Harmony (51 page)

Grayce Kennison was the first to react. “Oh, thank Heaven!”

“It
is
true!” Mrs. Plunkett smiled broadly.

Mrs. Elward glanced first at Mrs. Plunkett, then at Edwina. “We weren't certain from the way Mrs. Rutledge told us. She had a gleam in her eye.”

“I saw the gleam before any of you,” Mrs. Treber said.

Mrs. Brooks tsked. “Yes, but I was the one who dared say that if Miss Huntington
had
danced ragtime, our fondest hopes would come true.”

“Our fondest hopes and our
most secret
hopes,” Mrs. Calhoon added.

Edwina didn't understand. None of it. Weren't they mad at her? Weren't they going to tell her she couldn't
teach their girls anymore because she was a disgrace? A bad influence?

“Ladies . . . I . . .” Complete confusion ran through her.

“Don't worry, my dear.” Grayce's mouth curved upward. “We've known you since you were a child. We know what kind of girl you are. Dancing to music isn't something new. Why, no—I danced the waltz way too close with my James. That's how it is when you're young and impetuous. Ragtime is no different than what we tried to get away with in our generation.”

“True, Grayce.” Mrs. Plunkett dabbed her mouth. “My Hildegarde would say I'm an old fuddy-duddy, but truth be told, I was a lot more spry in my younger days and Mr. Plunkett and I did trip the light fantastic ourselves. I, for one, would like to say Mrs. Rutledge did us a favor when she told.”

“But she thought she was being nasty,” Mrs. Calhoon said, prompted by Mrs. Plunkett.

“Very nasty,” Mrs. Treber said, condemning Abbie as well. “We don't know her the way we know you.”

Edwina grew overwhelmed. Putting a hand to her collar, she blinked back the tears that had gathered in her eyes. Such loyalty . . . such faith. She didn't know what to say. “Then you aren't upset that I know how to dance ragtime?”

“No,” they replied in unison.

Then Grayce Kennison's blue eyes lit. “My dear, don't you know why we're here?”

She slowly shook her head.

“Ladies, allow me,” Mrs. Plunkett cut in, cheeks ruddy. She was given nods of approval, then said with a flourish, “Miss Huntington, we want you to teach us and our girls how to do the crazy bones!”

•  •  •

The ladies had left a scant fifteen minutes ago after two hours of continuous talk about music and ragtime and its variety of steps. As much as Edwina had enjoyed conversing with them about it, she was glad when they
said they had to get home to cook dinners for their husbands.

Only after four o'clock had Edwina been able to get away and seek Tom. She left the house and walked down the sidewalks that had been cleared of snow. They hadn't had any new fall since Sunday and it made navigating easier for Edwina—especially in her haste. She walked on Sugar Maple, gazing absently at the bare trees and thinking how it seemed that it was just yesterday when she'd been crushing brittle leaves beneath her shoes and cursing her luck at Murphy Magee's having sold the warehouse twice. She now lifted her eyes skyward a moment and sent him a heavenly thank-you.

Taking Birch Avenue, she gathered her thoughts. How would she tell Tom? Just come right out and blurt out her feelings? Or wait until he said something? He had, after all, been going to tell her something yesterday when he'd come in on her and Ludie. But what he'd been about to say . . . was it good or bad? And he'd gotten only part of it out before her students had arrived when he'd first tried to tell her. . . .

This isn't working out . . .

If you want to see other women. . . .

It's nothing like that . . .

What was it, then?

Edwina rounded Old Oak Road and took the shoveled walk to Wolcott's store. The door opened and a customer departed just as she went inside. Both Tom and Mr. Dufresne were at the counter. She hadn't counted on Mr. Dufresne's being there. He usually was gone most of the week.

Tom's gaze lifted when she went toward them. She smiled at him. He smiled at her in return. Her heart warmed. “Hello, Mr. Wolcott.”

“Miss Huntington.”

Mr. Dufresne lounged against the countertop while sitting on the stool. “It's good to see you, Miss Huntington.”

“Likewise, Mr. Dufresne.”

She was at the counter now—and suddenly remembered the last time she'd been . . . on it. A blush that must have made her face redder than a geranium took hold of her cheeks, because Mr. Dufresne straightened and asked, “Are you all right, Miss Huntington?”

“Oh . . . fine.” Then to Tom, she sent a message with her gaze. He read it clearly.

Walking to the coat tree, he collected his jacket and hat. “Shay, I'm stepping out for a while. Watch the place.”

“Got it covered.”

Tom held the door open for her and they exited together. She wasn't sure where to go, so she stopped as soon as she reached the sidewalk. Coming up behind her, Tom quit walking as well.

She turned to face him. He slid his hands in his pockets and appeared casual and relaxed, while she was in turmoil. “How are you doing, Edwina?”

“Good.” Then, “Not good. Not really. We need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Let's take a walk out back.”

She nodded. He took her arm through his and guided her to the grove. She viewed its white wintry façade, thinking back to when she fell out of the tree and onto Tom. It hadn't been funny at the time, but now, reminiscing made her smile. And the tree swing. The rope still hung from the oak Tom had tied it to. A lot of memories were here . . . all fond for Edwina. Even Barkly's pranks could be viewed with some slight affection.

