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

by Pamela Morsi

  "And Milton is eight years old," Pru said. "For heaven's sake, Aunt Hen, you must remember that they ran off together."

  "I remember that they left town on the same train on the same night," she said. "Saying that they ran off together requires an interpretation that nobody in this town except Gidry has the certainty to make."

  "You defend him always, even when he is obviously in the wrong," Pru said.

  "Yes," she admitted. "I suppose I will always defend him, as I always will you. But I don't mind telling either of you when I think your brains are full of feathers, as yours is now."

  "Aunt Hen, it is true. I am sure of it," Pru told her. "Look at the boy, he has Gidry's hair and eyes."

  "The boy looks like his mother," Aunt Hen replied. "Mabel's mother had those dark looks of old French blood. You can't get away from it."

  "Why would the old man have been so kind to her, then?" she asked. "And kind to Milton as well. He put him to work in the cotton mill, just like he did Gidry. Why else would Peer Chavis do that?"

  "Because beyond all his booming and blustering he was a kind and good man," Aunt Hen answered. "He had a weak spot for people who make mistakes. Lord knows, he made a few of his own."

  "That may well be so, but it doesn't change the fact that the child could be Gidry's, and I believe he is Gidry's. He is a Chavis, and he deserves, at the very least, to be able to live his life in Chavistown."

  "And what did Gidry say when you told him about his son?" Aunt Hen asked.

  "Well of course I couldn't tell him," Pru insisted.

  "And why not?"

  "Because ... because he obviously does not want to know," Pru replied. "He left her, just like he left me."

  "You do the man an injustice, Prudence," Aunt Hen told her. "Yes, he did leave you, and perhaps he did leave her. But I will not believe that he would deny a child of his body. He is too much like his father to do such a thing."

  Prudence shrugged. "Well, that remains to be seen."

  "I don't think that's the reason you haven't told him," Aunt Hen said. "I don't think that is the reason at all."

  "What other reason could there be?" Pru asked.

  "A much more selfish, personal reason," Aunt Hen said. "A reason that makes me ashamed of you."

  "Of me?"

  "Yes," Aunt Hen answered. "I think you haven't told him because you know that if he is the father, he will claim the boy. And if he does, then you will have to give Sharpy up."

  "What?"

  "If the boy becomes officially Gidry's son, it will be obvious to anyone who sees your affection for the child that you love him because he is Gidry's."

  "I care for Milton for himself," she insisted.

  "Perhaps you do now, but that is not what brought him to your attention. You've never had any interest in children. But you saw in him a boy that might have been your own."

  "That's not true!"

  "I think there is enough truth in it to worry us both," Aunt Hen replied.

  Pru didn't know what to say. For the first time she scrutinized her own motives, questioned her own actions.

  "I can't see him sent away to an orphanage," she told Aunt Hen, her tone pleading. "Whether I'm right or wrong, you've got to help."

  The old woman sighed.

  "Yes," she agreed. "I suppose I must."

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  There was duty to one's community and loyalty to one's beloved. Occasionally those things were at cross purposes. Gidry determined to serve them both, but hadn't managed to serve either particularly well.

  He'd returned to his house to clean up and dress. He was still too mad at Pru even to see straight. She said that she was refusing him because of what he'd done all those years ago. Blaming him and yesterday for why they could not be together now. But the truth had come out, or at least part of it, he was certain. She was protecting her man. He turned out to be worst than a no-account, unfaithful, two-timing, adulterer. He was also a common thief, who by hiding his loot in Aunt Hen's milk shed had dragged the two most important women in Gidry's life into some criminal involvement. And Pru let him do it. That must mean she really loved him.

  How did one fight against such a thing? he wondered. And the answer came to him. You choose a battle that is more important than personal feelings of the heart.

  So before he went to call upon Pru and Aunt Hen that afternoon, he set up a meeting in his office with Arthur Sattlemore of Big Texas Electric. If the gentleman was surprised to see him the day after his father's funeral, he gave no indication. And as for the subject of discussion, Pru's speech at the Harvest Moon Dance had already managed to make the rounds of barrooms and barbershops all through Chavistown. Sattlemore was ready with his own explanations and arguments.

  "We've encountered the objections of naturalists in nearly every town we have lighted," the man admitted.

  Gidry's brow furrowed. "Why didn't you mention this to the Commercial Club?" he asked.

  The salesmen shrugged and smiled. "I believe your Mr. Honnebuzz says it best: Why stir up controversy unnecessarily?"

  Gidry was beginning to very much dislike that attitude.

  "Because, it seems," he answered, "controversy often brings attention to facts that some people would wish kept unknown."

  Sattlemore nodded in acquiescence.

  "The fact, Mr. Chavis," he said, "is that we have no facts. Science has not determined any effects, helpful or harmful, related to artificial light."

  "But that doesn't mean there aren't any," Gidry said.

  "We don't know," the man admitted. "We've seen no effects in all the years of gas lamplight. But the use of electricity is still very new. We know that plants and animals, as well as humans, have within themselves electrical charges. Electricity is now being used in medicine for treatment of bodily ailments such as rheumatism and gouty complaints. In laboratories all over the world testing is being done. But the desire for electricity, the progress, security, and convenience that it offers has far outstripped any cautions from those who fear man's reach exceeds his grasp."

