Mittman, Stephanie (15 page)

"You
cut your hand on a rusty pipe?" Her eyebrows drew together with a concern
that touched him. She cared! Suddenly the throbbing in his hand was nothing
compared to the pounding in his chest.

All
he could do was nod.

"Did
you clean it?" she asked, grabbing his hand and examining the bandage in
which he'd wrapped it. "Did you wash it out with carbolic acid? Did you
flush it with boiled water? Does it require stitching?"

"Yes,
yes, yes, and no." He laughed, so delighted with her attention he could
hardly remember the awful jagged cut that crossed his palm and the blood that
spurted from it when he'd managed to remove what he hoped was the last of the
metal.

"Perhaps
you should see Dr. Morgan," the minister suggested as he removed Noah's
hand from Annie's and made a pretense of examining it himself.

"It's
nothing," Noah said, in an attempt to dismiss him. "Actually, I'm
more concerned about the damage to the furnace. I admit I'm not an expert in
the field, but according to the book I'm using as a guide, the furnace seems to
have a design flaw which could surely have caused a fire."

"That's
impossible," Winestock said, as though it were a personal affront.
"Those furnaces have been around forever. If there was a problem it would
surely have become apparent before now."

"Unless
it took this long for the flaw to"—he almost said
manifest itself,
but
he wanted to keep the conversation accessible to Annie, and he wasn't sure just
how far her vocabulary stretched—"show up and cause a problem."

"Your
reasoning is erroneous," Winestock countered, his volume rising.

"It
isn't necessarily wrong," Noah said, making sure Annie understood without
embarrassing her, "if the problem only occurs after years of use."

"Then
it's not a design flaw, as you put it." The minister was nearly bellowing.
He seemed to be taking the matter personally, and people were beginning to grow
uneasy around them.

"Perhaps
not," Noah said, hoping to put an end to the argument. "As I said,
I'm no expert." Tomorrow would be soon enough to look into it. He'd have
to order some new parts and perhaps he could find someone to help him. He'd see
if Charlie might let him place the order after church and save him another trip
to town.

"No,
you're not," Winestock said, then recovered himself. "Nor, of course,
am I. But there are matters at which I
am
considered an expert—"

"Like
marrying folks!" someone shouted, breaking the tension in the room.

It
didn't appear to be what Winestock was going to say, but he let the matter drop
and agreed that it was time to get the wedding under way. Noah noticed how the
whole Morrow family seemed to come together and, since Hannah still had hold of
Annie, he stood with them, eliciting only a raised eyebrow from Annie and a
wink from Risa, his ally.

Someone
with an amazing lack of musical talent began playing the organ and small
children covered their ears in protest. Annie stood stoically as if the music
was not some form of torture, but Noah couldn't hide the faces he was making
without raising his hand and pretending to cough.

He
leaned forward slightly and, with his bandaged hand covering his mouth,
whispered into Annie's left ear, "The yellow in your dress brings out the
gold in your hair."

Her
eyes widened. She stood perfectly still, her gaze directed at the minister, who
stood waiting for the bride to make her way down the aisle that was created by
friends and relatives on either side of the room.

"And
it makes your skin a honey color that turns a man's mind to mush and makes him
spout gibberish like this while he's pretending to cough."

The
corners of her mouth lifted before she could hide the smile with a hand. Little
lines radiated from her eyes like sunbeams through the clouds. She cleared her
throat, tried to lower her hand, and then raised it up again when she couldn't
wipe the smile from her face.

Bart's
bride looked like the side of a barn wrapped up in white bows. She seemed to be
trussed like a turkey, her corset so tight she was turning blue, and the dress
looked like it might start shooting buttons in every direction if she so much
as breathed. Noah threw a quick glance around for the little boy with the
penchant for swallowing small objects. If Willa took a breath he'd no doubt
have several buttons down his throat before the crowd stopped gawking.

Now
Annie, on the other hand, would make a beautiful bride, her deep coloring
against a soft white dress, her slim body with those straight shoulders
standing so proudly before God and man. He itched to pull the pins from her
hair again but contented himself with blowing at the loose strands and watching
them tease her cheek.

Beyond
her stood Ethan, acting as best man. Ethan gave him a friendly nod, and Noah
responded with a wink, anxious to show that there were no hard feelings after
their conversation this morning. Ethan had asked about Wylene, and Noah had
been evasive enough for Ethan's nose to get out of joint. In the end, Ethan had
supposed it was none of his business, and Noah hadn't told him otherwise.

Miller
Winestock rambled on and on about the sanctity of marriage, and all the while
Willa was swaying slightly and Bart's arm was steadying her. Noah paid the man
no mind. His attention was focused on Julia, who was beginning to rub her eyes,
on Hannah, who seemed to be squeezing the lifeblood out of Annie's hand, and on
Annie herself, who stood mesmerized by the good man's uninspired monologue.

She
seemed captivated by the insipid minister, enthralled by Winestock's banal
speech on the joys and responsibilities of marriage. Well, what did he expect?
She'd probably never heard any of Shakespeare's sonnets, never experienced the
purity of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's vows of love. But she would, he promised
himself. She would hear them all.

***

It
was finally over. Miller didn't think he would be able to give it his best, but
he had risen to the occasion. Elvira would have been proud of him, carrying on
despite his loss, uniting others and wishing them all the things he and Elvira
had never been granted—children, old age, peace.

And
all of it with a thorn in his side: Noah Eastman. Maybe the others didn't
remember who had installed the furnace at the Eastman farm, but Miller
certainly did. Stuart Eastman had thought nothing was too good for his family,
not even the latest heating advances, and that kind of thinking had put him so
deeply in debt that even after he was dead and buried and had left the farm to
his nephew Noah, there were still two payments due the bank.

