Tessa McDermid - Family Stories (2 page)

The creak of the door interrupted his thoughts and he jumped to his feet, hat clutched in his hand. An older woman advanced into the room and Frank knew he was looking at the young woman's mother. The same blue eyes, creased now by age, glanced at him before again studying the floorboards. The golden hair was peppered with gray and the smile was tight- lipped but he had no doubt. He'd just been bowled over by the minister's daughter.

He bit his lower lip at the irony. The other salesmen might find the virtuous daughter of a minister intriguing game but he'd always been more cautious, flirting only with women who couldn't go running home to papa. He didn't want to end up shackled to some woman just because he'd let his eyes and hands roam.

The reverend's wife offered him a chair and he sat down across from her. Her expression softened a bit when she smiled at him, and emboldened by that approval, he launched into his sales pitch, bringing out each item with a practiced hand. She nodded, listening careful y, before final y settling on several bolts of sturdy cloth.

He gathered up the rest of his merchandise and slid it back into his case. She pul ed a smal purse out of her pocket and slowly counted out the coins before handing the stack to him.

He nudged the coins with his thumb as he checked the amount. "You've paid me too much." He held out several of them.

She shook her head, hiding her hands in her skirt as if he'd thrust the money at her. "No, keep it." She lifted her head and gave him a candid look. "Perhaps you could use the extra to cal your mother. I'm sure she must worry about you."

"She does. But I'm a grown man now." He bent down and picked up the half-empty case.

"You're never too grown-up for a mother's love," the woman said softly.

He was suddenly aware of the homey aromas around him. The fresh scent of lemon mingled with that of a stew, reminding him of long-ago days when he'd rush in the front door, cal ing for his mother. She would come out of the kitchen and throw her arms around him in a hug, asking about his day at school....

He brushed the memories aside. He was twenty-one, a man in every sense of the word. His hat stil in his hand, he paused at the open doorway and bent at the waist, sweeping the woman a low bow. "Thank you so much for your purchase," he said, "and for your advice," he couldn't resist adding.

She blinked at the implied criticism and he instantly felt sorry.

She'd only meant to be kind, he told himself, and quickly straightened, a contrite smile on his lips. "Perhaps I will cal Mom. I might even visit."

He was rewarded by a smile that took years from her worn face. Whistling, he tossed on his hat and headed down the steps, sparing only a brief thought for the lovely daughter who'd first opened the door.

Dusk had fal en while he was inside and he leaned his head back to take ful advantage of the remaining sun.

When he turned onto the road, he almost bumped into the slight figure that suddenly appeared in front of him.

"Quick, over here." She grabbed his hand and pul ed him down the lane, into a clump of bushes. He stumbled over a fal en branch, landing ungraceful y at her feet.

She giggled and sat down on the log. "Oh, I've never had a man literal y fal at my feet before."

He didn't speak, his eyes wide as he gazed at her, trying to capture her image in his mind. In later years, he decided, he'd remember her like this. I'll tel my children and my grandchildren about the most beautiful woman I ever met. They won't believe me because they won't be able to see her like this, with the dusky light revealing her golden beauty. They wouldn't understand how her smile could be serene while her eyes twinkled. Light and darkness, innocence and mystery.

She dragged him away from his thoughts with an embarrassed laugh. "I don't think you should look at me like that. I'm not sure it's proper."

He jumped up, his eyes wild. She was an innocent, a babe. He knew better than to be in a secluded setting with a young girl. He didn't even know her name.

She reached out and touched his fingers lightly. Her smile was gone and in her seriousness, she looked more beautiful than ever. "Please, sit back down. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

He wanted to take her in his arms until her eyes held their delicious sparkle again. He was surprised by the mixed feelings she aroused in him. He'd slept with his first woman only a week after leaving home, a neglected wife eager to fil her bed with any able- bodied man. He had listened to women moan about their men, holding those same women in the quiet of their houses, letting them ramble so he could reap the benefits of their sorrow.

