Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (32 page)

Stepping up to the table, he splayed both hands atop it and leaned over, eyeing them at close range. He noticed with satisfaction the way they scooted back in their seats. “And another thing. This feud between our family and the Evans clan is about to end—real fast. You’ll soon know what I mean. And when you do, take heed that you put blame where blame is due—and not on my wife or me. You hear?” When neither acknowledged his question—both just sitting there, with their jaws dropped to their knees—he repeated himself with almost alarming emphasis. “I said, do you hear me?”

To this, they gave several fast nods. He straightened with a chilly smile. “Glad to hear we’re all of one accord.” Never having bothered to take off his hat, he adjusted it on his head. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ you ladies on better terms next time.” He turned and walked out, leaving three speechless cousins in his wake.

Sam squeezed his heels into Tucker’s sides to urge him along to his next stop, Brockwell Manor, which stood in regal splendor at the end of a long, straight, pebbled driveway. It was the residence of Iris Brockwell, a stubborn, feisty widow in her late seventies, whose late husband had amassed a great fortune providing legal counsel to the Louisville and Nashville railroad lines. He didn’t know much more about Mrs. Brockwell, but his main interest wasn’t with her; it was with her personal butler and longtime friend, Solomon Turner.

As he rode, Sam planned in his head how he would broach the subject of the fight with Solomon Turner, hoping to discover what the man had overheard on that fateful day in 1884. That morning, he’d told Uncle Clarence what he’d learned at Persephone’s and sworn him to secrecy, with the caveat that he could tell Aunt Hester. While his uncle’s initial reaction had been anger, he’d quickly cooled down, saying it was in the past and there was no point dwelling on it. “May as well move forward with forgiveness and put the feud behind us,” he’d said.
Easier said than done.
Sam doubted his relatives or Mercy’s would ever quite forget, either. Even Sam couldn’t quite embrace that perspective, and he didn’t know when or if he ever would. His mother had really done it this time, and it would take a miracle to find it in his heart to let the matter go.

Sam gave the door knocker three taps. Several moments later, the door opened, and there stood Solomon Turner, a large but unassuming man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and tie, his short goatee and mustache neatly trimmed. He greeted Sam with a formal nod and a slight bow of his gray head. “Help y’, suh?”

Sam quickly removed his hat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Turner. I’m Samuel Connors. Don’t know if you remember me, but—”

“Why, Mistah Connors, o’ course I do.” Beneath his trimmed mustache, he gave a big grin that showed his teeth, bright white except for one gold on top, which glimmered in the light. “Din’t recognize you at first, I’m afeared, but now that I see y’ at close range and without that hat, why, sure I know you. What can I do f’r you, suh? If you were needin’ t’ see Missus Brockwell, she’s takin’ her mid-afternoon doze.”

“That’s fine. Actually, you’re the one I wanted to talk to.”

“Oh?” Only the faintest hint of concern skipped across the man’s dark, ruddy cheeks. He glanced behind him, then stepped out into the warm breeze and closed the oversized entry door behind him, its latch giving a quiet, controlled click. He gestured at the array of wicker chairs and settees arranged on the wide veranda. “Would y’ care t’ sit, suh?”

“That’d be fine, Mr. Turner.”

They each took a seat, Sam in a stationary chair, Solomon in a rocker, which squeaked back and forth. “Fine day.”

“Yes, it is.”

How to begin? He decided to just get on with it. “Mr. Turner, I’ve heard from several sources that you witnessed the murder of Oscar Evans, but the judge wouldn’t hear your testimony in court. Is that true?”

“Well, suh, yes, it is. Them prosecutors questioned me, but when they tells Judge Corbett who their chief witness is, he says he won’t allow no blackie in his courtroom. He done used a worse word than that, suh, but I ain’t goin’ t’ repeat it.”

Sam gave his head a remorseful shake. “I’m sorry you had to endure that, Mr. Turner. It was plain ignorant of him. I don’t mean to stir up any trouble, but I was hopin’ you could tell me what you saw and heard…just for my own enlightenment.”

The man looked out over the rolling hills surrounding the property. “Don’t know how much you want t’ know, suh.”

Sam cleared his throat. “All of it, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d have to dig down deep in my ol’ thinker. It ain’t what it used t’ be.”

“Take your time, Mr. Turner.”