  "So you are saying that we simply do not know what effects lighting our neighborhoods, even our homes, might have upon us."

  "Nobody knows," Sattlemore told him. "But I can point out that numerous towns and cities all over the country have decided in favor of electric lighting and each month, each day, each year that goes by with no ill effects speaks for itself."

  Gidry nodded slowly. "So we are actually testing this new science in our own towns on our own families and with our own consent."

  Sattlemore chuckled.

  "You needn't make it sound so ominous, Mr. Chavis," he said. 'This modern innovation probably has no ill effects at all."

  "Probably," Gidry repeated.

  It was a word that held tremendous promise as well as consequences.

  He called upon Pru at exactly two in afternoon. He knew exactly what he was going to say. He also knew that he was perfectly right in what he was doing. Still, his palms were sweating and his heart was pounding.

  He'd never thought to lose Pru. He'd never thought that she couldn't be his if he just said the word. And his need to have her at his side had never been greater.

  Determinedly he knocked on the door.

  "Good afternoon, Gidry," Aunt Hen said. "It is so nice of you to call."

  The formality was off-putting. Especially when the older woman escorted him into the tiny front parlor. He was accustomed to being treated as part of the family and to being entertained in the kitchen or the sewing room.

  Aunt Hen seemed content to allow Pru to do the talking. Her message was calm and well rehearsed.

  "We would like for you to take the items found in the milk shed and see that they are returned to their rightful owners," Pru told him.

  "How would you suggest that I explain how I came to have them?" he asked her.

  "Can you not simply say that you found them? Give them back and assume that all is well that ends well," she said.


  "If we have a criminal among us, Miss Pru," Gidry answered, "I do not believe giving back the loot will be the end of it at all."

  Pru appeared thoughtful for a long moment.

  "I think you will have to trust me on this," she said. "There will be no more thievery."

  "I am no longer sure," he replied, "that you are a woman that I can trust."

  She appeared stung by his words. Gidry did not mean to hurt her, but he was determined upon his present course.

  "I have come to discuss a compromise," he said.

  "A compromise?" Her voice was hopeful. "Isn't that what I have been offering to you? Return of goods and no further robberies as long as nothing else is said."

  “That is not the type of compromise that I have in mind," Gidry told her.

  'Then by all means," Pru said, "state your own thinking."

  'The perpetrator of these crimes must be brought to justice," he said. "You obviously could be instrumental in helping to bring that about."

  "I have no intention of helping you," she said.

  "If you don't tell me, then you will certainly have to tell the judge," he said.

  "I won't tell him either," Pru insisted.

  "I believe that you will, Pru," Gidry said calmly. "I believe that you will be willing to tell me. You simply have to be sufficiently motivated to do so."

  "I'm sure that nothing you can say will change my mind."

  Gidry mentally braced himself. This was the big risk for him. The proposal that might alienate her from him forever.

  "If you tell everything to me," he said evenly, "I will see that no electric lighting will ever be installed in the residential areas of Chavistown."

  She gave a gasp of surprise.

  "If you do not," he continued, "I will see a light pole raised on each and every corner of this town. From below the railroad tracks to Cemetery Hill it will be as bright as daylight from dusk till dawn."

  'That is blackmail."

  Gidry shrugged. "Blackmail, thievery..." He glanced over at Aunt Hen before continuing. "There are sins aplenty involved here, Miss Pru."

  "One thing has nothing to do with the other."

  "It certainly does," he insisted. "If we no longer have a criminal among us, then I would feel confident in letting the idea of allowing the street lighting project to drop."

  "I told you to trust me, there will be no more stealing," she said. "That should be enough to make the project unnecessary."

  Gidry was firm and sure.

  "I don't care how well you think you know this man or how confident you are of your influence on him," he said. "You cannot speak for him. I cannot accept a promise from you for him."

  Pru's expression was momentarily agitated, frustrated. Then she raised her chin in defiance.

  "I can speak for the thief, Mr. Chavis," she said smoothly. "Because Mr. Chavis, I am the thief."

  "What!"

  The words came as shouted exclamations from both Gidry and Aunt Hen.

  "Everything you find in that milk shed, I have stolen."

  If the situation had not been so serious, Gidry would have burst out laughing.

  "You caught me yourself," she said, "when I broke into the gin. You'll have to admit that in any court. I have broken into houses all over this town. I have taken things from people, and I have stored them in my aunt's milk shed, where you can find them now. I confess. I am guilty."

  Gidry was shaking his head, and the words were on his lips to call her every kind of fool ever created.

  "You will never get the people of Chavistown to believe such a thing," he said.

  Pru raised a challenging eyebrow.

  "You think you will have an easier time convincing them that a dried up old spinster who threw her corset across the armoire years ago is having an illicit affair with a thief in her milk shed."

  "You are not a dried up old spinster."

  "In the eyes of this town, I certainly am," she said. "What do you think I have been doing in the last eight years since the scandal? I've been living a life of absolute chastity. None of the men who called upon me got so much as even a goodnight kiss, and you are going to convince this town I am some wild Jezebel?"

