Coldwater Revival: A Novel (26 page)

Mama grinned at Caleb and Papa laughed out loud, our family being quick to hassle each other with the cattle prod of bedevilment.

“Something like that, Caleb.” I stared at him, but saw the other brother—laughing and playing, blissfully content in his beautiful home. Caleb was eleven now. I wondered if Micah would gain years in heaven. My heart thumped as I realized I could envision Micah’s appearance at every age—by watching Caleb as he grew and matured. I hovered over the images, gritting my teeth against old hurts that would surely stab at my heart, but nothing of the sort occurred. Caleb’s face reddened, perhaps because my stare fixed solidly on him. I seemed unable to turn my gaze. The blush heightened the pink of his scar, the jagged reminder of survival that endeared me to him ever more. I returned his grin, appreciating the freedom to tease at will, as I was the sort who gave even better than I received.

Calmed by a steady heartbeat and absence of angst, I poured out my story. It helped—knowing that my family loved me. Despite my failures of the past, they listened as though a queen had requisitioned their attention. I heard my words flow, and wondered how I could so easily uncover deeds buried beneath the years and tears of yesterday’s regrets.

“… and I screamed for them to come back, but they didn’t hear me. I ran like the wind, but … just couldn’t get there in time.” Yes, my tears gushed. That horrendous memory would move even a monster to tears. “By the time I reached them, they had already fallen in the well. I tried to bury my guilt, and go on with life, but I just couldn’t seem to … to …”

“Sis …”

I turned to Caleb, viewing his interruption as a lifesaver: a pause in which to calm myself during these moments of desperate recall. Moisture in Caleb’s eyes tottered on the brink of overflow, sparking them like sunlight on a tin roof.

“We heard you calling us, Emmy.” His words crept forth in tones of meek repentance, memories of the tragedy having tamed the tease from his voice. “Me and Micah … we knew we weren’t supposed to run off like that. I … I looked back once and saw you. You were gaining on us so I ran harder. I was afraid we’d lose Whisper. We couldn’t lose Whisper, Emma Grace.” Caleb’s voice broke, and to his horror, I’m sure, he wept openly. “I’d take it all back if I could. I’d mind you like you taught us to. Maybe Micah would still be …”

Caleb’s sobs tore at my heart. I didn’t know what to do with his confession. The last thing I desired was for my admission to shackle him with guilt, such as the burden I had carried for years.

“No, no, Caleb. It wasn’t your fault. I was the adult in charge. I should have protected you. You were just a child.” Hurrying to his side, I gathered him in my arms and lay my head atop his. A quick glance at Mama assured me she was all right. Papa held her hand, and though it may have been their deepest desire to do so, neither presumed upon the conversation. “Please—please don’t take this upon yourself, Caleb. Mama and Papa put me in charge. There’s no one at fault but me.” I wiped my eyes with Caleb’s napkin, leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You were not to blame, little brother.” We made eye contact, Caleb and I, my gaze conveying a message of greatest importance:
You were
not
the cause of Micah’s death.
My eyes would whisper that thought to him every day for the rest of his life. I couldn’t let life burden Caleb with guilt, as it had me.

As I walked back to my chair, silence hung on the air like shadows on a moonlit headstone. “I wanted to tell you something very special. It’s about Micah. He’s … he’s wonderfully happy. Not sad, at all. Please … don’t ask me to explain how I know this. Someday—I’ll tell you all about it, but I can’t right now. Not tonight.”

“Emma Grace, if there’s something you can tell us that’ll ease the hurt, you must share it.” Mama held a napkin to her mouth, damming up additional words that might pressure me into saying more than I wanted to say. She didn’t like forcing people into things. Knowing me as she did, she knew I’d cave in and spill my heart out if she begged.

“Did you hear a word from God, sweetheart?” I read in Papa’s eyes a desperate longing to hear news of his son. He looked straight into my heart, Mama’s hand blanching beneath his grip.

