Morning Glory (4 page)

Briar didn't look at her, instead trying to put names
with faces. Nellie had a long, long face with big, round, brown eyes and her thin hair drawn back in a tight bun
at the nape of her neck. Kind of like that sway-backed
horse his older brother named Nellie Belly. Cornelia
had cornflower blue eyes, so he figured he could
remember her name if he thought of that.

Dulcie threw up her hands and sighed at the impatient look Clara gave her. "Okay, okay, I'll hurry, since
supper is waiting, Clara. This is Mrs. Beulah Hastings.
Her husband died last year and she's been with us ever
since. And this is Olivia Traversty who works at the
bank. Next to her is Bessie Alman, another widow lady
who's lived here since Clara's mother opened the place
twelve years ago. And that is the bunch of the boarders.
You've already met me, and the lady at the other end of
the table is Clara Anderson, the owner of the Morning
Glory Inn. You'll sit right here beside me," Dulcie finished flatly and took her own seat at the other end of the
table.

Nellie, like the horse. Cornelia, like the cornflowers.
Olivia, who was looking at him with a sly look in her
eyes that told him he'd better lock his bedroom door at
night. He'd seen that look before, lots of times, and
when the women found out he had money, it got even
stronger. Bessie and Beulah, both with silver gray hair
and enough wrinkles to attest to the fact that they were
at least eighty: The two B's.

And Clara.

He busied himself placing the white linen napkin just
so in his lap and looked down the length of the well laden table. Clara! Sweet Jesus! She was a beauty-all
that black hair dressed high on her head and the clearest blue eyes he'd ever looked into. He didn't need
word association to remember her name. It was branded in bright red letters right across the front portion of
his brain.

Then the memory hit him like a hurricane on its way
to tear up a lovely town. She'd been the hoity-toity
woman who'd snubbed him earlier that day when he
was lying face down on the sidewalk. She'd made some
rude remark about oil well riffraff. No wonder she
appealed to him. History often repeated itself. He
almost groaned aloud.

"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, ladies. This
meal looks wonderful, Miz Dulcie," he said.

"Likewise," Olivia winked at him.

"Son, we're just glad for a man to sit at the table with
us. Been ten years since Clara rented a room to a man.
It's nice to have some male company," Bessie said.
"Now pass those potatoes before they get a skim of
grease on them. Two things ain't worth eating. One is
cold potatoes and the other is cold gravy."

Dulcie smiled. "You're right about that. But I
remember when my granny used to make up cold fried
potato sandwiches for us to take to school in our lunch
pails."

"So do I," Bessie said. "And I said if I ever got out of
school, I'd never eat them again."

Olivia shuddered and passed a platter of fried chick en to Briar, letting her fingers touch his a moment
longer than proper. "And what is it you do for a living,
Mr. Nelson? Are you a salesman like Dulcie thought
you might be? Is that really your automobile parked out
front?"

"Thank you" Briar forked a leg and a thigh from the
plate. "No, I'm not a salesman. Yes, that is my automobile." Anderson. Clara Anderson. Could it be? No, that
would be too coincidental. She couldn't be related to
Tucker and Matilda Anderson. Anderson, like Nelson,
was a fairly common name. His first order of business
in Healdton was to try to talk Tucker and Matilda into
letting him buy the mineral rights to their land. His
foreman had approached them about a sale a few weeks
ago, but they'd refused. Briar hoped that he could offer
them a deal that would make their little eyes see dollar
signs. But surely Clara wasn't kin to those people. Or
was she?

"We shouldn't ask so many questions. Mr. Nelson
will divulge as much information about what he does
for a living as he wants to do. Now, tell me, ladies, who
is going to the poetry reading at the library tonight?"
Clara changed the subject abruptly. If and when Olivia
moved, she intended to be a whole lot more careful
with the next boarder. No more young girls who flirted
with anyone who wore pants.

Clara's sweet Southern voice sent tingles up Briar's
backbone. It reminded him of fine Kentucky bourbon,
aged in a barrel for at least ten years, laced with the purest honey in the hills. Enough gravel to tease a
man's senses and sweetness to make him want more.
He could have leaned on both elbows, bracing his chin
in his palms, and listened to her talk about anything in
the world all evening. It had been years since a woman
had affected him so intensely, and he wasn't so sure he
liked the feeling. Not since he'd made up his mind four
years before that he wasn't going to make the same
mistake twice. He'd said that one uppity woman in a
lifetime was enough to sour Briar Nelson forever and
here he was practically drooling over another one.

