Three Rivers Rising (2 page)

No artifice,
no pretending to faint
or slipping so he could catch me.
Just our locked gaze
tightening the space between us
until our voices
need only whisper,
lips to ear,
then lips upon lips.

We instinctively know to hide our meetings,
to never speak of them to others.

When we cross paths—
me strolling the boardwalks with my mother,
him weeding a border—
we do not exchange longing glances.
The risk would be too great.

The eyes of every busybody
in the club
are on me.
And Peter’s hawk-eyed supervisor
wrings him out
for every drop of work.
Even the suspicion of fraternizing
with a guest
would be grounds for dismissal.

There will be no romantic picnic outings
to the waterfall for us.
Only brief afternoon swims
and furtive moments in the dark woods.

“Was anyone watching you leave?”
Peter steers me into a hollow
between the trees.
I look over my shoulder,
scan the horizon. “No, I was careful.
My parents …
you know they would not approve?”
“My pop, too, said don’t come up here.”
Peter looks down at me
and laces his fingers
in my hair. “He didn’t want me
to develop a taste for things I can’t have.”
I hold his wrists. “But you do have me, Peter.”
“For now.” He grins.
“For always…if you want me.”

“We both know that could never be, Celestia.
Forsake your family?
You love them.”
“I do love them,
and I do not relish the thought
of defying them,
but we can find a way
someday.
We must
try
.”

“I couldn’t ask you to give up this kind of life….”
Peter shrugs toward the clubhouse.
“I
want
you to ask me.”—I grab his shoulders—
“Say it.
Say you want me for always
and I will weather the storm,
whatever comes.”
I have pulled him slightly closer,
causing his hands
to release my combs.
A spark travels up my spine
and I watch his face
as he lets his fingers fall with my hair.
He uncoils it to the end,
all the way down my back,
until, his face on my neck,
his breath in my ear: “Celestia”—
his arms tighten around me—
“for always, of course.”

No one can know.
Yet
the color in my cheeks
and the bubbling in my speech
are not lost on Estrella,
serene at her stitching
but glancing from under those long lashes,
again and again,
biting her lips
to hide a smile.
Finally I become flustered
and throw my mess
of tangled thread aside. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
She bursts out laughing
and I cannot help but laugh, too.

She sees through me
and I am glad.
“Let us talk
after everyone has gone to bed,” she whispers,
eyeing the doorway
through which Mother and the maid can be heard.
“Come to my room, then,” I say,
handing her my needle and frame.
“Just like old times.” Estrella hums
and picks at my mangled stitches.

Not so long ago,
we shared a room at home.
When I was small and afraid of the dark,
she wrapped her arms around me, saying,
“You do not have to be brave.
I will be brave for both of us.”
When I was older and reading half the night,
she just pulled the blankets over her head,
saying, “Tell me the story in the morning.”
I found I enjoyed telling the stories
almost as much as reading them.
Estrella laughed in all the right places
and sighed at the end,
“I cannot wait to hear what follows.
How will I ever survive until tomorrow?”

“You can guess I have a story for you.”
I unravel a knot of floss
to keep from giggling.
Estrella blushes.
“And I might just have a story
for you
as well.”

We compose ourselves
as Mother returns.

Cozy in my featherbed—
the softest knock can only be
Estrella
in her nightdress,
a long braid
and bare feet.
She skips like a stone
scarcely touching the floor
before leaping onto my bed.
I catch her in my quilt
and we snuggle under.

“I know there’s something going on.
Don’t try to deny it.” Estrella pokes me in the ribs.
“Are you a gossip now?” I give her the tiniest pinch,
sharper that way. “Are you minion to Mrs. Godwin?”
“Ow!” She swats my hand away. “Just tell me. Is it a boy?”
“Maybe.”
“Which one. I can find out. You may as well tell me.”
“He is not who you might expect.”
“Hmm. Is he older? Younger? Ugly?” She tugs my hair.
“Sit up. You cannot sleep with your hair in disarray.”
Estrella sets to sectioning my hair for a braid like hers.
I had left it loose,
savoring the sensation of Peter’s hands in it.
“He works here.” My hair goes slack.
I turn to face my sister.
She does not blink.
Her cheeks have gone white.
“Do not judge me, Estrella.”
“I do not.” She looks away. “You know the risks
as well as I do.
A terribly high price is to be paid
when a young lady of society
falls in love
with the wrong man.”
“That is why it must remain a secret.”
“Of course.” She turns me around by my shoulders
and returns to braiding my hair.

Tap
.
Estrella and I look around.
Tap
.
It comes from the window.
Tap
.
A pebble strikes the glass.
I go to the window.
Moonlight casts a shadow
of every leaf
dancing in the breeze,
and the figure beneath the tree
can only be
Peter.
I wave.

“The window in the sitting room
opens onto the porch roof”—Estrella has gathered
the quilt around herself
and picked up my book,
as if our conversation were officially ended—
“just an arm’s length from the tree
that grows alongside.”
“Oh?”
She casually turns a page.
I reach for a wrap
and I suddenly think,
How does she know so much about sneaking out?
She looks so engrossed in that book.

As I throw one leg over the sill
I remember she said she had a story to tell
me
….
Oh well—it can wait until breakfast.

Peter

I admit I’m disappointed
when Celestia turns
from the window so quickly.
But I keep looking up anyway,
making do with the space
she used to fill.

The leaves rustle—
almost feels like she’s near—
maybe it’s just the breeze.
But no,
she’s touching my sleeve.
How did she get here?
Can’t help myself—I pull her close
and she covers her mouth
to hold in her laugh.
I move her hand away
but I don’t kiss her.
Not yet.

I grab Celestia’s hand
and we run for the dam,
waiting to let loose
our laughter
until we’re out of earshot of the clubhouse.
We stop on the crest,
wobbly legged
and out of breath.

“I wonder if it’s bad luck
to stand on the dam.” I sidearm a flat stone,
three hops across the lake surface.
“Why? Are you scared?”
Celestia makes her eyes go wide,
and nudges me with her shoulder.

“Nah. Just wonder if it’s tempting fate.”
“Maybe we should stop talking—
landslides you know,” Celestia whispers
with a wink. She glances downhill
and moves closer to me.
My arms are around her in a second.

With Lake Conemaugh on one side
and the valley of my home on the other,
we stand on the border,
locked in a kiss
that makes sense of it all.

To my mind,
a clear night sky
with a sugaring of stars,
enormous and
silent as a snowfall,
that’s the only church we need.

I used to think
I could see straight up to heaven
if I looked hard enough.
Mama’d be holding out her arms,
smelling like sunshine
and honey.
And me, so small
and alone in the dark …
But she could find me,
love like a thread between us.

That’s how it is
to be with Celestia—
standing in a church of stars,
feeling so small,
and letting love
find me anyway.

Celestia

He says I remind him of maps of constellations
on a sapphire background.
No one ever thought of me as magic before,
as sacred.
“My name is giving you ideas”—I laugh and splash,
gathering my shift around my legs
to wade into one of the feeder creeks above the lake—
“and this is you, then.”
I balance a striped river rock on my palm.
He looks down at mud and dirt,
frowning.
“And this”—I hand him a smooth marled stone—
“and this,” an oxblood red.