Marrying Stone (3 page)

"Where are you?" he called, squinting between the thick trunks of trees on either side of the narrow, clean-cut trail.

"Up here."

Adjusting his spectacles more securely upon his nose,Roe glanced to the high first limb of a sturdy hickory above him. A handsome, young male face smiled back at him.

"Hello."

With one graceful movement, the man dropped to the ground beside him. He was tall. A good three inches taller than Roe, and he was muscular. His broad physique evidence of hard outdoor work. Roe became wary. The blond giant just stood there, grinning. He truly had no idea how welcome he might be in these mountains. He'd been told that Ozarkers were an open, friendly people and he'd expected them to be dazzled with his knowledge and intrigued with his work. But the Ozarks themselves were a strange and dangerous place. It was quite possible that the locals might prove to be standoffish or even downright belligerent.

Now he'd come across this one, about his own age but much bigger and taller, and ominous-looking. And the giant just stood mutely before him with an expression that bordered on stupidity. His eyes were as wide and guileless as a child's. Roe shook his head. These were a strange and unfathomable people. There was nothing to do but take charge of the situation.

"Good morning, sir," Roe said with a mild bow of polite deference. "I am J. Monroe Farley of Cambridge, Massachusetts, the Bay State. I'm visiting your majestic mountain for the purpose of writing and recording for posterity the traditional ballads and folk songs of your people."

The young man continued to just stare at him. Apparently, he was unfamiliar with the manners of society. Farley extended his hand to the big fellow and offered less formally, "You may call me Roe, if you like, there is no reason to stand on formality."

The young fellow looked at the hand with momentary confusion. Then with a rush of understanding he grasped it forcefully and pumped it up and down with excitement. "I'm Jesse Best of just right here," he said proudly.

There was a strangeness to his speech. Farley suspected it was not merely his accent and not quite an impediment, just something different.

"You can call me Simple Jess," he told Roe. "Everybody does."

"
Simple
Jess?"

The young man nodded enthusiastically. "That's me," the blond fellow said proudly.

Roe stared at the young man for a moment. Obviously, Jess was unaware of the negative connotations of his nickname.

Roe sighed loudly and then muttered aloud. "My luck is certainly running true today. If I were ever to find a friend in these lonely mountains, it would undoubtedly be someone with a name like
Simple
Jess."

The big fellow's eyes widened and he gazed at Roe in near awe. "You wanna be my frien'?" he asked quietly.

Momentarily startled, Roe looked at the young man curiously. He felt a strange sense of compassion for the simpleminded man so near his own age.

"Do you know anything about music?" he asked.

Jesse grinned and nodded enthusiastically. "Yep. I play 'n' sing up a storm. Near ever' Literary."

"Literary?"

Jesse's chin bobbed up and down affirmatively, but he made no attempt to explain. "Are you gonna be my frien'?"

Roe watched the young man swallow convulsively and could see the eagerness in Jesse's blue eyes. "I ain't ne'er had a frien' afore," he said. "I got me a sister and a pa, but never no frien'."

The young man's emotions, so honest and so close to the surface, touched something in Roe. He, himself, had dozens of friends, well not friends perhaps but colleagues, and he'd never given a one of them a moment's thought or consideration. He felt a twinge of guilt at his sarcastic comment about friendship. With the bad luck of losing the mule and  his belongings, he could certainly use a friend, of any type.

"Certainly," Roe said, "I'll be your friend, Jesse." He offered his hand once more.

The delight that shone on the young man's face was almost tangible. Roe felt an uncomfortable sense of responsibility at being able to please him so easily. Well, maybe the simple fellow
could
be a friend to him. He certainly needed help climbing up this mountain, and with no other friend or even foe around, the fellow seemed to be in possession of a strong back.

"That's right, Jesse. We are friends," he said, slapping him companionably on the shoulder. "And friends generally help each other."

Jesse had helped. Up the steep mountain trail where the trees had been cut at ground level, but the stumps left to be bounced and tripped over, Jesse had carried the Ediphone, with its carton of individual fitted containers. Following behind with only his journal to carry, Roe smiled for the first time in several days.

"What do you call this place?" he asked his newfound guide.

