The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time (12 page)

"Andrew says I can go at six," she told Garison happily.

"Great!"

"Excuse me?"

"Great. It means, um, good. Well, better than good. Real good. Something like that."

She eyed him strangely, forever wondering about his origin for his speech was so odd. With that ever-present twinkle (at least around Garison) still there, she kidded him, "Maybe tonight you can tell me about why you talk the way you do."

He forced a laugh and replied, "I'm afraid it would take more than one evening to explain that. And you probably wouldn't believe me. After all, I'm not sure I believe it."

"You are a strange one, Garison Fitch."

"You don't know the half of it."

When Garison got over to the blacksmith shop to start his morning's work, he told Finneas happily, "I've got a date with Sarah!"

"Where would ye find dates around here?" Finneas asked. "I know of no one who grows them—"

Garison laughed and said, "No. A date means I'm going calling on her. We're going to go to the town social this evening."

Finneas turned and beamed at Garison. Through his smile, he said, "It's about time ye got up ye'r nerve, lad. Folks here abouts were beginning to wonder if ye ever would, or if ye were just planning on eating at the tavern every day for the rest of your life."

"That had occurred to me, but, well," Garison shifted his feet as he put on his smithy apron. After a bit, he finally said, "I just keep seeing her every day. And she's so nice. She was the first person to speak to me openly when I got here."

"I know, Fitch. Ye have told me a thousand times."

"Sorry. It's just that, well, I just have never had much experience with women. I don't know what to say, or how to act." Softly, he added, "Truth is, I'm scared to death around them."

"I always knew ye weren't a sailor," Finneas laughed.

"I could get sea-sick in a wading pool."

"'Wading pool'?"

"Never mind," Garison said with a wave of his hand. As he set to work, though, Garison asked, "When you met Gelena. How did you talk to her the first time?"

Franklyn thought back with a smile, then said, "I was no more than twelve when I first saw her. Fair flipped me over backwards, she did. Me parents and I were new to the colonies and my sisters and I were just starting school. We had never been in school back in Ireland, but Father wanted us to be able to read 'cause he never could until late in life. I saw Gelena that first day in school and never looked at another woman."

"But how did you talk to her? What did you say?"

Finneas laughed and said, "I'm afraid I may not be much help to ye there, Garison. I asked her if I might borrow her chalk, and then her eraser. After about six more years of borrowing school supplies, I finally asked her to marry me."

Garison laughed and said, "You're right, that probably won't work for me."

After the laughter had died down, and a few quips added about things Garison might borrow from Sarah, Finneas asked, "I have one question for you: did you ask her or did she ask you?"

"I asked her. Why?"

"No reason," Finneas replied innocently.

Garison waited outside the back door of the tavern with a small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. He paced back and forth nervously, glad he hadn't eaten any lunch because he was sure it wouldn't have still been in him. As it was, he was hoping breakfast wouldn't make a command performance.

"Twenty-nine years old and I'm as nervous as a teenager on his first date," he muttered.

At times, it seemed that his feet were smarter than he was for they wanted to bolt and run. But with enough deep breaths to put him in danger of hyperventilating, he was able to steel his will and stay. Well, actually, steel might be too strong of a word. He forced his will to the strength of slightly pliable copper and remained rooted to the soil in the alley behind the tavern as seconds ticked by like minutes.

After what seemed like an eternity at the back door, Sarah stepped out. Had she turned around, she would have seen all the tavern's remaining patrons sneaking their heads around a corner to watch the event they had been speculating about for so long. A little money changed hands as well, though since there had been no witnesses it was still debated who had actually finally broken the ice. Even Andrew was watching surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, just a little doubtful that the shy Garison Fitch would show when it came right down to it.

So Sarah was a little startled when Garison appeared before her, stepping out of the early evening shadows and into the lanternlight, and held out the flowers. "I, uh, I picked these for you. I hope you like them." It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know whether flower-giving were an eighteenth century custom or not. Still, it was too late to take them back.

"They're beautiful," she replied, a little catch in her own voice. The woman she used to live with had placed flowers on her pillow each night when they were in season and the thought brought a catch to Sarah's throat. She realized it was a warm catch and was almost embarrassed at the thought. She gladly took the flowers and clutched them to her breast, taking a brief sniff of their aroma and finding that they had little, but it was sweet like she remembered.

He offered his arm and asked, "Care to accompany me to the social?"

"Y-y-yes." Now that the moment had actually come, she found herself short of breath and very unsure of herself. She had no doubts about Garison, or about wanting to accompany him, but she did doubt herself.

She was, after all, a bastard, a town outcast. What did she, Sarah the tavern girl, have to offer to Garison? He was a popular man about town, said to be preparing for the bar, and thought by all as one "on his way." Still, she remarked to herself that she wasn't about to pass up this opportunity. Even though Garison had never said much, she had just somehow known from the beginning that she wanted to know him better.

"It-it's a lovely night," she commented.

"Beautiful," Garison nodded. He took a big swallow then turned to her in the dusky light. He thought about saying something syrupy about the night not being half as beautiful as she was. But, even though it would have been a true statement, he couldn't get over the feeling that it would be just too goofy. So he took a moment to memorize her face in the gathering moonlight—the face he had memorized for seven months to the point that he saw it in almost every waking or sleeping moment—then looked quickly ahead.

"Is something wrong?" she asked hesitantly at his quick turn.

"Not a thing. Everything's...perfect. It's better than perfect."

She fanned her hand in front of her face and, after a few swallows of her own, looked to where he towered a foot over her and replied, "You don't even know me, Garison."

