The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (2 page)

G
lancing at the sinking
sun, Grace quickened her already-fast walk to a trot. She held her schoolbooks
tightly against her, as though they formed a breastplate, protecting her
against the chill wind that shot through the late September maple trees. Her
shoe
flop-flopped
with every step; she’d no other elastic band to hold
the sole to the rest of the shoe.

Why did I even
bother?
she asked herself through the burning tears which she wouldn’t let herself
weep.
So stupid, Grace… You’re always so stupid
. She could hear her
brother Cliff jeering that at her, as he always did when she spilled the milk
bucket or didn’t get the mashed potatoes creamy enough or tripped on the
stairs. He’d said it so often that Grace nearly believed it. Did believe it,
sometimes.

But every now
and then, a spark of rebellion rose within her, rebellion against Cliff and
against her second-grade teacher who’d proclaimed her a dunce and against her
mother and against everyone who said it in their minds if not in their words:
Grace
Picoletti will never amount to anything. She’s meant for no more than her
mother was…
When the rebellious spark came into her heart, the hope that
maybe, just
maybe
, everyone else was wrong, that maybe Grace Picoletti
could be a great singer, maybe she would wear fine pearls and dine at fancy
hotels, maybe handsome and educated men like Mr. Kinner would fall hopelessly
in love with her – well, when that hope came in full force, flooding her bones,
filling her spirit, it seemed to hold out the wings that would take her
far-far-far from this wretched place in which she lived, from this wretched family
of which she had to be a part.

Grace kicked the
soda-pop bottle that some kid with pocket-money had left lying on the sidewalk.
No matter how hard she tried, though, she couldn’t seem to get the wings to
fit, to give her the flight they promised.

Even as the
thoughts of escape thrust themselves through her mind, Grace quickened her pace
and entered the upper-middle-class part of Chetham. Usually, she liked to
stroll through this neighborhood. Its nicely-designed houses smiled their
welcome through freshly-updated paint jobs. Many of the plots included
manicured lawns, shimmering bright green in the slant of Indian-summer light, and
well-tended gardens.

Involuntarily it
seemed, her steps slowed as her eyes felt the lure of a certain two-story
wooden house rising up near the sidewalk. It was inconspicuous compared to some
of the others in this neighborhood, with little distinction and fewer updates.
But one thing compelled her eyes every day toward this particular white house,
and today was no exception: Glorious red flowers bloomed from a dozen baskets
hanging from the porch’s eves, their rich color an exquisitely sharp contrast
to the white columns.

This beauty
alone brought an unwonted grin to Grace’s lips each day, but today she accepted
an additional pleasure: The murmured notes of a piano sounded from the open
window above the porch. Grace didn’t recognize the tune, but she felt certain
the pianist must be the lovely dark-haired woman whom she had sometimes seen
tending the red-flowered plants.

With a start, Grace
came out of her reverie. She turned her feet away from the main street of the
fast-growing suburb and toward the bustle of trees growing up the steep hill on
her left. Tired though she was, Grace didn’t slacken her pace as she ducked
into the wooded area, moving along the path the Picoletti children had created
over the years. The shortcut would lead right up behind the barn. With any luck
and quick work on Grace’s part, Mama would never realize Grace had stayed late
at school. Dawdling after school would displease Mama to no end; Grace knew this
from the very few times she had dared to do it.

She ducked under
the low-hanging branch of a pine tree and came into the clearing behind the
small weathered barn. If Papa didn’t get around to painting it soon, its
exterior would match the gray winter landscape just around the season’s corner.
Beyond the barn, Papa’s large brick house stood, a testament to his hard work
and cunning in the Chetham, Rhode Island, community. A pity there wasn’t more
food in the large cupboards within that house. But there were other things more
important to Papa than whether or not his family ate.

About to pull
open the door, Grace paused when she heard voices inside the barn.
Odd
. She
was the only one of the Picoletti children who had barn chores before supper. Unless
Mama had heard Bessie’s lowing and sent out one of Grace’s sisters… but it
sounded like a conversation going on in there. Grace listened, ear to the door,
holding her breath.

