Summer Lightning (13 page)

“I am, a little. Thank you.”

Edith sat and sipped her tea, ignoring the younger children who peeked in the window, discussing her. The young man came in to sweep up the pieces.

“Don’t worry, Miss Parker,” he said, “This old thing needed repair anyhow. And I didn’t want to do it.”

“You would have done it?”

“Sure.” He shrugged as though it were an everyday accomplishment. “I like to make stuff. I carved that bird behind you on the wall.”

The bas-relief songbird looked as real as Orpheus, though still the native brown of the wood. She almost expected the bird to flap its wings and fly away. “It’s very good,” Edith said. “You’re obviously talented.”

“If you don’t mind ... I know we just met an’ all, but could I do a carving of you?”

“Of me?”

All the members of the Armstrong family were tall, though most of the children were blond. While his hair was a dark, curling mass, his eyes were an intense blue she hadn’t seen in his parents. His arms dangled out of their too short sleeves, his hands surprisingly delicate in form. She could believe he was an artist.

Edith decided he’d probably done likenesses of all his family and friends. Perhaps he’d even made a carving of Jeff. She’d like to see it, if he had. A new face, even one like hers, must be welcome to an artist’s eye.

“What’s your name?”

“Gary. An’ if you want, I could get the materials right away. I’ve got a couple of nice blocks all sanded and . . .”

“Now isn’t a good time, Gary. There’s the sewing circle. I’ll be in town for a week though, at least.”

“Sure, sure. I know. It’s just . . .” He blushed, the color coming and going like a tide. His hands twitched as though they already held his tools.

Edith gave an encouraging smile. Artists were often shy, she’d read, and being shy herself, she knew what it was like. She would have been hard-pressed to say which of them jumped higher when the first knock sounded at the front door. A gabble of female voices began the moment Mrs. Armstrong opened it.

Glancing around to address a word to Gary, Edith found she was alone in the parlor. But not for long.

A phalanx of women entered, all friends. Edith could tell by the warmth that flowed around them. It was as strong as love, though of a different order. She had no hope that she could ever be part of such a group.

They looked at her with curiosity gleaming in their eyes. She rose to her feet, shaking out her skirt, and offered a calm smile. They couldn’t tell how her heart was beating, or that the tea in her stomach had suddenly turned sour.

“Now, girls,” Mrs. Armstrong said, bustling around to the front. “This is Miss Edith Parker, Jeff Dane’s cousin. She’s come to stay with them for a little bit.”

At first, there had seemed to be dozens of women crowded into the parlor. Soon, though, Edith realized there were only five, including Mrs. Armstrong. Two names caught her attention.

“I’m Miss Climson, the schoolteacher.”

“And I’m Miss Albans. Vera Albans. I do lots of things. Make hats. Sew. Anything, really.”

“Vera,” Miss Climson said. “You mustn’t say you would do
anything.”

“Pretty much, S.J. Pretty much.” She looked at Edith with an inviting glance, one eyebrow raised above a blue-gray eye. Her hair was like hot gold, caught in a smoothly bulging style.

Edith felt compelled to speak.  "I ... I ... make things too. Um, flowers. I make paper flowers. And fans.”

Mrs. Armstrong looked up brightly from her conversation with the other two ladies. “Did someone mention flowers?”

“What a pity you don’t trim hats,” Miss Albans said. “I was hoping to hear what the latest styles really look like. They can’t be the way they’re described in the magazines. They just couldn’t be!”

The ladies all laughed at her mock dismay. Edith joined in, a half-second behind. Secretly, she sighed in relief. At least she’d scraped through there, though why she hadn’t simply said she had private means? Perhaps because she could be plausible as someone who lived by selling paper flowers whereas she
never
could have passed for an heiress.

A belated knock at the door sent Mrs. Armstrong scurrying off again. Miss Albans leaned over toward Miss Climson. “That’ll be Mrs. Green, S.J.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Miss Climson had brought out an elegantly embroidered pillowcase. Spreading it carefully across a tea towel laid over her dark brown skirt, she began to attach blonde lace to the edge. Her stitches were tiny and meticulous, for which she donned steel-rimmed glasses that she’d also removed from her work bag. Glancing at Miss Climson’s work, Edith could see that each stitch was precisely the same size as all the others.

