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

by Pamela Morsi

  "No, Miss Queenie, I don't think I would," Tom admitted finally. "Now that I find myself wholly taken over by the man I pretended to be, all I really desire is to be once more that fellow that I once was."

  "Then you should go back to being him," Queenie said. "And you should go back now, without delay. Over time the distance gets further and further, until you are certain that you can not go back at all."

  "I want to, but there is so much to lose," he said. "Like the woman that I'm in love with."

  "You said that she loves you?" Queenie asked. "Does she love the man that you really are? Or does she love the pretender that you've claimed yourself to be?"

  "I . . . I'm honestly not sure," he answered.

  "Well, you need to find out," she said. "You need to find out for sure. And the only way to do that is to give her the chance to choose between the two."

  Tom sat for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "I guess you're right. I have to lay my past before her and let her decide if she cares for me or if what she really wanted was him. And I'd better do it before she hears the truth from someone else."

  The sound of a train whistle could be heard in the distance. Tom turned to look in that direction and could barely make out the puff of smoke on the horizon.

  "Looks like your train is coming in, Miss Queenie," he said.

  "Yes, yes, it's my train," she said.

  Her words sounded so forlorn that Tom turned to glance at her.

  She'd planted a brave smile on her face, but it was evident that she was upset.

  "What's wrong, Miss Queenie?" he asked. "Are you feeling ill again?"

  "No, no, I'm fine," she assured him. But she didn't look it.

  She had no real luggage, just a small club satchel, still Tom picked it up to carry for her.

  "This is another way that I'm better than King Calhoun," he told her.

  "Carrying luggage?"

  "If you were my woman, you'd never be traveling alone," he said. "Of course, I guess I can't take much credit for that. Knowing my woman as I do, she'd simply assume that I should accompany her and then insist that I do."

  "She's a little domineering?"

  "Cessy takes the bull by the horns on every occasion, and I am the bull she is most familiar with," he said.

  "Most men wouldn't like that," Queenie told him.

  "I didn't like it much at first either," he admitted. "But you know what I think now? I think that a woman like that can sometimes bring out the best in a man."

  The train had come to a full stop in front of them. The porter jumped out from a door two cars up and put down the steps. He was obviously in a rush and urged them forward.

  "Let's get you on board right away, ma'am," he said. "We're already running sixteen minutes behind and we'd hoped to make it up on this stretch."

  The man reached for Miss Queenie's bag and Tom held it out to him.

  "Wait!"

  Queenie's cry was so startling both men momentarily froze in place.

  "What is it?" Tom asked.

  "I'm not going," she said, firmly. "I'm sorry, I'm not going."

  She turned and began deliberately walking away.

  Tom and the porter exchanged perplexed looks.

  "She's not going," Tom told him with a shrug.

  "Women!" the porter complained as he put the steps back on board and waved the engineer forward.

  Tom, still holding the woman's traveling bag, hurried after her.

  "Miss Queenie, you forgot your satchel," he called.

  She stopped and he hurried to hand it to her.

  "What is going on, ma'am?" he asked her.

  "I'm taking your advice, Tool Dresser," she said.

  "My advice? You're the one who was giving advice, Miss Queenie."

  She smiled up at him. "Well, Tool Dresser, I'm going back to being the woman that I once was. The woman who could do anything. And I fully intend to bring out the best in my man."

  Cessy had intended to spend most of Thursday afternoon by herself. Gerald had promised to send the telegram and attend to some unstated business. She deliberately held herself back from questioning him too closely. They were husband and wife now, and it was her duty to allow him to freely pursue his interests without her interference. She had to bite down her lip to let him do so, but she was determined.

  She had hardly begun to direct Howard in the reorganization of the carriage house when Muna surprisingly arrived.

  Cessy washed her hands and face and hurried to meet her friend.

  "And where is Mr. Bashara this afternoon?" she asked, giving her Muna a warm hug.

