Pamela Morsi (17 page)

“I’m sure we shouldn’t have to go that far,” he said. “I couldn’t
kiss
you.”

The statement was made with such resolute dread that Gussie momentarily paled, struck by his apparent distaste.

“No, no, I didn’t mean for it to come out exactly like that,” Rome said hastily, apologizing. “What I meant to say was, it would be so … unwelcome to your person. Surely we will not need to go so far as to …”

His words drifted off and were waved away.

“I am not averse to having you kiss me,” Gussie assured him. “And I think it would move things along very nicely. Nothing provokes jealousy like seeing another fellow kissing your woman.”

That seemed reasonable logic. Though he was still reluctant to play with such a dangerous type of fire.

“When you say
kissing,”
he asked. “what exactly do you mean?”

Gussie wore a puzzled expression. “Why, I just meant … I just meant the usual kind of thing,” she said. “One mouth against another. You know, my mouth against yours.”

There was a strange, almost high inflection to her words. Rome barely took notice of it. He was more acutely aware of the blush stealing up his neck.

There was no cause for him to be embarrassed. She was just a woman, a woman soon to be married to another man. They were surely mature enough to talk about something like kissing.

“You think this kissing will … will help bring Amos around?” he asked with as much matter-of-fact tone as he could manage.

“Yes, I believe so,” she answered. “What do you think?”

She seemed so open, so innocent of the dangers.

“Without a doubt,” he assured her. “When Dewey sees us kissing, he won’t be able to ignore it.”

Gussie smiled, pleased. Then a moment later, she looked doubtful once more.

“How on earth could he ever see us kissing?” she asked Rome. “Couples don’t … well, they don’t do that out in the open.”

“Of course not,” Rome agreed. “But sometimes they do get caught. I suppose we’ve got to work toward getting ourselves caught by Amos Dewey.”

Miss Gussie sighed and shook her head.

“I can’t just go around kissing a man on a public street,” she said. “What if someone else besides Amos saw us?”

Rome nodded. “That wouldn’t be good. We need to figure out a way to have him see us without exposing you to any censure or criticism.”

Miss Gussie laughed lightly and seated herself once more in the swing. “I think the only way to do that is to install me in the kissing booth at the county fair!”

Rome’s eyes widened and then a big grin split his face as grabbed the ropes on either side of the swing and pulled back excitedly before sending it flying out ahead.

“That’s it!” he said, laughing delightedly. “That’s exactly it!”

“What?”

“The kissing booth,” he said. “It’s perfectly acceptable
for a woman to be seen kissing if it’s for a good cause.”

“Kissing for a good cause?”

“Yes,” he told her. “A woman donating her lips for charity is perfectly acceptable.”

That was certainly true. Rome had seen kissing booths crop up even at church socials.

“The county fair isn’t until the fall,” she pointed out.

“I know, so we can’t wait for the fair. We’ve got to set up a kissing-for-a-cause plan that occurs right away.”

Gussie seemed to consider that as she swung back and forth.

“Maybe we could set up a booth at the Founder’s Day Picnic,” she said. “To support a charity like the orphanage or the library.”

Rome was hesitant. “Aren’t there plenty of supporters for those causes already?”

Gussie nodded. “Both the Circle of Benevolent Service and the Monday Morning Merchants Association raise money for them every year.”

“So it might seem contrived if we tried to do it as well,” he said.

“Perhaps,” she agreed.

“And that’s too long to wait,” he pointed out. “The picnic is on the last day of our timetable. The day you wanted to get married.”

“Oh, well I suppose I wouldn’t have to get married that day,” she said.

“No, that was our agreement,” Rome said. “We can’t let this deception drag on interminably. We want you married on the Fourth of July, and waiting to do the kissing booth until then would be cutting things too close.”

“You’re right. We really don’t want to wait that
long. And if we did, what would we do between now and then?”

Once more Gussie brought the swing to a stop. She continued to sit in it, thoughtful. Rome stood beside her, then spoke in a more modulated and private tone.

“We need to do the kissing booth soon,” he said. “So we need a reason to raise money right away.”