"I'm not going," Olivia said. "Last time you roped
me into that, I was bored to tears. I didn't understand a
thing y'all were talking about. Who cares what some
poet thinks of a rose?"

"I would love to go" Bessie dabbed the corners of
her mouth with the napkin. "But Beulah and I are working our fingers to the bone trying to get the filet crochet
done for the altar cloth at the church. We're staying in
tonight."

"We'll go," Nellie and Cornelia said at the same
time.

"Good. That will be five of us. Matilda and Tucker
are both planning on being there. How about you, Mr.
Nelson? Would you be interested in studying the poetry of Elizabeth Browning tonight?" Clara asked.

Briar almost choked on a mouthful of chicken.
"Tucker and Matilda? Are they related to you?"

"My cousins. Matilda and Tucker Anderson. Tucker owns the old homestead place just out of town, the Evening Star Ranch, where my grandparents lived and
raised my father and his two brothers. Tilly inherited
the place next to it when her dad died a few years ago.
Our fathers were the three Anderson boys who grew up
right here in Healdton, Oklahoma. We have been cotton
farmers forever. At least the family has been. My father
was a banker as well as a farmer. When he died, my
mother turned this place into a boarding house," she
said.

"I see. Well, I wouldn't know a poem from a billy
goat, but I'd be glad to tag along if that would be all
right," he said.

Cornelia clapped her hands delightedly. "Oh, how
wonderful! We might even have another dreamer on
our hands."

"Another what?" Briar fought the frown, drawing his
dark eyebrows into a solid line.

Cornelia giggled. "Dreamer. That's what the townspeople call us because we attain to a higher level of
thinking than just cotton patches and oil wells."

"I see" Briar went about the business of eating more
seriously. If he had his mouth full, he wouldn't have to
answer any more questions. Talk about luck. He
couldn't have done a better job if he'd been trying to
find the perfect place to board for the next two months.

Clara stole glances at the man on the other end of the
long dining room table. His nose was a bit too hawkish and his lips too narrow, but his eyes were very nice.
Deep, dark brown, almost ebony. Good thick dark hair
he combed straight back and a heavy beard that gave
him a rakish look. Briar had what Tilly called rugged
good looks. The kind that had been honed down into
pure masculinity. All mature angles with none of the
soft boyish roundness. Nothing at all like Percy, who'd
had thinning blonde hair, a round baby face and green
eyes. It seemed like she'd seen Briar somewhere
before. She drew her perfectly arched brows down into
a frown and thought hard for a few seconds. No, she'd
remember that face for sure.

She looked right into his mysterious dark eyes without blushing or blinking. "I'm glad you're going with
us. Tucker feels like an outcast most of the time. He's
always come to our Monday Night Poetry Club meetings, but there's times when I think he would rather be
slopping the hogs or pickin' cotton as sitting there discussing poetry. All except Shakespeare, who's his
favorite, but I would call Shakespeare more of a script
writer than a poet, wouldn't you?"

Shakespeare? Was that the Romeo and Juliet fellow?
Briar felt prickly heat rising up the back of his neck.
"Like I said, I'm not much of a poetry reading fellow.
I'll just go along to have something to do. I doubt anyone will ever call me a dreamer, though" He looked
away and wondered if everyone else could see the
sparks dancing around the room. He'd just met the woman and the mere tenor of her voice had him wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Sometimes the
Almighty sure played funny tricks on a man.

"And what would they call you, if you don't ever
intend to be a dreamer, Mr. Nelson? Do you mind if we
call you Briar?" Olivia asked.

"I guess they'd call me a drifter, ma'am. And Briar
is fine with me," he said.

"Then Briar it is. May I ask why you have such an
unusual name?" She batted her eyes and cocked her
head to one side.

"Momma wanted a girl baby she intended to call
Rose. When I was born a boy she said she got a briar
instead of the rose, so that's what she named me," he
recited in a monotone.

"How funny." Olivia giggled.

