Coldwater Revival: A Novel (33 page)

“It broke my heart when I couldn’t tell you good-bye, Tate. But there was no way to write or call you. I didn’t know your last name.”

Tate slipped his arm around my shoulder and drew me close. “I think maybe God wanted me to give you a little time to grow up, darling. He didn’t want me robbing the cradle, you know.”

As Tate looked into my eyes, his gaze stretched its sizzling fingers across my heart, warming me against the chill in Granny’s parlor. His eyes sparked a memory: the black stone I’d placed in Micah’s tin, but which now lay inside my suitcase, along with his other treasures. Tate’s eyes made me think of the obsidian stone, for his eyes were dark now—midnight-black with passion, and they glistened with an aura of love.

“I want you to marry me, Emma. Soon. Very soon. Then we’ll share the same last name.”

Unable to answer Tate with words, I nodded my head and swallowed back a trickle of tears. After clearing my throat, I said, “And what name will we share, Tate?”

“Fletcher, darling. You’ll be Mrs. Tate Fletcher.”

By the time Tate left that night, he knew why I no longer walked with a crutch, and why I had been so secretive when first we met. He knew about my nieces and nephews, Caleb’s love for baseball, and Elo’s skill at hunting, farming, fishing, and working horses. He also heard about Nathan’s passion for learning, about my three beautiful sisters and their husbands, and all about Mama and Papa. In turn, he told me about the death of his beloved Mrs. K, and the house she had willed him, about his crew at work and his friends at church, and about the girl he would break up with tomorrow.

Tate insisted we petition Papa for his blessing and his permission to marry, but neither of us wanted to ask him by way of a long-distance phone call. So we made plans to drive to Coldwater during the Thanksgiving holidays two weeks from now. On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Tate would return to Galveston and work until the Christmas respite. And then—we would get married on Christmas Eve.

I had wished to say my vows in Christ’s Chapel as The Ollys had, but with the buzz about Gavin and me still fresh in the minds of Coldwater residents, I decided the wedding should take place in our home.

Neither of us wanted to say good-bye on the first night of our togetherness. Perhaps we held the fear that something might happen as before; something that would keep us apart.

As I stood in the doorway and watched Tate drive away, tears spilled from my eyes. But they were joy tears: for finding him again; for loving him with every parcel of my being.

After he left, I climbed into bed, too excited to sleep. I said my prayers, wondering all the while how a person could properly thank the good Lord for such a bountiful gift as Tate Fletcher. As I lay there, waiting for sleep to overtake me, I weighed the name Emma Grace Fletcher against other names I’d heard, and judged it the prettiest of all. But the name Mrs. Tate Fletcher was even a mite more beautiful.

Forty-four

“But—it’s beautiful, Tate. I can’t believe you don’t want to keep it.”

Tate glanced around the room, studying the same images I viewed: dark walls, curving staircase, dully-lit chandelier, and heavy window hangings.

“It’s just too dark and dreary. Maybe we should sell it and find a smaller place; something that’s not so hard to keep up.”

I snickered at the expression on Tate’s face, which was somewhat like the look of a child who had wandered too near a soiled diaper. I stretched on tiptoes and received his kiss. “What’s the real reason, Tate? Why don’t you want to live here?”

“You know … I came to love Mrs. K like she was my real mother. I just don’t want to be reminded of her all the time. Know what I mean?”

“I have a thought: We could brighten up the house with a little paint, maybe change out the rugs and put in lighter carpet. And get new drapes. Definitely get some new drapes. It would look like an entirely different house.” I peered at dark brown paneling, walnut, most likely, envisioning the walls with a swash of sunlight streaming through. “I’ve got it—we could tear out this wall and install French doors, strip off that old wallpaper on the ceiling, and maybe—”

“Hold on a minute. This house is just too big, Emma. I don’t want you spending every spare minute cleaning this monstrosity.”

When the thought came, it struck like a bolt of lightning. I could almost smell the singe of electricity; hear the unnatural sizzle as flames licked the heavy drapes into melted puddles of velvet.

