Harmony (26 page)

She and Tom had sat next to one another, but they might as well have been a mile apart. Barely a word exchanged was between them aside from yes and no, or “Is that so?” When the bill came to the table, it was a relief for Edwina that she could finally go home.

After leaving Mr. Dufresne and Crescencia at her
picket gate, Tom continued on with Edwina. Flower bed borders made a ghostly fringe along the sidewalk, and leaf piles that had been burned earlier in the day still gave off a fall scent that clung to the air. A full moon had risen to the height of rooftops; bare sycamore boughs spread like dark veins against its creamy face.

From the distant mill pond, frogs croaked. The only other night song was made by Edwina's voile hem and muslin petticoat ruffles swishing at Tom's ankle as they walked side by side.

Once at her fence, Edwina laid her hand on the latch and turned to bid Tom good evening. But he rested his fingers over hers and undid the lock himself, holding the gate open and standing aside so that she could pass through first. He followed.

She took the steps and stopped on the porch. “Thank you again for dinner.”

“You didn't eat much.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.”

She fidgeted with an uncharacteristically loose thread on her glove, then glanced at him. At first, she'd felt this way with Ludie: expectant, unsure, spoiling for trouble. But all the times after he'd proposed, their good-nights had been filled with quick, breathless kisses and entwined fingers that didn't want to separate until the very last when he tipped his hat and whispered he loved her.

With Tom, she felt inexperienced, confused. Her mind told her to be wary, while her body gave her a distinctly different message: longing and want, the desire to be held and adored, kissed, touched. How she missed intimacy . . . a stolen glance of affection that spoke volumes, a brush of a hand on her cheek. A meeting of bare feet, flirting . . . connecting.

Suddenly, Edwina wanted to cry. She'd given up so much . . . and for what? To live alone. Be lonely.

For the rest of her life.

“I need to go in,” her voice, fragile with heartbreak, cracked as she spoke.

Tom stopped her before she could reach the doorknob. “It's not that cold yet.” His hand slipped around her waist. “Sit with me.”

Guiding her to the wicker porch swing, he made her sit, then lowered himself beside her. Black fabric met a denim-clad thigh—her soft skirt and his sinewy leg. He lowered his arm over the swing's back. If he chose to, his fingers could brush her collar . . . stroke her hair . . . trace her earlobe.

Tightly knitting her hands and resting them on her lap, she told herself not to imagine such things. Instead, she looked at the inky sky—what little could be seen with the porch awning as a canopy. Swathed in darkness, the swing provided total privacy. Even if she'd turned up the parlor lamp to somewhat illuminate the outside, tall camellia bushes created an arbor in which to hide.

With his long leg stretched out in front of him, Tom set the swing in motion, a slow and lazy pushing forward and back. The chains gave off a rhythmic yet soothing squeak. Having not been used in years, the metal hardware had rusted from inattention.

“You sit out here much?” Tom asked, his voice sluicing over her like a warm afternoon.

“I used to. I haven't had the time since I've been back.”

“I remember when you came home.”

“You do?”

“Saw you walking alongside the baggage car at the station. I was down there meeting some fellows.”

Edwina snuck a glimpse at his profile. The brim of his hat kept half his face in obscurity; his mouth was barely discernable. She watched, mesmerized, as his lips moved while he continued. “I've been to a lot of places. Never Chicago, though. Think you'll ever go back?”

“No. Never.” Her reply came too quickly and too emphatically.

“You didn't like it.”

Disquiet caused her to shiver. “I liked it too much.”

Tom's hand slid to her shoulder. His fingertips grazed
the side of her neck—whether intentionally or not, she didn't want to guess.

“You said you'd leave here if you could. Where would you go?”

Through the creak of the chains, she said in a quiet voice, “Denver. Or maybe California.”

Calloused fingertips whispered across her nape. No accident. Tingles worked their way across her skin.

“Why don't you?”

