The Bridal Veil (10 page)

“
Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just
didn’t expect to see you up this late.”

“
I was waiting for you to
come back inside. I want to know about church tomorrow.”

“
Church?” He went to the
sideboard and reached behind it, producing a dark-brown bottle from
what appeared to be a hiding place.

“
Yes, tomorrow is Sunday.
What time shall I be ready?”

He took a glass from the shelf and
flopped into a chair at the table. “We don’t go to church. Well,
Cora, goes in sometimes, but I don’t.”

“
Really . . . I think it’s important for
Rose. Aside from the character-strengthening benefits, it’s a good
way for her to become part of the community, to be accepted, and to
gain a sense of belonging.” She watched as he pulled the cork from
the bottle and poured a half-inch of whiskey into the
glass.

Luke had been in church just twice in
his life, the day he married Belinda, and the day he buried her.
There was nothing for him to be found there. To his way of
thinking, a lot of the people—like Cora—who sat in those pews on
Sunday, pretending to be good souls, were anything but the other
six days of the week.

“
If you want to take Rose,
that’s fine. But don’t count on me going with you. Those
hymn-singing old biddies don’t want me there, either.” He swallowed
half the whiskey, feeling its kindly heat burn its way down his
throat to his stomach. Some days, like today, when the bickering
and complaining around here got to be too much, when the memories
were too sharply focused, a drink or two was all that let him find
sleep at night. It gave Cora something else to crab at him about,
and now he felt Emily’s disapproval radiating from her in icy
waves. He didn’t care.

“
There’s a pot of coffee
still warm on the stove.” She plucked a cup off the sideboard and
filled it from the blue enamel pot. Putting it in front of him, she
pulled out the chair opposite him and sat tentatively with her
hands folded in her lap. The lamplight made her skin glow like
fresh cream and gave her soft mouth the tint of crushed
strawberries. Had anyone ever kissed that mouth? he wondered
suddenly as he stared at it. Had a man ever broken through all that
starch and etiquette to plant a big, moist kiss on the proper Miss
Emily Cannon? He doubted it. And if he did, what would it feel
like?

“
Wouldn’t you rather have
coffee, Mr. Becker?” Her question interrupted his reverie. Jesus,
what was he thinking of? She wasn’t the kind of woman he wanted.
Just daydreaming about kissing another woman seemed disloyal to
Belinda’s memory.

“
No, ma’am, I would not. I’d
rather have the whiskey.” He saluted her with the glass and drained
it. He poured another half-inch into the glass.

“
I understand that you
imbibe from time to time.”

“
Yes, I do, and I don’t
apologize for it. No offense intended, ma’am, but you’re here to
help Rose, not to reform me.” A humorless chuckle rolled up from
his chest. “I suppose Cora told you all about it.” He took another
drink.

Emily considered first the glass and
then him. The instant of silence that fell between them seemed as
wide as the river. “No, actually. Rose told me.” She pushed back
her chair and rose from the table. “Goodnight, Mr.
Becker.”

Luke sat stunned in the low lamplight,
listening to her quiet footfalls as they traveled to the hallway
and carried her upstairs.

~~*~*~*~~

The following morning, Emily took one
last hurried glance at herself in the small mirror in her room. Her
hair was in place and her dress wasn’t so wrinkled that it would be
noticed. Thank heavens it had stopped raining, or they would be
soaked by the time they got to town. Securing her hat with its pin,
she deemed herself ready.

Earlier, she had roused the
none-too-pleased Rose and told her to dress for church. Whether the
girl had actually followed her instructions remained to be seen.
Cora had grumped in the hallway at the news, but she hadn’t had the
nerve to muster a full-fledged complaint. After all, how could she
object to Emily wanting to attend Sunday services? She had stomped
back to her room to dress, muttering something under her breath
about Mrs. Becker’s blame-fool notions.

Taking her Bible from her bureau
drawer, Emily grabbed her shawl and gloves, then went into the hall
and stopped at Rose’s doorway. She found the girl slumping on her
bed in another horror of a flounced dress, wearing just one sock
and no shoes. Her hair was an uncombed tangle.

