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

by Pamela Morsi

  He held out his hand to her, his big, ugly workingman's hand. "Do let us try it," he said.

  And with only the slightest hesitation, she placed her small gloved fingers within his grasp. As respectful and genteel as any Southern gentleman who ever danced with a society belle, Mikolai led Gertrude onto the dance floor.

  The bouncing rhythm of the schottische was rapid and enthusiastic. His fine boots tapped loudly against the wooden floor and her bright pink dress swirled around her limbs in exuberant fashion. Together they pranced around the floor until both were nearly out of breath. It was more from exhaustion than design that Mikolai halted their progress in front of the bandstand.

  "Don't give up the floor, Mr. Stefanski," Abe Hulbert admonished him from the bandstand.

  "This is not the music I danced to as a boy," Mikolai told him with good-natured gravity.

  "Oh, well how about this?" Hulbert said.

  To their total surprise, Abe tapped his wand on the music stand and the schottische dance tune faltered and faded. As murmurs began among the dancers, Hulbert directed the musicians once more and suddenly they were playing a waltz.

  The beautiful strains of "After the Ball," a tune popular in the dancing days of the high school parents, were as familiar to Mikolai and Gertrude as anyone. To the young people present it was, as they phrased it, "old hat." To Mikolai it was music that recalled his past. Like the sweet strains of Strauss, he loved it and yet an ache of sorts formed in his chest.

  A flash of memory ripped through his consciousness. He could see Matka and Tatus, his mother and father, dancing the waltz together once more, the clear blue sky of Polish autumn above their heads, an itinerant fiddler playing their tune. He was there watching and clapping with his brothers and sisters. He was young and happy and had his whole life in front of him. He had no idea what sorrow and loneliness that life would bring.

  The tune the band played was as familiar as his memory. And it was as if the past had suddenly confronted him, unbidden. His family, his people, his youth, they were all very far away. The past could never be retrieved again. The leaden weight that settled in his heart was grief for its loss.

  "Mr. Stefanski? Is something wrong?" Gertrude asked.

  Mikolai looked down at the familiar face beside him. He must look the idiot, he thought. Standing on the dance floor lost in the past like a doddering old fool. Determinedly he pushed away the feelings that plagued him and turned to Gertrude, bowing regally over her hand.

  "I am stunned by my good fortune, Miss Barkley," he said. "I believe this dance is especially for us."

  She blushed as prettily as a young girl. "Should we waltz, do you think? We are chaperones."

  "I can only think that this particular dance was meant for chaperones," he said. "And you. Miss Barkley, are never one to allow such a gift to pass you by."

  "You are undoubtedly right," she admitted, laughing almost gaily. "A chance like this is so rare, we mustn't waste it," she said. "We may not get another."

  With exceptional care he took her gloved hand in his own, and placed his other at her surprisingly narrow waist. She was the perfect size, he realized. She was neither so small that he must stoop over nor so statuesque that he need remember to stand his full height. Her form, while not one to garner appreciative remarks from casual male observers, was feminine and shapely. The inevitable changes of age made her sufficient curves softer, more soothing, infinitely approachable. Mikolai felt a sudden desire to approach.

  They were close, it seemed, very close, as they began an impressive glide across the floor. The steps of the waltz were the same anywhere, but the way Mikolai had learned it in Poland had more glissade than Missourians were accustomed to.

  Gertrude adjusted to the extended float easily. Leading her in the dance was as effortless as breathing. It felt strangely familiar to have her in his arms, as if they had practiced moving in harmony together all their lives. It felt so easy, so without care.

  Mikolai looked down into her face. Her shorn curls, thick and dark, fluttered at her jawline. The rosewater fragrance of that hair was familiar and yet still quite alluring. She was prettily flushed and smiling at him with delight. He had pleased her with this dance. He was glad. He'd been afraid that having kissed her hand, strictly a gesture of friendship on his part, might cause her to distance herself from him. She had not. It seemed in fact that even as they danced a respectable arm's length apart, there was nothing separating them and no one in the world apart from themselves. He forgot the prying eyes of the town matrons who gazed at them speculatively. And the exuberant young people all around who tolerantly accepted the old-fashioned waltz as they waited for more ragtime to begin.

