Beyond This Moment (16 page)

From the edge of her vision she saw someone standing stock-still across the cafe. Curiosity guided her attention and she turned to look.

It was a Negro woman, tall and slender, stately looking with skin the color of cream-laced coffee. Recognition sharpened the woman's expression, and Molly glanced to see who might be standing behind her. No one was there.

When she turned back, the woman was approaching.

She carried herself with quiet dignity, a faint frown on her face. "Dr. Whitcomb?"

"Yes, that's right"

"You're the new schoolteacher, ma'am."

"I am." Molly smiled. "Is this your cafe?"

"Oh-no, ma'am." Her soft laugh was lyrical. "I'm afraid I don't cook well enough for the likes of Miss Clara:"

Molly squinted, regretting her hasty speculation. "I'm sorry. I just assumed-"

"No harm done, ma'am" And still, that steady stare. "But I'll be sure to tell Miss Clara what you said. She'll have herself a good chuckle at that:"

"What will I be havin' a good chuckle at, Belle Birch?" An older woman bustled up beside them, her eyes bright and attentive, her apron nearly dragging the ground. Balanced on the curve of one arm were three bowls of the most appetizing peach cobbler Molly had ever seen. If it tasted as good as it smelled ...

Belle Birch edged closer to Miss Clara, a conspiratorial look in her eyes. "I was just telling our new schoolteacher here that you wouldn't dare let me into your kitchen:'

"Why, lands no! I want my customers to keep comin' back, don't I?"

As Molly laughed along with them, she watched the two women and felt an old familiar longing. Since reaching college age, and in the years following, her friendships with women had been scarce. And those she'd had were more competitive in nature. Nothing like what she saw before her now.

She'd secretly dared to hope that such a close friendship might develop between her and Rachel Boyd, given time. But James's tie to Rachel complicated that possibility.

Miss Clara waved to a nearby table before scooting off to another task. "Take a seat right there, you two. I'll be over to serve you soon:'

Pleased not to have to eat alone, Molly started toward the table but felt a touch on her arm.

Belle's expression held apology. "I wish I could join you, Dr. Whitcomb, but my husband, Josiah, is waiting for me at home. And I make it a point never to be late in meeting my husband. Time with him is precious to me:'

Molly found herself the one staring this time. What a sweet way for a wife to state her affection for her husband. And the woman's voice-it was rich and deep, oak-tree strong. Hearing her give a recitation or deliver a lecture would be sheer pleasure. "I completely understand. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Birch. And I hope we have occasion to speak again:'

"I'm sure we will, ma'am. And before I go ..." Her brown eyes softened. "May I say how sorry I am about your husband. I heard about his passing from Mrs. Mullins at the store:"

Molly looked anywhere but at Belle. "Thank you," she whispered. Belle walked on, but Molly stood there for a moment, still and silent, searching her heart-and not liking what she saw.

With the exception of Mayor Davenport and his brute of a brother-inlaw, the people she'd met here were so kind and accepting, and it made her wonder.... If she'd chosen differently in Sulfur Falls, if she hadn't purchased the ring-she twisted the band on her finger; it was already losing some of its luster-might she have found acceptance in this town anyway?

But in her heart, she knew the answer.

She took a seat as Miss Clara had indicated and looked around. She was the only person dining alone. Not that she'd never dined alone before. A woman didn't reach the age of thirty-one without eating by herself on occasion. But being new in town, and everyone knowing it, made her feel more conspicuous.

She made eye contact with an older couple sitting closest to her, then with another couple two tables away. She smiled, and they did likewise. Two women at a table by the stove glanced in her direction, smiles noticeably absent, and leaned close to speak to each other.

Molly's imagination kicked in and began filling in the blanks. Then she caught herself. It was probably nothing. Though chances were fairly good-given what Rachel had said about her arrival being such a buzzthat those women were talking about her. But that didn't necessarily mean their conversation was negative.

