Pamela Morsi (33 page)

T
HE AFTERNOON OF THE
F
OUNDER’S
D
AY
F
OURTH OF
July Picnic was hot as any Independence Day could be expected to be. Or so Harry Potts, editor of the newspaper, had commented that morning in the Cottonwood
Beacon
. The long-dry weather and a slight western breeze were the only things that made it bearable. But it was a day for socializing and celebration. Not even the most climate-complaining of Cottonwooders were willing to miss it.

Matt Purdy’s new-mown hay field at the edge of town was resplendent in bright colors, swarming with activity and wafting the wonderful odors of roasted corn and peach pie.

The city band had been placed on a hastily constructed platform that held the podium. Shaded beneath a dark tarpaulin, its members would be protected from the weather, whether inclement or seasonably scorching.

Following the fine success of Rome Akers’s kissing booth, several local organizations had set up stands to entertain, intrigue and generally lighten the pocketbooks
of charitably inclined citizens. There were games of chance, ladies’ art, fancy preserves and needlework for sale. There was even a seed-spitting contest, the cost to enter being five cents, the price of a slice of fresh, ripe watermelon.

Most of the businesses in town were represented as well. Some were simply showing their wares. Others were all decked out in patriotic paraphernalia, flags flying and slogans ablaze. The tobacco shop was giving away mechanically rolled cigarettes, one to a customer. Timmons Shoe Shop offered a free booting consultation involving putting one’s bare foot on a piece of inked paper. The unshod, with blue soles, stood around waiting for their results. At McCade’s Livery, there was horseshoe pitching. All over there were plenty of giveaways, demonstrations and play-pretties for the little ones and their parents. Everyone found something to hold his or her interest.

All morning old man Shultz had driven a hay wagon from Main Street to the festivities and back again, providing fun and old-fashioned transportation to those who had neither buggy, horseback nor bicycle to bring them.

The length and width of the hay meadow was dotted with family picnics. Children chewing on fried chicken legs were more common than bluebonnets in April. Loosed from apron strings, they ran wildly with the freedom of hot summertime. And the call of scolding mothers was more shrill than the incessant cawing of field crows.

Pansy Richardson had adorned her clothes as if they were sackcloth and ashes and she were headed for her own stoning. This was the day she had waited for, this was the day she had asked for. If occasionally she
asked herself why, there were a million reasons. And every one of them had to do with herself.

She probably should thank Amos Dewey for that, she thought in her more generous moments. She had given herself to him. Not in the way that she had allowed men to use her body. She had given herself to him wholly as a person to love and be loved. She had given herself to him as she had once done with Grover Richardson.

Amos Dewey had not gloried in her gift as Grover had. He had thrown it back in her face as something tarnished, worthless.

It was in that moment, that oh-so-painful moment, that she had realized the truth. She had thrown away all that was valuable and was left with the dregs of a life that was bitter with disappointment.

Pansy Richardson intended to get that back.

Many of the gentlemen of the Monday Merchants had quizzed her on what she planned to say. Most were gently suggesting that she could formally donate the lagoon land, just as her husband had, even signing the papers right there on the spot A few of the more cynical worried that her moment at the podium might be used to further blackmail the Cottonwood community into both financial and moral ruination.

Wade Pearsall had openly threatened her that there would be those in the crowd ready to defend themselves against her scurrilous tyranny. If her intent was to strike out at her neighbors, they would return the gesture in kind.

Pansy hadn’t enlightened any of them. Her agenda was her own and she would fulfill it without any advice or opinions from the town fathers.

She was coming before her accusers, sorrowful and penitent. It was said that forgiveness was good for the soul. Today, the soul of a whole town might improve.

Certainly she was doing her part. She was living quietly and behaving modestly. She was as chaste as a nun and channeled her energy into good deeds and hard work. Her house was spick-and-span, her garden blooming and her grounds well tended. All her daring new fashions were packed in cloves of camphor in the attic. And she had attended church three Sundays in a row.

