Forever Friday (8 page)

Yesterday, her students at Sidney Lanier held a pre–May Day festival, crowning a king and queen, then dancing around a Maypole while
twisting colorful ribbons. She’d assigned her honors class to research “little known traditions” about the day. One tradition happened on the night before. A man would place a Maypole outside his sweetheart’s window, then perform a sunrise dance to celebrate love’s madness.

Huck opened her eyes. No madness. Nothing but the magnolia tree.

Even if Clark Richards had known about the tradition, he wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble. Shortly after the big diamond appeared last Christmas, romance vanished … at least the wildly spontaneous kind. Clark might finance the largest Maypole in the city, but he’d never dance around it.

Balancing on her tiptoes, Huck twirled about the room, watching her nightgown billow.

There was something joyous about dancing barefoot in the soft dawn air. It held a fresh excitement that made her feel pretty. Made her feel free. The same excitement and freedom she’d experienced in that fleeting moment with Gabe Alexander.

Gabe Alexander. His eyes still haunted her heart.

Huck spun to a stop in front of the window. A cool shiver hunched her shoulders forward. It wasn’t proper for an engaged woman to entertain such daring thoughts about another man. And she knew better. After all, she’d barely met Gabe. Besides, she’d convinced herself countless times that their brief encounter was meaningless.

“I’m marrying Clark,” she whispered to herself. Even after what had happened last month at Pickwicks. She shivered again. “It’s only right.”

Huck tried to continue her dance, but her legs suddenly felt heavy, awkward. So she leaned against the windowsill to clear her mind.

But what if marriage to him wasn’t right? Not even her mother or father was agreed on the matter.

Because of what had happened at Pickwicks, there was still no wedding date.

The evening had left a bitter taste, even though Clark showed up later that night apologizing profusely—Mrs. Thompson letting him into the parlor an hour after house curfew because he held a dozen red roses in one hand and two solid gold earrings in the other. He’d thought it over and would allow Huck to cut her hair because he loved her, but might they compromise on, say, shoulder length?

Closing her eyes, she determined to think no further about the incident, so immediately pictured Gabe. And in fairness to her father and twin brother, allowed herself a moment to ponder why she desired to know Gabe better. The moment passed, and Huck concluded that during their brief encounter, their spirits had somehow touched.

She opened her eyes. Under different circumstances, Gabe might have placed twenty Maypoles outside her window and danced love’s madness around each one of them.

Ignoring her tug-of-war conscience, she smiled at the dizzying thought and gave herself permission to ponder further, this time an extended moment. When it passed, she’d turn her thoughts toward the day at hand.

Actually, she’d awakened early to go “a-maying,” a medieval tradition of spending the day in search of flowers and tree branches to use for home decoration. Even though she couldn’t carry much and would be going alone, she’d made the decision after reading the words of William Shakespeare to her classes:

Huck laughed again, picturing Gabe and herself picking flowers and sawing off tree branches in front of Houston’s City Hall … a daring imagining she’d never even considered with Clark. She whispered Shakespeare’s words, wondering what she still saw in her fiancé. In his last letter, he’d mentioned coming for another visit. He’d purchased an elegant new sedan called the 1926 Vertical Eight. It was a luxurious upgrade of the Stutz Bearcat, and he couldn’t wait for her to see it. At first she thought he’d intended to drive down for May Day, but after a dull and detailed explanation of a hunting trip he’d be on with his father, she realized he meant coming the following Saturday. Huck was relieved. Now the entire day belonged to her.

The aroma of brewed coffee wafted from Mrs. Thompson’s kitchen down the hall. On weekends, the girls were allowed to do their own cooking; however, all the boarders but Huck were away until Sunday night. Even Mrs. Thompson would be leaving shortly for an overnight visit to an ailing sister.

Huck turned her head in the direction of the kitchen. She was too excited to prepare and eat breakfast. Market Square would be crowded with food vendors offering free samples. She enjoyed browsing the colorful booths, sniffing appetizing aromas, and munching on a bite of whatever intrigued her. And since she’d be in the neighborhood of Cecil’s Fish Market & Seafood Emporium, it might be interesting to pick up some canned anchovies to have on hand. See if Gabe worked on Saturday. See if he’d still remember her. It had been over a month since
she’d playfully turned down his dinner invitation. She’d heard her housemates gossip about how some men viewed female rejection as a challenge, begging for dates over and over. How these men were usually insecure, arrogant pests. Other males, they said, developed prideful amnesia, conveniently forgetting a girl’s name and pretending they’d never asked.

“Those types of men,” Huck said aloud, “are
not
Gabe.” At least, that’s what her intuition said. Her mother had taught that a woman of conviction must have a faith courageous enough to act on her God-given insight. It was only proper. Huck nodded now in respectful agreement. This was one instance where they concurred one hundred percent. And even when they disagreed, Huck admired her mother’s passion and overall good sense. If any woman could stand tall on her own experience, it was Annise Huckabee.

After putting on a robe, Huck grabbed a washcloth and her toothbrush. The bathroom was directly across the hall. Since she’d bathed the night before, it wouldn’t take long to wash her face and brush her teeth.

Back in her own room, she chose a lightweight dress of pastel yellow with a waistline that dropped to the hip. Most women she knew who were middle-aged and older considered the low waistline brazen. Huck smiled. Poor old-fashioned ladies. If they only realized that a sleek modern slip must be worn underneath instead of a drab underskirt. She removed her gown and dropped the dress over her head. It fit perfectly and would match her new shoes and handbag.

Sitting at her vanity, Huck gathered her hair into a tidy bun and pinned it into place. She studied her reflection and added one more hairpin. The whole unpleasant hair-cutting affair came to mind again
and made her frown. Clark would
allow
her to cut her hair shoulder length because he loved her? She’d grow it down to her heels before she’d agree to a controlling compromise.