Perhaps they were simply acknowledging her arrival. Or were sharing their surprise in discovering she was widowed. Molly looked down. Did they recognize this black dress as belonging to Rachel Boyd? The gown was lovely, after all. And memorable. Perhaps they were wondering why she was wearing a borrowed dress. "Maybe she doesn't have enough money to buy her own clothes," she imagined the dark-haired woman whispering. "Or maybe she's not a widow at all and simply purchased a ring in Sulfur Falls to cover up her being with chi-"

"Here we are!"

Molly nearly jumped out of her seat.

Miss Clara set a plate of food before her. "Now don't you fill up on this. Once you're done"-she patted Molly's shoulder the way a grandmother might-"I have some peach cobbler with your name on it, Mrs. Whitcomb:"

"I wouldn't dream of it;' Molly assured, her heart still pounding in her throat. "That cobbler looks too good:"

Beaming, Miss Clara moved to other tables, addressing every customer by name. And from their responses, they all seemed to know her well too.

"Pardon me, ma'am."

She looked up to see a young boy holding a cup and pitcher.

"Would you like some water? Or maybe hot coffee? I'll get it for you:"

"Water will be fine, thank you" The server was a handsome boy, or young man, judging by his size. Maybe thirteen, fourteen? Anyone looking on would have labeled him a Negro, but that description, while partly true, didn't take into account the lighter color of his skin, nor the striking green of his eyes. Molly guessed at his lineage, not something hard to do having been raised in the South.

Though her father had never owned slaves, many of their family friends had. It wasn't until Molly was thirteen that a sickening reality had been brought to light. She'd visited Carolyne Anderson's home for a birthday party, and one of the girls whispered an ugly rumor about Carolyne's father. Molly told her she was wrong. But over dinner, the girl indicated a Negro woman who was serving. The woman was striking, with warm brown eyes and an exotic beauty. After dinner, the same girl lured Molly on a "casual stroll;' where they ended up by the kitchen housed in the building behind the main home.

The oppressive heat was the first thing Molly noticed. The second was a young Negro girl of lighter complexion who shared the same exquisite beauty as the woman who had served them at dinner-and whose eyes were the exact brilliant blue of Carolyn Anderson's father's.

Colonel Graham Anderson was an upstanding member of the church and community, someone Molly respected and revered. And she rejected her friend's conclusions, as well as the ones forming in her own minduntil she delicately posed the question to her father at home. He gave a gentle, honest explanation, as he always did.

And Molly never looked Colonel Anderson in the eye again, nor did she ever return to the Anderson home.

"If there's anything else you need, ma'am, you let me know."

Molly blinked and found herself staring at the young man. "Oh yes, I'm sorry. Thank you, I'll do that:"

She unfolded her napkin and pressed it in her lap. Fried chicken, whipped potatoes, and creamed peas crowded the plate. Delicious! And a warm biscuit slathered with butter hugged the rim. From habit, she bowed her head. But her eyes didn't seem to want to close.

She grew conscious of others around her, and of how she appeared. New teacher in town, draped in widow's garb, bowing her head so piously to offer thanks. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except the woman people were seeing was not the woman she was.

Remembering the compassion in Belle's eyes, Molly felt a stinging behind her own. She'd memorized countless petitions from her father's favorite book of prayer, but each one deserted her now. A tenacious fear, one she'd managed to keep at bay in recent days, strong-armed its way past her defenses, and the lace on her sleeve cuffs began to tremble.

What would happen to her when her . . . condition became apparent?

For a while she could mask the swell in her belly with fuller dresses and aprons. And with a long coat, come winter. All of which she must commission to have sewn. But if Mayor Davenport had been furious when he heard she was widowed, how would he react when he discovered she was pregnant? How would James react? And what would happen when it came time for the baby to be born?

And this with the town still believing that she had been married?

Fear tightened its grip in her chest, and a solitary tear fell onto the napkin in her lap.

