The Storm (10 page)

“Damn Yankees took all our cornmeal and livestock. Even pulled the turnips out of the ground and stripped the green apples off the trees. And my poor husband-to-be writing me 'bout how famished out he was for fruit and vegetables. Said he could eat as many of 'em as he could tote. But those Yankees got 'em all.”

She didn't know how she'd made it through those bad spells. But she'd been young and full of life, like these two girls.

Just thinking about how hungry she'd been even before those parasites came tromping around, carrying off everything that wasn't fastened down, made her shudder.

She stopped to take a breath and looked around. Molly was staring at her like she was seeing her for the first time, but she acted like she was aching to visit with Jacqueline instead of listening to an old woman carry on. She made herself shut her mouth.

As for Jacqueline, she was most likely so full of misery right now she couldn't abide to hear about anybody else's.

*

Molly jumped up. “How about a song or two to brighten things, after all this talk of storms and war? When I was a girl and we didn't have quite enough to eat, Mama always said a happy tune would make our stomachs feel fuller.”

Mother Russell scowled like she didn't believe her, but she pushed on. She didn't want to depress Jacqueline on her first visit. “How about ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile'? Our boys in Europe probably sing it now and then when they get homesick.”

She took a sip of water. “By the way, Jacqueline, I've heard a lot of our soldiers are smoking. Is that true?”

“Not only the men, but the women too. You'd be surprised how much a cigarette calms your nerves. You need it over there.”

She hurried to the piano stool and raised the dust cover of her precious instrument. She didn't want to think about Jacqueline putting a cigarette between her beautiful lips.

On countless Sunday afternoons she played the piano, alone, to keep up her own spirits. She was less important to her own household than Nellie and the chickens. But this afternoon she felt more alive and more worthwhile than she had since her graduation concert. The red of the velvet loveseat looked brighter, softer, more inviting to touch. The very air smelled sweeter, the mingled perfume of the wisteria and the chinaberry trees outside rushing to her head like champagne.

Or what she expected champagne would make her feel. Of course, the only alcohol she'd ever tasted was the elderberry wine Mother Russell made especially for communion.

Even her well water tasted as if it sprang from a deeper source, with no taint of dirt or rust, as if she had tapped the source of the ancient Greek gods' nectar. And her piano seemed more in tune, its notes rounder and fuller as they filled the room with cheerful sound.

How wonderful to be alive on this Easter Sunday and to have found an exciting new friend. She hoped Jacqueline stayed forever.

*

Jaq decided to let Molly entertain her; Mrs. Russell could sit there and fidget all she wanted. Sinking into the velvet cushions she opened herself to the music, and soon the bouncy rhythms and catchy tunes almost had her tapping her foot, as Molly played and sang “It's a Long Way to Tipperary” and “Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here.”

War songs like these provoked memories she didn't mind of last spring in France and Belgium, when she'd joined a bunch of adventurous Englishwomen heading to Europe. After they nervously crossed the Channel swarming with U-boats, they'd had to ride in boxcars that usually carried horses. What a stench, but she hadn't minded. She was seeing the world, though she hoped she never had to be cooped up in something like that again.

It sure had felt good to walk the last leg of the trip. The road was muddy, but she and the other women marched toward camp like they were strolling through an English garden. Carrying their kit bags full of personal belongings, they gulped the fresh air and cracked jokes. They were bursting to do their bit against the Germans, but they didn't have any idea what they were heading for.

She stretched out one leg, as she sat safely on the plush loveseat, then sank back into her memories.

She'd taken off her gloves while she marched, and when she'd swung her arms by her sides, the heavy wool of her long blue overcoat scratched her bent fingers. She'd jammed on her round blue felt hat and cocked its wide brim, feeling as jaunty as she hoped her hat looked.

There she'd been, actually in France, and the mud of her ancestors had felt very real under her walking shoes. Slinging her tight shoulders back she'd smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. She'd been that proud to be part of the first troop of British women allowed to serve near the front lines.

She clutched the lace throw pillow beside her and noticed that a button was missing from the loveseat. She was back in America now. That's all that mattered. She just wanted to let Molly distract her. Molly was safely married, even had a kid.

Molly's fingers skimmed the keys, and her eyes shone as she played one song after another.

Was Molly trying to help? She had no idea how much her bad memories pestered her, not just at night, but all the time. On her drive over here, she'd almost forgotten she wasn't in Europe. She'd nearly had to pull off and rest, afraid a bomb would drop or a shell fly overhead and she'd see dead and dying soldiers in the neatly plowed fields.

She'd like to listen to Molly all afternoon, but Eric and Angus would be home soon. She needed to go see about them. They'd suffered a lot more than she had.

*

I'd give one of my best laying hens for a dip of snuff
, Mrs. Russell thought.
Pshaw. It's too late to go walk the fields now.

She needed to feed the chickens and rustle up some supper. But Molly just sat there playing that piano, lost to the world.

That big stack of magazines on the round table at the end of the sofa sure needed weeding. James and Molly read every copy of
The Saturday Evening Post
to rags, and Molly swore by
The Etude
. Some hogwash about teaching music. No money in that. Next time she built a big bonfire she'd sneak in here and grab a bunch of the old magazines to start it with.

Why, everybody in their right mind knew
Farm and Ranch
was the only fit reading material for landed gentry. She kept all her old ones to thumb back through.

What in tarnation was going through James's head when he up and married Molly? He'd wasted almost every weekend for near 'bout three months courting her, when he should've been home helping out. After these eight long years, surely he'd figured out what was what. Molly would never be fit for life on a farm.

She was just about to get up and leave Molly to her silly piano playing, but Jacqueline stirred, like she was rousing out of a stupor, and Molly stopped making all that infernal racket. Mrs. Russell jumped up, ready to get rid of their company.

