Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (24 page)

“Is that so? Who else told you?”

“That busybody Wilma Whintley. I saw her in the bank a while ago.”

“Ah, Wilma Whintley—or, as Uncle Clarence refers to her, Wilma Windbag.”

She actually laughed, although with her gloved hand to her mouth to cover her glee.

“Why don’t you smile more, Mother? It becomes you.”

“I do smile when inclined, but not for no reason.” She looked at her now folded hands in her lap and reclaimed her long face. “I find few things to smile about these days.”

“You’d find a great deal to smile about if you got to know Mercy and those little boys we’ve committed to raise.”

She didn’t respond but stared off, a melancholy look in her eyes. Probably thinking about the two little boys she’d lost.

Feeling a wave of regret, Sam put an arm over the back of the bench and gave her thin shoulder a squeeze. “You’d be surprised how much they can lighten your spirit. Joseph is smart and talkative, and John Roy is curious and full of energy. Who knows? You might be a balm to each other. They’ve lost so much, you know—from their parents right down to their toys and the beds they used to sleep on.”

“Yes, I know.” He thought he detected the slightest softening in her tone. “It’s unfortunate. I did tell you to bring them by sometime. I doubt I’d have much to say to them, but they’d probably enjoy it if you showed them around the farm.”

“You failed to include Mercy in that invitation.”

She sniffed and raised her chin in defiance. “That’s because I won’t abide an Evans on my property.”

“She’s not an Evans; she’s a Connors.”

His mother scoffed. “She will never be a Connors in my book.”

He released her shoulder and slid away from her, clasping his hands between his spread legs and leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. She certainly knew how to dampen the mood.

He waited till his anger settled, then changed topics. “Do you happen to know anything about a relative of ours who might’ve stolen one of our new kittens?”

“Good heavens, why would anyone do that?”

“You tell me. Whoever it was returned the cat—in a crate, mind you, with a noose around its neck and a threat attached, suggestin’ worse things could happen if Mercy and I didn’t divorce.”

“Sweet blazes! Was the cat dead?”

“No, thank goodness, but I don’t like the implications of the note. Somebody’s up to no good, and it’s gettin’ out of hand.”

She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. “Well, if you think I had anything to do with it, you can think again.”

“Still no idea about who threw the rock through our window?”

He noticed that she didn’t answer him as readily this time. “No. I mean, I suppose I did complain to a couple of your cousins about your marriage, but, blessed saints, I never suggested they do you any harm.”

“Which cousins?”

“Which? Oh, I don’t know. I don’t recall.”

“Sure you do.”

“All right. I was visiting Gilbert and Ella shortly after you and Mercy married, and Frank and George were there with their wives and children. I suppose I stirred the pot a bit.”

“You’re awfully good at that, Mother—stirring the pot.”

“Humph. It’s not as if I’m the only one who’s unhappy about this ridiculous union. Everyone thinks it’s disgraceful. Why, even Mercy’s relatives are outraged. Why don’t you go inquire of some of them?”

Ignoring her question, he blurted out, “Why’d Persephone distance herself from her whole family?”

Her head jerked up. “Persephone?”

“Your niece.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I know who she is. It’s just that I haven’t heard her name mentioned for some time.”

“Why’d she leave Paris?”

“She got married. I suppose her husband talked her into it.”

“No, she left well before the weddin’.”

“Well then, I couldn’t tell you. Neither Gilbert nor Ella has much of anything to say about her.” She stood, with surprising ease for a woman with a sore back. “It’s getting late. I should be returning to the farm.”

Sam rose, as well. “You just got here.”

“You’re the one who told me you couldn’t afford much time for visiting. Anyway, I have several food items to put away and chores to tend to when I get home.”

He scratched his head and nodded down at her. “Thanks for stoppin’ by.” He took her by the arm, and as they crossed the street, he noticed that her limp had mysteriously disappeared.

At the hitching post, he unlooped the reins, then helped her into the carriage before handing them up to her.

“Be careful drivin’ back,” he said, stepping away to give her space to turn the carriage around.

Before tapping the horse with the reins, she glanced down at him with a question in her face. “Whatever made you ask about Persephone?”

He shrugged. “Just curious, I guess.”

She nodded, and in her eyes, he thought he detected a wish to say more, but she didn’t.