Enthralled as she was with the leisure of Tom's touch, his question didn't immediately register. When it did, she bit back the truth. It was too humbling to admit; she couldn't tell him that she was tied to Harmony until she paid off her parents' debts, that she could not abandon this house because her mother had made her promise—actually swear on the Bible—that she wouldn't sell it. It was all Edwina would have as a legacy from her family. The home had belonged to her paternal grandmother before she'd passed it onto Father.

“I just can't, is all,” she said, forcing her melancholy to remain at bay. “But I will. One day.”

“So you'll leave. You won't get married because you're going to work for your keep. Aspirations, you said.” His recollection wasn't patronizing, yet it didn't sound as if he approved.

“Yes, I am. As an accountant.” Pride caused her to sit up and face him. “I'm efficient with numbers. I've already been offered a position, but . . .”—a lump caught in her throat, and she slumped back into the seat—“. . . but I had to turn it down.” On a swing of the seat, she extended her legs out in front of her, pointing her toes. “I'll get another offer when the time's right.”

“I'm sure you will.”

Smiling, she asked, “How do you know?”

“Don't. Not really. Just figuring.”

A peaceful lull fell across them, as snug and cozy as an heirloom quilt.

Edwina broke the silence. “What about you? Where have you been?”

“Texas mostly. Washington. Idaho. Wyoming. The New Mexico territory.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever paid.” The flash of his grin caught her attention.

“ ‘Whatever' sounds disreputable,” she remarked in jest.

“Could be.”

“Is that how you learned to rag?”

His leg raised even with hers; in a playful manner, his ankle nudged the top of her shoe, as if to engage her foot in a suspended dance. “I picked it up here and there. At the troubadour shows in Near-Town on the Arkansas side. And Jig Top tents that came through wherever I happened to be when they came through.” With a dip of his toe, he caught her foot behind the ankle so that her calf rested on his. Such a seemingly innocent gesture, but it had her somewhat breathless.

“Where'd you pick up the moves?” he asked.

If she told him about the Peacherine Club, he'd think her immoral for going to the so-called arcades of sin. But he'd already seen that many things about her didn't add up. And as far as she knew, he'd kept everything to himself. He had the means to destroy her reputation and had not. Why?

Tom smoothed the seam of her cape down her shoulder as nonchalantly as if he'd done so countless times. His voice came to her, a little defensive, a little resigned, when he said, “Hell, after some of the low-down tricks that have gone on the past month—and I'm blaming both of us—I could see why you wouldn't want to tell me squat about yourself.”

Her soft laughter couldn't be suppressed. “Does this mean you're calling a truce?”

“I can speak only for myself. Barkly's his own man.”

Tom lowered his leg; Edwina's knee naturally rested on top of his. The black of her skirt draped intimately over them; petticoat ruffles peeked out in a seductive
tumble of lace. She couldn't stop staring at the place where they touched.

“All right, I call a truce, too.” If she had the morality she purported to have, she would have immediately rectified their sitting arrangement. But she didn't. She found herself growing more and more seduced and liking it—even wanting to flirt with the possibilities herself. Did she dare? “I learned how to dance in the Peacherine Club, a waterfront arcade in Chicago.”

“Who taught you?”

The answer to that question was harder to admit. She hadn't spoken Ludie's name aloud since leaving. Not even to her mother. While Edwina had tended her, they'd spent long hours talking about Edwina's childhood, her father, and how times were changing. Chicago never came up. Or when it did, Edwina steered the conversation away. How could she reminisce about college without talking about Ludlow? Her mother never knew she'd had a beau to step out with, never knew she'd been engaged . . . however briefly.

Edwina's mother's fondest wish was that Edwina marry and raise a family. She'd told her so frequently those last days when she drifted in and out of delirium. But Edwina had never encouraged that hope. Instead, she'd reminded her mother of the business degree she had and how wonderful it would be to travel and know she was qualified to support herself.

“Ed?” Tom's resonant voice broke through her reverie.

“Boys from the Merchant's College went to the Peacherine,” Edwina replied vaguely. “There were always a few willing to show us how to dance.”

