The Storm (13 page)

“Shall we tour the garden first, then select our victims? I've brought a knife to use as our guillotine and a basket to carry our heads in.”

Now Jacqueline winced.

Gracious. She was such a dunce! Jacqueline had actually seen dead bodies, and Molly had put her foot in her mouth when she was only trying to amuse her.

However, Jacqueline was gazing around the garden with seeming interest. “I enjoy working in the flower beds over at the McCade place. Eric's mother must have spent a lot of time there. Oh, look at the Old Blushes. Mother adores these, and I can understand how you could love something this beautiful.”

Molly understood the allure of beautiful things. A pretty melody, two or three strong voices blending in song, the sound of the wind blowing through the trees, a woman's dark hair and eyes. Goodness, where had that thought come from? She shook her head and reached for a blossom. “This variety smells like fresh fruit. Shall we sacrifice one for our cause?”

As Jacqueline slowly nodded, Molly snipped a large, fully opened white bloom and wished she had the nerve to slide it behind Jacqueline's ear. The image made her heart beat faster.

*

The bloom Molly had just placed in Jaq's basket was as white as her cotton gloves. How would those same hands, without the gloves, feel if they touched her that gently? Deep down she'd known Helen would never touch her the way she hoped for, and Sister Mary would never touch her again. Molly was different, though—more approachable. Like Willie, in a strange way. They both seemed to know and accept her without reservation.

Then Molly naively explained that the plant would produce large orange hips in the fall, and Jaq couldn't keep from smiling.
You're a beast
, she thought.
You're just like a man. You can't think about anything but the physical.

But Molly didn't attract her just on a physical level, like Willie did. Molly emitted a kind of perfume of the soul, which appealed to one of her more subtle senses. Molly lulled her baser self to sleep and awakened a longing for something finer and more rare than she'd dreamed of even with Sister Mary and Helen. And for some unimaginable reason she almost believed that dream could turn into reality. The possibility nearly made her sprint out of the garden, jump into her Model T, and never look back.

Molly cut a huge flat pink blossom, almost the same color as her cheeks, then held it out so Jaq could inhale its spicy, fruity scent. Its fragrance calmed her, charmed her into delaying her escape. She took another deep breath. Would Molly's rose water be half this fragrant? If so, and if she gave her any, she'd be lost every time she wore it.

She stopped and admired some cabbage-like pale-pink blooms, reminiscent of Baroque still-lifes. She'd really enjoyed her art course at the academy, and her voice lessons. The blooms made her think of Sister Mary again. Did she ever take her mind off women?

What did Molly's skin look like in places she'd never exposed to the sun?

She mentally slapped herself. She knew what Sister Mary's looked like, and felt like, and smelled like, and tasted like…

If Helen had even suspected her of having such fantasies about her, she'd have slugged her. But she'd had to go ahead and blurt out how she actually felt and…Helen hadn't reacted as Sister Mary had.

Yet Willie was too real, though she'd taught Jaq how wonderful her body could feel. Molly was just right…except she was married and had a son. After that sobering moment Molly and she stopped in front of a shrub loaded with raspberry-colored roses, and their fragrance threw her into a tailspin.

She slowly peeled off her gloves as they wandered through the garden. One rose, its odor like spicy herbal tea, smelled good enough to drink, just like Molly did. She straitjacketed her imagination, but the strings wouldn't stay tied.

Its petals reminded her of the color of Molly's hair, shining gold-red in the sunlight. But the rose was dull in comparison. Her hair shone even more than Helen's, though she hadn't seen Helen in the sunlight very often without her blue dress hat or her white nurse's cap. And the only time she got a look at Sister Mary's curls was when they sneaked out from her wimple and when they were together that one time. Willie wasn't afraid to unpin her dark hair when she and Jaq became intimate. She'd loved to feel it brush against her skin, like a fur coat.

Finally, Molly stopped in front of a compact bush with sprays of small, sweet-smelling pink blooms. “This is the Cecile Brunner, better known as the Sweetheart Rose.”