“
Come along now, Rose,” she
urged from the door. “We’re walking to town and we’ve got to leave
now to make it on time.”

“
Why do we have to go
to
church
?” Rose
demanded. “We never did before. I go to school—isn’t that
enough?”

Emily bustled in and snatched up a
hairbrush from its resting place on the floor. “School feeds your
mind. Church feeds your soul.”

“
I don’t want my soul to
eat. Is Grammy coming too?” Rose pushed her bare foot into the
other sock, but made no move to put on her shoes.

Emily took some passing swipes at
Rose’s long, shiny hair with the brush. “Yes.”

The girl pulled away from her
ministrations. “I’ll bet Daddy doesn’t have to go! And if he’s not
going I don’t have to.”

“
He’s too busy with his
chores, but he told me he wants you to go.” She couldn’t very well
relate last night’s conversation, so she hoped God would forgive
her for the white lie she told. “Rose, for heaven’s sake, put on
your shoes. Where is your button hook?”

With great, gusty sighs and a lot of
eye-rolling, Rose managed to find her button hook under the bed,
finish dressing, and comb her hair. Emily kept her annoyance in
check with a tight rein. It wouldn’t do to snap at the girl again.
In the hallway, she gave Rose a once-over. “You’ve forgotten your
gloves.”

Rose gave her a look as if she’d asked
her to bring along a milk cow. “Gloves! I don’t have gloves. Just
mittens for when it snows.”

Now Emily sighed. No gloves—she
couldn’t imagine going out without them. It simply wasn’t done,
just as one didn’t walk barefoot through grass, or sleep naked in
the summer. Or any other time, for that matter. “Well, there’s no
time to worry about that now. We’ll have to get you some
later.”

They went downstairs, Emily first, and
Rose bringing up the rear with foot-dragging reluctance. In the
kitchen, Cora put out a plate of cold biscuits.

“
Don’t we get breakfast?”
Rose moaned.

Cora shot a look at Emily, then nodded
at the plate. “Grab a biscuit. We’ll have an early supper when we
get back. For now, these will have to do.” Her violet broadcloth
dress was plainly one saved for church and special occasions—it
looked as if she’d brought it out of storage. It bore the same
suffocating ruffles with which she’d dressed Rose, and the purple
shade clashed violently with her faded red hair.

Emily put on another forced smile.
“Are we ready?”

“
As ready as I’m going to
be, Mrs. Becker.”

Emily gritted her back teeth every
time Cora called her that. Somehow she managed to convey sarcasm in
what would ordinarily be a respectful form of address.

When Emily stepped out onto the back
porch she saw the farm wagon, hitched and waiting. Even more
surprising, she saw Luke himself beside the team, wearing the same
dress clothes he’d worn when she’d met him, and looking far too
handsome for her peace of mind. His dark hair ruffled in the
morning breeze and caught sparks of sun, making it glint with
chestnut and sable lights. Her heart felt as if it turned a
somersault in her chest.

“
Mr. Becker, you’ve changed
your mind?”

He shrugged, “Yeah, well, I decided I
could spare a morning. Anyway, I thought you could use a
ride.”

Emily turned to Rose.
“There, you see? Your father
is
coming along.”

Rose wore a sour expression but let
him lift her to the back of the wagon where he’d set up two kegs
for seats. In the meantime, Cora managed to heft her compact girth
up to the seat next to Luke’s place.

Luke shot her a frown, but Cora stared
straight ahead and made no effort to move.

“
I guess I’ll join you,
Rose,” Emily said, trying to make light of the situation. Luke
handed her up to the wagon bed and she took her place on the keg
next to his daughter.

“
Age before beauty, Mrs.
Becker,” Cora murmured to her as Luke came around the wagon. Emily
could hear the sarcastic smirk in her words and her blood simmered.
“Age before beauty.”