"We don't call it nothing," the fellow answered.

"You don't call it anything?"

Jesse looked thoughtful. "Well, this here hill is called Marrying Stone Mountain; that big one there that kind of shades us in the afternoon, it's called Squaw's Trunk; the one in the distance is Uncle Wilkie."

Roe raised an eyebrow at the strange names but made no comment.

"The little crick that runs along here into the river is called Itchy Creek, 'cause the poison oak grows along it real bad. You got to be careful where you go into it. Our place is pretty near right on the creek bank. That's real good, 'cause I don't have to go far to fetch up the water."

Roe nodded vaguely. "What's the name of the nearest town?"

The big blond fellow shrugged. 'There ain't no nearest town. There ain't no town at all."

Roe looked at him curiously. 'There's no church, no school, no store?"

"The church and school's on the far side of the mountain. They got a store over there, too. They call that Marrying Stone."

Roe nodded. "Just like the mountain."

"No," the young man replied, "it's named for the Marrying Stone at the church." As if that explained everything.

Roe shook his head. This was definitely the Ozarks with its strange names and its truly simple folks.

"I cain't wait for you to meet Meggie," Jesse said.

"Meggie?"

"My sister. She's just going to love you."

Roe grinned. "Oh, really?" he said casually. He looked at Simple Jess as he walked ahead, his tall, straight back balancing the heavy weight of the Ediphone on his shoulder as if it were nothing. He tried to imagine a female version of Simple Jess. No doubt she'd be an Amazon.

"Is your sister like you?" he asked.

Jesse stopped in midstride and turned to him, his eyes wide with shock. "Oh, no! Ain't none of my family like me. I'm plumb unusual."

Roe was struck at the fervency of his declaration.

"Meggie," Jesse continued, "why she's about as smart as a person can be. She wins the spelling bee purt-near ever' time. And she was the only gal in the school that ever made it clear through that yellow fifth-grade reader. Meggie ain't nothing like me." His smile was one of sheer brotherly pride. "She knows near everything! But she don't put on much like she's better or nothing. She just likes me for myself. I suspect she'll take to you right off. You being my frien' and all."

Taking to him right off
had proved to be a little more interesting than Roe had expected.

Sitting at the scarred, worn table in the tiny cabin, he had glanced over at barefooted Meggie Best and smiled. His long-ingrained sense of propriety and manners dictated that he make polite luncheon conversation while they waited for her father and brother.

"And did you make this piccalilli yourself?" His tone was intimate, barely above a whisper. "Because if you did, I will certainly want to taste it."

The young woman blushed prettily and lay a hand against her heart as if to still the butterflies that fluttered there. Curious at her reaction, he looked deeply into her eyes. They were not the dark, vivid blue of her brother's, but rather a clement sky color of blue and gray, as welcoming as a summer morning.

"I did stir this batch up, after the freeze," she admitted with shy modesty. "Though folks say I'm not much of a cook."

He raised an eyebrow. 'These
folks
must be wrong," he assured her. "I am certain that your accomplishments are legend."

Meggie's eyes widened.

He watched her fingers tremble as she wound the clean cotton bandage around his hand.

He smiled. Her nervousness actually warmed him. He was reserved by nature and usually felt slightly uncomfortable in polite social situations with strangers. He had studied fashionable manners because they were necessary in his work. But he couldn't like august soirees and witty at-homes. The young woman here in the isolated cabin appeared as shy and sheltered as the most cosseted debutante. Instinctively, he felt a kinship with her.

"Please won't you allow me a small taste of your wonderful creation now, I don't believe I can wait for your brother to appear?" he asked in an exaggerated tone.

She raised her head and gazed at him, her expression curious. Roe was unsure of what it meant.

"The piccalilli," he said. "I'd love to sneak a little taste."

"Oh, the piccalilli."

The young woman grabbed a carved-out bone dipper and dished a huge portion of the relish in the old tin plate set on the table before him.

Roe sat staring at it for a long moment. He looked up to find her staring at him expectantly. He smiled. "I need an eating utensil," he said.

"You don't carry your own?" she asked, surprised.

"Why no, I don't."

