Summer Lightning (23 page)

“I thought the rain would never start. All that booming and crashing but no water ‘til now. It’s already cooler.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and then to her temple.

“It’ll come down until morning,” he said, recovering.

“I stood here and watched it come. It was terrible, exciting and terrible. The rain in St. Louis wasn’t like this. You’d look up between the buildings as a shadow crossed the sun and there’d
be rain falling. The clouds were never green there, only ordinary gray.”

Jeff sat on the foot of her bed, his bed. “How could anything be ordinary if you are there?”

She quivered as though she would look toward him. Controlling the motion, she went on staring out the window. “Maribel came in when it began to thunder,” she said.

“And Louise?”

“I went for her. Do you know she is terrified of thunder?”

“No, I didn’t,” he admitted to his shame. As though in punctuation, another crash sounded, a little further off now.

“Well, she is. And she wouldn’t ask me if she could cuddle up here, I had to invite her.”

“My wife . . .”

“She told me.”

He felt her smile, rather than saw it.

“Louise wouldn’t join Maribel and me until I told her we needed her, that we were frightened. She takes after you, doesn’t she?”

“Does she?”

“Yes, very much so. She can’t give herself to people unless they ask and you . . .”

Jeff crossed the few feet between them. He didn’t touch her, didn’t pull her into his arms as he longed to do. After all, the only thing he could give her was the security of his word. He’d promised to leave her alone. He must keep that promise.

“And me?” he prompted softly.

Edith had never felt so aware of another person. It wasn’t just that she knew the taste of his lips, the hot urgency of his hard body. She knew every nuance of his breathing. She could tell, not what he was thinking or feeling, but how his frame of mind changed from moment to moment. Right now, he was determined to be chivalrous. She felt a purely feminine wish to break the will that kept him from touching her.

She looked at him over her shoulder, knowing that her eyes must look black and deep in the darkness. “You’re the most important man in town, the leading citizen. What you want to have happen, happens.”

“Is that so?”

“Everybody says so.”

He said, “Not everything happens as I want it to, Edith. Not by a long shot.”

“No?”

“Not even close. If it did, you’d be . . .” He glanced at the bed, the sheets softly rumpled and still warm. It would be so easy to make love to her now. From her response to his kisses, from her confession of desire, he knew she’d put up no resistance to him. Worse yet, she’d assist him in accomplishing her own seduction. He could imagine her smiling at him like a goddess while she let her nightgown drift to her feet.

He coughed. “I should tell you that the Armstrongs hold prayer meeting Wednesday nights. Do you care to go?”

“I’d like that. It will give me the chance to see Dulcie again, and the others. Do you usually attend?”

“No, but I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Jeff. Dulcie’s intended will be there too, I suppose?”

This was the moment to tell her he’d seen Sullivan himself. But he didn’t want to argue about whether she’d been right about the city slicker, even though such an argument would keep him close to her for another few minutes. That would be a sweet torture, too much to stand. If he couldn’t kiss her as he wanted to, deep, lingering kisses that would send them both tumbling over the edge of desire, then he couldn’t bear to stay.

“Good night, Edith,” he said abruptly. He left the room as quickly as he could without running.

It was about an hour later that Sam kicked Jeff out of bed.

“Go and do your tossing and turning in the barn, son. I’m an old man and I need my sleep.”

“But Dad . . .” He didn’t know whether to laugh or holler.

Sam turned up the dimly glowing lamp by the bedstead. His graying hair stood in spikes. He rubbed his hand over his sprouting cheeks and said, “Okay, we’ll talk.”

‘Thanks. What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know. But until you decide, it’s pretty obvious I’m not getting any sleep.”

Jeff stared at the blanket over his knees. This was like the long late talks he’d had with his father as a boy. He hadn’t enjoyed one since he came home—a man—from the gold rush.

“The problem,” he said slowly, “is Edith.”

“Congratulations on the blinding inspiration.” Sam rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I’m always sarcastic in the middle of the night. Your mother could have told you that.”

“I know it myself. I once woke you up coming home late from some hell-raising and you blistered me with a dozen words.”

“What were they?”

“‘If you were visiting a lady, she sure must be disappointed.’"

“Were you visiting a lady?”