  "Making his living selling knicks and knacks, I suppose," Muna answered. "And your husband, is he out-of-pocket also?"

  "He's gone downtown on business," Cessy answered. "So it's just us once again."

  "We can sit in for a real gossip!"

  The two giggled together like girls and then took seats in the front parlor.

  "I came to tell you that we've set the date," Muna began.

  "When?" Cessy asked.

  "September twenty-eighth," Muna answered. "That will give all my uncles and cousins a chance to be here."

  "So you are still determined to go through with it," Cessy said.

  "He is a good man, Prin," she told her. "He is unfailingly honest and he works very hard. He is gentle and kind. He's very funny, too. And he's not afraid to laugh at himself. It's hard to live in a place so strange, to not understand all that people are saying to you, to always be the foreigner, the butt of the joke. Maloof is philosophical about it. He is sweet and caring and . . . and tender."

  "But does he care for you? That's the question, Muna. Does he care for you or is it only your father's business that he wants."

  "Prin, I've thought about it," she said. "I've thought about it a lot since that day we talked in the store. I tried to get to know him. I've tried to give him a chance. I tried to see what kind of man he really is and what kind of life he could offer for me. And I've tried to determine if he has any interest in me, just as myself."

  "And what did you decide?"

  "I've decided that I like him," she said. "More than that, I think that I care for him. I ... I believe that I have fallen in love with him."

  "Oh, Muna!"

  "Perhaps I'll never know if he truly wants me or just my father's store. And if a store was all he wanted, I am just going to go on with our life together, grateful that my father had one to offer him."

  "You love him?"

  She nodded.

  "But it just seems so . . ."

  "Don't say anything against him, Prin," Muna warned. "I know you don't like him, but I do. I love him and if you love me, then you will respect my feelings."

  "Oh, Muna," Cessy said. "We are both so lucky to get the men that we love."

  The two laughed and giggled together. It was almost as they had been before, before a peddler came halfway across the world to marry a storekeeper's daughter, before Cessy had seen a Rough Rider in uniform who was the man she’d waited for all her life.

  They joked about Cessy's father's initial reaction to her marriage. They discussed the latest gossip around

  Burford Corners. They speculated on when and who would bring in the first oil well out on the Topknot.

  They talked gardening and bonnets, social reform and the exceptional rearing their future children were sure to receive.

  Cessy told her about Gerald's very rigorous schedule of times they should spend together.

  Muna related a secret of her own.

  "Maloof has . . . has given me a gift," she said.

  "What kind of a gift?" Cessy asked.

  "A very inappropriate one," Muna answered with a secretive whisper.

  "Tell me," Cessy insisted.

  "He bought me a pair of black silk drawers," Muna said.

  "Oh my heavens! Does he not know how . . . how risque such a thing is? For an unmarried woman."

  Muna grinned impishly. "I think he knows more tha
n he lets on," she said.

  "So what did you do?" Cessy asked. "Did you give them back?"

  "Absolutely not," Muna replied. "And I never fail to quietly mention to him when I happen to be wearing them."

  Cessy screamed in feigned shock.

  The two nearly choked with wicked, unmaidenly giggles.

  "So, dear Mrs. Crane," Muna teased. "Now that you are married, you must tell me everything."

  "Everything about what?" Cessy hedged.

  "Don't be coy," Muna chided. "We always said that the one who married first would reveal all the secrets."

  Cessy hemmed and hawed for a moment or two.

  "What exactly do you want to know?" she asked finally.

  "I want to know what is it like?"

  "Being married?" Cessy was deliberately obtuse.

  "Well, we have meals together and take walks together and we work in the garden and . . ."

  "Not that."

  "What then?"

  "Oh, you!" Muna said in exasperation. "What is it like ... in the marriage bed."

  "Oh, that."

  "Yes that."

  "You'll find out," Cessy teased. "September twenty-eighth."