  Prudence shook her head, sure of herself.

  "No one is going to believe such a thing of me. No one would imagine such a thing of me, except you. You, who judge all the faults of mankind by your own."

  "Is that what you think? Maybe that's not it at all. Maybe it is because I know the passion that lurks beneath the sour spinster facade."

  Aunt Hen cleared her throat loudly.

  "I believe that we are getting a bit far afield," she said. "Pru, don't be so ridiculous as to think anyone would believe you capable of being a common thief. Gidry, don't attempt to manipulate my niece by threats or coercion."

  "But Aunt Hen!"

  They both complained.

  "A crime has been committed," she said. "It's time the authorities were called in to sort it out. Neither of you has the right of it. Hopefully, someone else will."

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The hearing was scheduled for the next morning at ten o'clock. Gidry had tried to keep it as quiet as possible. Unfortunately in a place as small as Chavistown, such a thing was impossible.

  He had spoken privately with Judge Ramey, but Alice had listened at the door. She couldn't wait to tell Leda Peterson, who told her mother-in-law. She whispered it to Bertha Mae, who told it to every telephone patron in town. Henrietta was informed herself by a gossipy Mrs. Champion, as if it were possible to be personally involved and not be aware of what was going on.

  But unlike Pru, Henrietta did not spend the morning rehearsing a set of lies she intended to present to the judge in order to be held responsible to burglary and face detention in the jail.

  She dressed in a cool cotton day dress and filled her basket with the newest blooms of the garden. They were little more than buds, and normally she would have been loath to cut them. But this morning she did so without any sense of sadness.

  She made her way up to Cemetery Hill. The sky was a brilliant blue with only a few feathery clouds so high in the sky they might well have been throw rugs on the floor of heaven. A slight breeze in her hair eased the heat of the bright morning sunshine.

  Henrietta walked with a smile upon her face and a lightness in her heart. She watched the butterflies flit from flower to flower and listened to the songbirds greeting the day. Her beloved Peer was dead. He was dead and all that he was to her heart was dead as well. But she was alive. Today she was perfectly, gloriously alive. It wasn't everything. But it was a lot. Today it was enough.

  The cemetery was quiet and deserted. There was a feeling of peace, a feeling of permanence.

  Henrietta stood at the foot of the hill of dirt that now embraced for all time the body of the man that she loved. She wanted him. She wanted him beside her. But today she would not, she could not, cry.

  Henrietta knelt on the ground beside the grave and began arranging the flowers she'd brought in her basket upon the raised hill of black waxy soil.

  "I wish you could have heard what my niece told me yesterday," she said. "She's thinking that poor Mabel Merriman's orphan is your grandson. It's wishful thinking if you want my opinion. He's a fine little boy, I know you'd be proud to claim him. But it's just not so."

  Henrietta shook her head with wry disbelief.

  "She thinks he's Gidry's child, and she's trying to keep him for herself," Henrietta said. "She's much too proud ever to just keep Gidry. Her wounded pride simply won't allow it.

  "Those young ones we raised are something to watch," she said. “Two of the sharpest minds in this town, each bent on trying to outsmart and out-manipulate the other."

  She tutted and shook her head.

  "You would think that being in love as long as they have, they'd understand each other a good bit better than they do."

  Henrietta sighed.

  "I guess that's plenty true of all of us," she
said.

  The roses were spread out like a brightly colored fan along the top of the grave. Henrietta fussed with it for several more minutes, getting it exactly how she thought it would look best. Then she stood back and assured herself that everything was exactly where it should be and very well balanced. It was as near perfect as she could make it. And there was really no one to care how it looked except herself.

  "You should have seen the folks at your funeral. Everybody was there to pay last respects. All the townsfolk in their best suits and nearly every farmer in the county showed up. It was a whole houseful of broken hearts. Poor old Ollie Larson, who never had a good thing to say about you when you were alive, was just sniveling and wiping his eyes until I could hardly keep my own self straight. They all miss you. Like a fine old shade tree blown over in a summer storm, they miss you. But the world goes on."

  She turned her eyes to the sky. Overhead a flock of birds winged their way southward.

  "I nearly gave up, you know," she said quietly. "I was just too broken to try to go on. I wanted to just give up."

  The breeze whistled around her and she straightened a loose strand of hair back into its pins.

  "I thought I loved you more than life," Henrietta continued. "But in truth, I believe that I love life very much. Enough to try to live it without you. I've raised Prudence the best I could, and she's a fine young woman. I couldn't be prouder of her. And I take some of the credit for Gidry as well. He's your very shadow, and he's his own man as well. They would miss me, I know. But I have more reason than that to stay."

  She could hear the faint drone of a lazy bee buzzing almost languidly in the morning heat.

  "Do you remember when I was a girl, and my sister and I went to Galveston with my father?" she asked. "We met an old fishing boat captain that Daddy knew. He told me that in the middle of the ocean, on the clearest day of the year, you can only see three miles. Three miles. That’s all. Total calm, perfect visibility you can only see three miles. The curve of the earth makes it impossible to see any farther. Three miles is not really very far."