Molly was simpering at Jacqueline and saying foolish things. And Jacqueline looked like she didn't want to be getting on down the road but believed she oughta. Finally they quit their palavering.

Jacqueline said, “Mrs. Russell, I appreciate you letting me spend the afternoon with you and your family. And Molly, I've enjoyed our conversation and your music. You have a real talent.”

What a bunch of lies. She didn't trust the Frenchies, even if they were America's allies. She rocked from one foot to the other, feeling as restless as a billy goat in rut. “It was right kind of you to stop by and socialize, Jacqueline. I 'spect we'll see you at Sunday school next week? We only have a preacher once in a while.”

Of course she had to try to get the last word in. “By all means. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

After another month of Sundays, she headed for the front door. “I'll tell James you said good-bye,” she informed Jacqueline. “And he said for you to tell Eric not to be a stranger. He's itching to discuss his war experiences. He and Patrick are out back feeding the livestock. Bet the milk cow's wondering where Molly is. Never get much rest down here on the farm.” Humph. Unless they were a lazy good-for-nothing like Molly.

Molly chimed in. “Drive carefully. I hope to see you soon.”

She walked Jacqueline to her car and hung around her forever. Probably trying to persuade her to spend the night.

She'd almost given up hope of Molly milking the cow, but when she peeked out the kitchen window she spotted the T-Model creeping down the driveway. Molly ambled back toward the house just as slow.

The little sluggard made her see red.

*

Molly strolled past the sweet-smelling purple wisteria and hummed “Good Night.”

Those two words had been so painful when she graduated from college. She'd been inseparable from several of the girls during their four years at boarding school and spent all her free time with each of her favorites in turn. How she'd loved to stay up after hours and whisper with them. They'd cried and laughed together.

While she attended the university and until she married, she exchanged passionate letters with one of the girls, Esther Harris. They'd pledged everlasting love and devotion, but now they wrote each other about everyday affairs. Then, they'd dreamed, even talked about spending the rest of their lives together, but now things had changed.

When Mr. James proposed, she finally persuaded herself that loving a woman like Esther had merely prepared her for life's real purpose—marriage and devotion to a worthy man. Preachers stressed that a woman and the right man would truly become one in body and spirit and share every thought and feeling. Her papa and mama clearly adored and respected each other, so she would follow their example.

But Mr. James evidently hadn't expected such a union. He wanted someone to make him look good in public, give him lots of sons, and help his mother on the farm. When she'd eventually understood that most husbands were like hers, who was probably better than most, she'd tried to reconcile herself to the reality of marriage.

Being with Jacqueline this afternoon, though, had stirred the remaining ember of her grand dream and made it glow.

Maybe she and Jacqueline would become close friends. That would be so much better than the emotional wasteland she lived in now.

She wanted to always feel alive inside—like she did before she married and as she had this afternoon.

“Do you have to chew so loud?” Eric glared at Jaq, dark purple pouches under his eyes. At least he didn't need his eye patch any more.

She murmured something to keep from biting back.

“And quit slurping that milk. I had to get up early, and now I have to go milk—” He drew back his hand as if he might hit her.

She slammed down her glass. “That's enough! I'm not your mother or your maid or—”

“Or my wife.” Eric snatched a biscuit and dipped it in his egg yolk like a farmhand. Some of the runny stuff dripped on the front of his blue work shirt, which
she'd
have to wash.

“No, I'm not. And I can't wait to get an annulment. In fact—”

“Sorry, but everything gets on my nerves lately—the clock ticking, the birds singing, the coyotes howling.” Eric swiped at the spot on his shirt and grabbed his coffee cup with a shaky hand.

“It's no wonder, as little sleep as you get.”

He took a sip and glared at her like she was the enemy. “Have you been spying on me?”

“Spying? If you call having to close my door and put my fingers in my ears sometimes so I can block out the noise you make when you come in late and stumble up the stairs, I guess I have. And even when you finally make it to bed, you sound like you're wrestling with the sheets. That's how they look every morning, when
I
make your bed.”

Eric placed his cup on the table more gently than he'd yanked it up. “I'm afraid to sleep. I can't explain it.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“That something will hurt me if I let my guard down. I know that sounds silly.” He looked genuinely puzzled, and his pupils were dilated.

“But you grew up here, you've known these people all your life—”

“You never can tell. The minute you turn your back on even something you've done routinely, it can all blow up in your face. Damn it. What's wrong with me? I need to find somebody to help Pop, not be more of a burden. He's got enough problems. I'm afraid I'll let him down like I've done with everybody else, including you.”

She really studied Eric. He wasn't a big-shot pilot any longer, but she liked him better now that he was finally leveling with her.

“Don't worry. You've given everybody more than you can imagine. Your dad told me just the other day how proud he is of you. And you aren't responsible for how I feel about women.”

For the first time since they'd been in New Hope, he seemed to actually want to communicate with her. He'd been acting strange since he showed up in New Orleans. Something was tearing him apart inside, but what? When they were in London he was so optimistic, so much fun. Hell, he was as serious as a funeral now. He had to be missing his mother more than she'd thought.

He shook his head, as if making an effort to stay focused on her. “So, Jaq, are you okay? Do you need anything? How do you like playing the busy housewife?”

She shrugged. “Having servants most of my life hasn't exactly prepared me for farm life. I'm trying hard not to kill you and your father with my cooking.” Maybe her teasing would improve his mood.

His grin looked forced. “It's okay. Just fine.” Then his eyes clouded over again.

What was eating at him? Having an injured eye and being half-crippled right now were bound to give him nightmares. Maybe he missed the excitement of the War even more than she did or thought the locals would call him a lazy coward. How ridiculous. He was braver than most men and had the medals and scars to prove it.