  "Prin!"

  "All right, all right." Cessy lowered her voice to a more secret tone. "It's not at all as frightening and uncomfortable as we've been led to believe."

  Muna sighed, relieved.

  "Well, it's sort of . . . sort of . . . well, it's sort of wonderful."

  "You're joking?"

  "No, it's really, really quite nice."

  The two young women looked at each other for a long moment and then both broke into red-faced giggles.

  "But isn't it so ... so embarrassing?" Muna asked.

  "At first, yes, at first it is quite embarrassing," Cessy admitted. "I thought, How will I live if this man sees me practically naked!"

  "How indeed!" Muna agreed.

  "But now he's seen me actually naked and it was really very natural," she said.

  "He has actually seen you naked!" Muna's words were a horrified whisper.

  "Believe me, it is not nearly as strange once you are married as it must seem now. It's like we are bonded," Cessy said. "We are truly one person. There are no secrets between us."

  The words warmed Cessy as she said them. She knew that they were true, completely true. She loved Gerald totally. And he loved her, too, despite all her faults.

  Almost as if her thoughts had conjured him up, she spied her husband through the front window.

  "My goodness, Gerald is home already," she said.

  "Oh, dear, I don't know how I'll face him," Muna said blushing.

  "If you ever breathe a word of what I told you, I'll invite you to dinner and cook it myself," Cessy threatened.

  The front door shut noisily and Cessy hurried to meet her husband.

  "Home so soon?" she called out to him from the doorway.

  "Cessy, we have to talk," he said.

  His expression was serious and determined. Cessy was immediately certain that some terrible calamity had befallen them.

  "Oh dear, what has happened?" she asked, her tone reflecting that fear.

  "Nothing!" he answered hastily. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Nothing has happened. We ... I just need to talk to you."

  "Muna is here."

  He stood now at the parlor doorway and could see the occupant inside.

  "I must go anyway," Muna said gathering her things.

  "Oh, no, please don't hurry on my account," Gerald said. "Do sit down, sit down. I'm sorry, Cessy, I never thought about your having company. Please. Our discussion can wait."

  Muna resisted for another moment and then reluctantly returned to her seat. Obviously she felt in the way, but politeness demanded that she stay at least until it would seem more natural to leave.

  Gerald set upon himself to entertain Muna. His conversation was light and cheery. Cessy enjoyed watching him at his charming best, but she could not quite dismiss the expression she had seen upon his face when he walked through the door. Something was very wrong.

  The tinkle of a bell captured her attention and Cessy looked out the front window once more to see a delivery boy on a bicycle stopped in front of the house.

  "Oh, we've got a message," she said, rising to her feet. "I'll be right back."

  Cessy hurried to the boy and traded him a nickel tip for the paper he brought. Opening it, she read the words, first with surprise and then with disappointment. With a shrug she returned to the parlor.

  "Not bad news, I hope," Muna said.

  "Not good news, either," Cessy said. "I was hoping it was a telegram from Gerald's parents. We still haven't heard from them and I am on pins and needles wondering what they will think of me."

  "I'm sure they will love you," Muna said. "How could they not?"

  "Who is it from?" Gerald asked.

  "Reverend McAfee, the poor dear," Cessy answered. "I have simply got to get someone to go out there and help the old fellow so that he can retire. I fear that he is slipping."

  "What does he say?"

  "He has sent us our marriage license and a note," she said and opened the small paper to read aloud. " 'My dear children, I hope that all is well with you and that your days of newly wedded bliss are a heaven upon this earth.'"

  "Isn't that sweet."

  "Very nice," Gerald agreed.

  " 'I have had the marriage papers filed for you at the county courthouse as I had promised. The enclosed is your copy. I hope that it contains no errors or surprises. I filled the form out as completely and as accurately as I knew how.'"

  "That doesn't sound as if he is slipping too badly," Muna said.