She almost blurted,
And it reminds me of you and Helen and Sister Mary and Willie, all rolled into one.
But she managed to catch herself and listen while Molly said it could tolerate poor soil and partial shade. Then she took out her Brownie and snapped Molly's picture as she stood next to the blossoming bush, holding the basket of roses.

Blushing like Patrick did, Molly explained how easy it was to care for the plant, but Jaq couldn't think of anything except how much she'd like to take care of Molly. Helen and Sister Mary and Willie didn't need her. They had their vocations. But Molly—as healthy, wholesome, and beautiful as all these flowers—was asking her to rescue her, though she obviously didn't realize it. She could give Molly something not even her music could.

By now, though, she needed someone to rescue
her
. She followed Molly out of the garden and toward the house, her planned speech at the back of her mind. She wanted the afternoon to last forever. And if it didn't? She wanted to see Molly again, in private, as soon as possible.

*

Molly set her basket on the countertop then laid out their ten large roses. “Why do so many of these roses have women's names?” she mused aloud.

Jaq gazed at her with what she feared was a vacant expression and slowly removed her suit jacket. The kitchen was unaccountably warm for this early in the year.

Molly counted several varieties of roses on her fingers. “Let's see, the Cecile Brunner, the Marie Pavie, the Mrs. Dudley Cross, the Madame Alfred Carrière, and the Madame Isaac Pereire. And that's just a few.”

Jaq nodded silently as she rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, revealing muscled forearms covered with fine black hair.

“I can think of only two named for men, which is unusual, because men usually name everything for themselves—libraries, buildings, streets.” Molly stopped and said, “Goodness, I sound like a suffragist.”

Then Jaq smiled, which seemed to delight Molly.

“I'm not sure about the names. Mother did say that the last one you mentioned, Madame Isaac Pereire, was a banker's wife.” Jaq's throat was really dry, so after she sipped the water Molly poured for her she managed to croak out a few more words. “Men probably want to acknowledge the beauty of the important women in their lives. Or maybe it would embarrass them to be associated with the flower's beauty and softness.”

“You're right about men not wanting to appear soft,” Molly said. “Why, Mr. James is like butter inside, but he always tries to pretend he's all man, whatever that means. As for acknowledging the important women in his life, he'd more than likely name a rose after his mother than me.”

Molly didn't sound too happy with her husband, but if Jaq ever had a chance to name roses, she'd call a white one the Lady Molly, because her face bloomed with the open beauty of a flower, she smelled like honeysuckle, and she would be so very easy to touch. She'd name a sunny yellow rose the Helen, for one of the most beautiful women she'd ever known, in body and soul. A pastel would be the Sister Mary, because Jaq still loved her, in spite of the pain, and a large crimson one would commemorate Willie.

While Jaq had been musing, Molly had stuck another piece of split pine into the smoldering embers in the stove. Then she set out a kettle, a bucket of water, a large bowl, a wide-mouthed glass jar, and some cheesecloth.

Jaq helped strip the plump petals from their base. How wonderful to do something with her hands. She rubbed one of the velvety petals between her fingertips and on her cheek. Then, giddy and content, she bit one of the jam-sweet raspberry-colored petals. Molly could probably even hear its sound.

Molly packed two cups full of the petals and emptied them into a crock, covered them with four cups of steaming water, and placed a large tin lid on it.

“Now we'll have refreshments while the mixture sits. In thirty minutes we'll pour our rose water into this jar and strain it through the cheesecloth. I always add some to the cold soap I make out of our best lard and use especially for my hands. And you can take some home. Then we'll both smell like the rose garden for several weeks. After that we'll need to make some more.”

So it could remind her of Molly every minute of every day? And then they'd have to do this again? She shook herself out of her mood of surrender.

After she hastily rolled down her sleeves, she pulled on her jacket and gloves and behaved for the remainder of the afternoon. Tonight she'd ask Eric how soon they could drive back to New Orleans.

Molly lifted the telephone receiver from its hook and whirled the handle to call the operator. Mother Russell was taking her afternoon nap.

“Number, please.”

“Hello, Ethel. Would you ring four-three-one? That's the McCades' number, isn't it?”