  He forgot about the sad, choking memories the song had provoked in his heart. He forgot that he was almost forty years old. And that romance and passion were for the young. He was strong and graceful and was floating across the floor with a lovely woman in his arms. Her pretty dress swirling with the grace of a fancy ball gown. So sweet so familiar, so caring, and he just couldn't help himself. He fell in love.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT HAD MERELY been a friendly dance at the Monument Park dancing pavilion, Gertrude reminded herself. There had been no great ballroom and no underlying intrigue. Nothing of the romance or drama of her novels, but it had been glorious. Gertrude had enjoyed it. It was far from the grandeur of Carlisle Place. And Mr. Stefanski was perhaps no elegant cavalier, although he was certainly more than merely attractive. And he danced quite well and in the continental fashion that was so romantic. That was a surprise. It was all a surprise, and a surprising pleasure. Gertrude wanted just to hug herself. She had been in his arms, really in his arms. And it was more wonderful than any fantasy she had ever imagined.

  She was humming the tune as she allowed herself the luxury of reliving every moment of the dance. She had excused herself from the gentleman's company and was making her way back to the refreshment table.

  She knew that without a doubt, she had caused a bit of a scene. The schottische was bad enough, but a waltz! She was glad that George had not been there to see it. He would have scolded her. Of course, he scolded her all the time and she never let it worry her much. But she didn't want him to ruin it. She didn't want to remember it as just another inappropriate action that upset her brother. It was her moment in Mikolai Stefanski's arms. She wanted to cherish it always.

  George was, of course, sure to hear about it. It was best she decided, to mend up the fences as quickly as possible. With that in mind she hurried back to the relative obscurity of the ladies' culinary offering of punch and cookies. Her presence would make her seem unconcerned about what had happened. It would also force the gossips to wait to talk about her until she was out of sight.

  The fast-paced modern rhythm now being played by the band was extremely popular with the young people and the dance floor was crowded with hopping, trotting ragtime revelers. Not wishing to walk through the group, Gertrude took the steps down from the pavilion and walked around the building to the other side.

  The evening was delightfully cool and now full darkness had settled upon them. She gazed off into the maze of pathways that wove their way through the interior of the park. By day they were attractive promenades for children and their parents. Tonight they looked very forbidden and very private.

  She smiled to herself. In her novels those paths would be secret trysting places for star-crossed lovers. But here in Venice, Missouri they were only the empty, unilluminated trails of Monument Park.

  Gertrude was still thinking joyfully, happily, of Mikolai and' the dance as she approached the refreshment table from the back. The profuse growth of English ivy that cooled this west side of the pavilion on hot summer days hid her arrival from view.

  When she heard her name mentioned, she stopped still. The sound of voices was quite clear.

  "It's like something I've never seen in my life," Oleander Wentworth declared sotto voce. "Gallivanting across the floor with that i
mmigrant Stefanski, as if she had just cause to be there."

  "Oh dear, oh dear." Claudy Mitts sounded near overwrought with anxiety.

  "You would think that the woman would have the common decency to know her place," Naomi Pruitt agreed. "But Gertrude Barkley simply has no boundaries when it comes to bad taste and scandalous ways."

  "Oh dear, oh dear dear," Claudy whined.

  Behind the anonymous screen of ivy, Gertrude merely stopped and shook her head. The tittle-tattle had already commenced. And she'd only stopped dancing less than five minutes earlier. She stiffened her lip, determined to be philosophical about it. She was quite accustomed to being the pot likker in the gossip boil of Venice, Missouri and truly she didn't mind. Giving these ladies a cause to fuss and fret about was almost a duty, she told herself. Still, she couldn't like it.

  "And the way that man was grinning at her," Oleander continued. "It was without dignity and positively bordered upon crass."