"Here." She picked up a hollowed-out wooden dipper from her pocket. "You can use mine."

He stared at the primitive spoon, her spoon. It was old and the edge that touched the mouth was worn smooth with use, but it had a pretty little leaf design cut into the handle. Somehow it seemed so intimate to eat from it, but he had no other. He reached out with his freshly bandaged hand and gently took it from her.

"Thank you very much." Dipping into the soggy mass he brought the first taste of piccalilli to his lips.

He smiled at her. She swallowed nervously and jumped to her feet. "I'll fetch you a hunk of bread."

She hurried to the cupboard. He watched her, assessingly, curiously, and she went to the rough-finished safe on the far corner from the fireplace. Yes, he was right about her: healthy Scotch-Irish peasant stock, long, sturdy legs and buttocks ample to the point of generous. He allowed his gaze to linger there a bit longer than was necessary. Derrieres were the focus of all the fashion rage in the East. Women tied wire and horsehair contraptions on their backsides until they stood out with such prominence that it was said that a girl could rest a tea tray upon a fashionable bustle.

Gazing at the young Ozark woman's rounded behind in the thin homespun skirt, Roe doubted that horsehair or wire would ever be necessary for Meggie Best.

As she hurried back to the table, Roe allowed himself to  consider the rest of her figure. Her bosom was not voluptuous, but the soft curves were certainly in evidence. She was high-breasted and even without the enhancements of a corset she appeared firm and round, as if she carried two lush, ripe peaches in her front shirt pockets.

She stopped in midstride. Roe realized that she had caught him staring. Guiltily, he dropped his eyes.

"The bread is a day old," she said brightly as she smeared it lavishly with a pale white cream in a jar. "If you sop it in the juice from the piccalilli, you won't be able to tell."

She was smiling warmly, welcoming now as she lay what appeared to be a half loaf of coarse brown bread on the blue tin dinner plate before him.

Roe glanced up at her and then took a bite of the bread. "Oh, Miss Best, the bread doesn't need sopping in the juice. It's quite good on its own."

She sighed with obvious pleasure.

"And this butter," Roe continued. "It's quite unusual, but I believe it to be the finest tasting that I have ever eaten."

"Oh, it's not butter," Meggie told him. "We don't have a cow. It's just bear grease, but it is pretty good fare."

"Bear grease?" Roe cleared his throat a little nervously. He casually set the bread down next to his plate and concentrated on the piccalilli.

Companionably, Meggie sat down in her place and dished herself some of the relish.

"How will you eat if I'm using your spoon?" he asked.

With a nervous little giggle she shrugged. "I can ladle it up with a piece of bread," she assured him.

The two smiled at each other uncomfortably across the table. Her color was prettily pink. Roe found his eyes were drawn to the sight. The barefoot young woman was actually quite comely. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. The silence lingered.

"Do you like it?" she asked finally.

Realizing he had not complimented the cook, Roe scooped up a huge amount of the relish and shoveled it into his mouth. With deliberate charm he dramatically closed his eyes as if in ecstasy.

"Mmmmmmmm. Mmmmmmmm."

Meggie giggled.

Opening his eyes slightly, Roe shoveled in another large mouthful.

"I guess that means you like it?" Meggie asked anxiously.

Roe was feeling well disposed and friendly. He ignored the strange, sour aftertaste of the green tomato concoction and forced himself to take another bite.

"It tastes wonderful, marvelous, heavenly," he said extravagantly. "I don't believe I've ever eaten anything so palatable before."

His words were no more than standard dining-room compliments, but Meggie sighed with delight and laughed again. He really enjoyed hearing that sound.

They were grinning at each other now, strangely companionable. And it truly seemed quite natural when she got up and moved her ladderback chair around the corner of the table and closer to his own. For one fleeting moment a niggling feeling of concern pulled at him, but he ignored it. She was perhaps hard of hearing, he thought. Or maybe she was nearsighted like himself and found it necessary to be closer to converse. He didn't draw away.

Graciously he downed another bite of piccalilli. He'd barely had time to swallow before he felt the tentative touch of her hand on his own. A warm tingle traveled up his arm. He swallowed and turned to stare at her over the top of his spectacles.