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

by Pamela Morsi

Cedarleg was grinning at him. "So this Miss Prin," he asked. "Does she have a first name?"

  "Cessy," Tom answered without hesitation.

  "Cessy Prin." He said the name over thoughtfully. "I don't think I heard that name before. Is her folks here among the oil people?"

  "Ah . . . no," Tom answered. "Her father has a business in Burford Corners."

  "Lord boy, be careful," Cedarleg cautioned. "Them town daddies don't take too kindly to us oil field men."

  "I don't believe that her daddy knows about me yet," Tom told him in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Cedarleg hooted with appreciation. "So you're hooking her good and true and will have her reeled into the boat before daddy knows it's fishing season."

  "Something like that."

  "Lord have mercy," Cedarleg said, pointing to the clothing that Maloof was carrying. "Look at the bait."

  Tom was looking at it, concern in his expression.

  Cedarleg already knew he had no cash, but Maloof obviously still thought him a wealthy gentlemen.

  "I don't wish to spend a lot of money," he said firmly, embarrassed at the admission.

  Maloof took up his words as a challenge. "I can see that you are a man who appreciates the pleasure of bargaining."

  Princess Calhoun lay stretched out on the maroon velvet fainting couch in the sun parlor. It was only just sunset, but here on the east side of the house, the room was already dark and shadowless. With no lamp lit, it would have been impossible for her to see the book that she held in her hand. But it didn't matter. She had read Robert Hunter's Poverty many times and committed whole sections of his elegant words to heart. But tonight she hadn't even attempted to decipher one word.

  She'd taken off her spectacles and laid them on the table beside her. She was very nearsighted and without the thick lenses that brought the world beyond the length of her arm into focus, she often felt disoriented and vulnerable. But somehow in the dim, blurry world of the sun parlor, she felt she could see into her own heart much more clearly.

  She was lost in a dream, a very special dream, as familiar to her as the life she knew all around her. It was a fantasy that she had held close to her aching, lonely heart for a very long time.

  In her mind's eye she saw a huge church crowded with people. All were dressed in their best finery and all looked back toward the door expectantly. She appeared there on her father's arm. Her dress was of the most delicate ivory silk, beaded and adorned with lace. As they walked to the front every eye was upon them, her father beside her was puffed up and smiling. And she, Princess Calhoun, was the bride beneath the long, frothy veil. She could not even see her own face, but she knew from the reactions all around her that she was, in her own way, beautiful.

  Her father leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I am so proud of you, Princess," he said.

  Her heart took wing over the clouds. She was beautiful. Daddy was proud of her. And today, today for the very first time, she could see the man standing at the front of the church.

  She closed her eyes and hugged her book to her bosom.

  "Gerald," she whispered to the dark, lonely room. "Oh Gerald, I love you."

  Just hearing herself say the words brought a laugh of pure joy to her throat. She had never been in love before. Never, not once. But she had believed in it. She had known that it was there.

  Many of the social reformers that she so admired were not as certain. Progressives of both genders were often quick to refer to love as a "trap" and marriage as "slavery." But Princess believed the very best about both and wanted each desperately.

  She and Muna had carried a torch for Bennie Blakemon when they were sixteen and still in Corsicana. They had called it love at the time. But it was just a game. All the girls in that end of Texas were "in love" with Blakemon. He was a big old lonesome cowboy and every female heart sighed after him.

  Neither she nor Muna had ever exchanged a word with the fellow and Princess seriously doubted that he even knew that either of them was alive.

  But Gerald, Gerald seemed very much to know that she was alive. Vividly she remembered the sweet taste of his mouth and the warmth of his arms around her. Their eyes had met across a distance and they had known, obviously they had both known immediately that this was the love, the one true love, that they had been waiting for.

  Her own reaction had vividly shocked her. She had never before been kissed and yet she responded to the touch of his lips with an ardor that was almost unladylike. It had been as if, the moment their eyes met, their hearts did also. She recognized him immediately and had loved him all her life. How then could she be expected to remain demure and distant?

  Gerald Tarkington Crane. Gerald Tarkington Crane.

  She was in love. With her heart so light, Princess could no longer sit still. She jumped to her feet and, holding out her arms as if embracing a partner, she began to waltz herself about the room as she sang in her high, nasal, slightly off-key manner:

  "You had a dream, dear

  I had one, too.

  Mine was the best

  'Cause it was ... of... you."

  He had danced with her. He had held her like this. Safe and protected in his arms. She had belonged there. And they had known it to be true. They had moved as one to the sweet strains of music. Together, as one.

  "Miss Calhoun."

  Princess gave a cry of startled dismay and dropped her arms in guilty embarrassment. She could feel the warm blush that stained her cheeks.

  "Howard? You . . . you surprised me."

  "My apologies, ma'am," he said. "There is a gentleman here to see you. I informed him that Mr. Calhoun was not at home and that you were not receiving visitors, but he insisted that I give you his card."

  Princess hastily retrieved her spectacles and hooked them securely behind her ears before she picked up the card lying on the small silver tray. It was pure white, highly embossed with blue-black lettering and adorned with a thin gold border. It read simply: GERALD TARKINGTON CRANE, BEDLINGTON, NEW JERSEY.

