Palmetto Moon (21 page)

They don’t have enough hands to carry everything and the churn, so they load up the Plymouth. The promise of warm peach cobbler and homemade vanilla ice cream is enough to distract the boy from his feelings for Vada. Frank glances in the backseat at the paper sacks holding the makings for dinner and hopes they have the right ingredients to win Vada back.

She’s rocking the youngest in the porch swing when they pull up. His head is resting on the swell of her breast, his chubby hand in her shirt pocket. The little guy’s cheeks are red from the heat. Vada’s smiling down at him, drawing lazy circles on his back. She looks as exhausted as he is, but she’s never been more beautiful. Daniel and Frank shuttle things from the car, and the screen door bangs shut, but the little guy doesn’t stir.

“Can I take him upstairs for you?” Frank whispers.

“I don’t want to wake him. He’s so tired.”

“I’ll be gentle.” She leans slightly forward, and he flops gently into Frank’s arms. The little one cries out, and the muscles in his forehead are trying to do the heavy lifting, but his eyes are too tired to open. He settles onto Frank’s shoulder, and Vada takes Frank’s right hand and puts it on the child’s back, just below his neck.

“Just bounce him a little if he stirs.” She nods toward the screen door and lets Frank in. “It’s too hot upstairs, I have his pallet on the floor in the living room.” In the few steps to the boy’s bed, Frank can feel Vada sizing him up. God, he hopes he’s doing this right.

He lays the child, who looks too old to go down for a nap every day, on the well-worn quilts, but he doesn’t question Vada. And it wouldn’t be right to question Claire. Frank imagines she treats him like a baby because she wants him to stay that way, and Frank can’t say that if he were in Claire’s shoes, he wouldn’t do the same. The child takes in a deep breath that stutters out before he goes down for the count. Frank and Vada stand there for a moment, looking down at his cherubic face as if he belongs to them. She reaches for Frank’s hand and leads him into the kitchen.

Frank feeds me a slice of the ripe peaches we peeled for the cobbler. His slender finger lingers in my mouth. Instinctively, I suck the sweetness off, then turn away, wiping my mouth with a dishcloth. Slow. I remind myself, I’m going slow. Under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be fair to Frank not to. But his easy way is like his cooking, and I can’t help but want more.

“Good?” I can feel his determination not to push; he’s smiling, so at home in the kitchen. He pours a little lemon juice over the peaches and puts them in the refrigerator. “Let’s get started on the rest of the meal.”

He shares his secrets—how he gets the fried okra so good, the boys are picking at the platter like it’s filled with cookies; what makes his mashed potatoes so delicious, I can hardly remember Rosa Lee’s. He instructs me and watches me carefully, not in a seductive way. But when we touch or I taste something that is good down to my core, I feel drawn to him in such a way that it’s easy to forget the boys and the bachelors are waiting on their dinner.

“So what’s in this little container?” I ask. I open the coffee can, take in a deep breath, and inspect the contents. I see salt and black pepper. “Garlic?”

“Powder,” he says.

“But there’s something else. Basil?”

“Oregano.”

“And the red stuff?”

“Cayenne pepper and paprika.”

“It’s that simple?”

He nods. “Put a couple of tablespoons in the flour and dredge the chicken. Give each piece a little shake to get the buttermilk off, but not completely.” The meal smells so good, I can’t believe I’ve done everything except peel the peaches, with Frank’s instruction of course. I know it wasn’t easy for him, but he held back and let me do this myself. “Be careful.” He hands me the tongs, and I flip the chicken pieces.

“We have so much going.” The sweat is beading down my face, trickling down my neck and back. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Timing. It’s all about timing.”

“There are so many pieces in the pan. I’m afraid the crust will fall off if I don’t hurry. Can you help me get them up?”

“This is your meal. You can do it.”

I pick up the pace, and everything looks wonderful. Nobody around here has had a decent meal in so long, we set the table an hour early. The ice-cream mixture is in the refrigerator, ready to be churned. The boys squeal and run to Claire as she walks through the door. She picks Jonathan up off of the pallet, takes a big whiff, and looks warily at me.

“Come see, Mama,” Peter says. “Come see,” Daniel echoes.

She looks amazed and ferociously hungry. “Frank, you’re such a dear to do this for us.”

“All this is Vada’s doing,” he beams.