“Yes … in a way, Papa. I saw Micah—in a dream, or maybe it was a vision. You see, God gave me the most incredible gift this afternoon. He knew I’d been bogged down with guilt for a long, long time. Ever since Micah died. I believe he gave me the dream so I could go on with life—joyfully, as he intends us to live. All I really know is that Micah is in the most wonderful place. You can’t imagine how beautiful it is. Love flows there like a river. And the light—there’s spectacular light everywhere.” I wiped my eyes and smiled with all the gladness my dream rekindled. “Someday I’ll tell you all about it, and about Micah, too. I promise. But right now, it’s too fresh—too intimate to share. I just need to hold onto it for a while longer. You understand?”

Papa nodded. It seemed enough to know his son was happy. Mama broke down, letting flow what she usually reserved for deepest night.

“What’s this other thing you had to tell us?” Never one to feel comfortable in the presence of Mama’s pain, Elo thrummed the table with his fingertips, awaiting my answer. He didn’t fool me. His emotions ran as rampant and unruly as the rest of the family’s. His, however, rumbled a mite deeper beneath the surface. Though he hid his feelings from the outside world, he’d never been able to conceal them from me. I saw the sparks now, sizzling in the depths of his eyes—just waiting to pop into flames. But confession and Elo were strangers. To think he would speak from his heart was pure foolishness. I felt great tenderness for my brother in that moment, knowing my divulgence had stirred him to the core.

I turned to Mama and Papa. “I’m sorry for all the work you’ve done, Mama, but I can’t marry Gavin. I’m going to tell him tonight.”

“Well, I’ll be. So you finally saw the light.” Elo’s smirk brought a smile to my heart. He had watched over me most of my life. I supposed he still did. “Gonna toss that scum-faced Mick of yours into the manure pile, eh, Emmy G? Guess you were right, Caleb. The wind must’ve blown some sense into her thick skull, after all.”

“You’ll not be calling our kin
Mick
as the trash up north do.” Papa bared his teeth at Elo, his homeland and his people taking precedence over a rude son.

“Sorry, Papa.”

Elo grinned, disproving even a smidgen of repentance on his part. Until now, I hadn’t realized how much Elo hated Gavin. Though his prejudice hadn’t factored into my decision to end the betrothal, it did my heart good to please Elo. It always had.

“What made you change your mind, Sis?” Nathan’s words urged the contemplation right out of me. His face broadened to a smile as he rested elbows on the table and joined his fingertips into a steeple. Tapping his fingers against his upper lip, he reminded me of a judge, or a brilliant professor. I regarded his question, and the weight behind his words. They proved too heavy to lift for viewing before the family this night. The imprint Tate made on my life—his lingering memory in my heart—was a tale for another time and place. Perhaps, I would never disclose my lost love to the family.

I smiled at Nathan, feeling a renewal of oneness with the family. When had the unity begun to unravel? I wondered. Had it started the day I chose Gavin for a husband?

“So—Nathan—you didn’t like him either? Et tu, Brute?” Nathan and I laughed together, our contagious mirth lifting similar joyfulness from Mama’s lips. “Along with you and Elo, who else knew I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life?”

My family raised their hands like a pack of first-graders who wanted to be first to answer the teacher’s question. Of course, Elo wouldn’t stoop to such childishness. He simply sat in his chair and stared at me with a villain’s smirk on his face. But deep inside—Elo was ecstatic.

“Looks like you’ll have me underfoot a while longer.” I aimed my words at Mama and Papa, old troubling thoughts filling my head with unease. Suddenly, I was back in spinster-land, not knowing if I would ever marry. Ever bear children. My doubts burgeoned. “I don’t know how Gavin will take it tonight. It’s a rotten thing to do—breaking up two weeks before the wedding.”

My shoulders slumped with regret. I dreaded hurting Gavin. I did love him, though my love lacked the strong foundation upon which to build a lifetime of trust and affection. Dare I throw him away though, when his arms might be the only ones willing to hold me?

Thirty-four

Tweaker paced the porch floor, her soft purr requesting to join me on the swing. It was a wonder I heard her at all, what with the swing’s rusty chains begging for a squirt from Papa’s oilcan. I knew Tweaker held me in high regard, but ’twas my lap she liked most—especially when it rocked like a cradle. Lithesome being her middle name, she sprang from the floor and landed atop my muslin skirt, dainty paws denting not a pinch of fabric. I squeezed her to my chest before she could crawl into a tight ball of drowsiness. She didn’t seem to mind that I had foiled her plans. Her sandpaper tongue willingly licked my nose while her pale-gray whiskers kissed my cheeks. Poor baby. Had she known that a fast-moving cyclone was about to hit the porch, she would have vaulted from my arms and run for the hills.

