Sweet Everlasting (45 page)

Oh, it was true, it was true, she knew it but she hated it! And Eugene needed her—Ty didn’t. She’d also cried last night for the little boy whose father had beaten and abused him so cruelly. Was it any wonder Eugene had turned into a bully? No, the wonder was that he’d
reformed.
And anyway, she’d given him her promise. That meant something. She’d never deliberately broken a promise in her life. Eugene would be devastated if she went back on her word now, and he didn’t deserve that. Ty … Ty would forget her if he didn’t see her. She thought. Wouldn’t he? But how could she know? And now there was the baby to consider.

Oh God, the baby. She wrapped her arms around herself, remembering Ty’s arms around her last night, the way he’d stroked her stomach and the things he’d said. How she’d needed that! She hadn’t known, hadn’t known. He might not truly love her but he wanted the baby, that she couldn’t doubt. Maybe they could make an arrangement. He could have it half the year, or less if that didn’t suit him, and she—she—she could …

She found the edge of the bed and collapsed on it just before she broke down in a spasm of bitter, wracking sobs.

Eppy caught her that way before she had time to pull herself together. “Oh, baby,” she comforted, holding Carrie in her arms, rocking her like she’d have rocked Fanny or Mary Ann. “Is it that bad?”

“No, I’m all right,” Carrie snuffled, her face buried in Eppy’s handkerchief. “I’m just … oh Lord, you know.”

“I know. I brought my rouge pot, but it looks like you won’t need it.”

Carrie laughed wetly and blew her nose. “Who’s here?” she asked, to keep from having to talk herself.

“Reverend Coughan. Eugene and his mother. Ethel—but you’ve heard her. And Broom—my Lord, I’ve never seen him this bad before! I can’t even get him to take his coat off.”

“Is Dr. Stoneman here?”

“No, not yet.” Eppy patted Carrie’s sagging shoulder. “But there’s still time, he might still come.”

She nodded without much hope.

“But Eugene did say …”

“What?”

“He said it’s getting late, and he doesn’t want to wait past ten. He says Frank should give you away.”

“Oh.” Dr. Stoneman wouldn’t stand up for her, wouldn’t even come to her wedding. She wanted to lie down on the bed and sob.

“Mom!”

This time even Eppy jumped, Charlotte’s shrill little voice was so piercing. “What!”

“Daddy says come out now.”

“Why?”

“He says he wants to tell you something!”

Eppy got up from the bed, sighing. For the first time, Carrie saw the full extent of her fatigue. “Well, you’ve about pulled your hair apart completely, I see,” Eppy said with a grin. “Do I dare trust you to get your own veil on by yourself?”

“I’ll manage,” she whispered, smiling back broadly, because otherwise she was afraid she’d cry again.

Eppy widened her eyes and made a madwoman sound, pretending to tear out her own hair. She followed Charlotte out and closed the door behind her.

Carrie’s veil was a decorous length of maline the same blue as her dress. She repinned her hair as neatly as she could and fastened the veil to the top of her head. She felt like turning the veil the other way around so it would cover her face instead of trailing down in back, but Eppy said that style wasn’t fashionable nowadays, and what’s more, it was pretentious. Well, people would just have to look at her face, then. No need for rouge, that was for sure; she didn’t even have to pinch her cheeks. And her eyes, which had only been tired and puffy before, were red-rimmed and bloodshot now. Oh, what a beautiful bride! What a lucky man Eugene was!

What in God’s name was she doing!

Eppy thrust the door open, sidled inside, and closed it with a slam. Her face was as white as Carrie’s was flushed. She had her arms out and her hands pressed flat against the door behind her, as if something terrible was after her and she had to keep it out. “Carrie,” she said, breast heaving.

“What? What is it?” She went toward her fearfully, feeling her own heart start to pound.

“Dr. Stoneman’s here.”

“Yes?” She spread her palms in confusion. “But what’s wrong?” A burst of angry male voices came through the closed door all at once. “Oh, no,” she guessed. “He’s drunk!”

“No—maybe, I don’t know!”

“Then what—”

“Tyler Wilkes came with him.”

Carrie’s hairbrush slipped out of her fingers and hit the floor with a clatter.

“Frank told him to leave, but he won’t. He and Eugene are swearing at each other. Tyler and Eugene, I mean, not Frank. No, don’t go out there,” she cried, aghast, when Carrie tried to push past her. “Stay here till it gets sorted out. Frank’s talking to them.” A loud shout jolted her onto her toes. “Trying to,” she amended, wringing her hands. “No! Carrie, don’t—”

But she had to go, she couldn’t cower in here for one more second. “Sorry,” she muttered to Eppy, and forcibly moved her out of the way.