“Tate—will we be poor? I mean, will we need to be careful with our money, or—”

“Money’s one thing we don’t have to worry about, sweetheart. I’ve been saving and investing my income for years now. Besides, when we sell the house, we’ll have quite a nest egg.”

“I don’t want to sell the house, Tate. I think it’s lovely. But, you’re right, it is too much for me to take care of … by myself.” I grinned at Tate—like the proverbial Cheshire cat, I’m afraid.

“What’re you cooking up in that beautiful head of yours? Huh?” Tate crossed his arms, his scowl so pathetically artificial, I burst out laughing.

“Why—to hire Sadie, of course. She and the children could come over every day and help with the cleaning. We could even turn one of the bedrooms into a playroom for the children. You’ll love her kids, Tate.”

“If they’re anything like Nobie, I think we may have a problem.”

“Oh, Tate—Nobie’s the dearest of them all. You’ll see, darling. You’ll see.”

Our last two weeks together in Galveston winged by like a hungry bat chasing a mosquito. We packed our afternoons, evenings, and weekends full, not caring what we did, so long as we did it together.

We returned to Kempner Park and danced atop the gazebo, though no music accompanied us this time. We walked to our dune and admired the sea, dreaming of the day we’d travel to faraway ports. Tate took me to my first moving picture show:
A Farewell to Arms.
We snuggled our heads together, sharing a box of popcorn and whispering secrets of love. Viewing the movie was like reading my favorite book, only with living, moving pictures to better describe the scenes. I couldn’t wait to tell my family about the movie, as none of them had been to a theater.

The Saturday before Thanksgiving was an Indian summer sort of day, spilling over with fiery sunshine and breezes that had lost their bite. Tate and I drove across the causeway to Pelican Island, where we fished from a pier, picnicked on the beach, and waded in the bay.

’Twas not the first time Tate had seen my leg in its undressed state, but that sighting had been five years earlier. I felt unashamed as I held onto his arm, water covering my bareness to the knees. Afterward, Tate dried my legs with a cloth napkin, and surely took his own sweet time doing it. I wondered what he thought when he stroked my shorter leg, gentleness ill-disguising the tremble in his hands. I knew not what I’d do if pity fueled his shakes, for pity was as unacceptable to me as the thought of losing Tate’s love. I held my breath, waiting for him to speak.

“Does your leg ever trouble you, sweetheart?”

“No, never. Well—maybe if I’ve been walking on it all day.”

“It would be my greatest pleasure to massage it for you—every night for the rest of our lives.”

“I love you, Tate.”

“I love you more.”

Tate took me to a fancy restaurant where I had my first taste of boiled shrimp. I decided I much preferred Mama’s fried chicken. At the end of each lovely day, we sat in Granny’s parlor and dreamed our dreams together. Perhaps it is true that you can unveil a man’s true character in the dark of night. It was in the darkened parlor, during a beautiful, passionate kiss, that I discovered Tate’s moral constitution, as well as his fortitude.

“Sugar—we can’t do this anymore. We can’t … well, we can’t keep kissing and holding each other like this. It’s getting harder and harder to stop … with just …”

I supposed I wore a dumbfounded look as Tate further explained our situation. “The good Lord gave you back to me, Emma. The best way I can show my thanks is by keeping my hands off of you until we’re married.”

Tate stood and walked to the stove. He bent over; lifting a chunk of wood from the firebox, shoving it into the iron belly, clunking the door shut. He dusted his hands on his denims and turned to me. “The one thing I’m not going to do is bring shame on you or myself. I can’t rightly ask your papa to give us his blessings if I’m not deserving of his trust. Do you understand what I’m saying, Emma?” I nodded, certain I did know of what he spoke.

“You’re saying that we love God and each other too much to go against his teachings. Right?”

Tate nodded. “You hit the nail right on the head, sweetheart. Do you know how much I love you?”

“Yes … I think I really am beginning to understand how much you love me.”