It sounded like a good idea to me.

A breeze carried his winsome tune to my ears moments before I spied him sauntering up the road. I had heard this song before, on a night filled with starlight and soft whispers from the man who had encircled me in his arms. The hauntingly beautiful melody stayed with me, humming from my lips at the oddest times: while soaking in the tub, hanging clothes on the line, peeling carrots at the kitchen sink. Gavin had picked up the tune in County Cork, on the Emerald Isle, and brought it with him to America. Along with his affection for life and love.

As Gavin drew near, a curtain of twilight descended over the hazy glow of evening. Once-green trees now wore swatches of charcoal, as though they’d been singed around the edges. As clouds thinned and blended into the sky, I saw a bit of sparkle and knew I had spied the first star of evening. The wishing star.

I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.
No longer bent toward fairy-tale predilections, I turned my wish into a prayer. While Gavin unhooked the gate, I prayed for words, right and true. Words that didn’t drip with apology, as was my nature, but, more importantly, words that wouldn’t strip the music from Gavin’s heart. This evening’s confrontation required I confirm my love and appreciation for him—as a friend. It also dictated I veer far from the path of romantic overtures. Tonight I had to tread the tightrope of communication with honesty and sensitivity.

Gavin waved and grinned, his casual greeting a vast disparity from the seriousness of the evening. Deepening shadows reminded me of all that had to transpire between us. I prayed Gavin’s beauty and charm would neither melt the strength of my will, nor erase the good sense God gave me.

Moonlight guided Gavin’s steps as he mounted the porch and sat beside me on the swing. He reached out, capturing the hand that stroked Tweaker. My gaze moved from his face, shaved smooth as Mama’s plates, and traced the strong lines of his body. The view set loose a bit of carnal longing within me. Chill bumps ruffled my arms and neck, my resolve slipping a notch as I decided to taste Gavin’s kiss one last time. I swam in the ocean of his eyes, and within those blue-green depths discovered the passion that had first awakened me to desire. Gavin’s eyes held power over me, as they had the first time our eyes bumped gazes. His eyes had robbed me of breath then, as they did now.

“Gavin, I—”

His lips covered mine, recalling to mind the evening of our last embrace. Fearing my own uncertainty, I had pried myself free of Gavin’s brawny manacles and wriggled away to safer ground. Now I desired his strength around me again; enfolding me with greater ardency than it had on the moonlit night I ran from his touch.

“Every time I lay eyes on ye, lass, ’tis that much more beautiful ye are to me.” Gavin’s words rushed out, sounding breathless and smelling sweet. He leaned in, flashing his rascal grin. Diligent fingers combed my hair, lifting a curl, breathing in its fragrance. He peered into my eyes, searching the innermost parts, it seemed, seeking the point of no return. When he merged our mouths together a second time and stamped his seal upon my lips, a shudder of desire skittered down my throat and galloped into my bones.

I closed my eyes, shutting out the firmness of my purpose. His kisses lifted me from the porch swing—into another world: a world that existed behind the shuttered lids of darkness. ’Twas there I chanced upon a memory more real than Gavin’s kiss: a time and place from which my heart had never departed.

Lost in thought, I didn’t hear Tate’s approach. He tapped me on the shoulder. As I turned to him, he bowed, as would a gentleman in the presence of a queen. In total Tate unlikeness, he postured himself into dance position.

“Pardon me, miss, but may I have this dance?”

I felt a rush of heat flood my face, my neck, my limbs. Riled-up and confused, I stared past Tate’s shoulder, wanting answers to silent questions my heart was too embarrassed to ask:
Why are you doing this, Tate? Do you think so little of me that
you’d taunt my lameness?

“Come on, Emma … it’s a slow song. We can do this together. Come dance with me,” he coaxed.

I turned my back on him. “I’ve never danced in my life. I don’t know how … and furthermore, it would be quite an impossible task, bound to this crutch as I am.”