“We can check the newspaper on Saturday,” she suggested. “Surely some terrible calamity has occurred somewhere where emergency donations are needed.”

“I can ask around the firehouse and the bank,” Rome said. “Maybe somebody has been burned out or gone bankrupt”

The two looked at each other for a moment and serious faces suddenly turned to smiles as they both giggled guiltily.

“We can’t be wishing for something terrible to happen to somebody,” Gussie said.

“We can start calling ourselves the charity vultures,” Rome said. “Soaring overhead waiting for a disaster until we can swoop down and do good work.”

They laughed together for a few moments and became thoughtful.

“There is bound to be a cause that needs us,” Gussie said with certainty.

Rome suddenly realized exactly what it was.

“We’ll raise money
for
the Founder’s Day Picnic,” he said.

Gussie looked at him, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?”

“We only have a few weeks before the picnic,” he pointed out. “I’m on the fireworks committee.”

“Yes, you told me.”

“We have a very small budget to work with,” he
explained, “so we were going to purchase some fireworks and do the display ourselves.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” she said.

“Thank you,” Rome replied. “It was actually mine. But now I have a better idea.”

“And what is that?”

“If we were to raise sufficient funds,” he said, “we could have a professional fireworks company come and do a display.”

“A professional fireworks company would come to Cottonwood?” she asked.

“They travel all over the country,” he told her. “They put on displays that are safer and better than anything that we could do. I saw one a couple of years ago up in Fort Worth. I swear it was half an hour of rockets shooting off, stars exploding overhead. They even had a big, fiery sign with the Texas flag and the name Fort Worth burning in a half-dozen colors. It would be the best entertainment the people of Cottonwood have ever seen.”

He hesitated before offering a slow grin. “And it would give us, Miss Gussie, a chance to kiss-for-a-cause.”

She met his smile with one of her own.

“We’d have to raise the money to pay the fireworks showman,” Rome told her. “And Amos would naturally have to be involved. He’s on the committee with me.”

“Of course,” Gussie agreed, a hint of pride in her voice. “That’s a fabulous idea.”

“We’d have to raise the money soon,” Rome continued. “I’m sure we’d have to pay most of it up front to get someone to be here on such a busy day for fireworks as the Fourth. The sooner we have to raise the money, the sooner we’d have to set up the kissing booth.”

Gussie nodded, but she was concerned. “We can’t just set up a kissing booth on Broad Street.”

“I don’t know why not. But you know what would be better? The park on Sunday afternoon. Think of all the people who are here. Practically the whole town shows up for their afternoon promenade. And we’d get more than usual once word of our plans spread around.”

“Do you think the Monday Merchants would agree to let you do it?” she asked.

“They are going to be very enthusiastic,” he said with certainty. “And we’ll make a lot of money. We’ll get some pretty, young girls, maybe that Betty Ditham and the mayor’s oldest girl. They’ll be primped and pretty in their Sunday best and the young blades will be lined up all the way to the railroad tracks.”

“They certainly would. It is a very good idea, Mr. Akers. And I know that it will make money. But I … I couldn’t be out there will all those young ladies.”

“Why not? That’s what the whole plan is about.”

She was blushing and embarrassed.

“Betty and the mayor’s daughter … they are young,” she managed to get out at last. “And I’m … well, I’m not.”

“That shouldn’t matter,” he said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with being in a kissing booth. You are as unmarried and eligible as they are.”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be dignified,” Gussie countered. “And I would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“So we’ll get some women your age for our kissing booth as well,” he said.

“Now that’s silly,” she said. “Women my age don’t volunteer for kissing booths.”

“They will for ours,” Rome assured her with
absolute confidence. “I think I can find a way to recruit some of the most well-bred, dignified women in town.”

“You’re joking.”

Rome just grinned at her. “You’re not the only one in this partnership that can come up with a plan,” he said.

“Even if your plan works. I’m afraid I would be far too conspicuous,” she insisted.

Rome laughed, apparently delighted at her discomfiture. Then he raised a teasing eyebrow.

“Where is the brave leader of the Mudd Manufactured Ice company?” he asked. “I have never known her to allow shyness to stand in the way of a good business deal.”