  "You are being too kind to the woman," Naomi told her. "The gentleman, although he is a foreigner and undoubtedly quite lowborn, is just as aware as we ourselves of what is proper behavior. He must have been as ill at ease with her untoward behavior as the rest of us. Have you ever seen such an expression upon his face in your life?"

  "No, I haven't," Oleander answered.

  "No, never," Claudy Mitts agreed.

  "My point exactly," Naomi said. "The poor unfortunate fellow was trying to smooth over her outrageous behavior as best he could."

  Gertrude raised an eyebrow at that. Defending Mikolai Stefanski from her, that certainly was serious, she thought.

  "Now, ladies, ladies," interrupted Amanda Ponder, the doctor's wife. "I think you are misconstruing the situation."

  The other women quieted immediately. As the doctor's wife and the mother of four rather delicate boys and a woman of impeccable reputation, Mrs. Ponder's words and opinions could not easily be discarded. "I think you are being far too harsh on Miss Barkley," she said.

  Behind the wall of ivy, Gertrude grinned. She had not imagined Amanda Ponder to be a champion of hers. In fact, the woman had always seemed not to like her. Probably because the doctor spent innumerable time boring Gertrude with the horrible book on genetic predisposition that he was writing. His wife clearly didn't appreciate that he thought Gertrude Barkley to be his colleague. Amanda Ponder had even once suggested to her that writing books was a man's business and that it was unhealthy for a woman's delicate constitution.

  But apparently she had changed her mind and it pleased Gertrude to hear the woman take up her defense.

  "It was a simple schottische they intended," Mrs. Ponder told the ladies. "It certainly was not Gertrude's fault that the band chose to change the dance in the middle of the tune."

  The woman's tone was even and sincere. "And even with the waltz, she behaved herself with perfect decorum."

  "Thank heavens for that," Oleander declared with a huff of disapproval. "I wouldn't put it past the woman to begin gyrating to that horrible loudness that is coming from the bandstand. I will not flatter the sound by calling it music."

  "And no doubt that is what she has in mind next," Naomi said. "Wearing colors infinitely more suited for a woman half her age and consorting upon the dance floor as if she were still one of our young persons."

  "Oh dear, oh dear," Claudy added in.

  "I'd swear the woman must think she is one of those romantic heroines in those disreputable books that she writes."

  "That certainly makes perfect sense to me," Oleander agreed. "I have always thought that she must long for a disgraceful life in order to write about it so habitually."

  "You've read her books?" Mrs. Ponder asked in a startled whisper.

  "Oh dear, oh dear."

  "Certainly not," Oleander answered. "But everyone knows what is in them."

  "Yes," Naomi put in, as if the idea had just dawned upon her. "It must be that she writes about the things that she wants to do, but has never had any opportunity for, being closely guarded by her family, and a spinster."

  "Exactly," Mrs. Ponder agreed.

  Oleander huffed disagreeably. "She is simply a scandal and George Barkley ought to put a stop to it," she declared.

  "Oh, but can't you see," Mrs. Ponder continued, "that she's more to be pitied than censured."

  "Pitied?" the three asked with surprise.

  Listening, the hair on the back of Gertrude's neck stood on end.

  “Certainly," Amanda said. "Going to the barber for that bob, wearing those bright clothes, dancing, it's all part of it, you know."

  "Part of what?" Claudy Mitts asked.

  "Why, the change."

  Mrs. Ponder whispered the words, but they were perfectly audible to the women around her, and to Gertrude Barkley behind the curtain of English ivy.

  "Ohhhhh." All these women made sounds of agreement and sudden understanding.

  "Is she old enough for that?" Oleander asked.

  "Oh, certainly," Amanda Ponder assured them. "It's a well-known fact that with woman who've never, well, you know—produced fruit—it comes upon them early."

  "I've heard that," Naomi said.

  "And it's absolutely true," Amanda said. "A doctor's wife knows these things, believe me."

  "Did the doctor tell you that she was going through it?" Oleander asked in an excited whisper.

  "Not in so many words," Amanda responded, hedging. "A doctor must maintain the privacy of his patients, of course."

  "Of course."

