Weeping Angel (23 page)

Even with a beacon of stained-glass light to brighten the interior of her purse,
it
happened again. That awful sound. And of course, right at the end of the song when the church went holy silent—except for someone's cough, which didn't disguise the croak.

Rrrribbbittt.

Narcissa glanced at Amelia and whispered behind the screen of her silk fan, “Didn't you have breakfast, dear?”

Shaking her head, Amelia let Narcissa believe she hadn't eaten this morning. How could one tell one's friend—during Sunday services no less—the guttural croak wasn't her stomach growling?

It was a frog in her pocketbook.

The clucking notes came again. This time Viola Reed turned her gigantic-hatted head from her seat in the pew in front to give Amelia a polite, but reproaching, upturn of her lips.

Amelia smiled back, acting as if nothing was wrong. The frog croaked again, but this time Amelia coughed behind her hand through most of it.

Her eyes widened as she saw the frog moving around underneath the supple calfskin of her purse. She'd dumped everything out, of course. Even her embroidered handkerchief. She'd had to use her sterling sugar tongs—which were disinfecting in hot soapy water this very minute—in order to get the frog out of the cattail box. All the while she prayed she wouldn't squeeze it to death; she'd shivered at the thought of actually having to touch it.

Rrrribbbittt.

Amelia cleared her throat to the multiple stares of those sitting around her. She kept her face forward, watching Widow Thurman at the organ as she shuffled blindly through her sheet music, dropping half of it
while Reverend Thorpe took his place at the pulpit to deliver his sermon.

Amelia's pulse raged as swift as a river's spring thaw. Perhaps she shouldn't have brought the frog with her. But how else was she going to give it back to Frank? She knew he passed by the church every Sunday just as the service was letting out. She planned to have a very brief word with him, make him take the plum-sized, green-spotted frog out of her purse, then be on her way. She could have brought it back in a box, but the only ones she had were her hatboxes. And the ladies would have insisted on a peek. They would have seen she had a frog, wonder how she'd gotten it, why, from whom, and what was it doing in her hatbox? This way was better. More discreet.

Too bad she hadn't counted on the frog to think the dark interior of her purse was nighttime and begin to croak.

The frog continued to wriggle. Amelia didn't dare open the purse any further; but she did unhook the chain from her belt in order to put the bag on top of her pocket Bible, which lay on her lap.

While Oscar Beamguard read the gospel lesson aloud, Amelia's concentration was tugged in a different direction. To be sure, not down the path of righteousness. She was thinking about Frank Brody's lips covering hers with velvety warmth.

She'd relived last night a dozen times over in her mind. She hadn't slept much thinking about the kiss Frank had given her. The passion of their lips joining put her fried chicken dream to shame; she didn't dream the dream that night. But she'd thought about the kiss while she lay awake in her bed. She'd thought about the kiss in the bathroom first thing this morning as she went through her ablutions. She'd thought about the kiss in the kitchen while she ate her breakfast. And now she thought about the kiss in church.

She'd been kissed squarely on the mouth only one other time. Jonas Pray had given her a dry, closed-lipped kiss the evening he'd presented her with the Legacy Collection—right before she'd handed him her money. She hadn't really thought much of it and, actually, had felt disappointed when his mouth had touched hers. But she'd talked herself into thinking it was more wonderful than it was because she'd assumed she'd have to kiss him for the rest of her life.

After sampling Frank's method of kissing on the mouth, Amelia was glad she didn't have to endure dry lips from Jonas. She wondered if there were other men who could kiss as dreamy as Frank. She doubted there were. His kiss may have been short, but it had been chock-full of wonderful sensations. She'd felt transported on a cloud, and too radiated with pleasure, to remember exactly what she'd said to him afterward.

She should have reprimanded him severely. He'd broken his word about not kissing her again, and she, too taken by the romance of it all, had allowed him to turn her to putty. What was done was done, and she couldn't wipe away the kiss. But what she did know was, she couldn't keep his gift—no matter that it was just an eye-bulging frog. The cattails, however, were another matter entirely. She hadn't been able to fit them in her purse, so she was reconciled to keeping them. Even so, a lady never encouraged the addresses of a gentleman unless she felt she could return his affections. And as long as Frank made a living out of a saloon—the very one that had once glorified Silver Starlight—she couldn't see any hope for their relationship.