“Well, from what I recall, I was jus’ comin’ outta Joe’s Market when I overheared a good deal o’ arguin’ in the alleyway. I stood there, outta sight, too afeared t’ move. Thought about walkin’ back inside, but then sumthin’ just made me stay put. I ain’t the nosy sort, Mistah Connors, but that argument didn’t sound like no ordinary row, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

Sam nodded, fingering the rim of his battered Stetson. “What were they sayin’?”

“Don’t know as I should tell y’, suh. It might not set too well.”

“It’s okay. I’ve heard quite a bit already; I just need some confirmation.”

“Well, suh, I hear Mistah Evans confess t’ havin’ a affair with yo’ mama some years before. He tol’ yo’ pappy he still loved her and it’d be in ’is best interest t’ release her for a divorce, and yo’ pappy, he says that ain’t happenin’. He start yellin’ and screamin’ obscenities an’ sech. I do believe Mistah Evans had gone too heavy on the sauce, the way he was slurrin’ ’is speech. Might be he was clear outta his head. Weren’t many folks out that day, ’cause it was so blamed hot, you could’a fried bacon on a brick. There was those two across the street, but ain’t no way them fellas could’a heard as much as me. ’Course, it’s them two what took the witness stand, but it’s all fine, ’cause the jury done found yo’ pappy guilty anyway.”

His words proved a lot to take in, and Sam spent a few moments digesting them. “Thank you, Mr. Turner,” he finally said. “Thank you for takin’ the time to talk to me. I just needed to hear your side of things. It gives me a new perspective on that day.” He put his hat back on and then stood.

Solomon started to rise, as well.

“Don’t get up on my account.”

“No, I ain’t, suh. I best get busy on Cook’s grocery list. It was nice seein’ y’ again, even if the circumstances coulda been better. How’s that new wife o’ yours and them poor kids? I saw ’em the night of the fire. It sho’ was a cryin’ shame, them losin’ their folks, but they’s safe now. Thank the Lord you rescued ’em.”

“We’re makin’ do—thanks. I’m just grateful I was at the right place at the right time.”

“The Lord saw to that, Mistah Connors. Yes, He sho’ ’nough did.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks again. I’ll be on my way now.”

After mounting Tucker, Sam kicked him into a canter. A dazzling sun reached down its blistering rays and pierced his shoulders like fiery fingers, yet his inner core shivered with newfound coldness toward his mother.

“Don’t let a seed of bitterness take root in your soul, Sam. Once you start fueling it with fury, it’ll grow faster than a weed.”

Mercy’s words pounded in his head, but he pushed them aside.

Too late
, he thought.
It’s already growin’
.

32

A
s autumn approached, Mercy looked forward to a break from the heat. She also hoped the change in seasons might bring about a change in spirits around the house. With the start-up of school, Joseph now spent his days away from home, which put John Roy in a downcast mood and her in a lonesome one. On top of that, she’d had to invent new ways to keep John Roy entertained, so accustomed was he to following his older brother around like a pup on a leash.

The send-off had made Mercy heartsick, for it should have been Herb and Millie’s honor to see their older son off to school for the first time. Instead, she and John Roy had been the ones to walk him the few short blocks to the two-story building on Poplar that served children in grades one through eight. Sam had tried to comfort her, but his words, while gentle and soothing, had lacked genuine understanding. After all, what did he—or she, for that matter—really know about the boys’ deepest needs? Ill equipped, that’s what they were, and some days barely treading water. Add to that Sam’s cynical view of his mother’s shenanigans—no matter that her father had played just as big a role, if not bigger, in the whole fiasco—and their little household stood in need of a transformation.

Perhaps that explained why she found herself taking a walk to Paris Evangelical Church, where she planned to meet with Reverend Younker to talk through some of her concerns. Something told her the kind old gentleman with infinite amounts of godly wisdom would have just the right words. She was grateful to her cousin Amelia for offering to watch John Roy for the day. The boy had been ecstatic, for he’d learned on a visit earlier that week that Amelia and her husband, Norman, had a big farm with animals galore and wide-open spaces to explore. Norm had graciously allowed John Roy to ride with him on his field wagon and help with a few simple chores, later telling Mercy he’d enjoyed the taste of what life would be like with a child, with Amelia and him expecting their first in February.