  "But after twenty-seven years, I can read him pretty well, you know."

  "You know virtually everything that he does," Naomi agreed.

  "And it explains a lot," Amanda said.

  "Oh yes, it does indeed." They all concurred.

  "Oh dear, oh dear," Claudy Mitts chirped in.

  "Poor old thing," Oleander said sadly. "I suppose it is our Christian duty to forgive a moment of her silly foolishness. The change can be so distressing. I myself had to take to bed for six months. Of course, I've always been a woman of delicate constitution."

  "Oh dear, yes, Sister has always been delicate," Claudy Mitts verified.

  "And for a woman who has never married," Amanda added, "it can be even more so. Knowing finally for certain that youth has passed you by and that you have wasted your substance.'"

  "Oh dear, oh dear."

  "Poor Gertrude," Amanda Ponder stated with high drama. "Youth is only a faint glimmer in her memory now and she has no children, no grandchildren. Her batter is spoilt and her seed is soured. She stares off into a empty horizon."

  "Oh dear, oh dear."

  "We should be more understanding," Mrs. Ponder concluded.

  "I suppose we should," Oleander agreed. "Such a vision would unhinge any woman."

  "And Gertrude Barkley never was that snug to the gate," Naomi Pruitt added snidely.

  Behind the ivy Gertrude stood still as a stone, her face as pale as alabaster. Her heart was pounding. The truth was no refuge. She had not been to Doc Ponder in years and her menses were unchanged and regular. Still she understood that the option for motherhood had probably passed her by. It was too bad, yet she accepted the finality of nature with calm good grace. But she never expected to find her most personal realities discussed by the Algonquin Society.

  Had it been another day, another time, Gertrude might have shrugged off the unkind words and hurtful gossip. But her anger, raw and righteous, quickly touched on the vulnerable spots in her heart. Those places she had carelessly left exposed by the need to be held in the arms of the man that she loved. These women pitied her. She shuddered although there was no chill in the night air. They pitied her. Once more she heard their spiteful words. And she pitied herself.

  Her books were her life. She did live through them. They were the only interruptions in the ponderous monotony that was her existence. She had wasted her substance by being in love with a man for seventeen years who had never given her even the slightest glimmer of hope or acknow
ledgment.

  She turned from the pavilion and began to walk. How right they were. If they only knew. She escaped her life in bits and pieces of the stories she told. She escaped because there was nothing here to keep her, nothing real. People loved her stories. They brought excitement and pleasure to her readers. But that wasn't why she wrote them. She wrote them to fill the giant void that yawned in her own existence. An existence typical of an old-maid aunt in a small Missouri town. An existence typically without life or love or passion. She had none, so she created her own.

  She swallowed hard as she felt the tears welling in her eyes.

  Daily, she fooled herself into believing that the path she'd chosen was the one that she had wanted. Only in the darkest hours of her night could she admit that it was not choice that kept her unmarried and bereft of motherhood, but rather lack of choice. The only man she had ever wanted had never asked her. But it was worse than that. Had she held on to spinsterhood only because her love was unrequited, she could see herself as a heroine. The truth was infinitely more lowering.

  The man that she wanted had never asked her. Moreover, no man at all had ever asked. No earnest gentleman had soberly bid for her hand, no courtly squire, not even a clumsy farmer. There had never been, would never be, any romance in her life, not ever. No kiss, no touch, no trembling embrace. There would be no physical union with another human being. There would never be children.

  A choking sound escaped from her throat. She'd thought that she was content with that. She'd had Claire and Lester, it was enough, she had told herself. It was more than many women were lucky enough to have. To watch two healthy youngsters grow and live was a great and precious gift. Even if the two would never call her mother. And she had Mr. Stefanski, dear Mikolai. He was just next door and she could watch him go and come every day. She could talk to him in the yard. They could laugh together about her brother, George.

  And there were her books. Her sweet creations where life and love were inseparable commodities and all things worked out for the best for everyone. The honorable were honored and the unworthy received just punishment. Those who craved love found it and it remained unwavering ever after.