Frank wouldn’t lift a finger in the kitchen, but he insists on cleaning up after dinner while Claire gives Jonathan a bath and I supervise the boys with the ice cream. They take turns between working the crank and sitting on a towel on top of the churn. Mr. Clip pitches in while Daniel hurries back to the diner for another pail of ice. He’s so good with the boys, except when he swears—never at them, of course.

While the boys argue over whose turn it is to work the crank, the ice cream is getting hard, and their determination wears thin. They seem grateful when Frank takes over. Peter plays with the icy saltwater pouring out of the drain while Daniel perches stoically atop the churn. When it’s too hard for even Frank to turn, the boys cheer.

“Sorry, but it’s not ready yet.” Frank pours on extra ice and shrouds it with the towel. “It needs to harden.”

“But it’s taking too long,” Peter whines. “Can’t we have it now?”

“Some things are worth waiting for,” Frank says, looking at me. “But I promise you, it won’t be long.”

“Don’t worry, boys, Frank and I will go put the cobbler in the oven. As soon as it’s ready, we’ll have our ice cream, too.”

I take the peaches I peeled out of the refrigerator and stand there, looking at the ingredients Frank’s laid out. An almost-melted stick of butter on a saucer, flour, sugar, a little cup with salt and baking powder, another with cinnamon, brown sugar, and nuts. Some milk and a lone egg, so they would be at room temperature. “Dry ingredients in the bowl first,” he says softly.

I make the mistake of looking into his eyes. “Show me?”

He moves behind me so that I feel the heat from his body before he wraps his arms around my waist. Knowing I’m too sated to protest, he breathes me in. I add the ingredients, arching into him like it’s the most natural thing I know. The soft flour floats into the bowl, then the warm melted butter. “Is this slow enough for you?” he asks. I nod, adding the rest of the ingredients, watching our hands on the wooden spoon, stirring the sweet batter. “Want to go slower?”

My intention was to say yes, but I’m shaking my head, nuzzling it against his chest. I can feel he wants me, and he has something to say, but he doesn’t want to mess this up. So we mix the batter together, like a slow dance, until I’m nearly breathless.

The fruit spills over the bottom of the dish in its rich, sweet juice. “Okay, now pour the batter over the top.” He holds the bowl, and I guide the thick concoction over the ripened peaches. He sets the bowl down, and his hand slides slowly down my arm, giving me chills, a stark contrast to my body heat. He guides my hand to the little bowl of brown sugar, cinnamon, and pecans, and we sprinkle them across the cobbler.

The sweet crystals sticking to my fingers are my undoing. He puts my finger in his mouth. “See how good it already is, Vada. How it will soon be even better.” He turns me so that I am facing him and takes another finger into his mouth, licking and sucking so slowly, until I feel like I’m going to explode.

Footsteps rush up the front steps. The screen door slams. The sound of the boys’ voices pulls us apart.

“Is it ready?” Peter asks breathlessly. “Please say it’s time.” They look at the unbaked cobbler, and their faces fall. “
Aww
. How much longer?”

I pop the cobbler in the oven and can’t look at Frank, not in front of the children. “It won’t be long now.”

Early Monday morning, Claire takes in a deep breath, ready for anything. “How do I look?”

Vada motions for her to turn around and nods. “You look beautiful, Claire. It’s a smart uniform, really. The navy blue brings out your eyes. Are you going to wear your hair down?”

Claire’s hands are shaking so badly, she can’t even make the same simple bun she’s made every day of her life since she was a young girl. “Can you put it up for me?” She’s such a wreck, but after a week of preparing for Reginald Sheridan’s arrival, the fact that today might very well be the day he arrives has her as nervous as a first date.

“I bet he’s handsome.” Vada wraps her hair into a tight bump. The bobby pins scrape across her scalp. “This could be an answer to a prayer.”

Claire can’t help but laugh. “Not my prayers. I’m just grateful to have a job and a chance for the boys to have a real home.”

“But what if he is breathtakingly handsome? And kind? What if he falls in love with you and you love him back?” Vada pushes a few stray hairs into place and looks at Claire’s reflection in the cheval mirror. “I’m sorry, Claire. I don’t mean to push. I just want you to be happy.”

It had been a week since Vada opened the letter that had shredded her. It seemed wrong to let Vada Hadley carry her burden alone, but each time Claire broached the subject, Vada played it off and said she was fine. Claire knew that trick and didn’t believe her for a second. Vada was better, for certain. Frank Darling had a lot to do with that. But something was still hanging over her.

