberate nonchalance she moved slightly away and determinedly turned her attention once more to the football game. It was a good thing. Only a minute later Teddy took a handoff from the quarterback and went through the line, just to the left of the center. Like magic, he ran right through the huge string of young men and thirty-five more exciting yards for a touchdown.

  The Venice crowd went wild. The personages of the city, famous for modesty and decorum, jumped up and down for joy. Claire was alternately cheering and crying. George Barkley was roaring in a very unbankerlike manner. Little Lester, who had managed once more to get free of his mother, was swaggering as if he personally had made the touchdown and telling anyone who would listen that Teddy Stefanski was his neighbor.

  To her horror, Gertrude found herself clutching Mikolai Stefanski's hand in her own. They were close, so very close. She looked down at their intertwined fingers. Palms melded together in joy and pride and . . . and something more. Slowly, oh so slowly, as if moved by a force against both their wills the clasped hands rose up between them. Her eyes were wide as she gazed into his. And then for an instance, only an instance, his lips touched the curved knuckles in her snowy white glove.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT WAS, THANKFULLY, a victory dance. The varsity had nosed out Rogers in the last ten minutes of the game. Teddy Stefanski was the hero of the day and the young man had been unable to maintain a dignified and modest decorum and had actually jumped for joy. He hadn't been the only person excited. On the sidelines the people of Venice had been screaming madly. It was as if a football victory over the nearby town were as important as a cure for consumption or peace in Eastern Europe.

  Gertrude might have been as excited as the rest had she not been embarrassed. Mikolai Stefanski had kissed her hand, in public, and she was certain that somehow she was to blame. Had she encouraged him? Had he somehow seen her unrequited love staring out at him from her eyes? Whatever the truth, Gertrude was horrified at what had happened. She could only be grateful that the crowd was too roused to notice such a tasty gossip morsel occurring in their midst.

  This evening, she vowed quietly to herself as she took an observing position under the shelter of the dance pavilion, she would be the model of propriety. Not because she had such great respect for propriety, but merely for the tremendous opportunity it presented to practice self-discipline. She was, after all, no longer a young girl. Being unusual and eccentric was all well and good, but she was neither frivolous nor youth-crazed. And she certainly didn't want to appear so, especially not to Mikolai Stefanski. There was no sight more pitiful than a woman past her prime pretending to be young once more.

  Gertrude glanced down at her new dress and privately reassured herself that looking fashionable did not mean looking young. She was not like an aging coquette grasping for the last bit of excitement in a narrowing life, but rather a modern, free-thinking woman of independent means.

  She smiled slightly at her own private joke. Miss Gertrude Barkley, authoress, was as much a character of her creation as Alexandria DuPree or Weston Carlisle.

  Del
iberately pushing the thought from her, Gertrude took note of her surroundings. The dance pavilion at Monument Park was decorated in Japanese lanterns, to be lit as the darkness of evening came upon them, and boughs of brightly colored leaves and shrubbery. The girls who had done the decorations were to be commended, she thought. It was one thing to spruce up a spring dance with bright new blossoms. It was quite another to try the same course in the chill of October. But the young ladies had done admirably. The bright red leaves of burning bush and the blazing yellow of maple were interspersed along the pavilion railing among orange oak boughs and fragrant dark green cedar. In its own way October could be more beautiful than May.

  Monument Park no longer had the sparse newness that she remembered from her own days as a young woman. The former cattle pasture had been turned into a park by the far-thinking and civic-minded of her own youth. Her father had had a good deal to do with that. Mostly he had wanted to end the pasturing of cattle in the city limits, but he also was intelligent enough to believe that a park in the center of town was a good idea.

  The idea of dedicating it to Civil War heroes had been a bit trickier. Even today, feeling ran high in the area that had been for the Confederacy, but later occupied by Union forces. It was her father, a true Virginian, who had suggested that a monument with no war or army specified could be whatever the people wanted it to be. Confederates could remember their war dead. Union sympathizers could eulogize theirs. And people with no interest in long-ago wars could simply enjoy the beauty of a lovely park. Truly a monument that was all things to all people.