"That's true," he nodded. After a couple false starts, he finally managed to say, "But I certainly would like to." The words had shot out of his mouth before he could stop them. They were true, but he had also learned that the first rule of decorum on the frontier was to never ask questions about another person unless they had offered information first. While it had been a statement and not a question, it could ruffle some feathers as there were a lot of people in the colonies who lived under assumed names, or were running from one thing or another. It hadn't been just religious freedom that had brought people to the Americas. Reticence was the rule in many areas.

"I have talked to you almost every day for over half a year, now, and I have never had a conversation with you. I have always wanted to." After a nervous pause, he said, "You obviously don't have to, but I would really love for you to tell me about you, Sarah. And I'll tell you about me"

Nervously, she replied, "I'm sure you've heard all you need to know from the town."

"I, uh, I want to hear it from you—if you'll tell me. The truth unvarnished by prejudices or pride."

"I'm not sure I could give you that," she replied with a nervous laugh. "It's been pretty varnished, even in my mind."

They turned the corner just then and came into the village green. It was hung with festive bunting and paper lanterns (which occasionally added an additional bit of excitement by catching fire and falling to the ground). The ladies of the local churches had set up booths wherein they sold baked goods that smelled like pure heaven to Garison after the odors of the smithy. Between the ladies' booths were opportunities to bob for apples, throw darts or hatchets, or just sit and listen to the Kelp family play instruments ranging from a guitar to a saw to something Garison could only hope was a farm implement. Maple syrup had been imported from the Vermont colony and was being spread liberally on home-made bread and, in some cases, just eaten straight, with a spoon or by tipping the bucket to one's lips. The mere thought of eating syrup in such a way made Garison's teeth hurt, but he knew how "starved" many of the people were for sweets as sugar was such a precious commodity and sparingly used.

Garison purchased a plate of syrup-covered bread and two jars of sweet cider and they took their seats on some hay bales near the Kelp family. The cider salesman tried to interest them in a special jug he had which had turned hard, but the young couple declined. Garison bit into the sweet bread and remarked, "I remember having maple syrup back in Marx, but it sure never tasted like this."

"What was different?"

Garison shrugged and thought about the question for a moment. Finally, he told her, "You ever notice the difference between wild meat—like venison—and farm-raised beef? Sort of like that. There's a wildness about this syrup we didn't have at home. The stuff we had had probably been treated and filtered and transported in refrigerated—and who knew what else?"

"Was the place you came from far away?" she asked, though she was wondering what "refrigerated" meant.

"You don't know the half of it," Garison laughed.

She looked at him strangely, then asked, "That's the second time you've said that today but I'll ignore it for now. Maybe I can try a different approach to Garison Fitch. How long would it take you to get there from here?" She had tried time and again to get him to tell her where he was from, but he always danced around the question with great agility or convincing nervousness. She hoped to eventually get him to reveal his secret, or at least give her enough information that she could figure it out on her own.

Before he could stop himself, Garison replied sardonically, "About two hundred and fifty years." At her baffled look, he smiled and recovered, "I mean, it seems like it would take that long. It's a long way away." With a note of depression in his voice, he added, "Further than I'll ever be able to go."

Wondering once again if he might be running from some sort of crime, though she could hardly believe it of him, she decided to change paths again. Still, it occurred to her that she had only known him since, apparently, he had become a Christian. Might he have been different before? "You promised me you'd tell me about yourself," she reminded him. "Why don't you start with where you're from?"

"I said I'd tell you if you'd tell me about yourself."

"Very tricky, Mister Fitch. No wonder they say you're becoming a barrister. You'd be good at it."

He shrugged and, after taking a nervous gulp of cider, replied, "I was, once."

She eyed him intently for a moment to see if he were joking, then broke into a smile and told him, "I'm starting to get anxious to tell you my story just so we can get to yours." She had just finished her bread and, standing up with her cup of cider in hand, she said, "Why don't we find a place a little more out of the main thoroughfare and I'll tell you about myself."

"You sure you want to?"

"Yes, I can hardly hear myself think this close to the Kelps."

"No. I mean, are you sure you want to tell me about yourself?"

"I know I do not hardly know you, Garison, but somehow I feel I could tell you anything."

"You can, Sarah." He stood up and, taking her free hand on his arm, they strolled around the commons.

They walked on for a bit before finding a suitable spot. It was in plain view of all the people (as courting was supposed to be), but lonely enough to be both cozy and private. Sarah looked around to make sure everything was to her liking, then began, "I'm just Sarah. There's not much more to me than that. I never knew my father, my mother died when I was born, and the only woman who ever really cared about me died three years ago. Sometimes, I wonder if I were ever meant to have someone who cared about me. In a way, I think I'm afraid that, if I do, they will die, too. I was born in this town, I've lived in this town, and someday, I'll probably . . ." she let whatever she was going to say trail off there, but Garison had a good idea where she was going.

"Do you wish for something else?"

She shrugged, then stopped and turned to him. "Honestly? I do. But, well, I've never known anything else. Sometimes I think I'm probably not likely to."

"Sometimes?" He tried to perk her up with a smile as he queried, "What about those other times? What do you think of then?"

She looked away, in the direction of the Kelps but not as if looking at them, and Garison guessed she was a million miles away from Mount Vernon at that moment. He leaned into her field of vision and, after getting her attention with a smile, asked, "What do you think about, Sarah?"

"'Tis nothing."

"Tell me," he asked softly.

"I-I sometimes dream of going away."

"Anywhere in particular?"

She hesitated before replying, "Not really."

Again trying to engage her in a smile with one of his own, he asked, "Where? You're thinking of a place, of somewhere. I can see it in your eyes. Where?"