“Mr. Akers—Rome, I …” Embarrassed, she lowered her voice to just a little above a whisper. “None of the young blades would stand in my line.”

Her blushing admission only solicited an amused chuckle.

“I would absolutely see that they don’t,” he promised. “What!”

“It will be perfect, Miss Gussie,” he told her. “Can’t you see me? I’m standing there in front of the kissing booth all day, having to plunk down coin after coin to make certain that nobody else gets a chance to come close to kissing my girl.”

“Oh, my heavens!” Gussie exclaimed. “That could cost you a fortune!”

“It would be the very best investment a man ever made,” he assured her. “And I’d be kissing you all afternoon in front of the whole town. If that doesn’t set Amos Dewey on his ear, nothing will.”

Rome’s heart was beating like a drum. Amos Dewey might not be the only person affected.

155 * *

The barbershop was not all that busy on Thursday mornings. Old man Penderghast sat in one of the chairs by the window. He was ostensibly waiting for a shave, but he’d begun snoring fifteen minutes ago and Amos didn’t bother to wake him up.

Amos carefully soaked his combs in soapy water and washed and dried his brushes with great care. A barber was only as good as his equipment. And a barbershop was only as good as its barber.

In a fancy-carved walnut tool bracket that hung upon the wall, he stowed his cutting implements, razors, scissors, clippers and cutlery. He pulled the two-and-a-half-inch Perfecto out of its slot. It was his favorite razor to use. He owned a Henry Sears & Sons Queen that he utilized on a regular basis. But his favorite was the much more ordinary Perfecto. It was the right length, it had the right balance, it was curved at exactly the right angle and it could hold an edge. Therefore it was the most often used and required the most care.

Amos opened it up with a motion born of much practice and certainty. He drew the blade across his thumbnail. It was smooth, but made no impression. He grimaced so slightly that it was hardly noticeable.

He picked up his hone, a hand-sized rectangular cut of fine-grit yellow stone, and began the delicate process of sharpening. It was not a task that could be taken on without care. A razor’s edge was a difficult perfection to get or maintain. And the hands of a careless workman could ruin a beautiful shaving instrument.

Amos lay the blade perfectly flat on the hone. He drew it forward, edge-first on a diagonal stroke. Every part had to make contact with the stone with equal pressure, honing evenly from heel to point.

He then turned the razor in his hand to the opposite side, taking care not to touch the hone in a backward stroke. Drawing the edge just right was a skill acquired only with much practice. But Amos could always tell when he was doing it correctly. It was almost as if the hone were sucking the blade to it, unwilling to be apart from it a moment longer.

He was careful to test again after every few passes. An underhoned edge would not cleanly cut a beard, but an overhoned one could be as rough as a file. When he had it honed to perfection, he would strop it with leather until it moved across the flesh with no more bite than that of a feather.

He focused his mind on the task, but his thoughts drifted, as they had all last night and this morning, to the confrontation with Miss Gussie. He had been obliged to do it. She had been his friend and companion for three years. It was not honorable to know, without a doubt, that she was making an untenable alliance and not at least warn her that there were things about Rome Akers that she didn’t know.

He liked Rome. He always had, he probably always would. If he had not seen him leaving the Richardson house under cover of darkness, he might have thought the man a fine enough choice for Gussie Mudd.

But he had seen and he did know. So he could not in good conscience allow the man to trifle with the innocent affections of a decent, well-bred lady while he cavorted with a woman of questionable reputation.

Amos had handled it badly, of course. He had known that he would. Women were so hard to talk to, so hard to explain things to. There were so many truths they simply could not be allowed to know, any discussion with them always involved evasion and deception. His beloved Bess had been the same way. He had had
to guard her, shelter her, protect her from the hard facts of life.

He had not been able, however, to protect her from death.

Amos tested the razor’s edge once more against his thumbnail. It was almost right, almost perfect, but not quite good enough. A couple more sharpenings would easily do it.

As he set the blade against the hone once more, the door opened. He looked up casually and was then so startled that he pushed the edge too hard and cut himself cleanly on the heel of his palm.