In truth, it had not been so terribly difficult. She found that the life of the wicked widow seemed to have run contrary to her more basic nature. She was not really the type of person who enjoyed an excess of attention. The wicked widow turned heads wherever she went. When she spoke, her words must always be pointed, witty and risqué. In many ways, it was a lot easier and more comfortable to be ordinary Pansy Richardson once more.

Of course, she was never going to be completely ordinary. She still loved to flirt and giggle and think inappropriate thoughts. She still loved to spin around in the moonlight until she was dizzy. And she would greatly miss the strong arms of a lover beside her in bed. But if she could regain her self-respect and the respect of this community, it would be well worth the sacrifice.

She had been loved once, she reminded herself. A man had loved her and cherished her for five years. There were many women in the world who didn’t know that adoration for five minutes. She would not be greedy. And if sometimes in the lonely, loveless future ahead of her she thought about a long, slowly wondrous afternoon in a barber’s chair, that would be her own weakness, her own fantasy. No one else need be the wiser.

“Good morning, Mrs. Richardson.”

The female voice called out and Pansy turned to see whose it was. Kate Holiday and the reverend were walking in her direction.

Pansy thought Mrs. Holiday to be a cute little button of a woman with a keen sense of humor and a lot of natural style. Her wardrobe, however, was serviceable and much mended and the hat she had on today, while perfectly good for keeping the sun off her face, was surely several years old and meant for a dowager, not a young mother. Pansy wondered to herself what the clever pastor’s wife might manage to make out of that trunk of daringly fashionable clothes in Pansy’s attic. She smiled to herself as she resolved to find out some day soon.

“Good morning to you,” Pansy answered. “And you as well, Reverend. It looks like a fine day for a picnic, doesn’t it.”

She directed the last comment to the couple’s young children, who were wide-eyed and eager with the excitement of the day.

“It
is
a wonderful day for a picnic,” Reverend Holiday agreed in a loud, booming voice that was impossible to ignore. “But any time that man can commune with God and nature is a moment blessed and fortunate.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Pansy said.

“It’s been so good to see you in church these last few weeks,” Kate said. “I understand that you used to attend regularly before the death of your husband.”

They had been talking about her, of course. But how could they not? She had practically dared the whole town of Cottonwood to talk about her for years. It was the sort of thing once started, very hard to stop.

“Yes, my late husband grew up in your church,” she
answered, focusing attention on the reverend and his wife in turn. “I attended as a young woman.”

“And we gave abundant thanks to God for bringing a lost lamb back into the fold,” the pastor declared.

“Yes, well, thank you,” Pansy replied. “I’ve … I’ve enjoyed your sermons very much.”

The reverend looked like he was about to say more when his wife waylaid him.

“I was wondering if you would be interested in joining the Circle of Benevolent Service,” Kate said. “I don’t know if you are familiar with the ladies’ organization, but we do a lot of nice things for the people of Cottonwood and we have such a fun time.”

Pansy was surprised.

“Have you discussed this with the other members of the group?” she asked Kate quietly.

The minister’s wife looked concerned.

“Why, no,” she said. “All the women of the church are welcome. And I am Vigilant Servant at the Gate. It’s my job to seek out and welcome new members.”

Pansy wasn’t sure if the young woman was naive or bursting with warmth of generosity. Either way, she was touched and grateful. The preacher’s wife might be the easiest woman in town to win over, but clearly it was a start.

“Thank you very much,” she said. “You have been kinder than you have to be.”

Her words seemed to puzzle Mrs. Holiday. And from his expression, they might have worried the reverend.

Pansy took her leave and began making her way through the crowd. A young boy nearly ran into her, followed by a big, yelping yellow dog that practically knocked her down. Laughing uproariously, she had just regained her balance when she spotted Rome.