He
supposed it wasn't entirely Stuart's fault. Miller's father-in-law, Elmer
Wells, had made it seem as though his new furnaces were the answer to both
Ohio's cold winters and the scrofula everyone knew was caused by the lack of
ventilation. He'd gotten the school board to purchase one for the new
schoolhouse and the Andersen Hotel had taken two. Stuart Eastman wasn't the
only farmer intent on safeguarding his family from the vitiated air that led to
disease. Somewhere among Elvira's papers Miller guessed there were probably
original bills of sale for all the New Wells Furnaces that Elmer had installed.

His
wife had saved everything that had to do with her family, though she never had
much to say about any of them except her mother, whom she credited with
training her to be a lady. In fact, when Elmer finally passed on, Miller could
have sworn that his wife actually seemed relieved of a burden she had carried
all her life.

"Reverend
Winestock?" He looked up to see Bart Morrow standing before him, a grin
splitting his face wide. "Or should I be calling you Miller? Come on over
and have some punch with the family."

Miller's
eyes followed the jerk of Bart's head and took in the Morrow clan, laughing and
smiling as always, in a tight circle at the edge of the parlor. Among them was
Noah Eastman, discussing something with Charlie and Ethan that had the two men
guffawing and nodding at the same time. Miller's chest tightened. He had to
warn the Morrows, warn the whole town, about Noah Eastman. He was a man who
couldn't be trusted. Miller had the proof in his pocket, if necessary.

He
followed Bart over to the group and was pleased when, at his arrival, Sissy
gave him her brightest smile and hurried to his side.

"It
was a beautiful service, Miller," she said. She was wearing the same
yellow dress he'd seen her in nearly every Sunday at church. Della, of course,
was in the latest style, her puffed sleeves hiding half the people on either
side of her. Risa was in a pretty dress too, as were nearly all the ladies at
the party. His eyes drifted down to Sissy's feet. As he knew they would be,
they bore her old black boots, while the toe of her sister's fine kid slipper
rested inches from her own.

As
if she sensed his censure, she tucked her feet beneath her skirt as gracefully
as she could. Well, no one could accuse her of vanity or wastefulness. Those
were admirable qualities and he wished, for a fleeting moment, he could tell
her so. In fact, there were, of late, so many things he wanted to tell her, but
their meetings never seemed to be appropriate times to speak of his approval or
his respect.

"Oh,
I do love weddings," Della said, her blond ringlets bouncing around her
head as she spoke. "There is so little to celebrate in Van Wert, after
all. And I do love to wear my best."

"You
look quite lovely," Miller said. He had come to learn when a woman was
fishing for a compliment and was quick to comply. "Fetching, I would say.
You should always wear green, Mrs. Gibbs. It so favors your eyes."

It
was a chore to flatter the women in his congregation, but the effort was
rewarded handsomely when the collection plate was passed or the church needed a
new supply of coal or more volunteers to take care of the myriad things that
kept a community close to God. He was grateful that Sissy Morrow wasn't one of
those women who needed to be patted and praised at every turn. At this stage in
his life, a sensible woman would be a godsend.

Miss
Orliss from the school board worked her way into the crowd, offering
congratulations to the Morrow family in general and Bart more specifically.
Then she turned to Sissy.

"What
do you hear from your darling Francie?" she asked. "She's such a
sweet girl, and so bright too."

Sissy
smiled and agreed. "She seems to be doing well at college," she said
without a hint of boasting.

"Well,
you know she could be a teacher right here without wasting all that time and
money in New York," Miss Orliss went on. "We surely could use her,
with Mr. Jackson retiring. You tell her if she doesn't want to stay in the big
city, we sure want her home on the farm!"

"I'll
tell her," Sissy said. Her eyes followed Ethan as he made his way across
the room to that Willis woman, about whom Miller had heard a rumor or two.
Miller saw the corners of her mouth turn down with disgust, but she remained
politely where she was and allowed Miss Orliss to continue pumping her for more
information on Francie's progress.

An
altercation between two of the children broke out and Miller stood by trying to
sort out the various small ones and determine who had insulted whom. One of the
Gibbs twins, Miller couldn't tell them apart, had his finger pressed to the
chest of the younger of the Eastman girls. The older one—Hannah, he thought her
name was—was seething. Hands on her hips, she was yelling at the twin while her
sister broke down in tears.

"Well,
you don't have a mama," the boy said. "So mine's prettier than
yours."

"James!"
Peter Gibbs said, gasping. "What kind of thing is that to say? Apologize
at once!"

"No,
wait a minute," Noah Eastman said, and knelt down to the children.

Miller
patted the letter in his pocket. He was relieved that the truth would come from
the man himself. It never reflected well on the tale-teller, even if the tale
was true. Better that Noah Eastman tell them all about his wife. Surely his
children must know.

"James
is right in a way and wrong in a way." He took the finger out of his
younger daughter's mouth and wiped her tears with his unbandaged hand.
"You know your mama's gone, honey. Someone else saying it doesn't make any
difference. But James, just look at these two girls. You know they didn't get
their good looks from me!"

"James,
I'm still waiting for an apology," Peter repeated, his hand clenching his
son's shoulder.

"Mama
was beautiful," Hannah said quietly, her hand tenderly touching her
younger sister's cheek. "And she loved us both more than anything in the
world. Right, Pa?" She looked at her father and he nodded, the pain on his
face so evident that Miller had no choice but to hold his tongue.

"Any
mama would love you two more than life, sweet babies, and as long as she's
here"
—he
touched first Hannah and then Julia on their chests with just one
finger—"you will always have a mama. You remember that."

Miller
patted the letter inside his breast pocket once again, as if to make sure it
was really there. A faint crackle of stiff paper answered him. Noah Eastman's
big lie seemed to shrink in the presence of his two motherless girls.