“I’ve never danced before either. Who’s to see us, Emma? Who’s to care that we’re a couple of first-timers?”

“Do you think to make sport of my condition, Tate?”

“Heck, no. Look … I’ve got it all figured out … all you have to do is put your right foot on top of my left shoe, then you’ll be on even-keel. Want to give it a try?”

Oh, how we had danced. The music played on in my heart.

“I can’t wait another two weeks, Emma Grace. What do ye say, sweetheart?” Something about Tate’s voice bothered me. Rising through a fog of provocative memories, I peeked beyond love-swollen lids, desiring a closer look at the tall, dark youth who had accomplished what no other could: convinced me to dance in the light of day … in a city park, of all places.

“There’s no call to be waiting for our wedding night. I can feel ye’re wanting it as much as I am. Oh, sweet girl, ye’ve never responded like this before.”

Gavin? Why was I locked in Gavin’s arms … his hands touching forbidden places?

As I jerked his hand from my breast, spurs of guilt dug into my conscience, for I knew I had invited Gavin’s touch when I imagined myself in Tate’s arms. Oh yes, I’d succumbed to temptations of the flesh—and quite easily, I had to admit. I studied the man who held me, his eyes glazing over with love and desire. Oh, how I wished those eyes belonged to the ebony-haired youth to whom I had given my heart.

“Don’t be a tease, Emma Grace. ’Tis not like ye to lead me on, then pretend ye’re not after the same thing I’m wanting meself. ”

I wriggled from Gavin’s arms and walked across the porch. I halted at the railing, presenting him my back as I smoothed my skirt and closed the tortoiseshell buttons of my bodice. Angry fingers fumbling at ordinary tasks. I glanced at the cavernous sky, pinpoints of light tracing patterns on a drapery of darkness. Perhaps I could find my own map in the heavens, and it would lead me away from the mess I had made. I turned, propping my backside against the barrier, staking claim some distance from Gavin. My hands shook with disgust—at myself and at Gavin. I shoved my hands behind my back and grasped onto the banister’s stability. As disturbing as Gavin’s assessment had been, I knew it was truthful. I
had
responded to him as never before. Even so, he had no cause to take such liberties.

“You had no call to undress me like that, right here on my own front porch.”

“Oh, come off it. ’Twas nothing but a touch. Ye were practically begging me to scrabble ye up a bit.” Gavin lunged from the swing, grabbing me by the shoulders, holding me prisoner as he hissed out his wrath. “Ye wanted it, Emma Grace. Don’t be denying it. And, furthermore, ’tis nothing shameful about it. Not a’tall. Ye liked me kisses well enough, didn’t ye, girl?”

Yes, I had liked them—too well. But ’twas a deceitful thing I had done to Gavin. The shame of it stuck in the muck and mud of my conscience, and there it set up squatter’s rights. I knew it wouldn’t budge until I revealed to Gavin what I had rehearsed in my head the entire afternoon.

“Gavin—I need to talk to you about something. Please, let go of my arms and hear me out … before you say anything. And, keep your voice down. Elephant ears are probably pressed to the panes this very minute.” I glanced at the parlor window as I walked back to the swing, but if there were any snoopers they were either too quick for my eyes or as hard to spot as wispy haunts on a windy night.

As I gathered my shawl around me, my peripheral vision assured me Gavin remained at the railing. Huffs of air steamed from his nostrils like irate smoke signals—or were they an invention of my imagination? I sat down, giving the swing a hearty push; a signal, of sorts, for Gavin to stay put. Better I talked to him with a goodly span between us.

“Get it off yer chest, Emma Grace. Whatever ’tis bothering ye … jest spit it out. But if ye’re thinking to yank an apology from me for doing what any living, breathing man would be doing …”

Gone, the rascal smile and the charm that effortlessly wrapped dozens of female hearts around its twisted vine. Gavin didn’t snarl, exactly, but close enough that I pictured the hair on his back, arching over like a causeway bridge. He jammed his hands into deep pockets and stared me down. I saw his nostrils flare, invisible snorts of air lifting sandy locks from his forehead.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Gavin. I’d do anything not to hurt you … but …”

“Say what’s on yer mind, girl. I’ve had enough of yer nonsense.”