“Isn’t that beautiful!” Edith said, reaching out to touch the elaborately entwined design of birds and vines.

“Please don’t,” Miss Climson said without missing a stitch. “I am trying to keep it clean.”

Edith recoiled. “I apologize.”

This was one of the women Jeff had in mind. How could he consider her? She’d always be telling Louise and Maribel not to touch things.

Miss Albans leaned closer to Edith, whispering, “Don’t mind S.J. She’s . . . particular, that’s all. But nice, once you get to know her.”

Out in the hall, a woman’s voice was engaged in a lengthy explanation. “So I went back for the pound cake and forgot my sewing. Then the dog shook himself all over the clean floor and you know how water spots ruin varnish so the only thing to do . . .”

Miss Climson set another stitch. “Mrs. Green does occasionally take a breath,” she commented quietly.

She glanced up. Edith did not need her special sight to recognize in the teacher a capacity for laughter like a spring of joy. “She . . . she does?”

“Oh, yes. However reluctantly.”

Mrs. Green was still talking as she came in. She broke off in the middle of a rambling story about what her youngest had said to come up to Edith. “I’ve heard so much about you. I couldn’t wait to meet you. Tell me, is it true what they say?”

“About what?” Edith asked.

“About the county fair, of course.”

“The county . . . ? I’m afraid I don’t know anything . . . when Jeff comes back . . .”

Miss Climson stepped in. “You know we’re having the big fair here in Richey this year. I hope the weather will be fine for it. The children are so excited about it all.”

“The weather will be fine, S.J., but what about the fair? Is it true that there will be professional horse racers?”

“What?” the other ladies asked, turning from their work and their own conversations.

Mrs. Green nodded emphatically. “Yes, I heard it yesterday from Mr. Bradley. He swore to me that it was true. Professional riders, that’s what he said. He referred to them as ‘jockeys.’“

Edith spoke above the resulting babble. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Impossible,” Mrs. Green said. “Perhaps you just missed hearing about it because you were so busy with the rest of the organizing. I’m sure you’re doing a fine job but if you need any help, feel free to call on me.”

Edith’s head swam. She stammered out a polite “Thank you.”

Vera Albans came to her rescue. “No, no, Adelia,” she said, patting the plump redhead on the arm. “This isn’t Leena Michaels from Cat’s Wallow. This is Miss Edith Parker . . . you know. Jeff’s cousin. Arrived yesterday.”

“Oh, of course. I’d heard from Arnie that you’d come for a visit. I’m a scatterbrain. Do please forgive me.”

Mrs. Green had a smile that lit up the room like a candle on a frosty night. Actually, with her deep bosom, bright red hair, and comfy build, she would be able to keep Jeff warm without a blanket on the coldest night Missouri could throw at them. But what about summer? He couldn’t have two wives—one for snow and the other for summer?—could he?

A cool, collected brunette like Miss Climson would make an excellent antidote to Mrs. Green’s exuberance. But what about poor Vera Albans, left out? Perhaps she could take spring, for she was pretty as a rose. Pity there wasn’t a fourth candidate to occupy and console Jeff’s autumns.

Edith shook herself, realizing she’d gone too far. She was to help Jeff Dane to find a wife, and she’d already married him off to four women, one of whom didn’t even exist.

Mrs. Green looked around the room, greeting everyone. When Mrs. Armstrong came in again, bearing a fresh pot of tea, Mrs. Green asked, “Where’s that nice little chair? Have you finally decided to have Gary fix it?”

Mrs. Armstrong put the tea tray down on the table. “Miss Parker, shall I freshen your cup?”

“Yes, please.”

Mrs. Green said again, more loudly, “Are you having Gary fix the general’s chair?”

When the preacher’s wife began to talk to the other ladies about their sewing projects, Mrs. Green turned to Edith and said, “Mr. Armstrong served under General L. L. Polk in the late conflict. He was there when the general was killed at Pine Mountain. He kept the general’s little campaign chair as a memento. No one ever sits on it, but I’m just so envious of them for having it.
My
husband sent a substitute to the war, for which I’m very grateful but still . . ,”

Edith was dumbstruck with guilt and shame. She sat in the corner, feeling miserable. Once or twice she raised the apron she was working as though to look more closely at the stitches, but really to block a welling tear.

When Mrs. Armstrong again went into the kitchen, Edith volunteered to help, “I want to say . . .” she began.