“Let go of me,
you whack! What do you think you’re doing?” Grace knew that voice; it was one
of her two older twin sisters, Louisa. That slang talk was Lou’s, too.

“Nothin’. I
ain’t doin’ nothin’! Tryin’ to give my sister a hug, is all. Guess you don’t
want it. You always were as affectionate as a porcupine, Lou!”

Grace frowned. It
couldn’t be… but she knew it was.
Ben.
Her eldest brother, hair as red
as his temper, fun as an ice-cream cone in July, gone to the racetrack these
past few years.
Ben… home?

Grace couldn’t
stop the smile from flying to her lips, nor her hands from pulling open the
splintery barn door. “Ben?” she exhaled into the cold, dim air.

He stood there,
taller than she’d remembered him by a good couple of inches. Ben’s face showed
his surprise at Grace’s sudden entrance. He turned toward her, opening his
arms. She flew into them, burying her face against the warmth of his plaid
shirt. She felt the solid niceness of his chest, and she knew she was secure
and safe here with him. Ben smelled of horses and leather and wool. Of tobacco,
too, and something stronger.

“Hey, little
canary, let me see your face,” he said, and Grace drew back to gaze up at him,
her hair fluffing from the static of his shirt. “Well, look at you,” he
whistled. “My little canary, all grown up.”

Grace blushed,
so happy, so very happy that Ben was back. “You home for good, Ben?” she asked,
biting her lip.

Her brother
hesitated, then broke into a goofy grin. “We’ll see, little sis, okay? Got to
talk to the old man, ya know?”

Grace nodded.
Last time Ben came back, Papa and he had exchanged words that almost ended with
fists. But, oh, maybe this time… She couldn’t even phrase the hope that rose
within her heart, that organ that was ready to bust out of her chest if she
didn’t hug Ben tightly again.

“Better get
Bessie milked, Grace.” The comment came from just inside the cow’s stall. Grace
turned to see Lou’s tight-lipped smirk. Her older sister held out the empty
milking bucket toward her. “Mama won’t like you being late to supper.”

When Grace took
the bucket from her, Lou strode out, not giving them a backward glance. Grace
rolled her eyes at Ben. They both knew how Lou could be. “Mama know you’re here
yet?” asked Grace.

“Naw. Thought
I’d surprise her at supper. Hey, look what I brought you kids.” Ben reached
into the sagging back pocket of his brown corduroys and drew out a small but
hefty white paper sack. He unfolded the top and held it out toward Grace. She
asked permission with her eyes, and he nodded, grinning again, more like a
little kid than the older brother - grown man, really – that he was. Her
curious eyes peered inside the bag.

“Chocolate
babies!” Grace squealed, hardly believing that the bag was more than half-full
of the little candy people, their faces and bodies shining darkly in the dim
barn light. She glowed at him.

“Go on, have a
couple,” Ben urged, tumbling a good handful into her palm. They felt cool and
delightfully heavy in her hand. The faint chocolate scent wafted from them and
mingled with the stronger smell of hay and manure.

Bessie lowed,
eager to have her udder relieved by Grace’s skillful milking. Grace looked down
at the chocolate babies, then up at Ben. “Sorry,” she said, moving to pour the
candy back into the sack. “I’ve got to milk Bessie, and quick, or Mama’ll skin
me alive. Lou’ll probably tell her I was late as it is, now.”

“Naw, listen,
kid,” Ben said, pushing her hand back from the bag. “I’ll milk the cow. Fast.
You sit over here.” He drew her over to one of the hay bales lying on the barn
floor. “Eat your candy. And then we’ll go in to supper together.”

Grace smiled up
at him and yielded to the pressure of his large hands on her narrow shoulders. She
watched as her big brother picked up the milking bucket and moved the
three-legged stool over to Bessie’s side, beginning the process. She picked up
one of the chocolate babies and gazed at it, anticipating the sweet chewiness
to come. Rarely did she have a treat like this to herself. If there were a few
pennies to spare, to spend on candy or a coffee milk, Grace had to share
whatever treat it was with her other siblings… which she didn’t mind nearly as
much as when Mama insisted that she give the whole treat – whether a milkshake
or candy – to poor, dear Evelyn.
Spoiled Evelyn.