There were twelve people in the parlor, and four of them were yelling at each other. Mrs. Starkey and Ethel were the only ones still sitting down, Ethel on the piano stool, her mother on two chairs in the middle of the room, wrapped leg stretched out like a long, thin mummy. Silent and gaping, Charlotte, Emily, and Jane huddled in the corner by a bank of poinsettias Eppy had artfully arranged on tiers, while Fanny sat on the floor at their feet and bawled. Broom was everywhere, in constant motion, looking like the ragman in his long, dirty duster. Reverend Coughan was almost as animated, and he too was dancing around the four shouting men in the bay window alcove, trying to get their attention.

Carrie got their attention. All the hollering stopped the second they saw her. Even Fanny quit crying—but that was because Eppy snatched her up off the floor. Carrie moved into the room by fits and starts, taking in random details like the telltale redness of Dr. Stoneman’s nose, Eugene’s new patent leather shoes, the white carnation in Frank’s buttonhole. And the black glower on Ty’s unshaven face. The glad, unspeakable tenderness it changed to when his eyes met hers. It pierced her heart like an arrow.

“Please,” she said, holding out both hands, palms up and beseeching.

Eugene whirled on her. His eyes had gone white around the edges, like a horse in a panic. “You gave your word!” he shouted at her, furious, already sensing disaster. “You belong to me, Carrie, and you tell him. Tell him to get out of here and leave us alone!”

Nobody moved, nobody made a sound. Everybody looked at her, waiting for her answer. Cold, blinding, lemon-yellow sunshine streamed through the window and lit up a million dust motes around the faces and shoulders of the men in the alcove.

“Well?” Eugene prodded. “Tell him to go back where he came from because it’s me you want.”

Carrie watched the muscles in Ty’s jaw flex and relax, flex and relax, whitening the fine, taut skin over the bone. His voice when he spoke felt like a deep caress. “Marry the one you love, Carrie.” She opened her mouth to tell him it wasn’t that simple. He smiled. “The one who loves you. What else matters?”

And finally she saw it in his face and in his beautiful eyes: all the love she’d been afraid to hope for. What his mother thought, where they went to live—none of it mattered. Her heart opened like a flower.

She reached out a compassionate hand to her betrothed. The muscles jumping in his arm frightened her, but she said in a quiet voice, desperate not to hurt him, “Eugene—”

“No!” Broom jumped between them, accidentally cuffing Carrie in the breast with a flying elbow. “Don’t marry Eugene, Carrie, marry me!”

In a rage, snarling and snapping like a dog, Eugene came at Broom and shoved him against the window. “Lunatic! All of you—” He started to turn around, but stopped dead when he saw Broom jerk a shotgun up and out of the folds of his long coat. “Jesus!” he bellowed. Broom pointed the gun at his heart.

Carrie felt Ty’s hand on her shoulder, pulling her out of the way. Every female in the room but her was screaming, and all the men were talking at once.

“I’ll shoot him, I will,” Broom chattered. “I’m not afraid to because I done it before.” When he looked at Carrie, he unwittingly turned the gun on her. Ty swore. Eugene started to bolt, but Broom saw it and spun back to face him. The heavy shotgun wobbled, and Eugene turned bright-red, then paper-white.

“I done it before,” Broom said again, only this time he kept the gun on his target. “I shot Artemis after he hurt you, Carrie, and I ain’t sorry. I didn’t set out to do it, but he was still drunk and he was gonna hit me too after I yelled at him. So I picked up this gun and blew him clean away!”

Carrie flinched, but kept her voice as steady and calm as she could. “But you don’t want to shoot anybody now, do you, Broom? Put the gun down or somebody might get hurt.”

His eyes watered. “I love you, Carrie. I want to take care of you.”

“I love you, too, and we’ll always—” She gasped when his teeth clenched and he slid the hammer back to cock the gun. He was really going to do it. Eugene’s bloodless lips moved, but no sound came out. Broom put the stock against his twitching shoulder and sighted down the barrel. Without thinking about it, Carrie slipped out of Ty’s grip and stepped in front of the shotgun.

“Broom,” she pleaded, “you know you can’t shoot Eugene. Now, put—”

Ty’s voice sliced across hers, “Damn it, Carrie, get out of the way!”

She felt an arm snake around her waist and jerk her backward. Eugene’s whole body shook; she could feel the sweat that soaked his shirt through the back of her wedding gown. “You’ll have to shoot her first, you damn maniac. Shit, would somebody
get him
!”

“Let ’er go!” Broom yelled. “Let her go!”