~~*~*~*~~

Luke did his best to keep
his mind on Reverend Ackerman’s fairly gloomy sermon, but it wasn’t
easy, mostly because no one else was paying much attention to the
man, either. From the moment they’d walked in, Luke felt all eyes
turn toward him and his family. Heads bent to whisper and a general
wave of murmuring swept over the little congregation in Fairdale
Church. It was especially obvious because they were sitting in the
back pew and people turned to stare, not only at him but at Emily
too. Why the hell had he let her shame him into coming along today?
Even while he’d stood at his mirror knotting this strangling
tie
again
—he’d
worn the damned thing twice in a week—he kept telling himself that
he wouldn’t go, not even for Rose. That he wouldn’t let prissy
Emily Cannon and her prissy notions of gentility force him to get
dressed up and go to church. But now here he was, and it felt every
bit as awkward as he’d expected.

Beside him, Emily seemed to be far
more at ease. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, serene and
ladylike, and appeared not to notice all the curious gawkers. Only
once did she lean over and whisper to Rose, he supposed to stop the
girl’s fidgeting. The pew was crowded, with the four of them wedged
in next to Bob Cook’s brood, and now and then Luke’s thigh would
brush against Emily’s. The sensation shot right up his leg to—well,
it didn’t help keep his mind on whatever the minister was talking
about. She smelled nice, too, like summer grass and clean
wind.

Josiah Ackerman obviously sensed that
his flock’s attention was wandering because the volume of his voice
kept increasing. From his pulpit, he insisted, “Our hunger will be
sated, our thirst quenched. The Lord visits upon us sinners only
those burdens that He knows we can bear, and gives us His grace to
endure until we are finally returned to His loving arms.” As far as
Luke could tell, that meant life was miserable but a little better
than completely hopeless.

Oh, hell, now Ackerman had everyone
standing up to sing, just as he’d predicted. This whole thing was
turning into flat-out torture, between his tie, and the staring,
and Emily with her nice smell and long leg next to his. She opened
a hymnal to share with him and took up the song. Her voice, clear
and sweet, raised goose bumps on his arms and scalp. He didn’t know
the hymn very well, but Emily didn’t even need to consult the text
as she sang something about “a wretch like me.” He didn’t want to
sing anyway. He’d rather listen to her. The sun streamed through
the windows and caught her in an arch-shaped beam, lighting up her
hair like spun gold. He didn’t know much about God; he wasn’t even
sure he believed God existed. But if he did, Luke was pretty sure
he could hear Emily this morning, and he doubted that God would
consider her to be any kind of wretch. When the song ended, she
glanced up and gave him a self-conscious smile that made him smile
back.

At last, the minister took pity on
them all and pronounced the benediction. There was a general
milling toward the doors in the back, and Luke was anxious to get
away before he got trapped by the busybodies who would probably
give voice to the questions they’d formed during the service. He
didn’t look back as he edged toward the door—he just hoped that
Emily, Rose, and Cora were right behind him.

But once he’d gained his freedom
outside, he realized that they weren’t with him and he found
himself in the middle of a group of chatting people.

“
Luke! Luke Becker! I
thought that was you.” He knew that voice. He’d heard it under more
intimate circumstances than these. Clara Thurmon hailed him from
across the churchyard and he felt as if he’d been shot in the back
during his escape attempt.

He turned to face the woman who, in
her girlhood, had been reasonably attractive. But the last ten
years had been less than kind to Clara—her pale mustache was a new
addition, and her hair was already sprinkled with gray. She was as
dull-looking as one of Cora’s hens. Her nearly lashless eyes bore a
brittle glint behind their spectacles. “Uh—hi, Clara.”

“
What a happy surprise!” she
chirped. “I never expected to see
you
at church. I’m glad that you’ve
decided to break away from the farm and come into town.” Her
brittle glint turned a bit coy, and she gazed at him from beneath
her sparse lashes. “Does this mean we’ll be seeing more of you? You
know, we’re having a basket social here next month to raise money
for a new church roof. I organized it, so you know it’ll be a big
success.” Clara never missed an opportunity to blow her own horn, a
trait that had always irritated him.