But this was the first time he'd truly wanted to comfort, to protect a woman from whatever problems could cloud her life.

"They're probably worried about where you are," he final y said. "You should go home."

The smile returned. "So you can speak, after al . I thought you could since you're a salesman but I was beginning to wonder."

His own lips curved upward at her infectious tone. "You should go home," he repeated as much for his own sake as for hers. But he sat down on the log next to her, careful to keep a safe distance between them. His fingers tingled with a desire to see if her skin felt as silky as it looked.

"No, it's al right." At his questioning glance, she grinned. "My parents trust me and let me have my own way.

The townspeople would tel you I'm a bit spoiled."

She leaned back. He was fascinated by her long, white neck exposed by the soft summer dress. Several loose curls danced around her face and her hands fluttered with each word.

"Have you ever heard of Abraham and Sarah?"

He frowned, trying to fol ow her lightning change of topic. "I'm not from around here."

"They're in the Bible, sil y," she said.

He dug in the dim recesses of his mind. Church on Sundays had been a regular part of his growing-up years, walking the few blocks with his mother and two sisters. Their dad always stayed home to read his paper in peace and quiet.

"An old couple who wanted a baby?" he ventured.

She nodded. "My parents see themselves as Abraham and Sarah. They had decided it was God's will that they never have children. And then, just like Abraham and Sarah, they found out I was on the way."

"They must've been very excited."

"They were. Mother was sick a lot but they were so happy, she didn't care. She couldn't go anywhere with my father, even to church. She sewed clothes for me, lovely clothes for this precious baby she was expecting."

Frank watched the changing expressions on her face. She spoke about babies and birth as if they were the most natural things in the world. Maybe she's right, he thought, touched by her candor.

"And here you are," he breathed when she stopped, vowing to start praying again. If God could create a vision like the one sitting next to him...

"I almost wasn't."

Frank caught her hand at that horrible possibility, staring at the sight of her delicate fingers against his much larger palm. She smiled at him and he was ensnared in the spel of her eyes. Sapphires, he told himself, even though he'd never seen the actual gems. Her eyes must look like sapphires. Bright blue rimmed with dark lashes.

She tugged her fingers out of his tight hold and folded her hands in her lap. "My mother suffered complications just before I was born. She told the doctor and my father that if a choice had to be made between her and the baby, then the baby must live. Father argued with her but she wouldn't listen. Final y, he gave in, hoping a miracle would happen."

"And a miracle did." He felt his own faith rekindling at her simple story.

"That's what my parents believe. I stil think it's because my father can speak to God so easily, or maybe God finds it easier to understand a minister's requests."

She laughed at his look of surprise, a throaty tril that spun cobwebs down his spine. "Oh, you mustn't mind what I say. Real y, I do believe in God but living with people who praise God whenever you walk into a room can be tiring."

She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and rested her head on her arms, her face turned away from him. A delicate pink ear was visible among the disorder of her curls and he clutched his hands in his lap. When a light breeze brought the fresh scent of her soap to him, he closed his eyes. Help me, God, he prayed for the first time in years. She's too young, too innocent. She doesn't know what her mere presence does to a man.

He opened his eyes and saw her sitting up, watching him with a mixture of longing and worry.

"You won't go away, will you?"

I'm going right now. I'm catching the next train and riding as far away from you as I can.

But the words didn't form on his lips. Looking into her eyes, he knew he couldn't say them.

"Your parents won't let us meet," he said instead, both relief and regret in his tone.

She rose graceful y to her feet and smoothed down her skirt. "Don't worry about my parents. Come to church on Sunday and don't be late." She paused, studying his rumpled clothes. "Do you have another suit?"

"Yes," he lied. Sunday. He had three days in which to buy another suit. If it cost every penny he'd just earned, he would arrive at the church in a new suit.

"Good." She started to walk away. "Then come to the church by 8:00 a.m. The white church, not the brick one."

She was almost gone. "Wait!" he shouted, running after her. "I don't know your name."