“Starkey, you let her go or I’ll kill you myself,” Dr. Stoneman said in a deadly quiet voice.

Eugene’s breath smelled like cloves. He kept backing up, backing up, trying to make Broom follow so somebody could get behind him and grab the gun. “Look here, Fireman, see this?” He spread one hand across Carrie’s stomach. “There’s a baby in here right now. You don’t want to shoot Carrie’s baby, do you?”

“Carrie’s baby?” Confused, Broom took a slow step toward them, then another. When he took his left hand off the gun so he could wipe the tears out of his eyes with his coat sleeve, Ty tackled him. They fell back against the bay window and broke it. But before the glass shattered, Carrie heard the trigger click. On an empty chamber.

Eugene’s hands fell away from her. She ran to Ty, who was gently untangling himself from all Broom’s skinny arms and legs and trying to pull him out of the glass under them before Broom could cut himself. Carrie knelt down between them and put her arms around Broom. “Shh, don’t cry, it’s all right now,” she soothed him. “Everything’s all right.”

“Don’t marry Eugene, Carrie, please, please, don’t do it,” he hiccuped, shuddering and holding her tight.

She looked up over his shoulder at Eugene, who hadn’t moved. He held up his hand, the index finger extended as if he had something to point out. But he couldn’t seem to say it, and presently his arm dropped

“No,” Carrie told Broom softly. “No, I won’t.”

She saw Eugene’s face go a mottled red. The muscles in his neck looked like thick cables ready to snap; his fists clenched and unclenched under the cuffs of his spiffy white shirt. She wanted to say something to him, too. Something gentle—or was it something bitter? It didn’t matter; he was leaving, walking out of the parlor without looking at anybody. His mother limped out after him, then his sister. They didn’t look at anybody either.

Ty’s big hand opened on the nape of her neck, and she tilted her head back a little, letting him support it. She felt his cheek against hers and heard him murmur, “Are you all right?” She nodded. She wanted his arms around her, she wanted to kiss his lips. But she stayed still. Broom stopped crying after a minute and let go of her to look at her. Ty’s hand came around to stroke her cheek. She sighed, and couldn’t keep from turning her head to press a slow, deep kiss into his palm. When she looked back at Broom, his mouth was gaping open, and he was blinking at her as if she’d flashed a blinding light in his eyes.

“I love you, Broom,” she whispered. One of his wrists shot up; she captured it in her hands and brought it to her lap, stroking the tension out of it.

“I love you, Carrie.” Silent tears coursed down his cheeks. “You gonna marry the doc?”

She nodded, and put her lips on his knuckles.

His bony chest heaved. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his coat and tried to smile. “Okay,” he said.

C
OULD IT BE THIS HOT
on Dreamy Mountain today? Not likely, thought Carrie, unfastening her navy-blue shirtwaist and white cambric chemise to uncover her left breast. “Indian summer” they called these lovely, surprise-present days in the middle of October; but she was pretty sure the gift was more extreme in Washington—the real summer had been, hadn’t it?—than it was on High Dreamer.

“There, sweet, beautiful heart,” she murmured to Rachel, settling her more comfortably to nurse. “Were you hungry? Mama’s baby wanted her dinner, didn’t she?” Carrie rested her head on the white latticework side of the summerhouse and blinked sleepily up at the domed ceiling. The phoebes had gone, flown south, but she could see their tidy little nest up there in the rafters. Would they come back and use it again next year? On the whole, she rather hoped not; they were a noisy bunch and their shrill
fee-bees
had interrupted more than one of her and Rachel’s naps this summer. A nice family of wood thrushes, now, that would be ideal. They sang a beautiful song, she never tired of it, and a fat mother thrush brooding on a nest of eggs was so much more peaceful than a phoebe’s hectic comings and goings.

“But what will be will be,” she told Rachel philosophically, stroking her pert little nose with one fingertip. She was five months old today, and for nearly five months everybody had been saying she looked exactly like Carrie. “Oh no, she’s got Ty’s chin, look,” she’d always object. But just lately she was starting to see what they meant. Rachel
did
have Ty’s chin—truth to tell, she had Carolivia’s chin even more than Ty’s, which was probably even better considering she was a girl—but she definitely had Carrie’s gray eyes, too, and her light-red hair, and especially her long, long, skinny body. “Slender,” Ty called it, which had a nicer ring. And he was always quick to assure her that Rachel was in perfect health even if she wasn’t fat and chubby and roly-poly like most babies. But Carrie already knew she was perfect. “Aren’t you, pudding?” she cooed, wiping a tiny dribble of milk from her silky cheek.