Weeping Angel (29 page)

As he crossed through Amelia's picket gate, he thought he should try and catch a quick nap before having to take her to the picnic.

His twist on the bell ringer didn't bring her to answer the door. He waited and rang again. She didn't show up. Frowning, he ascended the porch steps and headed toward the back, thinking this was the second time he'd gone looking for her at her house. He hoped he wouldn't find her crying in the grass again.

The backyard was empty, so he went up to the veranda. The back door was open and the screen in place to keep the insects out. The smells of a home-cooked meal hit him at once, making his stomach rumble—almost to the point of pain. He thought of all that coffee sloshing in his empty belly and was instantly starved.

He rapped on the door with his knuckles.

No answer.

He knew she was inside. She wouldn't have left her door open if she weren't.

He knocked louder.

This time, he heard her call from the interior of the house. He couldn't make out what she was saying, so he waited for her to let him in. Only after a long moment, did her voice drift to him more clearly.

“Come in, Coney Island. You may set your lesson money on the kitchen table.”

Frank raised his brows inquiringly. “It's not Coney Island.”

She must not have heard him, because she repeated her request. “Coney Island, dear, I'm indisposed at the moment.” She sounded like she was talking from the stairs leading to the bathroom. “You may let yourself in and put your quarter on the table.”

Shrugging, Frank pulled the handle on the screen and walked into the kitchen. He surveyed the room. Neat as a pin. On a rack resting on the sideboard was the most perfect pie he'd ever seen. Leaning over, he sniffed the fruity-smelling, buttery crust with the decorative fork markings on it.

Cherry.

Jackpot. He loved cherry pie.

Then he let his gaze wander over the rest of the fixings. There was a jar of homemade root beer. And she had a small wicker basket with a Turkey red fringed cloth neatly arranged and folded over a large lump. He couldn't help lifting the hem and checking out the contents.

Fried chicken.

Wings, drumsticks, thighs, and breasts—all perfectly golden. They looked light and crispy, and he detected a hint of cinnamon in the flour coating.

Biscuits.

Buttermilk from the looks of them. High and plump, with a crock of honey as an accompaniment.

Cole slaw.

He hadn't tasted that in years.

Indian pickles.

He could tell by the cayenne pepper and red pepper pods.

And she'd packed something with vegetables in a jar. Who cared what it was? It looked good.

“Coney Island?” Amelia called, and Frank straightened.

He didn't answer.

Footfalls came on the floor in the dining room, then a face peered into the kitchen from around the corner. Or at least he hoped there was a face underneath all that cream smelling like almond liqueur. She looked as if she were wearing a ghoulish mask, her eyes, mouth, and nostrils the only parts spared from the white paste. She'd put her hair up in rags and it stuck out all over with frayed ties keeping the knots in place. She wore the same floral wrapper she had on the night he'd kissed her in her foyer.

There wasn't a chance he was going to kiss her now.

“Frank!” she gasped, and immediately retreated behind the wall so he couldn't see her.

“Yeah, it's me.”

“Where's Coney Island?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“But you said you were he.”

“Actually, I replied to the contrary. You just didn't hear me.”

“Why did you come in?”

“You told me to.”

“I said for Coney Island to come in.”

“Well, he's not around.”

“I can see that.”

“I can't see you.” Frank crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don't you come here?”

“No.”

He decided to flush her out. “I've never seen a
woman have to use so much depilatory cream on her face before, Miss Marshall. I guess your facial hair is a real problem.”

“Well, I like that!” she squeaked, and came around the corner once again.

He chuckled. “I figured you would, sweetheart.”

She put her hands on her hips, and gave him a mad glare. “What are you doing here?”

“I came bearing a message from Pap.”

“Mr. O'Cleary?” She suddenly looked alarmed.

“He can't take you to the picnic today.”

He couldn't really tell because of the white stuff, but she didn't seem all that let down. “Did Mr. O'Cleary change his mind?”

“No, he's got the chicken pox.”

“The chicken pox!” This time he saw her distinctly frown. “Oh, dear.”

“Don't start making other plans. I'm taking you,” he said before she could get too broken up.

Her gaze shot to his and she said incredulously, “You?”

“What's wrong with me?”

“Well . . . nothing.”

“Good. I'll be back at one to get you. I hope you'll look more yourself.”

T
he Glorious Fourth brought out every able body in Weeping Angel to participate in the festivities. There wasn't a boy who didn't count the hours until he could shoot off his torpedoes and skyrockets—a high proportion of which were already aimed at the front porch of the dowager widow Thurman. When nightfall came around, the dogs and cats in town would be running for their hiding spots, the noise sending them to far-off places. Only Hamlet wouldn't be bothered by all the commotion. By dusk, he could be found passed out under the elm by the depot, having overindulged on fermenting melon rinds.

The parade started just after one on Divine Street at the Christ Redeemer, with the Odd Fellows marching in the front of the line. Erhardt Tweed wore his Civil War uniform—still a firm believer in the Confederacy after thirty-three years—while Verlyn Tilghman wore his Yankee colors. Both men had kept their weapons, each gleaming single-shot revolver primed and loaded in case such a cause came between them to start up a skirmish.

Had the town owned a hose carriage, as they did in Boise, the citizens would have decorated it with crepe paper; but having none, they decked out Titus Applegate's black-lacquered hearse with garlands of evergreens and blue-and-white columbines. A princess had been chosen, Lula Whitman, and she sat on top of the carriage waving to those standing on the boardwalks.