  Gertrude smiled to herself. Her father could be blamed for many things. But inevitably he had to be thanked for many, also.

  The gentlemen of the band were turning up. They were local men whose hardworking days were enlivened by the bright blue-and-white uniforms they donned upon every possible occasion and the boisterous, booming music that they presented. Gertrude listened as they sought perfect harmony among the men themselves and the instruments they played.

  The plucking of strings and the tooting of horns was random and unmelodic, but it was a fit background accompaniment for the arriving young people. Gaggles of young girls arrived, chattering with the vibrancy of violin strings. The sturdy young men, their expressions serious, were like the trombones and tubas making very few notes, but striking them with great impression. The couples looked sheepish, knowing they were on display. Like the clarinets and trumpets they knew they were meant to take the lead and not sure if the breadth of their scale was sufficient for the job. Gertrude listened as their excited young voices blended together with more noise and exuberance than was strictly necessary.

  Teddy Stefanski arrived, with the pretty young Widmeyer girl on his arm, looking very much the conquering hero. He was cheered by all, clapped upon the back by those closest to him, and roundly venerated as the champion of the day's competition.

  Gertrude put aside her personal pride of the young man she had known so well and so long, and watched him with a writer's eye. He was handsome, sincere, chivalrous. In the short, swift years that she had honed her writing skills, he had grown from chubby toddler with a stinking diaper and a penchant for eating dirt to a stalwart warrior with grace and honor.

  Maybe she should write him into her story, she thought. Immediately she discarded the idea. No, he was far too young. There were no characters in her story that would be his age. If he were older, she mused thoughtfully. No, if he were older he would be like Mr. Stefanski and she had certainly used him for an heroic model too frequently as it was.

  Gertrude continued to watch the scene unfolding before her. Pretty young Olive fairly glowed with excitement and cheerfulness. Paul Parks appeared near mesmerized by her every word. Roy Bert Pugh kept his eyes on his shoes, only occasionally glancing up to look at one of the young ladies surrounding him. Delfane Ponder was acting as victorious and debonair as his yell-leader status would allow him. And Tappy Smith was not too grown-up that he didn't try to steal Edith Rittman's new hair ribbon. They were happy young people, innocent and unconcerned, eager and anxious to begin their lives, to begin the dance.

  Gertrude, herself, had not attended a dance in years. Not since she was young enough to be one of these gaily dressed ladies giggling so attractively as they were led across the floor. And that was more years ago than she cared to think about.

  Of course there were all those balls and soirees at Carlisle House. Crystal chandeliers with a hundred candles and dozens of French dancing slippers gliding across gleaming marble floors. All those exciting, dramatic people in frock coats and hoop-skirts. Gertrude shook her head, smiling. She wondered what people would think if they knew that the dances she'd created with paper and pen were more real to her than any she'd attended here in Monument Park.

  Her rumination was abruptly interrupted by a sprightly trumpet blast and the striking up of the band. She clapped politely, as did all in the crowd, her gloved hands effectively rendering her applause inaudible. It was the gentlemen who truly were allowed to show their appreciation, loudly and with shouts and whistles. Perhaps that was why the world always seemed to cater to their choices.

  Certainly it was the gentlemen who decided who would dance. The first number was such a dazzling ragtime tune that toes began tapping all over the pavilion and in only a moment the single-sex huddles that had formed on either side of the floor dissipated as the young men hurried to get the choicest partners onto the dance floor.

  Up on heels and down on toes, various types of Turkey Trot, Grizzly Bear, and Bunny Hug broke out all along the broad circle of sawdust-strewn polished oak.