As he watched her drive away, he stood there, thinking how very little he truly knew about his mother.

23

I
f the hundreds of people milling about Johnson Park were any indication, Mercy would guess the entire population of Paris had turned out for the community picnic. People she hadn’t seen in months were there, as were folks she’d never met—young families, older couples strolling hand in hand, women attired in their finest dresses and colorful bonnets, men looking dapper in suits and bowler hats, and children squealing with laughter.

As they walked, Sam made no attempt to hold her hand, but he did keep a possessive, protective hand at the center of her back, a move that both disarmed and charmed her at the same time. The boys ran several steps ahead of them, looking this way and that, nearly bursting with excitement and joy. It was the first Mercy had seen them in such a mirthful mood since the loss of their parents, and she had to believe the crying spell of a few nights ago had accomplished a great deal in releasing their pent-up emotions. It had been a definite turning point for her, as she hadn’t cried once since then, or battled any bouts of gloominess. Instead, she’d been making a conscious effort to praise the Lord in everything, to stop questioning His reasons for allowing bad things to happen, and to start trusting Him with all of her heart. She glanced at Sam out of the corner of her eye and silently thanked the Lord for her husband’s patience and kindness. His heart seemed a bottomless well of both.

“Mercy! Oh my lands, I’ll be a pink-nosed gopher snake, is it really you?”

Mercy stopped and whirled at the sound of the high-pitched female voice. Putting a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight, she felt her mouth sag open and her eyes pop at the sight of a familiar light-haired, fair-skinned wisp of a woman, holding a little girl who looked to be about a year old. “Joy? Joy Westfall?”

“Yes! Remember me?”

“Remember you! How could I forget my earliest playmate?” The girls had been inseparable in their early years, but Joy had moved away in the summer after sixth grade, around the time Millie’s family had come to Paris. Now Mercy gazed at her warm, friendly face, in awe at how little she’d changed. “What are you doing here? Have you moved back to Paris?”

“No, I haven’t moved back—yet. I’m visitin’ my aunt, who’s not doin’ too well these days. You know Myrtle Stitt, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. She lives in that little house right next to Paris Evangelical Church.”

“That’s the one.”

“I attend services there, along with my husband and”—suddenly she realized she hadn’t made any introductions—“this is Samuel Connors, by the way. Sam, meet Joy Westfall. She’s a dear friend from childhood.”

Joy smiled. “So, the family dispute’s been settled, then?”

Sam chuckled. “Not exactly, but we’re workin’ on it. I remember the name Westfall…do you have an older brother?”

“I have three brothers, actually—Gordon, Claude, and Willis.”

“Ah. Willis is the one I recall. He was around my age.”

“All three got hitched and moved far away, much to Mama’s despair. My father passed on a couple of years ago, so she’s been awful lonely. She’s movin’ t’ South Carolina in November t’ live with Claude and his family.”

“And where do you live, Joy?” Mercy asked.

“Well, I did live in Indiana, where my—where Annie’s, um, father lived, but…let’s just say I’m a bit displaced right now. Aunt Myrtle’s asked me t’ come live with her, but I’m not sure we’d all fit in that little box of a house. I’m thinkin’ on it, though. She could use the help, since she’s ailin’ an’ all.”

Mercy smiled, her heart aching for Joy’s apparent dilemma. “You’d be a great help to her, I’m sure, and she’d love your company.”

“I do admit it feels right good to be back.”

Joy shifted the little girl to her other hip. By now, John Roy and Joseph were tugging on Sam’s sleeves, anxious to be on their way. One could hardly expect five- and six-year-old boys to stand still when there were sack races, relays, balloon tosses, cakewalks, horseshoe competitions, and a myriad of other activities going on around them, not to mention aromas of every description wafting over from the food tables. As if reading her mind, Sam tipped his hat at Joy, then turned to Mercy. “I think I’ll take the boys explorin’. What do you say we meet over there by that bench in ten minutes or so?” He gestured at a wooden bench presently occupied by an elderly couple.

“That would be perfect. Joy and I can catch up a bit.”

Joy straightened. “Oh, I don’t mean t’ keep you from your family time.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” said Sam. “You two enjoy your visit. The boys and I will go look around.” He grinned and tapped Mercy on the end of her nose. “I’ll see you later.”