Tom came to the area where he'd had his Flightmaster set up in the fall. All that remained—and would remain until spring, when the weather turned—were the stumps he'd used as chairs. Brushing two off, he offered her a seat. She took it, folding her gloved hands in her lap, and keeping her gaze forward.

“Has anybody been giving you a hard time today?” Tom's question threw her, and she looked at him.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

“No . . . nobody has. As a matter of fact . . . well, I'll tell you later. First, can we talk about what you were going to say to me yesterday?”

It was his turn to stare ahead. “Did you know Rutledge was married?”

“Yes . . . I found out last night.”

“How'd you feel about it when you found out?”

Edwina set her gaze with his. It would seem they were both interested in the beauty of the trees, but she was certain that neither of them cared at all about them. Telling Tom the truth could . . . probably would . . . hurt him. But if there was to be a future for them she wouldn't base it on falsifications or watered-down versions of how she really felt. Loving a person meant total and complete honesty. There was no other way.

Slowly, she formed the words in her mind, then spoke them as quietly as snow drifting down from a gray sky. “When I found out . . . I felt deceived.”

Then she dared chance a glance at him; she saw his jaw had set, his eyes had narrowed.

Oh, God . . . she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life.

20

D
eceived.

Tom stared at the network of bare branches, then reached into his pocket and retrieved his Richmonds. With an easy gesture, he placed the cigarette so it rested on his lips. Striking a matchstick against the tree's trunk side, he lit the end. He quietly smoked and thought about what Edwina said. That she felt deceived meant emotional connections were still there.

“She was my dearest and only close friend for a long time. Although I never came out and said it, she had to know that I'd been in love with Ludie. He told her about our engagement when he broke it. She was angry with me for not confiding in her. She told me that I'd hurt her feelings. I never meant to. That she would marry him
wanting
to . . . get back at me makes me angry. I'm sorry, Tom. I had to be honest.”

He nodded.

“But he doesn't mean anything to me anymore. It's silly, really, to feel this way.”

Tom took a drag on his cigarette. “If it's how you feel, it's not silly.”

“They don't matter to us, Tom. I accept their marriage. I hope for their sakes they can be happy. But if
they aren't, that's their own affair. I've moved on with my life.” He watched as she squeezed gloved hands together in her lap. “I have to know what it is you were going to say to me yesterday. It's important.”

He believed her about Rutledge. Rutledge and she had been through for a long time. Tom had known this from the way she looked at him when they were together at the schoolroom or store, the way she had touched him and let herself be cuddled in his arms. If she'd been in love with someone else, she wasn't so good at disguising her feelings that he wouldn't know, so there was no point in discussing the former college professor anymore—that was finished.

What needed to be settled now was the relationship he and Edwina had, or were going to have if she would agree. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. “I was going to tell you that the way our relationship is at present isn't working out for me.”

“Oh . . .”

The meek, wounded tone of her voice made him continue on rapidly.

“I don't want to stop seeing you, Edwina. I want things on a permanent basis from now on. No more sneaking around.” He turned his head to look at her. “This means an open commitment, Ed.”

“What kind of open commitment?”

“Meaning we go places together in public. We hold hands if we want. We share a kiss if we want. Attend dances and parties if we get invited. Not that I'm any good at these kinds of things with the people you know. But I'd try. Just like I'd want you to try to do some of the things I like—fishing and camping, going out for the day on a horse. You know. Stuff like that. You made me see that it's no fun doing it by myself or with Shay. I want you with me.”

“As if we were a couple,” Edwina said softly.

“That's right. One plus one equals two: me and you—a pair. Can you?”

The smile that fluttered at the corners of her mouth
was tender sweet to him. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I believe I just did.”

“But you didn't say the words.”

“If I say them, will you answer yes?”

Her green eyes shone like summer grass. “Try me.”

Tom sat up straight, pitched his cigarette into the snow, then took her hand in his. “Edwina Huntington, will you marry me?”

In the span of time that seemed like an eternity, she gazed slowly at his face, looking at his eyes and mouth, then his nose, his jaw. She was reading him. Or doing something like memorizing him.

Worry getting the best of him, he couldn't help asking, “What are you doing?”

“I'm imprinting you in my mind so I'll always remember how you looked when you asked me.” Then a short moment later, she replied, “I never thought I would
want
to hear those words after resigning himself to being alone. After talking myself into living like a spinster because I thought it was best. Tom . . . you made me see that it's all right to be . . . imperfect and be in love. For that, I will always cherish you—how special you've made me feel.” She brought her hand to his check. “Of course I will marry you.”

“Well . . . hell, Ed.” Then he took her into his arms and sealed the vow with a kiss on the mouth.
Edwina Huntington said she'd be my wife.
He wanted to shout it. The series of light and warm kisses he gave spoke of his love for her, of how he worshiped her and would cherish her. He had to tell her about the house. She'd be surprised. He couldn't wait to see her reaction.