Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) (39 page)

As the days rolled by, an amazing thing happened. Ezra
Browning started to improve. Doc said it was due to the care he
was getting, the square meals, the lack of booze in his system,
and the much-needed rest. But he also said they shouldn't
count on it lasting. He was a sick man and, unfortunately, still
a dying one.

Eninia scurried to wash the supper dishes, eager to go out
to her garden before the sun made its final descent. Grapes
ripe for picking hung from their vines, and she intended to
make her father help her pull them off. If he was well enough
to cone to the dinner table, as he'd done the last few clays, he
was well enough to go out for some fresh air. If he tired, she
would sit him on the cast-iron bench to watch.

Letters from Grace continued to pour in, with Emma
answering every one of them. They had formed a fast friendship, knit together by the fact that Grace and Ezra were first
cousins. Emma pored over Grace's missives, learning something new about her relative with every reading. She was fortysix years old, a widow to Wilburt Giles, having been married to
him for twenty-one years before he suddenly fell ill. It was he
who'd started the restaurant business, and Grace who'd carried
it on. Her advice about Jon Atkins was that she must cease worrying over the kiss. If she had true feeling for him, and he did
her, then the Lord would reveal His plan. "These things have a tendency to work out according to God's timetable," she'd said.
At that revelation, Emma scowled and gave her head a tiny
shake; not wanting to dwell on it, she quickly finished the note.

She learned, too, that Grace had never had the pleasure of
children, although they'd wanted them. Over the years, they
had cone to accept the fact of her barrenness and invested
time in other people's children.

Her father, John Fielding, passed away shortly after her
wedding, having suffered from a chronic lung disease. She
had two sisters, both older and living in Kansas and Colorado.
To her great sadness, she seldom had the opportunity to visit
either one due to distance and the inability to leave her restaurant for long periods. She employed a cook and two dining
waiters, but since her thriving little restaurant had made a
name for itself, she barely had time to read the evening newspaper, let alone leave town.

She implied that she had grown tired of the weariness of
city life and had thought much about selling out and retiring
to a quieter community, perhaps one of the cozy little towns
that were popping up on the outskirts of Chicago.

As for the questions Emma had regarding her father's
background, Grace's answers were slow in coming, noticeably
absent, in fact, with the exception of her admission that, yes,
her mother's name was Edith, and also that before she died
she'd revealed some things about Ezra's family. Things that
Grace preferred not to talk about via mail.

Well, if she wouldn't write them in a letter, Emma had
asked in her last note, how was she ever to learn the mystery?
"Furthermore," she'd added, "what about Clara Abbott? I still
don't understand the connection."

Emma dried the last dinner plate and on tiptoe placed
it on top of the other clean plates neatly stacked in the cupboard. She wrung out the dishrag and draped it over the
edge of the counter, then hung the damp towel on a hook
beneath the sink. Wiping her hands on her apron front, she
turned and perused her neat-as-a-pin kitchen.

"Ya always was good at keepin' things all polished up nicelike." Emilia whirled at the sound of Ezra's voice. He leaned the
weight of his thinning body in the doorframe, too weak to support himself for long periods, his shoulders bent as usual, skin
taut and ashen, but a spark in his eyes she couldn't recall ever
having seen before. My, what a sober mind did for a body.

"Thank you-I think. Was that a compliment?"

The tiniest chuckle broke loose. "I s'pose it could be if ya
want to look at it thata way. Never was one for expressin' my
gratitude toward ya, even though I should've."

Lately, Ezra Browning had been most hospitable, and she
had no idea how to handle it. Even now, she felt a silly blush
creep up her neck, as if this weren't her father standing three
feet away from her but some stranger trying to butter her up.
For that reason, she wanted to pick a fight with him, but she
couldn't seem to conjure up a good enough motive for one.

"No need," she sputtered.

He started to cough but regained control of the episode
much faster than normal. She walked the few steps it took to
get to him and took his arm. His frailty did something to her
innards, made her feel things she wasn't used to feeling. "Want
to help me pick grapes?" she asked.

"Pick grapes, you say? Where's the preacher? That sounds
like soniethin' he'd want to do." He was stalling, of course.
No one she knew balked more at having to lift a finger. He
was spoiled, and she had no one to blame for it but herself.
Hadn't she catered to hint her entire life just to keep the
peace?

"I have no idea, and I wouldn't ask hint to help me pick
grapes anyway," she squawked. "Now, come on." She tried to
hurry hint, but it was like telling a baby tortoise to speed it up
the way he gingerly put one foot in front of the other.

"You and that preacher kid fightin'? Don't seem like you
two's lookin' at each other near as much as ya used to," he
nmrnnired when they finally reached the door.

"What? No." The muscles in her back tensed tighter than a
drum as she reached for a big bucket sitting on the floor behind
the door. It was plain mortifying to discover that her father had
noticed something rising up between her and Jon, made her
wonder what the others were thinking. Ever since those astounding kisses on the porch, the man had stepped cautiously around
her, pointing his gaze to the floor in passing, conversing with
everyone but her at the meal table, as if she carried some contagious gerni and the only hope for not catching it was distance
and complete avoidance. No, they weren't fighting-exactlybut then they weren't speaking, either.

Oh, it was all a big mess, and as far as she was concerned,
they'd both do well to pretend the kiss had never happened.
Clearly, he was swimming with regrets; why not let him off
the hook and admit she felt the same? He was the pastor of
Little Hickman Community Church, for gracious sake. If
ever a mismatch existed between two people, it lay between
them-her acting as "mother" to a beefy array of misfits, him
a gentle shepherd leading his flock of Christ followers. Why, if
Mrs. Winthrop ever got wind that he'd crossed the line from
respectability into licentious revelry (for that is what she would
call their innocent kisses), she'd see to it he lost his position,
not to mention his preacher's license.