The sun baked Mercy’s back and shoulders, and she regretted not riding Sally to the church. The poor old girl didn’t get as much use or attention as she had before Tucker had come on the scene, and Mercy worried she might feel neglected. But she’d decided she could use the exercise herself. Besides, walking would give her more time to ponder how many details of the sordid affair to divulge to Reverend Younker. She had every confidence he would keep her secret safe for as long as necessary—which wouldn’t be much longer, seeing as Flora had called a family meeting. It was scheduled to take place in her home tomorrow evening, and Sam had said he planned to go, not so much to support his mother as to act as referee, should the news spark a squall right there in her living room.

When the little white clapboard church came into view, Mercy took a calming breath. The sight of the simple structure, with its bare windows, weathered bell tower, and shroud of ancient shade trees and overgrown shrubs, always lent a measure of comfort. Even more reassuring was the interior, with its rows of backless benches, central potbelly stove, narrow platform at the front, and wooden altar, where she’d knelt as a fourteen-year-old to invite the Lord Jesus Christ into her heart. She breathed a prayer of thanks, followed by a plea for courage, as she turned off the dusty road onto the dirt driveway.

A few houses dotted the cozy neighborhood, all small and boxy, with tiny front porches. On either side of the church were two residences, one of them the parsonage—a two-story with a wide veranda—and the other a tiny abode belonging to the elderly Myrtle Stitt. More than once, Mercy had thought about her conversation with Joy Westfall and wondered if she were still visiting her ailing aunt. Perhaps, after her appointment with the preacher, Mercy would venture over to find out.

“Well, hello there,” came a deep, mellow voice. Reverend Younker stood, shoulders a little stooped, on the church steps, holding one of the double doors open wide.

“Hello, Reverend. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” Her yellow skirt flared in an updraft, so she pressed it down with both palms before mounting the steps.

“No, no. I’ve been praying and preparing for Sunday morning’s message.” While not as spry as he’d once been, the elderly fellow still had energy aplenty for serving the Lord and delivering a fine sermon every week. Even so, Mercy wondered just how much longer he’d stand behind that pulpit before relinquishing it to someone else. She’d heard murmurings of his retirement but couldn’t bear to think about it. “You walked all the way from town?” he asked as she stepped through the door.

“Yes. It was lovely.” Inside the sanctuary, a cool breeze drifted through the open windows. She removed her straw hat, glad she’d remembered to grab it off the hook. “My, it feels wonderful in here.”

“Yes, doesn’t it? All thanks to those towering oaks outside. Let’s find a seat, shall we?” He led her up the aisle, stopping at the pew the Ammerson family occupied every Sunday.

Mercy slid along the bench, set her straw hat beside her, crossed her legs at the ankles, and folded her hands in her lap, ignoring the little lump that formed in her throat at having to spill her feelings.

Small talk filled up the first few minutes of their time together, but soon the pastor wanted to address her purpose in coming. Mercy began by telling him about her frustrations with caring for the boys, her fears that she and Sam weren’t “doing it right,” the crying spell from several weeks back, when the cat had gone missing, and her concerns that perhaps the boys were bottling up feelings they didn’t know how to express. Of course, she carefully avoided any talk about her marriage—until the reverend asked point-blank how she and Sam were doing as a couple.

Her heart did a crazy little flip. “We’re still getting to know each other, I suppose.”

“Perfectly understandable.” He nodded. “These things take time, even with couples who court months before saying their vows. As you grow more intimate with each other, you’ll find yourselves revealing the hidden things, and before you realize it, you’ll know each other quite thoroughly. It’s how a relationship matures. But, as I said, it all takes time and patience.”

Heat sprang to her cheeks at the word “intimacy.” Sam had kept their kisses few and far between, mostly good-night pecks, and she feared he’d started growing tired of her. But she wasn’t about to broach that subject with the preacher—much less tell him they still didn’t share a bedroom.

Instead, she confided in him how the knowledge of Sam’s mother’s affair with her father had seemed to steal a portion of Sam’s joy. She asked what she might do to help restore it, so that things could return to the way they were before.

To her surprise, Reverend Younker didn’t so much as flinch at the wretched story. Rather, he gently patted her hands. “Unfortunately, my dear, there is nothing you can do to restore Samuel’s joy. That is something he must choose for himself, through faith in Christ. Bitterness can fester over time, though, so we shall pray it doesn’t come to that.”