Not only did the New American upright parlor piano stand between them, she wasn't even sure Frank liked her. He was ever teasing and trifling with her. Sometimes she would catch him giving her long stares that made her feel naked, and other times, he acted as if she weren't in the same room with him. She
couldn't imagine him ever asking her to the Chuck-wagon for supper or renting a buggy for a Sunday afternoon ride. Frank was not made of the stuff for courting, and that was what she wanted. His passionate kiss had left her reeling and mixed up. It could not, and would not, happen again.

The frog had quieted, and now Amelia feared its suffocation. She vented the opening on her purse a little more, then lifted her gaze to the front of the church, determined to put her effort into the Sunday message the reverend was about to deliver.

Dressed in a somber-cut black suit with a bow band necktie, Reverend Thorpe held on to the edge of the pulpit, staring out at his flock. He made eye contact with each and every last one of them. When his gaze bored into Amelia, she swallowed hard but remained still in her seat. Others did not take the reverend's weekly inspection so well. There were muffled coughs amongst them and the squeak of wooden joints as people shifted uncomfortably in their mahogany pews. Coney Island's sisters, Mabel Lovey and Bessie Dovey, had to be scolded in a harsh whisper for kicking their brother on each of his shins.

This whole process of scrutinizing the congregation took no more than sixty seconds, but when one was counting them off, it seemed like an eternity. When the reverend finally finished, he remained silent, his lips pursed, his brows jutting downward in a frown. Then, since he only had his audience captive once a week, he struck zealously hard.

“Prepare yourselves to meet your maker!”

Reverend Thorpe's booming voice startled Amelia, and her chatelaine bag and her Bible bounced to the floor.

Narcissa turned her head to stare at her. Amelia mumbled an apology, then as casually as she could, leaned over to pick up her purse and thin black book. Once they were safely back in her lap, she smoothed
her hand over the calfskin to feel for the lump of the frog.

It was flat.

The clammy thing had escaped!

Horrified, she quickly inclined her gaze over her knees to see if she could spot the frog on the varnished floor. Nothing. She tilted her head both left and right, frantically searching for a glimpse of green through ankles of polished black and brown shoes. Nothing.

Straightening, Amelia held herself erect. Where did it go?

All she could do was sit and wonder as Reverend Thorpe spoke of an abyss of despair and the covenant of darkness. Seconds rolled into minutes, minutes rolled into a quarter of an hour.

“So I say to you, my friends,” the preacher decreed, raising his right fist to the rafters, “live each day as if it were your last. Do not stray from the Lord on Thursday thinking to redeem yourself on Sunday. Friends, I could be officiating at your wake on Friday.” He lowered his arm, perspiration running down the sides of his red face. “Prepare to meet your maker and—”

A woman's scream cut short Reverend Thorpe's dissertation. Luella Spivey, who sat in the third-row pew, shot to her feet and pointed at the aisle carpet runner. “Which one of you heathen boys,” she exploded, “set that frog loose?!”

Amelia shrank.

Daniel and Jakey traded glances, as if to ask the other, “Did you do it?” Both shrugged.

In spite of the pink pox scabs healing on their pale faces, Walter and Warren Reed were each cuffed on the ear by their mother. Together they declared, “We didn't do it!”

The frog hopped toward the pulpit risers; it made a low croak lasting about three seconds, followed by several clucking notes. Ladies' fans snapped open to fan flushed faces; men who'd dozed off opened one
eye. The boys, and even most of the girls, erupted into squeals of laughter. They all knew they didn't have to claim responsibility because they weren't responsible; therefore, they could abandon themselves to the pandemonium of one of the better pranks ever pulled off during a Sunday sermon.

Amelia might have been inclined to laugh herself, but the trouble was, someone had to confess to being the culprit.

“Friends!” the reverend cried. “Come to order!”

