Spirit of the Valley (4 page)

“Why not?” April May shot back. “You don't have something against donkeys, do you?”

“No.”

“Shall we say grace?” Cessie suggested.

They bowed their heads.

“Grace,” April May said.

Cessie clucked her tongue in disapproval.

“Just kiddin'. Good company, good meat, good Lord, let's eat.”

Rebecca and Jake giggled while Cessie sighed loudly. “Dear Lord, bless this food for the nourishment of our bodies, and thank you for our new friends. Amen.”

“Amen,” Pauline echoed. “And thank you,” she said, looking first at Cessie and then April May.

Cessie smiled. April May gave her a nod and a wink.

“Rebecca, honey,” Cessie said. “You help yourself to what you want. We don't stand on formality here.”

“What about you, Chester?” April May asked Jake as Pauline put food on his plate. “You got something against donkeys?”

Jake grinned shyly and shook his head.

“That's good. As long as they don't have a problem with you, we're all fine. I'll talk to them about you after supper, although they may not have been able to form a fair opinion just yet. You didn't go and insult them or anything, did you?”

Rebecca glanced at Jake and saw that he was staring down at his plate, but smiling. He shook his head. “Do they bite?” she asked.

“Depends on what you say to them,” April May replied.

“Only if they get real annoyed,” Cessie said. “Naturally, that's usually directed at you-know-who here, as you can probably imagine.”

“They don't bite too often,” April May remarked. “'Cause they've learned I bite back.”

Jake giggled.

“Hey,” April May said. “Ralph here can laugh. That's good. I don't trust children who don't laugh.”

Rebecca saw her mother smile and felt a sharp thrill of hope. She took a bite of tangy bean salad and wished they could just stay here.

“Fact is, we got donkeys and mules,” April May said. “Did you know they're a different thing?”

“No, ma'am,” Rebecca replied. “I guess I thought they were the same.”

“Nope. A lot of people don't know that. Not that it makes a whole lot of difference that I can think of. But I'll tell you about them sometime if you want. More importantly, do you know the donkey song? You know, ‘Sweetly sings the donkey, at the break of day,'” she sang.

“After dinner,” Cessie said.

April May conceded with a shrug. “Fill your gullet and then I'll teach you. It's fun to sing. At the end, it goes, ‘he-haw, he-haw, he-haw-he-haw-he-haw.'”

Cessie rolled her eyes. “Well, you've gone and sung that much, so let's just do it.” With a collective breath, the sisters laughingly sang the song to the delight of their company. “All right,
now
we'll eat and we'll sing it as a round later.”

“I knew that would get her,” April May said. “You start singing and if there is a Blue around, we just can't help ourselves. We'll start right in, too.”

“We came from a musical family,” Cessie said. “It was such fun.”

“Still is, as you'll see after supper,” she said to Rebecca.

“I like to sing,” Rebecca said.

“I had a feeling you might,” April May replied.

Chapter Five

Pauline smoothed the covers over Jake. When he was sleepy, his black eye drooped; a sight that wrenched her heart. But the children had bathed and dressed in their pajamas and were tucked into the soft bed in what had been dubbed their room. “Comfortable?” Jake nodded and she kissed his forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said.

She leaned close to whisper in his ear. “I love you more.”

He giggled and shook his head and she grinned at him before moving around the bed to where Rebecca lay.

“You should come to bed, too,” Rebecca said.

“I will. Very soon. I just want to talk to Cessie and April May a little more.”

“They're funny,” Jake said sleepily.

“They are,” Pauline agreed, “and they're very kind.”

“And they
sang
at the table,” Rebecca marveled.

Pauline sat on the edge of the bed. The truth was, she'd found the singing strange, too. It had been forbidden to sing at the table in the home where she'd grown up, and her husband, Ethan, hadn't cared for singing either. That the Blue sisters could so readily burst into song was a little disconcerting, but also wonderful in its own way. They seemed so free.

“I liked singing with them, though,” Rebecca said.

“So did I.”

“Will we have to leave tomorrow?”

“No, not tomorrow.”

“I wish we could stay here forever.”

Pauline leaned forward and kissed her daughter. “No more worries tonight. All right? Nothing but good thoughts and sweet dreams.”

Rebecca took hold of her mother's arm, unwilling to let her go just yet. “I thought the donkeys might bite.”

“Don't insult them.”

Rebecca was heartened to see her mother tease. “I liked hearing about them.”

“I did, too. I never knew that boy donkeys are called Jack and girls called Jenny.”

“Me neither. I'm going to help feed them tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“This is a pretty room.”

Pauline nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“Kind of old-fashioned,” Rebecca whispered.

Pauline looked around and then grinned. “Kind of,” she whispered back.