Forty-five

A miracle happened during the Thanksgiving holidays. Elo bonded with Tate as he had never bonded with anyone—except Papa, of course. The two grew so close, I found myself chasing after them like a new puppy, barking up a storm, but capturing only enough attention to garner a glance or pat on the head. Oh, Tate threw me a bone from time to time: a wink, a secret smile, or a quick smooch behind the porch. But prefer my company over Elo’s, he did not. I thought about buying a roll of Tanglefoot Fly Paper to spread over Tate’s pathway. I was that desperate to snare his attention and spend more time with him. After all, he would be returning to Galveston in two days. We’d not see each other again until Christmas. Oh well, at least I had Tweaker to love on.

“I’ll say one thing, Emma Grace. He sure brings out the stars in your eyes.” Mama laughed as she pulled an embroidery needle through the pillow covering.

The back door slammed. I glanced up as two giants strode into the parlor, the blond one leading the way. Elo halted a few feet from the arched entrance.

Tate marched up to me, stooped over, and sowed a kiss upon my cheek. He squatted; his eyes filled with mischief, as if he had sneaked a piece of Mama’s custard pie and swallowed it whole. The effect of his pocket-size smile stretched to the pit of my stomach, drawing up a hunger for our wedding night, when the two of us would become one flesh. I pretended his presence didn’t buoy me to euphoric heights, and kept my eyes on the dress I hemmed. But I had never been successful at holding back my gaze when it wished to rove elsewhere. I looked into Tate’s beautiful eyes and melted.

“Let me guess … You’re going to buy a pickup like Elo’s, right?”

“Close enough. Elo and I are going to the auction over in Burton, and afterward, if there’s enough daylight left, we’re going to stop by Lake Somerville and do a little fishing. Don’t look for us till late.” Another quick peck on the cheek and off the two went, wide-straddled paces leading them to the doorway before I could gather my wits to speak.

“What are you going to buy at the auction, Elo?” Elo stopped, turned, and stared at me as though I had called him a bad name.

“Elo’s going to help me select a thoroughbred stallion; one that’s willful and high-strung, like Samson. I figure if I get a horse that’s every bit as headstrong as you are, I can teach both of you to behave at the same time.” Tate chuckled and walked away, while I sputtered and fumed, racking my brain for a good retort. The giants’ laughter trailed after them—much as I had scampered behind them earlier in the day.

I caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye, turned, and saw Mama’s shoulders in a feverish quake. Her embroidery hoop concealed her face, but I knew she was having quite a laugh behind that cloth.

“What’s so funny, Mama?”

She coughed out the loud chortle she’d been holding back. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, dear. You’re marrying quite a handful—which will make it a very even match, indeed.”

Wasn’t Mama always right? I grinned, knowing I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next month dragged by. I spent my days sewing, reading Tate’s letters, packing my belongings, cooking, and working with the animals. Holly and Molly came over and baked Christmas goodies, and for reasons unknown to me, asked if I would watch the kids while they helped Mama clean the house from attic to porch. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

On the days I didn’t receive a phone call or letter from Tate, I was snappish and unpleasant to be around. At such times, I would ride Tate’s horse, Pocahontas, whom he called Poco. He fell in love with the chestnut mare the moment he spied her at the auction in Burton. Overnight, Tate and Elo became partners in the horse business. The first colt resulting from the pairing of Samson and Poco would be Elo’s, and a fair trade it would be for all the feeding, grooming, and training he would give the colt. After the first foal, the men would jointly own all offspring, and try to build up the herd by buying new stock. Tate’s main contribution was in financing the partnership.

On my better days I treated the family like royalty, knowing time and distance would soon separate us. The newly installed phone in the kitchen eased my mind a bit, but still, I dreaded the parting and gave way to tears more often than I should.

Three events shaped our December: Polly’s first visit home in two years, the wedding, and Christmas.

Tate’s arrival, late in the evening of December 22, both thrilled and shocked me, for he wasn’t scheduled to arrive until the next night. He brought Granny with him. After helping her into the house, and after being introduced to the rest of the family, he grabbed my hand and jacket, and off we raced to his car.

He drove to a far pasture and parked on the fence line road. For a few moments, we just stared at one another. As we settled into each other’s arms, I discovered we could express our happiness without words.