As the frog leaped on the pulpit landing, Reverend Thorpe chased after it. Amelia stood, along with everyone else, to watch their minister bound helplessly after a zigzagging frog. The reverend fell to his knees, sprawled out on his stomach, and cupped his hands over the floor. “I got it!” Scrambling to his feet, he kept his fingers locked together. A shock of his oiled hair hung over one eye, as he said, “All those not guilty, sit down. Those who are, stay standing.”

Feet shuffled, pews creaked, whispers mounted, and the only one left standing was Amelia.

“Sit down, dear,” Narcissa said softly.

Amelia shook her head.

The reverend frowned. “Miss Marshall, you may take your seat.”

“I can't, Reverend.” In the scuffle, Amelia had reached for her purse and now held it by the chain. “I . . . that is . . .” She excused herself and went around Narcissa and Cincinatus. “It's mine, Reverend.” She met him at the base of the pulpit. “If you would be so kind as to put him in my bag.”

Old Widow Thurman was the only one who made a sound. Air whistled through her false teeth as she chuckled in an aged tone from her place at the organ. Nobody chastised her, of course. At the ripe age of seventy-eight, she could do and say whatever she wanted.

Amelia snapped her purse closed as soon as Reverend
Thorpe dumped the frog safely back inside. Turning, she couldn't meet the stares; she kept her head down as she resumed her seat. She wanted to die. She should have just let the frog go in her yard. But she'd had to stand on ceremony of returning “the gift.” That, and the fear the frog would take up residence on her property and hop out at her when she least expected it to.

As the congregation settled in once again, Amelia sat through the rest of the service without blinking an eye—even though nearly every pair strayed to her. At last when it was over, she stood with as much dignity as she could muster and strode out with everyone else.

“Why didn't you tell me you had a frog in your purse?” Narcissa whispered behind her gloved hand.

“Would you have sat next to me if I had?” Amelia whispered back.

“Of course I would have.” Narcissa nodded politely to Mrs. Spivey as they crossed paths. “Why
do
you have a frog in your bag, dear?”

“It doesn't belong to me.” The plaster smile on Amelia's lips began to hurt her cheeks as she moved through the narthex. “I'm returning it to a friend.”

“A friend? Who?”

“Mr. Brody.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “Mr. Brody gave you a frog?”

“Yes.”

That was all they could converse. They'd reached the doorway where Reverend Thorpe customarily stood after each service to shake hands and greet his congregation. After the mayor and his wife had exchanged pleasantries with him, he received Amelia with a question in his eyes.

“Miss Marshall, do you require extra spiritual counseling? I could come calling this week.” He gripped her hand. “Monday if it's an emergency.”

“No thank you, Reverend. I'm quite fine.” Then she
made a hasty retreat before he could say something further.

As she stepped into the sunlight, she opened the sunshade she'd had hanging by the radiator. She would have spoken with Narcissa further, but her friend was swarmed upon with well-wishers.

With her Bible in one hand and her purse affixed to her belt, Amelia strolled toward the big elm to watch for Frank Brody. Several of the ladies inquired about lessons now that her piano would be delayed. Amelia held them off with vague replies, knowing as soon as she squared up with Frank, she had to speak with Mrs. Beamguard. She didn't want to, but she had no other choice in the matter.

Standing in the shade, Amelia gazed down Dodge Street in the hopes of spying Frank. She'd been waiting all of a few seconds when Emmaline Shelby sauntered toward her. They eyed each other like two cats before an alley fight, this seeming ridiculous to Amelia. She wasn't quite sure why she was on the defensive; all she knew was, of late, Emmaline rubbed her the wrong way.

Emmaline sported a new suit of Scotch taffeta with a French lawn waist. “Who are you waiting for?” she asked in a tone that was less offhanded and more nosy.

“No one in particular.”

“Well, if you're waiting for Frank, I can tell you, you'll have a long one. He went to Boise early this morning. He won't be back until tomorrow.”

Amelia hoped she hid her disappointment from the woman. “It doesn't concern me in the least where Mr. Brody travels.”

Twirling the handle of the parasol resting on her shoulder, Emmaline said, “We don't have to stand on ceremony, do we?” She gave Amelia no opportunity to reply either way. “I'd like to make one thing perfectly clear. You may have the advantage of being
in his saloon all morning and afternoon, but I launder his clothing. His
intimate
clothing.”