"Yes, ma'am, and I've been explainin' it all my life,"
Briar said.

"Why didn't you go by your middle name if you
didn't like Briar?" Clara asked.

"Don't have one. My parents had thirteen of us kids.
I am the youngest son so they were about to run out of
names. My sister, who is the only one younger than me,
and I only got one name," he said.

"Thirteen!" Bessie exclaimed. "Your poor momma."

"My poor father," Briar nodded.

"Father?" Clara asked. "Why poor father? Momma
did all the washing and ironing and cooking for the lot
of you, didn't she?"

"Daddy left before dawn and came home after dark,
so he never saw daylight except on Sunday. He worked
in the coal mines until he died with black lungs," Briar
said. "Please pass that peach cobbler, Dulcie. It almost
looks too pretty to eat"

"Well, that's the best compliment I've had in years.
See I told you, Clara, that he was a gentleman," Dulcie
beamed.

"And Dulcie never makes a mistake," Clara said.

"The meeting of the Monday Night Poetry Club is
now in session," Matilda said from the podium. "Tonight I will begin the reading with one of my favorites
called "The Common Daylight," by Elizabeth
Browning. Tucker, don't you dare go to sleep. Clara
talked another man into coming to the meeting. He's
sittin' there beside you and y'all can stay awake for an
hour whether you like it or not. I hear one snore from
the back of the room and I'll upset the chair you are sittin' in."

"Tucker Anderson." The tall man next to Briar stuck
out his hand. "And you'd be?"

Briar shook his hand. "Briar Nelson. Don't know
why I came. Don't know a blessed thing about poetry"

"Only reason I'm here is because when Tilly and
Clara first got this hairbrained idea back in high school,
I had to be the one to chaperone them and it got to be a
habit," Tucker said.

Nellie cleared her throat and gave Tucker the mean est look she could conjure up. One that Briar figured
could fry the big man into nothing more than a greasy
spot on the hardwood floor if looks could accomplish
their intended purpose.

She pointed her finger. "Shhh. You two can talk after
we finish our reading. I will read my favorite poem
when Matilda finishes. Then when I finish, Cornelia
will have her turn."

Briar listened with half an ear, which was more than
he figured Tucker was using. Matilda talked about
being lifted up and something about her soul never mistaking some kind of light for the common daylight. Her
voice wasn't bad even if he didn't understand all of the
hidden meanings in the poem. Then it was Nellie's turn
and she read in a high-pitched voice guaranteed to keep
a man wide awake. The only thing Briar could think of
that grated his nerves more was when his third grade
schoolteacher missed the blackboard with chalk and
accidentally raked her long fingernail across the board.
Tucker either had nerves of steel or else he was half
deaf because he leaned back, shut his eyes and really
did fall asleep.

"Cornelia, it's your turn" Nellie smiled at Briar and
frowned at Tucker.

Cornelia read in a whiny, sing-song voice like a
fourth grader. Tucker wouldn't have a bit of trouble
sleeping through that one. Briar had to put the noise out
of his head and think about oil wells, leases and productivity reports to keep awake. Finally, Clara read for a short while. He forgot about business and didn't hear
a word of the poetry but he did enjoy the way she
spoke. Matilda took the podium again, concluded the
business and announced that refreshments would be
served in the adjacent room. Tucker awoke as if on cue,
all smiles and acting as if he'd never snored a single
time.

Briar envied him.

"So tell us, what are you doing in Healdton,
Oklahoma?" Tilly asked Briar as she handed him
punch in a tiny crystal cup and a cookie on a napkin.

"My job brought me here," Briar answered.

"And what is your job?" She asked.

"I work for Rose Oil Company as a roustabout,"
Briar said, figuring he might as well come clean right
there in front of them all.

"Good Lord!" Clara dropped her napkin, cookie and
all, on the floor and spewed punch across Tucker's
white shirt, leaving red splotches from collar to belly
button. "Now I recognize you! You are that oil riffraff
who was fighting at the pool hall this afternoon. I
thought I'd seen you before. Well, Briar Nelson, you
get out of here. Go get your things out of my house. You
are not welcome. I don't rent to the likes of your kind
and you should have told Dulcie what you do for a living. I wouldn't think of having a man like you under the
same roof as my boarders"