“I’ve been troubled for some time now—not knowing if I’m really in love with you—or just loving the idea of being married. I don’t even know if I’m ready for marriage.” I reached for my hanky, but settled for the hem of my shawl, my eyes refilling as quickly as I wiped them dry.

Gavin shook his head and frowned. “Are ye still hung up on Robert’s story? I’ve told ye that I’ve got no one waiting for me in Ireland. I’ve not fathered a babe, and there’s no lass waiting for me to marry her. Never has been—never will be.”

“No, it’s got nothing to do with what you did before we met. I loved you, Gavin, and was excited about getting married. I can say that with full truth. I thought God had brought you all the way from Ireland, just for
me.”

“He did, darlin’. He surely did.”

“Please … let me finish. I told you about what happened to my little brother, Micah.” Gavin nodded and pedaled his finger in the air, prompting me to get on with my explanation. “What I didn’t tell you was that I blamed myself for his death. I never got over the tragedy, you see, because I wouldn’t let myself think about it—or face it. The memories hurt too much. The cost of looking back was too high. Oh, I did a good job of pretending, but deep down, I was never at rest—never free of guilt. I knew if I had watched the boys closer—”

“Ye can’t be thinking like that, Emma Grace. Nothing good comes from blaming yerself. What’s that got to do with the two of us, anyway?”

“I thought guilt was keeping me from loving you with all of my heart. That’s what it’s got to do with you and me. Something wasn’t right inside me. Something wasn’t right with
us,
either. I blamed it on guilt and the fact that I hadn’t been completely happy or content since Micah died. But all that changed this afternoon. I’m not shackled with guilt anymore. Isn’t that wonderful, Gavin?”

“Where’s all this leading?”

Gavin’s sternness didn’t dampen my joy; though it did sober me up a bit. “I see now that guilt wasn’t the entire problem.
We’re
the problem. I’m not in love with you, Gavin.”
We’re not evenly yoked … don’t you see?
“I can’t promise to cherish you and honor you for the rest of my life. But I can certainly promise to love you—as a friend.”

“Friend? Ye’re wanting me to be yer friend? ’Twas not a
friend
ye were kissing a moment ago, Emma Grace. What’s really going on here? Surely ye’re not mad because I dared touch yer precious body.” Scorn dripped from his words as he leaned back against the railing, crossing his legs and slouching as though my words had not perturbed him. But I knew I had wounded Gavin, wounded him gravely. There was pain in his eyes—as though a thousand deadly needles had pierced his heart.

Then the pained look vanished, and in its place an angry, bitter hardness glared back at me. I tried to ignore the ire that seethed and flared to life behind his wild-eyed stare.

“More than anything else—I’ll always treasure our friendship, Gavin. I hope, in time, that you’ll …” A veil of tears blurred his image into a ragged, white shape. The shape didn’t move, but from the feel of electricity about me, Gavin’s anger still crackled in the air. I wiped my eyes and glanced at the window, seeing no movement, hearing no whispers. I prayed my family didn’t eavesdrop on this conversation, as it looked to turn ugly. “My feelings have nothing to do with the liberties you took tonight, though I thought them disgraceful. Who gave you permission to grope me and put your hands where you darn well pleased?” Wrath stirred my blood and circulated through my veins with swiftness.

“Are ye saying ye have no feelings for me, Emma Grace? None a’tall?”

“Of course I have feelings for you, Gavin—they’re just not the kind you build a marriage on. Can’t you see that I’m not the—”

“How could they just up and disappear like that? One day ye love me, the next ye’re wantin’ me to be your
friend?
Are ye a stinking magician, so’s ye can make yer love come and go like a rabbit in a hat?”

“Feelings can change, Gavin. It’s best I found out now. Otherwise, I might have made your life miserable somewhere down the road.”

Gavin knelt before me and took my hands in his. My whole body shook, for his eyes held dark bleakness within their depths.

“Don’t ye know that ye could never make me miserable, sweet girl? No matter how hard ye tried.” Gavin swiped at his tears with a shirtsleeve, his other hand reclaiming mine. His eyes held a pleading look.

But what about me, Gavin? What if I married you and was miserable my entire life because I married the wrong man? Elo’s right. We’re unevenly yoked.