“It surely is. Isn't it a shame about Mr. Eric? He used to be so friendly, and now he's holed up like a bear. But how are you doing today? That was a beautiful solo you played at church Sunday.”

“Thanks, Ethel. May I ask a favor?”

“Surely, Miss Molly. Anything for you.”

“Could you make certain none of the other operators listen in on my conversations? I know you'd never do that, but I don't know the other girls as well as I do you.”

“I surely will. You can trust me. Just a minute now, and I'll ring Miss Jacqueline. She'd probably enjoy talking to you. Nobody ever calls her, and I bet Mr. Eric isn't much fun to live with right now. She must be right lonely there at that place with those two men to wait on and no womenfolk around to keep her company.”

“Yes, Ethel. That's why I'm calling her. Just trying to be sociable.”

There was no reason for them not to spend time together, she thought as Ethel connected them.

“Hello.”

Jacqueline sounded sad.

“What's wrong? Are you okay?”

“Oh, Molly. It's good to hear your voice. No, I'm okay. Just a little blue. I'll get over it.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Listen, Jacqueline, I've caught up with my chores, and Mother Russell's going to her weekly Red Cross meeting tomorrow. I've made a pound cake and thought you might like a piece. I've been saving flour and sugar for it. Is that okay? Will you be home in the morning about ten o'clock?”

“Why, Molly, you're a real pal. Don't feel obligated, but if you really want to, I'll be here.”

“I'm looking forward to it. See you tomorrow.”

She slowly hung up the receiver. Jacqueline had acted a little strange during her visit to make rose water. At first, she'd seemed determined about something, and she hadn't said much the entire time she was there. What had been on her mind? Did she want to be friends or was she merely being polite?

But Jacqueline had just called her a “real pal.” Surely that meant something. She hoped…oh, she didn't know what she hoped, but it had something to do with spending as much time with Jacqueline as possible. The prospect made her shoulders tingle and her neck throb.

She shook herself so she could think straight. Mother Russell would be upset that she'd used some of their precious flour and sugar to make a cake and then given some of it away. She begrudged others her sweets.

The candy-like longing crept through Molly's veins again, pumping its syrup throughout her, making her willing to do anything to be near Jacqueline. This cake was the only excuse she could come up with to see Jacqueline. She simply couldn't seem to stay away from her, regardless of the consequences.

*

Molly hitched Gus and Kate to the wagon, still full of energy and looking forward to visiting Jacqueline. As they plodded down the dusty road, her thoughts drifted to Patrick being at school, then to the day he was born.

“Kate,” she told one of the mules, “that horrid doctor smoked cigars from the time he walked into the house until right before he delivered Patrick. I lay there on that rough cotton sheet, my legs spread like a plucked chicken's, and he didn't do anything but smoke and stand out in the hall and talk to Mr. James about the price of cotton. I wanted Mother Russell or another midwife to deliver the baby, but Mr. James insisted that it wouldn't look right, that we could afford to hire a doctor for the birth of his first child. The smell of that cigar smoke gagged me so much I almost threw up, but no one even noticed.”

She couldn't shake herself out of the nightmarish experience. “I wanted Mama there, standing beside me and holding my hand. But she was in Dallas, too sick to ride all day. Besides, the roads were too muddy for Papa's Model T.

“Instead of Mama, there stood Mother Russell. She swiveled my way once in a while but seemed to be half listening to the men's conversation. Finally she gave me a hard look and told me there wasn't anything to having a baby, that it got easier. After a half a dozen or more children, like she'd had, I'd be able to get right back to work in nothing flat.”

A cloud blotted out the sun. Molly had been so sick after the birth. Clyde, James's younger brother, had paid more attention to her than anyone else had. Visited and brought her flowers from the yard that he'd picked himself, though he was usually uncouth and rude to everybody.

“That doctor finally told me I couldn't have any more children because my womb was infected, Kate,” she said. “I didn't know exactly what he meant, but I suspected he'd caused it. He never washed his hands, even after holding those smelly cigars. I bet he doesn't believe in germs any more than Mother Russell does. She says a handful of spiderwebs can fix almost any cut or sore, but all I can think about is the millions of germs wiggling around in them.”