Under a banner proclaiming them to be the province of Mudd Manufactured Ice, he and Tommy Robbins, with some assistance from old man Shultz’s wife, Helga, were busy making and serving up ice cream. Rome, in his shirtsleeves, sat on a three-legged milking stool as he turned the crank on the freezer. The motion turned the wheel dasher inside the two-and-a-half-gallon freezer can that held the sweet combination of cream, sugar and eggs. In the pine tub surrounding the tin container, the rapid cooling of melting ice, accelerated by the use of salt, froze the contents into a smooth taste treat chilly enough to send shivers up a child’s back on the hottest day in July.

Rome looked up and saw her. With immediate welcome, he smiled. Pansy smiled back at him, but kept her distance. In all that had transpired, she felt the most regret for what had happened to Rome. Certainly he had been her lover and was as guilty as she for that indiscretion. But it was her pride and her arrogance that had brought them to this pass.

Of course, most people would say that he had not suffered overmuch for his sins. His humiliation before the community would be well remembered, but had been short-lived. He’d gotten his partnership in the business that he loved. And he hadn’t been obliged to marry Pansy. Though she had thought it a sweet gesture that he had been willing to do so.

To those who did not know his heart, it appeared that Rome Akers had emerged from his part in the Sewer Swindle unscathed. But Pansy did know his heart. She had known it long before he himself had. And she had plotted to repay his friendship by allowing him to win his heart’s desire.

But everything had gone badly. She tried to lure Amos away from Gussie. Instead she drove him into
her arms. And what felt worse, she couldn’t even confess her failure to her friend. She could never reveal Amos Dewey’s fall from grace. There were already far too many men whose names had been dragged through the mud for the sake of Pansy Richardson. She would take that secret to her grave if necessary.

As if her thoughts had conjured the vision, she felt the hairs prickle on her neck and turned to meet eyes with Amos Dewey. The sight of him, so tall and handsome, so solid, resolute and steady, sent a rush of pure, selfless joy flowing through her being. And she smiled, delighted to see him, before she remembered that they were nothing to each other.

It was then she saw Gussie bearing down on her, obviously with the intent to speak.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Richardson,” she said.

Her voice was deliberately civil and perfectly acceptable, but Pansy could hear the tone that was not there. The anger, the jealousy, the hurt that poured out of the heart of a woman politely encountering the lover of the man she loved.

“Good afternoon to you, Miss Gussie,” she replied. “Mr. Dewey.” She nodded almost imperceptibly in his direction as well.

“Has Rome offered you some of our ice cream?” she asked. “It is absolutely the best you will ever eat. The recipe is my own, cream and eggs from our local farmers, and frozen with genuine manufactured ice produced right here in our hometown.”

Gussie was being purposely warm and welcoming, but Pansy could hear the stilted tone in her voice. Her affair with Rome, which was physically pleasant and selfishly unrestrained, had injured this woman. There had been no intention for her or anyone else to suffer, but it was the nature of sin to bring suffering. Pansy
liked and admired Gussie. But because she had slept with Rome Akers, they would never be friends.

How much more would the woman be mortified to know that her fiancé had been Pansy’s lover as well.

“Rome,” Gussie called out. “Do bring Mrs. Richardson some ice cream.”

“I’ll get it for her,” Amos Dewey said behind Gussie, surprising both women.

He walked over to where Tommy was scooping out the last freezer can, leaving the two women standing together. It was awkward, uncomfortable. Pansy felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to apologize, but she knew she must not. Atonement and amends would be for this evening at the podium. And anyway, the wrong she had done this woman could never be made right.

“I walked by your house the other evening,” Gussie said finally. “I see you’ve started a little flower garden.”

Pansy nodded. “It’s not much and it’s late in the year,” she said. “It could never be as lovely as your own. But I thought I might try it anyway.”

“With the right care and plenty of attention,” Gussie told her, “the plants that spring forth in the worst heat of summer can be the sturdiest and most beautiful.”

There was nothing more to say and thankfully, Amos had returned to stand beside them. He held two bowls of ice cream, one in each hand. Pansy assumed that one was meant for her and the other for Gussie. Gussie obviously thought the same as she reached out to take one from him.

Amos did not relinquish it.

“This is mine,” he told her. “You did say that ice cream gives you a headache.”

Gussie blushed, confused.