And what about makeup and perfume? Clark had already voiced disapproval with the exciting new colors and the mysterious Oriental scents. She flung open a drawer and applied ruby lipstick, bold rouge, and a hint of jasmine perfume—her new favorite. The final touch came from her jewelry box. A fashionable long necklace of sparkling glass beads.

In less than five minutes, it would be eight a.m. Shops around Market Square were already open, including one that specialized in native flowers and greenery, but it usually sold out in a few hours. If she hurried, she could board the next Bissonnet Street trolley to Montrose Boulevard, then walk one block east and catch a Main Street trolley all the way to the business district.

The Bissonnet Street trolley was half full, and she had no trouble finding a place to sit. The Main Street trolley was a different matter. Eager passengers pushed and shoved into any available space. Women balanced children on their laps, while men stood in the aisle or crowded upon the steps and rear platform to smoke. Huck shared a seat with a woman holding a baby girl and twin toddler boys. The baby fidgeted, drooling a steady stream, while the toddlers tried to unwrap a smashed chocolate bar. The mother looked tired and seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Shopping with this energetic brood probably meant she couldn’t afford a sitter. Huck sighed. It was a problem she’d never have the opportunity to worry about.

An image of Mister Jack filtered into her thoughts. Meeting him seemed eons ago. Each year, it became harder to distinguish between
what had actually happened and what she’d conjured in her childhood imagination. Experience and maturity reasoned he was probably some kind of deranged drifter instead of her guardian angel. But her heart and soul begged to differ.

Her secret glen, where she and Mister Jack talked that day, was destroyed shortly after her revelation to teach. Huntsville and the State of Texas bulldozed and rerouted the creek in order to develop a park surrounding Sam Houston’s woodland home. Unable to revisit the glen, she’d had two vivid dreams about Mister Jack and the Anacacho orchids. In the first, he stood in the center with arms stretched in opposite directions and hands cupped, an Anacacho blossom resting on each palm. The second dream happened the night after she’d met Gabe. It was the same scenario as the first, but this time Mister Jack pulled his hands together so that the blossoms touched. He never spoke, his face a blur except for a wide white grin.

“Tommy, Jimmy, no!”

The exhausted mother’s consternation whirled Huck’s thoughts back into the streetcar, but it was too late. The toddlers had smeared chocolate all over her new dress.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “They were just trying to share. I dug the bar out of my handbag to keep them busy. The wrapper was stuck to the chocolate, and I didn’t think they’d get it off.” She pulled a spit rag from her shoulder, and the baby began to wail. “If we found some water, I could—”

“It’s all right,” Huck managed to reply as the streetcar bumped to a stop. “You need it worse than I.” She nodded to one of the little boys. “Tommy’s painted his brother.”

“You mean Jimmy,” the mother said.

“Of course.” When Huck disembarked at the corner of Main and Preston, all three children were crying.

She fought back a frustrated groan and scampered across Main to the trolley stop on the opposite side, hiding the worst of the chocolate smears under her purse. The dress was her May Day outfit and she’d wanted Gabe to see her in it, that is, if she happened to run into him. Now she’d have to rush all the way back home and soak it, even though the stains had probably set. A better choice, although impossible, would be to drop it off at the nearest laundry. That would mean parading down Main afterward in her slip, and Clark thought short hair was the definition of a floozy. Strolling through the city scantily clad was a daring imagining she wasn’t quite ready for. She managed a slight smile. It would almost be worth telling Clark her scandalous musings and watching the horror erode his face. But then, after the hair-cutting episode and the way he’d hurt her wrist …

She shivered.

Perhaps she’d just keep such additional thoughts to herself.

Huck joined the anxious throng awaiting the next streetcar. In the future she’d be more careful where she sat. Even though it was rare for ladies to stand in the aisle or on the rear platform, it would be preferable to sitting with sticky children. She took a deep breath and slowly released it. By the time she could get home, soak her dress, wash it, hang it out to dry—not to mention ironing—the greenery shop would be long closed. May Day had started so full of promise. Dancing and imagining. The chance to see Gabe the most daring dance of all. She peeked beneath her purse at the chocolate handprints. At least he wouldn’t see her in this embarrassing condition.

She managed to squeeze onto the next streetcar, several passengers
behind a matronly woman carrying a large shopping bag and a stack of hatboxes. The woman plunked into the last available seat. Huck couldn’t see very well, but she heard the woman order a man standing in the aisle to hold her boxes while she dug something out of the bag. As the streetcar began rolling, Huck decided the rear platform would be better than the stuffy aisle, so she moved in that direction. It was awkward to keep her purse over the handprints and steady herself at the same time.

“Pardon me,” Huck said, maneuvering along the crowded aisle.

The man holding the hatboxes, his face hidden, was just a few feet ahead, blocking her path.

“Pardon me,” Huck said again. The matronly woman, still digging, was blabbering too loudly for anyone else to hear.

As they picked up speed, the man shifted slightly toward Huck. Suddenly, the streetcar swayed, then jerked, and she lost her balance. Dropping her purse, she turned to grab the nearest seat and slipped, falling backward into the man. The next thing Huck knew, she sat in the aisle amid crushed hatboxes … in the lap of a total stranger.

“My hats!” screamed the woman. “You’ve ruined my new hats.”

Someone helped Huck to her feet. “I’m so sorry,” she said to the woman. Then turning toward the stranger she asked, “Are you all right?” Huck looked down. The man’s sea-sky eyes and crooked grin met her gaze.

“Nice dress,” Gabe Alexander said casually. “I have a passion for … um … chocolate.”