“Now, you’re not to mind what Adelia Green says. God just plain left the tact out when He made her.”

“I’m grateful to her. Now that I know I have ruined a cherished memento, I will certainly . . .”

“No, you certainly won’t.” The preacher’s wife cut her off. “But you could do me a favor.”

“Anything!”

“That girl of mine is like to drive me wild! Here, this party’s all for her and she hasn’t stirred a step outside her room. Be a dear. Go make sure she hasn’t set herself on fire trying to curl her hair.”

“About the chair, Mrs. Armstrong . . .”

“Coming!” she called in response to a hail from the parlor. “It really doesn’t matter, Miss Parker. First door on the right as you go up,” she said, nodding toward the small stair that rose in one corner of the kitchen. “Tell her how rude she’s being. They want to see her, even if she isn’t perfect in every detail.”

Having destroyed a valuable heirloom, Edith couldn’t very well refuse her hostess’ commission. Though knowing nothing of young girls, Edith felt she could at least deliver a simple message. On the way up, however, Edith decided to soften Mrs. Armstrong’s command.

She rapped on the white door in the hall. “Dulcie?”

A muffled reply reached her ears. It sounded distressed.

Edith knocked again, and the door opened. “Dulcie? Your mother asked me . . .”

All Edith could see of the girl was her bustle. The rest of her was leaning out the window. “Go away,” she said.

“All right.” Edith began to withdraw.

“No, wait.” Dulcie drew her head in and turned.

Edith gasped and covered her lips with her hand. Dulcie Armstrong had gone positively green.

Chapter 9

His face was thickly coated with a bright-green paste. Tears cut white tracks through the compound. With her nearly white hair and deep brown eyes, Dulcie looked like a wild ghost-witch preparing to cast an evil spell. Especially with the desperately angry look haunting her eyes.

“What is that on your face?” Edith asked, closing the door instinctively.

Dulcie pointed toward her dressing table. A bowl of the gluey substance sat on a towel. At Edith’s approach the boggy surface shivered as though alive.

Next to the bowl sat a magazine which Edith recognized at a glance as the last issue of
The Horse and Stockmen’s Quarterly Bulletin.
It lay open to a page headlined, “Aunt Hermione’s Beauty Cures.”

The letters were nearly all complaints of love unrequited. Most of the advice was the same—to be sweet and patient while waiting for the desired object to see one’s sterling worth. Edith had received many letters from “Aunt Hermione’s” disappointed correspondents who had seen their beloved drift off on the arm of one not so worthy, but far more active.

However, “Aunt Hermione” occasionally broke down and offered concrete solutions to tough questions. This one was on “Clearing the Complexion.” Reading the ingredients, Edith realized that
concrete
was the proper term for this solution.

She read the ingredient list again. “Equal parts alfalfa and clover hay, linseed oil, and gluten. Stir well. Apply regularly to the face. Morning and noon feedings stir well into nine pounds of corn and oats, equally mixed.”

A fearful suspicion took hold of Edith’s mind. “Oh, dear. Did you read these instructions all the way through?” Dulcie nodded. “But what about this last sentence? About morning and noon feeding?”

Shrugging, Dulcie made a strangled sound. Edith interpreted it as “misprint.” “I’m afraid you’re right, but that’s not the misprint. It’s the part about apply this regularly to the face. The
Bulletin
has been having trouble getting things right lately.” She looked at the magazine again to confirm her guess.

“What you have on is a special feed for calves. At the bottom of the page begins ‘Mr. Hollister’s Scientific Remedies.’ He suggests a milk and honey mask for one’s young bulls.”

She glanced in sympathy at the young girl, whose face was now as fixed as a granite statue’s. “I’ll get your mother.”

Dulcie waved her arms frantically and shook her head. From a bedside table, she pulled out a white-backed Bible. Staring at Edith, she thumped the book several times with her fist.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Tossing the book aside, Dulcie’s eyes rolled. Edith felt stupid. Then Dulcie lifted one finger as though to say, “Ah!”

Exaggerating every motion, she curtsied, then held up her arms as through expecting to be swept of in a waltz. She danced once around in a circle, nearly knocking over the washstand.

Facing Edith once more, she put one hand on her hip and shook a finger of the other as though forbidding something. Edith realized her own face was suddenly saying “Aha!”