"Marian," she cal ed to him. "Marian Cooper."

"Marian," he whispered, walking back to the log. He took off his jacket and rol ed it into a pil ow. His stomach growled but he pushed his hunger aside. A smal price to pay to see her again. He curled up against the suddenly cool summer breeze and whispered her name over and over.

He spent the next three days knocking on doors in nearby towns. On Saturday he went back to the storekeeper whose wares he carried, received his pay, then asked about a suit. The old man was pleased with his profit and offered Frank a discount on a ready-made suit. He directed him to the tailor's house on the outskirts of town and by nightfal , Frank owned another outfit.

He slipped into an empty freight car and watched the stars through the open door. Sleep eluded him. One part of him hoped the feelings she'd aroused in him would be extinguished by the real presence of her, and another part wondered how he would live if she'd forgotten him or, worse, been toying with him.

What if she had only been using him to while away a few summer hours? What if she snubbed him when he arrived at the church, her adorable little nose in the air as she walked haughtily past him? He groaned and punched his bag into a pil ow of sorts. He stretched out his long form and, resting his head on the crumpled bag, wil ed himself to sleep.

By the time the train pul ed into the vil age of Winston, he was a bundle of nerves. Each time he'd drifted off, her face invaded his vision. He could see again the soft curve of her cheek, the gentle sweep of her lashes, the rosebud perfection of her lips. Clenching his teeth to stop another moan, he grabbed the smal bag with a sweaty hand and swung himself down from the freight car. The train's whistle sounded in his ears as it chugged down the tracks, leaving him alone in the dark countryside.

He found an empty barn near the edge of town and crawled into a corner, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and his heart aching with worry. Stripping off his jacket and shoes, he lay down and closed his eyes, begging for at least a few hours' sleep to release him from his anxiety.

He was up with the dawn, only slightly rested from his hours in the barn. He gobbled down the sandwich he'd bought the day before and dressed careful y in the new suit. The tailor had assured him he looked extremely well-dressed; he hoped the little man was right. He dusted off his shoes with a handkerchief. Using a bit of broken glass he found in another corner of the barn for a reflection, he styled his hair careful y. Satisfied he looked his best, considering the facilities he had to use, he hid his bag under some dusty tools and headed down the road to town.

Winston, Missouri, woke up early on a Sunday. He could smel Sunday dinners already cooking. Children sat on porch swings, their hair brushed and pul ed back from scrubbed faces. Their feet swung in shiny dress shoes. They waved at him and he waved back, his mood lightened by their friendliness.

As he neared the center of town, church bel s rang out. People were filing into the brick church; remembering her directions, he joined the throng at the white frame church only a few steps from her home.

He chose a pew in the middle of the right side. He bent his head, unable to look around now that he was final y there. He chastised himself for being seven different kinds of fool for even being in the same vil age again.

Just as he'd decided to bolt out the door and run for the nearest train station, the organist started to play.

Hymn books rustled, and his neighbor handed him her open book with a pleasant smile. He returned her smile, nodding in thanks, then froze as he saw Marian.

She was sitting across the aisle in the front pew with her mother. A dark-blue hat rested on top of her curls, enhancing their luminous glow. Her dress was in the same sedate blue and while the high col ar hid her neck from sight, he could imagine its slender beauty under the protective material.

She stood with the rest of the congregation and shifted slightly. He got quietly to his feet, his eyes stil on her face. A hint of a smile lifted the corner of her mouth and a moment later she was singing lustily. The blood rushed to his head and he could hardly breathe.

He felt relieved when they bowed their heads for the prayer. By the time he sat down again, his breathing was normal. He kept his eyes on Reverend Cooper's face, wanting to know this man who was Marian's father, but he could find no trace of the enchanting woman-child in the man admonishing his flock to always choose the right path.

After the final prayer, the congregation was ushered out. Marian and her mother left first and he watched them walk up the aisle. Not by a single movement did she acknowledge his presence.