“No, sir. A woman—and she didn’t complain. Not that I heard, anyway.”

Sam chuckled reluctantly. “Sometimes, when you were raising that kind of hell, I envied your opportunities. There was never any woman for me but your mother.”

“I envy you your fidelity. And you had the time to prove your faithfulness. I didn’t have near long enough with Gwen.”

“No, son, you didn’t. But right now ‘the problem is Edith,’" Sam prompted.

Jeff thought about Edith. Was it just physical, this attraction between them? The kind of heat that would burn itself out after one or two encounters? Or was it the imperishable flame of two people destined for one another?

He flinched away from the thought as though it were a knife’s blade against his skin. Love was not something he wanted ever again. He’d seen what pain it could cause when, for no good reason, Gwen died.

That was why he wanted to marry a woman he liked, one he could respect, but one for whom he’d never felt the slightest frenzy. Miss Albans, Miss Climson or Mrs. Green . . . any one of whom he could take to his home as an ornament. Sex wouldn’t be a problem as he was young and healthy. Those responses depended more on the moment than on love.

“The problem is Edith.” he repeated again. “She’s different from anyone I’ve ever met. She seemed so helpless when she appeared at my hotel, carrying nothing but that canary. And yet, if I hadn’t been there for her to come to, why do I think she would have managed to get along?”

“Probably ‘cause she would have, somehow. Most people manage to survive even the worst calamity. I survived when your Mother died, though I sometimes hoped I wouldn’t.” Sam ducked his head in embarrassment. “Ah, heck. You know what I mean.”

“Yes. I do know. It’s a terrible thing to be left alive when the one you love has died.”

Sam coughed to hide his emotions. “What do we keep talking about them for?”

“Maybe because the subject’s marriage and we don’t know anything about it ‘cept what we’ve done so far.” Jeff tossed the covers off and stood up. Pulling on his jeans over his drawers, he said, “Okay, Dad. I’ll sleep in the parlor.”

“Good. But listen, Jeff . . . maybe the reason you keep thinking about Gwen is Edith’s got you thinking about marriage.”

“Marriage has been on my mind for a year. You know that.”

“Not marriage with Edith Parker.

Instantly, Jeff protested, “Are we back to that? I’ve already told you . . .”

Sam held up his hand. “All right. You told me. Now tell yourself, ‘cause I swear you keep circling ‘round and ‘round this business like ol’ Grouchy looking for the scent.”

Jeff knew his father was right. He couldn’t be thinking of Edith as a wife, but at the same time, he wanted no one else. But that was just his body talking, and a man had to be ruled by his head. His head told him he’d only known her for a very few days. After a moment, he heard from a part of himself that very rarely spoke up. His spirit said very quietly, You have known her for always and always.

“The problem,” he said as his mind began to work again, “is Edith’s sense of duty. She has come here to see me ‘safely married’ to use her words.”

“Married to one of those three gals.”

“That’s right. Now I could delay making my choice and keep her here that way. That would give me more time to know if she really is ... the one.”

“Sooner or later you’d get tired of living like that. Hands off all the time,” Sam said, stifling a yawn.

“I’m already tired of it. Or I could come right out and ask her to marry me.” He found himself grinning daftly at the idea. “I could marry Edith, Dad.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why not?” Quick as a lightning bolt, Jeff’s merriment vanished. His frown would have made a lesser man back off instantly. But a father is a father forever.

“Because the problem is Edith’s sense of duty.”

“Isn’t this where we started?”

“Hey, you want to talk about her, that’s fine. But don’t expect me to make much sense at this hour of the night.” This time Sam didn’t bother to hide the yawn that cracked his jaws.

“You mean she won’t marry me because her duty is to see me married to one of the others.”

“Right at last.”

“Then what am I to do?” I sound as frustrated as I feel, Jeff thought with a growl.

“Well,” Sam said, “for tonight .  . .”

“Yes?”

“Tonight you sleep in the parlor.” Suddenly, Sam hurled one of the pillows at him. Before he could pick it up, Sam had turned down the lamp and rolled over, producing a raucous snore,

“You’re my father and I love you, but I’ve got to tell you . . . you’re one lousy actor, Dad.”