Pressing her lips together, she forced her eyes closed, her mind a prayerless fog. She tried to form the words, but they wouldn't come. Her head was bowed but her heart seemed reluctant to follow.

After a moment, she finally gave up and began to eat.

The chicken, potatoes, biscuit ... Each bite was mouth-watering. Did every woman in town cook with such savory skills? Enjoying the meal, with the breeze coming off the mountains, and even the cadence of conversation around her, Molly slowly began to relax.

She glanced up to see Miss Clara hustling toward her, two bowls of peach cobbler balanced in one hand and a full plate of food in the other.

"Here you go, Mrs. Whitcomb." Miss Clara set the cobbler in front of her and the other two dishes at the place setting across from hers. "You don't mind some delightful dinner company, do you, ma'am?"

Molly looked around, not knowing to whom she was referring-until he spoke from behind.

"Dr. Whitcomb, would you mind my joining you for dinner, ma'am?"

13

espite what she'd said, James saw the real answer in Molly's eyes. He waited for Clara to leave before asking again. "You're sure you don't mind if I join you, Dr. Whitcomb?" He nodded to the couple watching them one table over. "If you do, I could easily-"

"Of course I don't mind. Please.. " She motioned to the chair across from her, her smile tight. "You're welcome to sit, Sheriff."

He did, and noticed she kept eating. At a faster pace, if he wasn't mistaken. "How are you this evening?"

She nodded, swallowing before answering. "Fine, thank you:" Then continued to eat.

He waited, thinking she might reciprocate with a question. When she didn't, he took a bite of chicken. Where had he gotten off on the wrong foot with this woman? Maybe wrong wasn't the right word, but there was a definite barrier between them that hadn't been there at first.

Wishing he had a token of friendship to toss over that wall of hers, he thought of something that might serve that purpose. "Have you had an opportunity to meet Dr. Rand Brookston yet? He's our town physician. I was speaking with him about you the other day, and-"

Her head came up. "Why would you be speaking to a doctor about me?"

He paused from chewing, taken aback by the defensiveness in her tone.

She dabbed at the corners of her mouth and a semblance of a smile returned, but it didn't ring true. "I'm simply wondering, Sheriff, why I was the topic of conversation between you and the town doctor:"

James scooped peas onto his mashed potatoes and stirred. "I wouldn't say you were the topic of conversation, ma'am" He loaded his fork. "Dr. Brookston simply inquired about your arrival date and I told him you were already here. He wants to speak with you about a proposal he made to the town council regarding the schoolchildren. I think you'll be pleased:"

Molly pushed aside her dinner plate and moved her bowl of cobbler closer.

Swallowing, he pointed with his fork. "That's the best-tasting stuff you've ever put in your mouth. Miss Clara has peaches brought over from the western slope. I guarantee it's the tastiest you've ever had:"

"What exactly was the nature of the doctor's proposal, Sheriff?"

James eyed her. Apparently casual dinner conversation wasn't part of Molly Whitcomb's vast vocabulary.

"More coffee, Sheriff?"

James looked up to see a familiar face. "Yes, Elijah, thank you."

Elijah refilled his cup. "Ma'am, would you care for coffee now? It's right good with Miss Clara's cobbler."

"Yes, I believe I would, thank you:"

The boy pulled a cup from his apron pocket and poured. James noticed him stealing glances at Molly, and couldn't blame Elijah in the least. When he'd ridden up a moment ago and spotted her sitting alone, he'd experienced a lightness of spirit he hadn't felt in a long time. And all that from just looking at her.

He hadn't planned on being her dinner companion. But as he'd hugged Miss Clara, the last couple of open tables had filled, much to his favor. And when Miss Clara made the suggestion, he hadn't discouraged it.

James sipped his coffee. "How're your parents, Elijah? I haven't seen them in awhile"

"They're fine, sir. My mama was just here a while ago, and my papa"Elijah's face widened in a grin-"he's doin' real good. I'll tell him you asked after him, sir. That'll make him smile:'