In fact, Emma had given serious thought to warning hire
of the dangers he posed for himself by even staying under her roof. Of course, in order to have that conversation, he would
have to look her square in the eye again, and she couldn't
guess when that might happen.

It had proven a chore getting Ezra down the back stoop,
but once she did, they strolled slowly toward the arch where
the grapevines grew thick and lush, their ambrosial scent
wafting across the path. September's sun was fast setting, so
rather than take him all the way, she stopped to lower him into
the sturdy garden bench situated just feet from the vines. He
huffed a puffing breath and grasped hold of the bench arms
to steady himself. Once comfortable, he actually angled her
with a crooked grin, which automatically drew suspicion.

"You seem especially chipper," she said, turning and walking to the grape arbor, bucket handle draped over one arm.
Amethyst-colored grapes hung in chunky clusters, their mere
sight sending her taste buds into a tizzy. On impulse, she popped
a few into her mouth to satisfy her craving, savoring their luscious juices, swallowing there down, skins, seeds, and all.

"Ain't I got a right? I'm much improved, don't ya think?"

It was somewhat of a minor miracle, this newfound spurt.
"Doc says your gettin' good rest and eatin' better has given you
a new lease." She wouldn't mention that he'd also said it could
be short-lived.

Moments passed, with the only sounds a few chirping birds,
gentle breezes passing through the leaves, and a neighborhood
dog barking up a storm. When the lull became uncomfortable,
Emma glanced up from her picking and caught Ezra staring
off toward the house.

"You thinkin' on soniethin'?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "Been talkin' to the preacher kid."
His voice was hoarse from lack of use.

"About what?"

"Things."

She felt her brow pull down, but kept at her task. "Such
as?"

"He got nie to thinkin', that's all."

Jonathan Atkins had a way of doing that. Did he hope to
save Ezra Browning from his multitude of sins? Now, wouldn't
that be a miracle? Her cynicism had her yanking grape clusters off their vines at record speed.

"Says I should try to make the end o' my life count fer
soniethin', maybe startin' with iniprovin' ar communicatin', yer
and mine. I ain't been the best at it. Plus he got nie to thinkin'
'bout God an' all. Ain't that somethin'?"

Struck speechless, she picked faster. At the rate her bucket
was filling, she would need to empty it soon.

"He tol' me the Bible's meant ter folks such as me-sinners, that is. Lord knows I'm the biggest one. Says it's a matter
of askin' Jesus, God's Son, to forgive nie my past, and He'll do
it. Seems a little far-fetched if ya ask nie, but if it's that simple,
I night give it a try. Course, I'd need to beg for pardon from
you as well. That's what the preacher kid tol' nie."

Was this one-way conversation really happening? And if
it was, why couldn't it have taken place twenty years ago? For
reasons she couldn't quite identify, the root of bitterness she'd
nursed for most of her life sprouted tenfold. Did he really
think it was as easy as that?

"I been a poor example, Emnia. I done ya wrong."

Her basket full, she whirled to face her father. While plastered, he'd punched her more times as a child than she cared
to count, screamed obscenities when she hadn't finished her
chores, and belittled and embarrassed her in front of God
and everybody. As if that weren't enough, he'd expected her
to clean up after him when he lay in his own vomit. How old was she when he'd first handed down that chore, four,
five? Looking at hint now, hunched and old beyond his years,
dying, to boot, she should have had some measure of compassion, but she simply couldn't muster it. What was wrong
with her? The man was trying to make amends, for pity's
sake, and her heart felt cold and stale, hard as a brick.

"The booze made me do crazy things," he muttered, head
down, plucking lint balls off his pants. "I don't expect-" A
bout of coughing forced him to halt mid-sentence. Emma
pursed her lips tight and watched his struggle from afar,
knowing there was nothing to do for it.

When he got a hold of the spasm, she slowly approached.
"We should go in now. It's gettin' toward dusk." She set the
bucket on the ground beside his feet and hauled hint up. He
rose slowly, his legs shaking when they took his weight. "I'll
cone back for ny grapes after I get you settled."

She felt his eyes bore into her as they walked, her arm
steadying him on the bumpy path. Not for the life of her could
she say the words he wanted to hear-words like, "It's all right;
I can put it all behind me; my rotten childhood never happened; let's start over."

Trust God to heal the hurts of your past, Emma dear.... The
words from one of Grace's letters returned with punishing
blows. Forgiveness is far more freeing than living with a heart of
anger.

It was too much to think about right now. Perhaps tonight
she would try whispering another prayer before going to sleep
and see if that would help to piece together her frayed emotions.

Silly tears threatened at the corners of both eyes, and even
as she pondered what she might say to God, she wondered if it
would be worth the trouble.

Would He even hear her pathetic cries?

Jon was waiting by the window when Eninia brought Ezra
into the kitchen. "I'll take over from here," he said, giving
then both a start. "Sorry. Didn't mean to surprise you. I saw
you coning up the path." When Enna shot him a hasty look,
he noted her glistening eyes and wondered what Ezra had said
now. She looked on the verge of tears-again. Had an argument ensued between father and daughter? He'd thought for
sure old Ezra's heart was tenderizing, that for the first time
ever he was seeing himself through different eyes, seeing what
his life could have been like had he chosen God early on. But
now he wondered. He'd certainly said something to make
Emma miserable.

God, if he's hurt her, I'll be tempted to kick him into an early
eternity, whether he's ready or not.