Leaving, he pretended not to notice the second pillow his father shied at his head. He went to find, as best he could, sleep on the parlor settee. Between the torments of passion and horsehair, he stole little rest. Dawn found him heavy-eyed and grumpy, not at all Edith’s eager, yet patient, lover that he had planned to be at their next meeting.

Chapter 15

The rain continued. Until dawn and beyond. The little girls moped listlessly, for it was far too wet to go out. Sam shooed them out of the kitchen, where he was trying to get a cake to rise against its will.

Edith hadn’t seen Jeff. He was gone before she’d come down to breakfast after a restless sleep. She wanted to go into town to talk to Miss Climson. Sam, however, was too busy cursing like a sailor to be interrupted, and she hadn’t the right boots for walking. Besides, the road was most likely nothing but mud by now.

Entering the parlor, she saw Maribel on the floor, jumping her toy sheep over a wall made of blocks. Louise sat in the window, her chin propped on her hand, heaving heavy sighs at regular intervals. The air was close, sticky with humidity, and Grouchy added the strong fragrance of wet dog.

“What are you doing?” Edith said, crouching down next to Maribel, She checked carefully for snakes and other creepy things before she did so, however. She felt that being in the house was no protection.

“Baa, baa,” said Maribel. “I’m a sheepdog.”

From the window Louise said in a bored tone, “Sheep dogs don’t baa. Dogs bark. Woof-woof, like that.”

“They do so baa!”

“Do not!”

Edith put her hand on Maribel’s shoulder to keep the little girl from flying at her sister. “Maybe the sheep is half a dog. That would make him a sheep-dog. Or a dog-sheep.”

Maribel giggled and said, “Baa-baa. Woof!” She bounced the sheep over the carpet, making him come down on his little black legs and bound once more into the air.

“Baa-woof!” Edith said. “Or, if you prefer, woof-baa!”

Grouchy woofed, tilting his head at their nonsense, but thumping his tail good-naturedly.

Louise shook her head and stared at the drizzling sky, “Some people are too silly. . . .”

Edith and Maribel played for a few minutes. The child seemed to take it as a matter of course for the grown woman to kneel beside her on the carpet. Yet Edith remembered how her aunt would stand above her as she played, a grim tower in her straight smooth skirts, the only friendly sight Edith’s own face reflected in her aunt’s polished, high button shoes.

Before long, Louise turned her attention from the outside to the action beside her. In a moment, she too was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, reaching for the blocks, saying, “Not like that . . . like this. Put them on top of each other.”

The back door slammed, shaking the windows. “That’s Gran’pa,” Maribel said, not looking up.

“He’s gone to throw the cake to the pigs,” Louise added. “I ‘spect that baking powder wasn’t any good. He should of stuck to Borsun’s and not try any new stuff. Gran’ma only used Borsun’s.”

“You remember your grandmother?”

“Oh, sure,” Louise said.

“Oh, sure,” her sister parroted, nodding briskly.

“You do not! I remember Grandma and Mama and you don’t remember nobody.”

“Yes, I do! Mama was pretty.”

“Daddy told you that. You don’t remember her.” Louise looked up at Edith. “She was pretty with green eyes and long silvery hair. I remember her brushing and brushing it, a hun’ert strokes. Sometimes she’d let me brush it. Daddy cried for three days when she went to Heaven.”

“Daddy cried . . . ,” Maribel said like an echo, though her baby face was bewildered.

“You must miss her very much,” Edith said to both girls.

“Not so much anymore,” Louise answered matter-of-factly. “That’s a long time ago. I’m eight now . . . I was a baby then, like Maribel is now. Daddy still misses her, I guess. Well, being married . . . you know.”

“Oh, yes. I see.” Obviously Jeff had not yet gotten over the death of his beloved wife. His attraction to herself was merely an attempt to distract her from the performance of a duty he no longer wished her to complete. Naturally, he wouldn’t come right out and admit that, not after all the bother he’d been put to in order to get her here. Yet Edith remained steadfast.

These children needed a mother. Even she, a spinster, was fairly itching to run an iron over the girls’ wrinkled pinafores. She wanted to banish the wary look in Louise’s eyes forever. And the sweet, trusting way that Maribel rested in the curve of her arm awoke some maternal sense she hadn’t even suspected she had.