By two o'clock, the entire entourage converged on a stretch of grassland called Reverend's Meadow on the outskirts of town. The area had been decorated with Japanese lanterns, flags, and streamers. The Odd Fellows got busy cranking the dashers on ice-cream freezers, while boys and girls fished for treasures in a booth sponsored by Beamguard's Mercantile. The sack races were yet to begin, and there was some talk brewing to get a baseball game going, though no one could agree on who would captain each team.

Parasol poised against the sun, Amelia strolled through the jubilee with Frank at her side, the smell of corn on the cob wafting from big washtubs over open fires. He didn't offer his arm, but to those who said hello, it was obvious he was with her because he stopped to chat when she did. Not that he chatted. Frank kept quiet mostly, nodding his head or shaking it in appropriate responses.

Though she felt bad Mr. O'Cleary had come down with the chicken pox, she was relieved. Ever since she accepted his invitation, she'd been having second thoughts. There'd been no graceful way out of going with him once she said she would; therefore, she'd been talking herself into it for the past two days. But she hadn't slept much for worrying about accompanying a man she wasn't comfortable with as a suitor.

There were many female gazes on Frank, even from the budding young girls accompanying cowboys and lumbermen, and Amelia felt a happiness inside her that warmed her more than the July sun. She recalled
the scene in her kitchen earlier in the day. She'd been surprised to see him, and even more so when he'd asked her to the picnic in Pap's stead. The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't very well have inquired if it had been his idea. She hoped it was.

She'd dressed in a salmon shirtwaist with narrow pleats halfway down the front and intermittently on the long sleeves. Her surah silk skirt was of a matching shade and had a shallow ruffle along the bottom. The fruity color reminded her of the peach Frank had been eating that day at the train depot, and it was by no accident she'd selected this particular outfit.

Smiling, Amelia kept the handle of her basket in the crook of her elbow. As they walked, her arm brushed his once and she felt his solid strength. It was hard to believe she was actually here, with Frank, at the picnic of all picnics.

“Hallloooo!” came Mrs. Beamguard's cry, and Amelia paused to return the greeting.

“Hello, Dorothea.”

Dorothea's hat was so full of frilly plumage, Amelia waited for her to take flight. “Well, my goodness!” she said in a tone spiced by curiosity. “Imagine seeing the two of you together. I would have thought you'd tire of being in each other's company having to be in the same place every day, five days a week.” She gazed at Frank who appeared to be brooding. “I didn't notice where you were during the parade. You are here
together
, aren't you?”

“Yes we are,” Amelia replied when Frank didn't. “We're looking for the picnic table. I'd like to put my basket down.”

“Of course, dear. It's over by the gazebo.” Then to Frank, “Are you going to bid on her dinner, Mr. Brody?”

Frank scowled from beneath the brim of his straw hat, and Amelia waited just as anxiously as Dorothea.

He simply nodded.

“Isn't that wonderful?” she said, but she sounded hypocritical to Amelia. “Forgive me if I'm in a hurry, dear. I have to find someone.” Then she dashed off.

Amelia knew she'd be ferreting out the other ladies to tell them every word that had been spoken by the three of them. Though she'd been hopeful he'd bid on her basket, she wasn't sure. This was the first time she'd ever made up a box to be bid on.

She looked at Frank. He watched the feather-hatted Mrs. Beamguard retreat, then he let his gaze slip to the watermelon stand where Elroy Parks was spitting seeds at anyone who had the misfortune to walk by.

“Come on,” Frank said. “Get rid of your basket, and I'll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“All right.” She really wasn't thirsty for something hot, but she suspected he needed a drink to wake up. He was looking a little tired to her, and she wondered what time he'd gone to bed last night.

They came upon the New American, which she'd decorated this morning. Amelia angled toward the table designated for the box suppers, but Frank held back while she set her basket down and was assigned the number five. She'd just turned to meet Frank when Viola Reed and Luella Spivey came charging up to him, panting and threatening to expire in their corsets. Their cheeks were flushed, and they had overextended themselves to get a look at Frank and Amelia. Apparently, they'd gotten an earful from Dorothea.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Amelia said, her chin high. She wasn't at all ashamed to be seen with Frank, and she wouldn't be made to feel out of place by two of her so-called friends.

“Hello, Amelia,” Viola replied, her dress appearing too tight around her middle from an overindulgence of sweets.

“Amelia, dear.” Luella's red hair was poofed on top
of her head in a loose style with a smart felt hat over the frizz.

Both women stared at Frank as if they'd never seen him before. “Dorothea tells us you're here with Mr. Brody,” they said in unison, then gave each other an exasperated glare.

Viola went first. “We mean, we didn't expect to see you with him. After all, he does own a saloon.”

“Yes,” Luella hastened to add. “We didn't picture you consorting with a man of his calling.”

For the first time that afternoon, Amelia opened her mouth to speak, but it wasn't her voice she heard. Frank had taken hold of her elbow and broke in with, “Yeah, ladies, I'm the owner of a saloon. The same saloon you bring your children to each week for lessons. That fact doesn't much bother you when you're looking around the joint, sniffing the air for signs of booze, and hinting for me to slide a glass down the counter. And as for consorting with someone of my calling, at least I'm not trying to sell her a Bible before I run off without her.”

Both ladies gasped.

“So maybe,” Frank continued, “consorting with me isn't half as bad as you think it is. In fact, I think she might just have some long overdue fun.”

He put pressure on her elbow and pulled her along. Amelia was at a loss over what to say. No one had ever spoken about her in such a way—especially to her circle of lady friends. And how exactly did he know about Jonas Pray? What had he heard? When did he find out she'd been made a laughingstock? He could have heard it from anyone.