  "Oh!" Princess stared at the unexpected card. Her heart began to beat faster.

  "Did you put him in the front parlor?" she asked as she hurried out into the hallway.

  "Why no, ma'am. I left him standing on the porch."

  "What?" Princess gazed at him horrified.

  "It was at his own suggestion, since you are not receiving."

  "Howard, I believe I am the one to decide whether I am receiving," she chided him gently. "I will, of course, see Mr. Crane."

  She didn't even stop to glance at her hair, she simply smoothed the untidy strands that had escaped the chignon as she hurried past the stairway. It was as if she hadn't truly believed that it had happened, that she had truly met her true love and suddenly she was desperate to reassure herself that it was not just all part of the daydream that so enthralled her.

  She rushed through the doorway and onto the porch.

  "Mr. Crane." She spoke his name before she even saw him.

  He was standing at the end of the porch on one of the garden steps. He was staring up at the house and the look on his face, caught unaware, was somehow guarded, critical. But when he glanced toward her he smiled so warmly, Princess wondered if she had imagined the other expression.

  He was dressed elegantly in a pin-checked linen coat, dark alpaca vest and trousers, and a muslin shirt bedizened fashionably with large blue polka dots. Although the bowtie would have been the most typical neckwear for the costume, he wore a hemstitched Windsor in a four-in-hand twist. No billboard cigar advertisement could have looked more elegant or attractive.

  "Mr. Crane," she repeated his name somewhat breathlessly and held out her hands to him.

  He stepped forward immediately, his eyes devouring the sight of her. He took her fingers into his own and raised her knuckles to his lips, and then closed his eyes as if savoring the taste of her. When he opened them again to gaze at her once more, Princess wondered if he could feel her trembling.

  "Mr. Crane?" he a
sked, in a soft, masculine whisper. "I thought we were on a first-name basis, Cessy."

  Princess blushed and giggled. She heard herself and was momentarily chagrined at how young and silly she sounded. She pulled herself together. He was her true love, she felt certain. But she didn't want to discourage him in the leanings of his heart into thinking that she was a mindless nitwit.

  "I also believed that we had progressed from the formalities," she told him. "But of course I wondered, as you felt it necessary to remain on the porch as if I might not see you."

  He smiled down into her eyes. His own were so warm and brown and sparkling with inner fire as he teased her. "A gentleman can never be sure of the heart of a lady," he said. "To take such for granted is to court disaster. And I would much prefer to court you."

  Princess felt the warmth stealing into her cheeks once more. But it was a heightened color brought on more by pleasure than discomfiture.

  "I am so glad you came to visit this evening," she admitted to him. "I've . . . I've been thinking about you all day."

  Gerald raised an eyebrow and gave her a long perusal. "You have been much on my mind, too. But, dear Cessy, you must not tell a man such things."

  "Why not? It's the truth."

  "Young ladies do not often tell their suitors the truth," he said.

  "That is totally ridiculous," Princess declared adamantly.

  He nodded in tacit agreement. "Perhaps so, but it is how the game is played."

  "I have no interest in playing games," she said firmly.

  "Not even the game of the heart?" he asked, his tone smooth and alluring.

  Princess found that her breathing was shallow and the blood was pounding in her veins.

  "If I were to . . . care about someone, the very least that I can offer him is the truth," she told him, with as much directness and purpose as she could manage.

  She watched a strange expression appear in his eyes. In an instant it was gone.

  "Let's walk, shall we?" he suggested. "It seems so rude to keep a lady standing, and yet I do realize how untoward it would be for the two of us to sit on the porch unchaperoned."

  Princess hadn't even realized that they were still standing. It was very difficult for her to keep her mind from running off into her fantasy. She knew that somehow he was her true love. But he had certainly not yet declared himself and she might well frighten him off if she continued to speak so boldly.

  "A turn around the garden would be acceptable," she said, accepting his arm. Then with a light chuckle she added. "Although the term garden is not a particularly apt one."

  He smiled politely and offered his arm. She laid her hand upon it formally and allowed herself to be led down the steps.

  "It takes time to grow gardens," he told her. "One must gauge their progress in years and seasons, rather than weeks and months."

  "You are quite right," she agreed. "We've only just completed the house. The garden will be another matter entirely."

  Princess caught Gerald glancing at the house critically once more.

  "What do you think of the house?" she asked him.

  Momentarily Gerald looked almost guilty, as if he had been caught at some horrible social faux pas. Then he visibly relaxed as he answered.

  "In truth," he told her. "I am somewhat surprised at this choice of dwelling."

  "Oh?"

  "It's not particularly large," he pointed out.

  "It has eight rooms," she told him. "And they are just for my father and me. The servants' quarters are separate."

  "I only thought," Gerald said, "that a man of King Calhoun's wealth and position would want a mansion of the style of Mr. Rockefeller or Mr. Carnegie."

  "Have you been to the camps?" she asked.

  Gerald appeared momentarily taken aback. "Why, why yes, I've seen them."

  "The workers, our workers, live mostly in tents. The best are half-walled with plank flooring," she said.