“But I like it,” Rebecca stated.

“Me too.”

“Do you think you should sleep in here with us tonight?”

“I'll be right next door, and I'll leave the doors open. Unless you want me to sleep with you.”

Rebecca thought about it. “It's fine if you sleep next door.”

“All right.”

“I still feel like we're riding in the train. Don't you?”

“A little bit.” Pauline glanced at Jake, who was asleep already.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“You think we'll stay around here?”

“I hope so. I really do hope so.”

“Me too.”

“Close your eyes and go to sleep now.”

“Do you think—”

“Sshh,”
Pauline said, gently smoothing back Rebecca's hair. “No more worries tonight.”

Rebecca closed her eyes. “Don't go yet.”

“No, I won't. I'll stay right here until you fall asleep,” Pauline said in a hushed voice.

“Will you hum the song?”

Rather than answer, Pauline began humming Rebecca's favorite tune. Pauline didn't know where she'd heard it, nor did she know the name of it. She'd hummed it often because it was Rebecca's favorite and because humming was quiet. Singing had irritated Ethan, so she'd learned not to do it. Not that everything hadn't annoyed Ethan. Her breathing annoyed him. Her
being
annoyed him.

As Rebecca's breathing evened out, a breeze wafted in the window, making the curtains flutter. Rebecca turned on her side, asleep, but barely. Pauline stroked her daughter's hair and began the song over.

 

 

Cessie and April May were in the parlor, Cessie knitting, her needles clicking softly one against the other. April May's feet were propped on an upholstered footstool with fringe, her hands folded on her stomach. “George Mason was a wife beater,” she remarked. “Remember that?”

“Yes, I do. And you remember what became of Millie Mason.”

“Son of a bitch killed her deader than a nit.”

Cessie's needles stopped moving as she looked up at her sister. “You know good and well that was never proved,” she rejoined, “but I will say this much. He stole her spirit long before he took her life.”

April May murmured agreement. Millie had been a normal girl, but George turned her into a whipped dog.

Cessie drew breath to say something, but refrained when Pauline came into the room. “The children asleep?” she asked instead.

Pauline nodded. “Yes. I don't know how to thank you both for your kindness.”

“You said that already,” April May reminded her.

She had, but she needed to say more. Although they thought nothing of it, it wasn't nothing—it was everything. “You've given me renewed strength to go on.”

“Oh, honey,” Cessie said, setting her knitting down. “We're never as alone as it sometimes feels.”

“You should probably turn in,” April May said to Pauline. “You look about half dead.”

“April May,” Cessie scolded.

“I am tired,” Pauline admitted. “And I have a lot to think about. But I was hoping you could tell me about the town. Perhaps offer advice on possible employment.”

“Don't need to,” April May stated. “'Cause it just so happens the answer to your dilemma has already come to me.”

Cessie cocked her head. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is. And it is nothing short of brilliant. In fact, you should have thought of it, being the smarter one of the two of us. And for other reasons.” She looked at Pauline. “Why don't you take a load off and I'll tell you?”

Pauline hurriedly sat.

“Well?” Cessie asked. “Pauline and I are waiting.”

April May looked smug. “The upside is this. Pauline here gets herself a nice little piece of property, and she stays a neighbor, so we can keep an eye on her and the children.”

Cessie looked stricken, and then she smiled despite the tears that sprang to her eyes. “Oh, of course!”

Pauline realized she was holding her breath, and released it. “I . . . don't have any money,” she admitted. “N-not much money, I mean,” she amended.

“That's fine because this particular piece of property isn't for sale.”

“Oh, Pauline,” Cessie gushed. “We'll never live this down.”

Pauline was confused by the statement.

“The idea
is
brilliant,” Cessie said, dabbing at her eyes. “So much so that Sister here will never let us live it down. Never, not if we live to be a hundred years old.”

“How do you feel about changing your name?” April May asked Pauline mischievously.

“Oh yes,” Cessie said. “You'll have to do that, although it's a pretty name. Tell her. Tell her the story.”

April May nodded magnanimously. “We had a dear friend by the name of Lionel Greenway,” she began. “He passed on about five years ago.”

“Six,” Cessie stated. “It will be six years on the fourteenth of next month.”

April May gave Cessie an impatient frown. “You going to correct every sentence I make?”

“Go ahead.”

“'Cause you do that. You say ‘tell a story' and then I start in and you start correcting.”

Cessie shook her head and gave a wave.

April May looked at Pauline. “Lionel was one of the most interesting people I ever met in my life. He was smart as a whip, always inventing things, although he liked his relaxation, too. Thing was, he was a man who kept to himself. He must have come off as more standoffish than he really was because folks called him a hermit, though he wasn't one. The thing was, he moved here late in life and most folks don't do that. You're born here, you die here.”