On Christmas Eve morning, I awakened with a start. At ten o’clock Tate and I would join our lives together. I slipped to my knees beside the bed, greeting my heavenly Father with thanksgiving; for this day, this season of his Son’s birth, and for the Falin flock gathered within these walls, among whom Granny was numbered. I thanked him for my plenteous life, and for the young man he had sent five years earlier to help turn my feet from the path of destruction. My grateful heart could have remained in praise all day, for untold blessings that had reordered my dark nights into glorious morns.

Joy really does come in the morning.

Too nervous to eat breakfast, I bathed and slipped into Holly’s wedding gown. It fit me to perfection, thanks to Mama’s skill with a needle and thread. She had sewn a row of fine lace along the scooped neckline, and around the white pique hem. Each of The Ollys had trimmed Holly’s dress to suit their own tastes. I chose only one additional adornment: a lace bow attached to the waist at the back of the dress. The long ties widened at the hem, and would form a decorative train when I walked to Tate and became his wife.

Having washed my hair the night before, I placed a wreath of flowers on my head and adjusted it so that the red poinsettia petals were centered precisely. Polly had weaved some of Mama’s potted greenery into strips of dried vine, and then tied the vines into a garland of exceptional beauty. I turned my back to the dresser and looked in the hand mirror. Waves of light-brown hair flowed to my waist. I giggled, recalling the young girl who had bemoaned her brown curliness; the girl who hated Mama’s scissors because they cropped her hair to look like lamb’s wool, or worse, like a boy’s hair.

Tate loves my hair.

I stopped midway down the stairs and looked for Tate. Pastor Emery stood in the parlor archway with his back to me. Other guests, and my family, of course, talked together in small groups while they awaited the bride’s appearance. Nathan talked with Josephine Emery, the preacher’s daughter, and Caleb looked to be trading whoppers with the rowdy Aarsgard offspring. As I observed my sisters and their husbands, huddling and laughing together, it struck me that The Ollys grew more beautiful with each passing year. I noticed Elo then, standing with our newest neighbors, the Farleys. I pursed my lips and hoped I wouldn’t laugh aloud. I should have known that Ellabeth Farley, their beautiful eighteen-year-old daughter, would catch Elo’s eye. My oldest brother looked thunderstruck.

Elo? Thunderstruck?

Papa had cleared the room, save for a few chairs for the older guests. Ours was a stand-up wedding, and afterward we would serve a buffet lunch. I envisioned it now: people spilling into the yard, onto the porch, filling the kitchen, living room, and the area beneath the stairwell, most likely. ’Twas good that the day had dawned with a feeling of mildness about it: the sun shining its most spectacular best, and the wind too lazy to be a nuisance.

I slipped the whooping crane Tate carved for me into my bouquet of flowers:
Something old.

A brand-new penny rubbed the sole of my foot—for good luck, everyone said. But I knew that luck was just a word. God was the Father of all blessings; all good things came from him:
Something new.

I fingered the locket Tate gave me on the night of our reunion. He’d found it on the shore—something I had been unable to do, though I’d searched for it every time I went to the beach. Tate told me he’d not been without it since the day he spied its shininess in the sand. Neither of us could understand how he’d known the locket was mine. But it hadn’t been mine to keep, just as it had never been Mama’s to keep. Someday I would unlatch the necklace and place it around my daughter’s neck and the circle would continue.
Something borrowed.

High on my thighs, The Ollys’ blue satin garters held my stockings secure:
Something blue.

I stepped into the parlor. Tate spied me first, and we smiled at each other. Two long strides brought him to my side. I hoped my mouth didn’t gape, for he’d never looked more handsome. His looks were those of a fashion model: navy suit, white shirt, and pinstriped tie—a complement to his dark hair and powerful physique. I wondered if he bought the suit for our wedding, or if looking like the King of England was a common habit of his. His hair carried a sheen, slicked back as it was, most likely to control those pesky curls that had a habit of riding his forehead. A subtle scent of pomade lingered in the air, masculine and tempting. I glanced around, wondering if our guests recognized the glow of love and tell-tale look of longing that had to be evident on my face. I felt it now, flooding my cheeks and filling my heart with warmth.