  "That's because you haven't read the marriage certificate," Cessy said, laughing ruefully. "He has the bridegroom's name listed as Thomas Thursday Walker."

  Chapter Seventeen

  He had meant to tell her. Truly he had. And if Muna hadn't been there when he'd gotten home, he certainly would have. But she had been there. And then the marriage license came from Reverend McAfee and he realized even more clearly how humiliating it was going to be for Cessy. She was going to have to face all her friends with the truth that she had been tricked into a marriage with a man whose real name she didn't even know. She would be a laughingstock. Tom simply lost his nerve.

  But Friday morning he was determined to tell her all. He headed into breakfast with that firmly in mind. He would explain to her that he loved her. That he wanted her and needed her. And that he had lied to her.

  When he entered the kitchen, King Calhoun was already there, gobbling down his biscuits and eggs. He barely glanced up to nod suspiciously at Tom before returning his attention to his plate.

  Cessy was waiting for him. When she saw her husband, however, her face flushed vivid scarlet and she lowered her eyes. Tom knew what that demure behavior covered, and grinned.

  He had meant to make slow, tender love to her the night before. He had thought that as his last night as Gerald, he would use all of his technique and expertise, playing the virtuoso with her body his musical instrument.

  He hadn't even allowed her the privacy of the screen to undress. He'd begun disrobing her even before they'd got the bedroom door shut. But as he was kissing and caressing her, he realized that she was deliberately holding back. At first it spurred him on. He tried to push her to relinquish her restraint.

  Then as if blinders were lifted from his eyes, Tom understood that her self-bridled fervor was for his benefit. His lovely, sweet wife, Cessy Calhoun, was domineering in all aspects of her life. Like her tendency to want to lead on the dance floor, she wanted to guide the movements in his arms as well. She held herself in tight control because of her love for him.

  Tom rolled from her embrace and got out of bed.

  "Gerald, what are you doing? Come back to bed."

  "In a minute," he promised.

  He lit the lamp and began rifling through her dressing table.

  "What on earth are you
up to?" she asked. "Why are you looking through my things? Come back to bed."

  Tom opened the second drawer on the left and found what he was looking for. They were soft and smooth in sweet pinks and blues, startling chartreuse and periwinkle, and stately maroons and purples.

  "Ah, these will do nicely."

  "What is it?" she asked.

  Tom reached in the drawer and grabbed a handful of what she had stored in there and eagerly joined her on the bed.

  Cessy was sitting up now. Beneath the covering of the sheet that she held demurely to her neck, she still wore her camisole and stockings.

  "What on earth are you going to do with those hair ribbons?" she asked him.

  Tom smiled at her and then placed them firmly in her hands.

  "I'm not going to do anything with them, Cessy, but what about you?"

  "Me?"

  "Could you think of something that you'd like to do with these?"

  Cessy looked down at the brightly colored pieces of satin in her hand and then back up at him, puzzled.

  "Whatever would I do with them?"

  "Well, of course, you could always dress your hair," he said. He hesitated a long moment. "Or you could tie my hands to the bedposts."

  "What!"

  "Do you think you would like to do that, Cessy," he asked, leaning closer to whisper the words upon her neck. "Would you like to have me totally at your mercy. You could do whatever you want to me, whenever you want to me. And I ... I wouldn't be able to stop you."

  Her eyes widened as she discerned the implications.

  "I don't know, I . . ."

  "Wouldn't you like to say what and when?" he asked her. "Wouldn't you like to be totally in control. Isn't that what you like?"

  "Well, yes, but . . ."

  "Then tonight, let's do something that you like."

  She hesitated, still unsure.

  "Don't worry, Cessy, you won't hurt me," he said. Then his tone became one of feigned pleading. "You wouldn't hurt me, would you Cessy? Please don't hurt me."

  Tom watched her expression turn from stunned shock to speculative appreciation as she held the ribbons in her hands, stroking the smooth satin.