  "Yes, they do live quite . . . modestly."

  "I grew up in oil camps. I grew up living modestly. I cannot imagine that my father and I would ever have need to eat better, dress better, or require more room than we do now."

  "But surely when building a house, one tends to think in terms of generations rather than the current requirements," Gerald said.

  "I was thinking of the future," she assured him. "The house is small enough for me to take care of myself. It's nice having help, but when the boom moves on, as it always does, there may not be many wives who are interested in being day help. And in terms of generations . . ."

  Momentarily her thoughts turned dreamy.

  "The house is big enough to raise a family," she said with certainty. "Someday . . . someday I would want a husband of my own. He will share this house with me and . . . and our little ones."

  She looked up at him then and saw something indefinable in his eyes. Princess realized she had spoken far too frankly. Most gentlemen would not be at all appreciative of an unfashionably strong-minded woman who could take complete charge of her own life and those around her and who found it impossible to give over that duty to anyone, even the man she hoped to marry.

  Her cheeks flaming, Princess couldn't meet his gaze. What must he think of her? Was that pity in his gaze? Did she appear to him to be a mannish old maid?

  Suddenly she was wary. He laid his hand upon her own and gave the knuckles just the slightest squeeze of comfort. His action surprised her and warmed her.

  "It is good for a woman to know what she wants and go after it," he said. "I think it makes it more likely that she will realize her dreams."

  "They are frivolous dreams," she suggested with some embarrassment.

  "Not at all," he whispered. "I would envy such a lucky man who would share this house and . . . little ones with you."

  She looked up into his eyes then. Her heart was pounding like a drum. There was something so compelling about this man, so forceful in his personality. If he asked her to jump through hoops at a traveling circus, she would immediately attempt to do so. Such charisma could be as dangerous as drowning water. Still, looking up at him, loving him, she waded right in.

  "You don't have to envy anybody," she told him breathlessly.

  He looked at her a long moment, obviously waiting, considering, as around Princess the treacherous waters of the heart swept ominously. Then with the very warmest of smiles, he threw her a life preserver.

  "The style of the house is stark and simple," he said, adeptly changing the subject. "The current architectural fashion in the east is quite ornate."

  Princess gratefully took the offered moment to regain control of herself. Without his intervention, she feared that in another moment she might well have been dropping to her knees and begging him to marry her.

  "You mean all that busy gingerbread scrollwork? It's not for me," she said. "I always imagine that I would have to whitewash that ornamentation myself."

  "Yourself?" he asked. "Certainly the lady of the house would never have cause to whitewash. Or are you one of the Janes?"

  His reference to the social organization dedicated to the betterment of the lives of working women captured her attention.

  "I am not a Jane, of course," she said. "But I believe strongly in the purpose they put forth. Even if women are allowed the vote, they can never achieve true freedom until they have viable options for employment in society."

  "Oh? You would put women to work then?"

  "Economic necessity puts women to work," she answered. "And they must have choices beyond domesticity and indecency."

  Gerald nodded slowly as if taking it all in. It was important that he understand how she felt. She loved him already, but she needed for him to appreciate the causes that drew her.

  "So you convinced your father to build a house as if his daughter must clean it herself?" he asked.

  "I built my house in a way I thought would most benefit me and the people that I know," she said.

  "You built your house?"

&n
bsp; She nodded. "Daddy said that I could have whatever I wanted."

  He looked up at the structure once more.

  "I wanted something that the rig builders could put together," she explained.

  "The rig builders?"

  "The men who do carpentry work in the oil fields," she said. "Most are not skilled carpenters, but they are good with their hands and understand lumber."

  "So these rig builders constructed your house?"

  She nodded. "They put up the frame and I supervised the work. The pipe fitters installed the plumbing. Drilling crews and pumpers got running water into the house. And laborers of every stripe and trade helped inside and out to put it together. It is really a house built by Royal Oil."

  Gerald eyed the house even more critically.

  "Why not simply hire true carpenters and an architect?" he asked. "Didn't your father's workers have enough work to do out on those hundred rigs on the edge of town?"

  "They came here on their off shift. No one was forced to come, although everyone who did was paid well. I felt that the workers will be wanting to build houses for their own families eventually. A house like this one will be within the realm of possibility for the most frugal and hardworking of our laborers. I thought that being a part of the construction of this house would give them some experience as well as some dream for which to aim."

  "You sound almost socialist in your views, Cessy," he said.

  She shook her head. "No, not really," she answered. "I am quite in step with Horatio Alger. I do believe that if you took all the Standard Oil millions and parceled them out to each and every man in the oil business, robber baron and rig worker alike, by the end of the year men like Rockefeller, my father, Josh Cosgen, and Harry Sinclair would have the bulk of it and the workers in the fields would continue to 'live modestly.'"

  "So we are predestined to our financial state?"

  "Not entirely," she explained. "A man born lame will never dance with greatness. Just as a child born into a family whose heritage is poverty and ignorance will not easily find the road to prosperity and privilege. But if the man has talent, drive, and interest he might choreograph the ballet. And if the poor child is given encouragement and direction he may ultimately be able to give to his parents some of those things that they were not able to give to him."