“Sounds like college might be more than books and stale teachers.” His tone held a lightness and measure of joshing, as if he knew she was battling the ghosts of her past and wanted to keep her from growing too wistful.

“You could go to college,” she said. “It doesn't matter how old you are.”

“Hell,” he mumbled, his fingers resting on her shoulder. “No college would take a man who never made it through school.”

That he'd confess such a thing to her held her in suspended surprise. Surely a man like Tom Wolcott didn't go around letting people know his weaknesses. He was too confident of other abilities. Like the ones that allowed him to guide Eastern gentlemen on hunts and own and operate his own store—no small feat. That took ingenuity and drive. Many wouldn't attempt such a venture.

“I think you could get a school diploma through correspondence classes. It's not as if you'd have to sit in a classroom again.”

“I'm too old for book learning,” he scoffed. “What do I need to know about who was president in 1854?”

“Franklin Pierce.” The reply came automatically. Too late she could see that she'd flaunted her superiority when it came to education. She took liberties by laying a consoling hand lightly on his wrist. “I didn't mean that. It just slipped out. And really, you are right I've never had to use that information for anything.”

His silence made her self-conscious, and she withdrew her hand. What had gotten into her to touch him so?

Everything was getting muddled up. She couldn't pretend with Tom. He'd seen too much. She really should try to be more careful about what she said . . . what she did. She couldn't let him know anything more. There were certain things nobody could find out, things that couldn't be blamed on youthful whim and curiosity. Tom, with his nonliberal views, would condemn her.

“Why won't you get married, Ed?”

The query startled her and caused her heartbeat to race. She could say nothing—at least not the truth.

“You seem like the type to me. A lot of variety to offer a man if you show him your true colors.” The latter was said with a smile she didn't have to see. “You're smart, and you're something to look at.”

At the base of her throat, her pulse drummed. The
emptiness in her heart was momentarily filled. She wanted him to find her desirable, but to what end? A dangerous one.
An affair . . . that's all it would be. Oh, help. Where did that thought come from?

“Although I can't attest to all your cooking,” he continued, “you bake a fine cookie.”

On that, she had to laugh. “I didn't make those nut wafer cookies. Marvel-Anne did.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes.”

Through a lift at the corners of his mouth, he said accusingly, “Why, you liar.”

Still smiling, she fought against further laughter. “I'm sorry. The situation was dire.”

She could view the flash of white from his teeth. He had a smile she enjoyed. But too soon, the curves fell and his mouth grew serious. “So why is it?”

He didn't have to specify what
it
was. She knew.

With a sigh she hoped sounded airy, she replied, “Oh, I don't know. . . . It's just not for me. I don't want to be tied to one place. One person.”

Her eyes lowered. She couldn't face him. Lying wasn't easy for her, yet she seemed to be doing a lot of it lately—mostly to herself.

“Okay, Ed,” came his quiet response. “Whatever you say.”

There was a lot she wanted to say.

There was nothing she could say.

Warm fingers meshed with hers. Tom's left arm reached over to pull her into his chest, comforting and secure. She allowed it. If only for a moment, she could fool herself into thinking there was no harm.

The creak of the swing and the sound of Tom's heart against her ear were the only things she heard. She ignored the voice in her head that cautioned, warned. She didn't want to worry about anything—nothing but the tenderness she felt with Tom's arms around her.

His mouth found her temple and grazed it with a light kiss. She pulled in her breath and tipped her face toward
his. In the disguise of darkness, she succumbed to what felt natural: snuggling next to Tom and drawing in the warmth of his clothing, his smell until such a closeness became sweet agony.

Why was she allowing herself to be wooed on a porch swing? Nothing could come of a relationship between them. Innocent flirtations would only wound. She had resolved her fate to be an unshared life, an unshared bed. Unless . . .

She wasn't good enough to marry. Every man wanted an ideal woman to be his bride. That wasn't her. Not anymore. Even Tom Wolcott deserved better. It wasn't out of any kind of pity for herself that she thought this. Truth was a strong adversary. She couldn't fend it off and think it didn't matter.