Just thinking of
it made Grace bite into the chocolate baby with even more enthusiasm. She
rolled the little candy over on her tongue, felt its smooth chocolatiness
between her gums and cheek, and swallowed at last with a sigh of contentment.
“Thanks, Ben,” she said. “These are really good.”

He rested his
cheek against Bessie’s rounded side. “No problem, little girl.” The sound of
the milk pinged through the barn, rhythmically, soothing Grace’s jittery
emotions. First, the incident with Mr. Kinner, causing her to despair, and now
the intense pleasure of having Ben home. Maybe now, with him here… maybe now
their home could be a normal one at last, instead of continuing in the bizarre
and embarrassing path that it had taken for as long as Grace could remember.

Sitting there
sucking the next chocolate baby, Grace gazed at her brother, who seemed lost in
thought. He owned the short, slightly stocky build of all the Picoletti men,
deep-chested with arms made for manual labor, muscled from years of working
with willful race horses. The prominent jaw that jutted out even more than was
natural from its stubbornness. The sensitive aquiline nose, quivering with
emotion like one of the Greek heroes Grace had read about in her textbooks. Ben’s
oval eyes, tapering at the edges as if God had drawn them on with a calligraphy
pen; they flashed with anger sometimes and rained down compassion at others. His
forehead rose, white and smooth under the thatch of auburn hair, and she could
see the suntan line where his cap usually rested.

Grace popped
another candy into her mouth. Yes, if anyone could help fix their family, it
was one of their own: Ben. No one else would understand why every word of her
father gave pleasure and pain at once. Why her mama wept late into the nights –
alone – and then presented a countenance of steel at the breakfast table each
morning, doling out each child’s gray lump of oatmeal like she didn’t care if
they lived or died, but she would do her duty nonetheless. Why her papa sang
like a red-breasted robin in the choir loft, burly chest puffed out, golden hair
slicked back like one of the seraphim… and then sneered at Mama’s soft humming
over the half-broken kitchen stove. Why Ben had left in such a huff three years
ago and had now returned.

All these
questions, these “whys,” Grace turned over in her mind as she sat there on the
hay bale, tongue rolling over the chocolate babies, one-by-one. She studied
Ben’s broad back, the muscles pulsing beneath his worn shirt as his nimble
fingers drew the milk from Bessie. “Why’d you go, Ben?” she surprised herself
by asking. She heard her voice float out, a speck of sound in the air, thin as
Thursday-night soup.

Her brother
stopped milking for a just a moment, then his hands began pulling again. He
turned his head a jot and gave Grace a crooked grin – the kind you give when
you’re smiling through pain. “Had to go. A man’s gotta make his own way, you
know.” He leaned his cheek against Bessie’s side, tan against deep brown, and
his dark blue eyes sought Grace’s matching ones. “I was sixteen. Almost twenty
now, you know.”

“I’m nearly sixteen,”
stated Grace softly, “and I ain’t making my own way yet.”

“‘Am not,’
canary. Learn to speak right, and maybe you won’t end up a bum like your big
brother.” Ben smiled, and Grace knew he was joking. “Besides, that’s different.
You’re a girl. Mama needs you.”

“Papa needs you,
Ben,” she answered. “More than Mama needs me. She’s got Lou and Nancy.”

Ben snorted.
“Old Sourpuss and Fancy-Pantsy? They’ll never hold a candle to you, Grace, and
Mama knows it. She needs you here, so don’t you go getting yourself ideas.”

He stood up,
pulling the stool from beneath himself and setting it against the side of the
stall. Suddenly, he looked at Grace with that piercing gaze of his, usually so
full of fun and laughter, now turned deadly serious. “By the way, why were you
late? School got out a good hour and a half ago, didn’t it?”

Grace ducked her
head. “Yeah.” She didn’t dare refuse to answer Ben. But, oh, how to explain…

“Well, what were
you doing?” Ben set the milk pail down and took a step toward her, surely
meaning to intimidate her.