His tone sounded almost intimate, causing a shimmer of joy to shoot up Mercy’s spine. He took the boys by the hand, and as they walked away, Joy whispered, “Jumpin’ butter beans, Mercy, you’ve got yourself a good man there.”

“That I have.” Mercy kept her eyes on the threesome until they melted into the crowd. She gave a slow sigh.

Joy touched her arm. “Aunt Myrtle told me all about your gettin’ married and how it come t’ be. I was heartbroken to hear about how those boys’ parents died.” She shook her head. “Such a terrible thing, but at least them sweet little boys got t’ stay with you.”

Mercy nodded. “Looking back, I suppose it was all part of God’s bigger plan. Not that I understand how His plans work, mind you, only that I’m learning to trust Him more.”

“Well, I don’t know about God’s bigger plan. Shoot, I can’t say I even believe in God anymore, the way my life’s turned out.”

“I’m sorry, Joy. I didn’t realize things had gone badly for you.”

“Oh, they ain’t gone all bad. I got my daughter here, and that’s what counts most.” She tousled the little girl’s hair. “Can you say hello, Annie?”

The child gave a toothy smile.

Mercy leaned forward and tweaked her rosy cheek. “Hello there, Annie. Aren’t you a pretty little thing?”

Her wispy blonde hair matched her mother’s perfectly, and her eyes were the same shade of blue.
My, but they make a striking pair
, Mercy mused. It made her long for a daughter of her own—a foolish notion, considering she and her husband didn’t even share a bed. She wondered if they ever would.

“You sure are lookin’ pretty, Mercy. Marriage suits you well, I can see.”

Mercy felt herself blush. “Thank you, but I was just thinking how lovely
you
look. I don’t think you’ve changed a bit since the last time I saw you.”

“Right around then, I’d say. Daddy moved us just after my twelfth birthday.”

“You went to Kentucky, right?”

“Yes. He took a coal minin’ job, but it wore ’im clear to the bone. He took sick after about six years and lived another three after that. Doctors never did know what kill’t him. Mama died a little that day, too. But enough about me! Aunt Myrtle tol’ me all about your daddy, an’ the awful way he died.” She lowered her voice. “I can’t help but think it must be a little awkward, you marryin’ the very man whose father….”

“I’ll admit I didn’t see it working at all, at first. Truth told, I didn’t want to marry him, but he convinced me it was for the best.”

Her eyes brightened. “So, he wooed you, did he?”

“Good gracious, no, nothing like that. What he did was make me see the practical side of things. He saved the boys from the fire, you know.”

“Aunt Myrtle told me.”

“Well then, there was already a sort of bond with the boys; that, and his desire to get out from under his mother’s thumb. I don’t think anyone could blame him.” She leaned close and whispered, “The woman despises me.”

Joy screwed up her face. “I don’t know why. You never did anythin’ to her.”

“It’s enough that I’m an Evans. Plus, I ‘stole’ her son away.”

“Oh dear.”

The winds swept down and snatched at Mercy’s skirt, and she clutched the yellow gingham in her fist. Joy adjusted her straw hat, the brim of which flapped slightly in the breeze. “Well, we really should be gettin’ back to Aunt Myrtle’s place. I need to make her some lunch and put Annie down for a nap. It was right nice seein’ you, Mercy. I hope to run into you again.”

Mercy wanted to ask about Annie’s father, but if Joy had wanted to talk about him, she would have done so by now. Had she married and divorced, then? Or perhaps never married at all? Mercy knew only that something had caused her life to turn so sour as to make her doubt God. To Mercy’s recollection, Joy had been raised by God-fearing parents. “Perhaps you’ll come to church tomorrow,” Mercy suggested. “It is right next door, after all.”

“Oh, good glory, no. I wouldn’t want to cause them walls t’ cave in.”

“But—”

Annie threw her head back and let out a yowl. Joy frowned. “Best get this little one back to Aunt Myrtle’s ’fore she throws a fit. She’s windin’ up for one right now.” She leaned forward and kissed Mercy on the cheek. “I hope our paths cross again soon.”

“Stop by my house if you get a chance,” Mercy called to Joy as her childhood friend hurried off, her somewhat tattered, colorless skirt whipping in the wind. Annie peered back at her over her mother’s slender shoulder, and Mercy waved and smiled. The girl wagged a pudgy hand in response.