“And I want the same for you, Vada.”

“This is going to be a magical day for you, Claire. I just know it.”

Vada’s young and beautiful and head over heels in love with Frank Darling. It’s no surprise she looks at the world like it’s a place where everyone lives happily ever after. Chasing after the boys and sewing and mending for people has made it easy for Claire to become dowdy. Frumpy. She wants to look professional for Mr. Sheridan, so that he has no doubts about her qualifications and her commitment to be the best housekeeper he has ever known. But she is definitely not looking for love.

“Thank you, Vada.” Claire stands extra tall and smooths the bodice of her uniform. “But I am happy.” She knows that’s so hard for Vada to understand. Since Vada moved here, so much of her happiness has been tied up in Frank. Claire was the same way with Bobby. But she’s had to find a way to be happy, to show her boys that she’s okay. So they will be okay, too.

“I hope this job is everything you want it to be.” Vada hugs Claire and lingers a little, like she needs this almost as much as Claire does.

“There’s so much yet to be done, I almost hope he doesn’t come today. But I am anxious to meet him. The attorney didn’t give me a clue as to what he’s like. Judging from the things I’ve unpacked, I’d say he’s very particular. He has a fine appreciation for beautiful things, or whoever furnished the house did.”

“Daniel says it’s quite beautiful.”

“He hasn’t seen the third floor. It’s a mess, jam-packed with crates and boxes. All of them from Europe. It will take weeks to finish putting it together; I do hope Mr. Sheridan doesn’t hold that against me.”

“Oh, Claire, don’t give it another thought. He’ll love you. I’m sure of it. But if you’d like some help, when it’s time for Jonathan’s nap, I can bring him over, and we can put him on a pallet and work while he sleeps.”

“He does sleep through anything. Oh, would you? That would be wonderful.”

The sight of all of Mr. Sheridan’s chattel dampens Claire’s enthusiasm considerably. She shakes her head, pulls a pasteboard box down from one of the stacks, and slits it open. As well-organized as the contents of the other boxes have been, this one is a jumbled mess of photographs. There’s been precious little time to pause over Mr. Sheridan’s belongings, but the face of the boy in the pictures calls to Claire.

Most of the dates and particulars are scrawled on the backs in a broken, primitive-looking handwriting, maybe by a servant like Claire. Precious few are captioned, in letters so precise, they’d put a printing press to shame. Those pictures show a stoic little boy with a beautiful woman. The tall man beside them is holding his pocket watch as if to say he doesn’t have time for such things. His expression couldn’t look more disinterested.

“Hello?” Vada’s voice pulls Claire from her distraction.

Claire told herself she’d look just for a few minutes, but to her horror, she’s been sitting down on the job for hours and is surrounded by the photographs of an adorable little boy who grew up to be a stunningly beautiful man. She wants to linger over the photos and doesn’t understand the kinship she feels with Reginald Sheridan. Maybe it’s the vulnerability etched in the photographs of him as a young man, the sadness in his beautiful eyes. She shrugs off the thought, repacks the box. What could she possibly have in common with a man of his means?

“Up here, Vada.”

She hears Vada talking to Jonathan, and stopping on her way up, most likely to look at the view out the arched window that looks over the gardens. While the view itself is beautiful, the gardens are not. Weeds have run wild, completely covering the cobbled walkway in all but a few spots. Seedlings have turned to trees that have pushed the brick pavers out of the sandy soil altogether. As good as Claire is with a needle and thread, with the exception of her boys, Claire is horrible with anything that grows. She prays her job doesn’t depend on sorting out that briar-filled mess as well.

“Oh, Claire. It’s a lovely house.” Vada’s words sound sincere, but there’s something in her tone that Claire doesn’t understand. She imagines it’s a longing for this kind of grandeur. Envy. But Vada’s face is passive, almost sad.

Claire dusts off her hands, proud of all her hard work putting the house together. “I can’t understand why anyone would ever want to leave such a beautiful place and why it would take them twenty-five years to come back.” Vada nods her head absently and runs her hand across a stack of crates marked
FRAGILE
. “I think those are more paintings. Honestly, Vada, I don’t know how one man can have so much stuff.”

Claire spreads the quilt she brought from home in a corner, and Vada lays Jonathan down. His eyes are so heavy, his little brow creases as he fights to keep them open.

“And he’ll sleep through this?” Vada says, opening a box of fine linens.