  Unlike many women of her generation who were shocked by the wild, cavorting rhythms of ragtime, Gertrude watched in awe of their movements, so happy, so full of life. She understood their need for movement and envied them their opportunity to do so. Dancing was an exuberant mystical union of body and music. It could dull grief, enhance love, and refill the empty soul. Gertrude knew that because her soul had been empty more than once. It had been a long time since she'd danced. Oh, the Christmas that Prudence had gotten the new Victrola, George had danced with her. But he'd done so reluctantly and the parlor of the Barkley house could in no way be compared with dancing at the pavilion at Monument Park. Her father had danced with her at Prudence and George's wedding, but that was a lifetime ago. A woman should dance more often, she thought to herself. And a woman needed more dancing as she got older than she did when she was young.

  Her thoughts continued in that direction. Perhaps a dance was what was needed in the new book. Her brow furrowed as she considered the notion. Since the end of the war the gaiety had certainly gone out of the DuPree family saga. Even as the writer, she found the story line too often beset with overcast skies and concerned expressions. She imagined Grandville and Lafayette dressed in tattered reconstructions of their once- proud gray uniforms, twirling ladies upon their arms once more. Gertrude sighed aloud at the hopeful expectation. It would be lovely. It would be symbolic. It would be poignant. She considered seriously.

  She needed a big new scene utilizing the near ruin of the Carlisle House. And a dance would be fun to write. It would lift her own spirits as well as poor Blessida's, and hers certainly needed lifting. The poor pale beauty had just recently discovered her scallywag lover to be untrue and had begun to waste away with the sorrow of his faithlessness.

  Yes, a dance in the new book might be just the thing. She let her imagination run free with the prospect. What kind of dance? A holiday would be nice. May Day or Christmas. She shook her head. Dancing around the maypole was much too wrought with symbolism. And although a Christmas dance would be colorful and bright, Christmas was truly a holiday for children and she had no interesting child characters in the story.

  She chewed her lip and stared sightlessly at the gathering crowd. It would be foolish to pretend that Alexandria might suddenly just want to have a gala. Gertrude had worked too hard to make Tyler's widow hard-edged, determined, and unfri
volous. It would have to be something truly important to move her to enter society once more. It would have to be a charity ball.

  Gertrude's eyes widened and her heart beat faster. She could have a charity ball to raise money to save Carlisle House from the tax assessors. Gertrude laid a hand upon her heart that was pounding joyously in anticipation. It was such a good idea she wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. A charity ball would certainly be the only thing that would draw the old guard out in their made-over gowns and dilapidated carriages.

  Of course, the old guard had no money now. Her thoughts slowed as she considered. The carpetbaggers were the only ones with money.

  "A Carpetbaggers' Ball," she whispered.

  That was it! She almost laughed aloud. Weston would organize a ball at Carlisle House. He knew all the uppity Yankees with money. Those people would pay dearly to be a part of an authentic genteel Southern ball with the old guard in attendance. And for Carlisle House even Miss Evica DuPree Humbrington would make an appearance. It was perfect. It was wonderful. She could hardly wait.

  "Aunt Gertrude? Are you all right?"

  Startled, Gertrude found her niece standing at her side. "Claire, I didn't hear you come up."

  "What were you doing, Aunt Gertrude? You had such a peculiar expression on your face."

  Gertrude shrugged and smiled, only slightly embarrassed. "I was just thinking about my book. Sometimes I just get rather caught up in my plotting."

  Claire nodded, clearly understanding.

  "Why aren't you dancing?" Gertrude asked her.

  The young woman waved away the question with unconcern. "I'm not really much of a dancer," she admitted. "Besides, I wanted to talk to you."

  “To me? That's probably a good idea. I really know nothing about being a chaperone," Gertrude told her with a light, self-derisive laugh. "I still think it would have been better to ask your parents. Prudence could have used a night out and your father would have loved to be seen here doing his civic duty. He's running for Sublime Kalifa, you know."