“People do move in now,” Cessie interjected, “but at the time, it was a more unusual thing. And those who did come were not warmly accepted.”

“They were outsiders,” April May said. “And they were treated as such. Lionel didn't care all that much, at least, not at first.”

“He was a wonderful man,” Cessie said warmly. “A handsome man, really. He had white hair and a neatly trimmed beard.”

“Which he frequently stroked like he was some sort of wise man,” April May added. “An observation I shared with him on many occasions. He'd just give me this look.”

“As if to say you'd hit the nail on the head.” Cessie laughed. “Oh, but he was so smart and clever and amusing. Read a lot—”

“That's mostly what he did. That and tinker with gadgets and grow grapes.”

“He made wine,” Cessie explained. “Wonderful wine. The wine that we had this evening, that was his.”

“The
point
is,” April May interrupted, looking at Pauline, “the only personal thing Lionel ever talked about was his daughter, Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth Anne Greenway,” Cessie said dreamily. “It sounds like poetry. Doesn't it?”

Pauline still had no idea what they were getting at. Perhaps it should have been apparent and fatigue was making her brain soft.

April May leaned forward. “Here's the thing, and I'll just cut right to the point. He made her up after he overheard some folks in town talking about him.”

Pauline blinked. “He made her up?”

“Invented her,” Cessie said. “Because of how folks were talking about him. They called him a hermit, said he'd never known love. Which was certainly not true.”

“So,” April May said, “he started talking about Lizzie. That's what he called her. He said his wife's name had been Cecelia and that she'd died giving birth to their child.” She paused. “He couldn't win for losing because then folks started saying he was probably making her up, being the strange old bird that he was, which made him even more an object of ridicule.”

Pauline felt saddened by the thought of a man fabricating a daughter to make him more acceptable to people who would never accept him.

Cessie suddenly looked close to laughter. “Until one day at the church picnic, the subject comes up and April May ups and claims we met her.”

April May snorted. “People running their mouths again. I just thought I'd shut 'em up for a little while.” She wagged a finger at Cessie. “But don't you dare say April May, like you didn't jump right in.”

Cessie chuckled with delight at the memory. “Oh, we did have fun with it.”

“Let me tell you, Pauline,” April May said, “Lionel got the biggest kick out of that.”

Cessie agreed. “He had us repeat the story over and over again.” She looked far away and then she sobered. “The truth is, in the end, Lionel didn't have anyone but us in the world. And we didn't need the place.”

“Although he offered,” April May said tenderly to her sister.

“Yes, he did,” Cessie said. “One day, drinking wine and having a fine time, he came up with the idea of leaving everything to his daughter. I thought he was teasing at first, but he got more and more set on the idea. If we didn't want the place, he said, it would just sit there and wait for Lizzie to come claim it.”

Pauline experienced a shiver.

“Admittedly, it's no great fortune, but—”

“It's probably eight or ten or even twelve acres of land and a right nice cottage,” April May said. “Now, the place is a bit strange by ordinary standards, but it's pretty. Or it was. Restful. He designed it and had it built. Of course, it's been a while with no care, but it would be a place to start over for you and the children.”

Pauline sat back, stunned at what they were suggesting.

“So, you see, dear?” Cessie said with a twinkle to her eye. “You didn't come here for no reason. The good Lord led you here. Right into our care. It was meant to be.”

Pauline's eyes filled and she swallowed hard. Was it possible? Was it really possible?

April May frowned as a thought occurred to her. “Pauline, when you were in town, did you tell anyone your name?”

Pauline thought about it and then shook her head. “No.”

“We love Fiona dearly, but she's got a mouth on her. So does her mother. A good heart, but a big mouth.”

“No,” Pauline said again, more certain as she thought about it. “I asked if there was a room, and she said no. That I should try here.”

“Even if she had said a name,” Cessie said to April May, “a last name wouldn't matter. Not a bit. Lizzie could have gotten married.”

“Well, obviously she got married,” April May said. “She has two children, doesn't she?” She looked at Pauline. “You sure you didn't say your first name?”

Pauline nodded frantically. “I'm sure.”

“Good,” April May said. “So, pick a new last name.”

Pauline suddenly recalled neighbors from her childhood who'd seemed so happy, she'd often wished she was one of them. “Carter?”

“Carter,” Cessie repeated. “You're now Mrs. Elizabeth Anne Greenway Carter. Does that sound good?”

Pauline laughed. “It sounds like . . . a miracle.”

Cessie looked at April May. “You know, we're the only ones who ever did meet Lizzie here. So, Pauline stakes her claim and we back her up. Who in the world can possibly contest it?”

“If Pauline wants to, that is,” April May replied.