“Sleeping in the bed with two brothers has trained him to sleep through anything.” Claire drops a large book from waist high; it makes a thunderous noise, but the baby doesn’t stir. “See what I mean?”

Vada is a huge help, and the work is easier with some company. Claire knows she’ll only have her for a couple of hours at the most, so she works as fast as she can and gently encourages Vada not to stop and admire Mr. Sheridan’s pretty things.

They’ve opened so many boxes, the air is thick with dust, and the afternoon sun beating down on the room has made their work stifling hot. The baby’s cheeks are redder than when he had roseola. Claire picks him up. She knows he’s not a baby anymore and doesn’t know how long she can hang on to him like this. Mr. Clip says he’s like the runt of a litter and will always act like a baby as long as he’s the youngest. But he’s getting so big, making it even harder to pretend he’s a baby.

His head rolls around his little jelly neck until it settles onto Claire’s shoulder. “It’s too hot for him up here. You’d better take him home.”

Vada takes Claire’s precious baby into her arms. He wakes suddenly and reaches for his mother. “Vada’s got you, sweet boy. I’ll be home soon.”

“No, Vada,” he says, still reaching. “I want Mama.”

His legs dangle near Vada’s knees. It breaks her heart that Bobby almost escaped going to war in the first place, that he didn’t make it back from the war to see Jonathan. But no matter how badly Claire wants to, she can’t make Jonathan stay little forever. Something else that won’t wait for Bobby.

She takes the boy in her arms and kisses the top of his head. The baby smell she’d hoped he could miraculously maintain is gone. “You have to go with Vada now. I’ll be home soon.”

“
Nooo
,” he whines pitifully. “No. Vada.”

“Be a big boy.” Claire barely gets the words out. She turns her back and slits open a new box. “Please, Vada. Take him home.”

I know Jonathan has heard his brothers say that a million times, but he seems startled by his mother’s words. He grips my hand tightly and follows me down the stairs, taking some of them like a toddler does, using the same foot to descend each step, and some mirroring my steps. He looks up at me like he’s unsure about everything. “You are a big boy,” I say. “You can play hopscotch with your brothers when we get back.”

“And you won’t hold me?” He grins warily. I shake my head and smile back.

At the bottom of the stairs, the sound of a key jiggling in the lock stops both of us in our tracks. “The door is open,” I yell. Jonathan dashes behind my skirt and glues himself to my leg. “Claire,” I call up the stairs, “I think Mr. Sheridan is here.”

The person on the other side of the door laughs and jiggles the doorknob. “It seems so, but for the life of me, it won’t open.” Claire is rushing down the steps, and just when she gets to the bottom, something hard hits the door, and it flings open, landing a very tall, very handsome man at her feet, who is laughing so hard, he can’t get up.

“Oh, dear. Mr. Sheridan, this is so embarrassing. You are Mr. Sheridan, aren’t you?” Claire looks at his finery from head to boot. “Yes, of course you are. I’m so sorry—the door sticks. I’ve asked the handyman to fix it. I really thought he had.”

His laughter dissolves into a happy sigh, and he sits back on his heels and surveys what he can see of his house. Claire is holding her breath and looks like she’s waiting for him to fire her.

He rises to his feet in a single graceful movement and is even taller than Frank. He has a face that would stop the most indifferent woman in her tracks, an impish smile that emanates from sparkling blue eyes. Thank you, God, he’s exactly what I ordered for Claire.

“Madam.” He extends his hand to Claire, who is too flustered to notice, so I place her hand in his, and she suddenly stops apologizing. She is dumbstruck by his beauty. Oh, I couldn’t be happier. “Reginald Sheridan.” She says nothing and is probably incapable, at the moment, of coherent thought.

“Claire Greeley,” I croon, giving their clasped hands a good shake, “and she’s so pleased to meet you, Mr. Sheridan. Aren’t you, Claire?”

“Please, call me Reggie.” He seems very kind. And he is rich and extremely beautiful. Why, I couldn’t have answered my prayer for Claire any better myself. Say something, Claire, something striking, so that when he toasts your wedding anniversary for years to come, this is the moment that will come to mind. When your eyes met, when your lips parted . . .

“Mr. Sheridan—”

Something for the ages.

“Reggie,” he says, still holding her hand.

“The toilet in your bedroom isn’t working, either. Please don’t use it.”

He throws his head back and laughs, letting go of her hand. Oh, Claire, couldn’t you have thought of something more romantic to say?