Miracle in a Dry Season (5 page)

“Got to dance with my wife and that pretty niece of mine,” he said with a wink.

The week flew by for Casewell. He wouldn’t admit it, but he got lost in his music, and nothing satisfied his soul so much as sharing the sweet sounds he could draw from his mandolin with anyone inclined to listen. He not only played with the other members of their impromptu band that week, but also found himself pulling out his mandolin each evening and thinking over all the music he wanted to play on Saturday.

When Casewell rehearsed with the rest of the group, they mostly played lively dance tunes, but left to his own devices Casewell tended toward sweet, sorrowful music. He played “The Long Black Veil” almost every evening that week. Something about that song resonated deep in his soul. Sad, sinful song that it was, about a woman committing adultery with her husband’s best friend, she deserved to walk those hills crying. Even so, Casewell’s heart went out to the adulteress. He couldn’t explain it and didn’t care to try; he just lived in the music while he played.

By Saturday evening, the community was in an uproar. Women baked all day or fussed over what they would wear. The men hurried through farmwork or chores—more often at the behest of the women in their lives than of their own accord. By six that evening George’s barn glowed from manger to hayloft. The main floor was clear for dancing, with plywood laid over some bales at the far end of the room to make a stage for the musicians. Two long trestle tables were set up to the side and filled with hams, biscuits, loaf bread, sliced beef, deviled
eggs, pickles, cakes, pies, and cookies. Icy pitchers filled with sweet tea, lemonade, and punch sat at one end. Some of the men would almost certainly have a little something stronger in the trunks of their cars, but it was early yet, and the only thing anyone was drunk on was anticipation.

Casewell, George, and Steve had the crowd flat-footing across the floor in no time. Most folks had grown up doing the traditional Appalachian dance that was a cross between Irish step and tap dancing. The cacophony created by all those feet tapping and shuffling in time to mountain tunes made a music of its own, and an hour passed before Casewell knew it. Steve called a break for refreshments with a waggle of his eyebrows, which meant he had a little something stashed out back to perk him up. Casewell set his mandolin aside with the care a mother would use placing a baby in its cradle. He stretched and headed for the refreshment table.

“You boys are in fine form,” Robert said, shaking Casewell’s hand.

“Thought you were going to join us,” Casewell said, grinning.

“Oh, I may yet—once I’ve wore myself out with eating and dancing,” the older man said with a wink. “Now step right up here and fill you a plate. That’s Delilah’s hummingbird cake over there, but you’d better have a ham biscuit or two first. Perla brought that basket of biscuits over there, and although I’ve seen at least a dozen people reach into it, seems like they’ve hardly made a dent. Better fall to so you can keep your strength up. This crowd looks like it could dance all night.”

Casewell let Robert talk on while he filled a plate with food. He made his way down the length of the table to where the drinks left wet rings on the tablecloth. Perla stood behind the table with a cup in her hand.

“Can I pour you a drink?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “How about some of that sweet tea?”

Perla poured and Casewell had to confess that she looked like an angel standing there. A straw hat that was little more than a headband held her honey-wheat hair back from her brow and sent it cascading down her back. Her pink dress was cinched in at her waist, with a full skirt falling to below her knees. There was nothing suggestive about her clothes, but somehow she looked more womanly than any other female in the room. Casewell swallowed hard.

“Have you been enjoying the dance?” he asked.

“I’ve enjoyed watching it,” Perla said. “I don’t really know these dances. I guess I haven’t had much of a chance to learn.” She ducked her head and smoothed the cloth at the edge of the table with gloved hands.

“We’ll do some square dancing here before long. It’s easy to jump in on that. George will call the steps, and even if you don’t understand, all you have to do is watch the other folks in your square.”

“Maybe I’ll try,” Perla said, still pressing the tablecloth with her fingers.

Casewell felt the urge to protect her—from what he wasn’t sure. “If I didn’t have to play, I’d show you,” he said, sounding like an eager schoolboy. He blushed and saw that Perla did, too. “Guess I’d better eat this.” He rushed to fill the space between them with words. “They’ll want to dance some more before long.” He nodded once and went to sit on a corner of the stage to eat, wondering what in the world had just come over him.

Steve sauntered over, breath slightly boozy. “Fine-lookin’ woman, that,” he said, nodding toward Perla. “And from what I hear, might be she’s easy to get on with.”

“What do you mean by that?” Casewell asked, spine stiffening.

“Well, she’s got that young’un and no man to speak of. Ain’t but one way for a woman to get a child of her own.” Steve winked and leered across the barn at an oblivious Perla.

Casewell felt a surge of anger, although he’d made some of the same sorts of assumptions without speaking them aloud. He wanted to defend Perla, but he couldn’t think what to say. He really didn’t know the woman, and Steve might be right. Casewell looked across the room, where Perla was helping some of the children to slices of cake. No, he didn’t know how Perla came to be in Wise with a child and no husband, but he would do his best to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Casewell said, “since I don’t go around gossiping with the women much.”

Steve flushed, then grinned and slapped Casewell on the back. “Reckon you don’t,” he said. “Now eat up so we can get these folks back to dancin’ afore they get bored and go home.”

The band did several square dance sets and then started taking requests for favorites, which had folks stomping up and down the barn floor. Certain members of the group were definitely better lubricated than they had been at the beginning of the evening. Limbs were looser, attitudes more relaxed, and the dancing was spectacular. Soon some of the older folks and the families with children began drifting home.

Casewell’s parents were long gone, and he saw Robert and Delilah headed out carrying a sleeping Sadie. He’d lost track of Perla some time back and assumed she’d left as well. As the party wound down, George and Steve laid down their instruments so they could eat, drink, and visit with friends—some of whom were good-looking women, including Melody
Simmons, who kept sending smiles Casewell’s way. He could easily have joined them, but as long as folks would listen, he was happy to keep playing. Anyway, this was when he could play the songs he liked best—melancholy ballads and old songs from Ireland and Scotland. He was enjoying himself so much that he didn’t notice Perla until she spoke as he finished a mournful tune.

“That was lovely,” she said.

Casewell turned and saw her standing near the stage, hands clasped in front of her. “I thought you were gone,” he said.

“I stayed to help clean up the food. There’s still plenty and it’d be a shame to waste it. As a matter of fact, Delilah suggested I send some home with you.”

“That’d be fine,” Casewell said, still caught in the mood of the music. “You look pretty tonight,” he said, before he even knew his mouth had shaped the words.

Perla blushed. “Thank you,” she said. “I wasn’t too sure about coming, but I guess I’m glad I did. I even square danced once.” Her blush deepened. “Well, I don’t mean to talk your ear off. Let me get you a basket of food for when you go.”

“I appreciate it,” Casewell said, looking around at the crowd that had dwindled to almost nothing. “Reckon I’ll be heading out now. Looks like this party has run out of steam.”

Perla smiled and went to fetch the food while Casewell said his good-byes. He met her near the door and took the heavier-than-expected basket.

“This’ll hold me,” he said, then opened his mouth as if to say more but didn’t know what.

“It was nice seeing you,” Perla said. “I’ll be getting on back myself now.”

“Who’s seeing you home?” he blurted.

“Why, I thought I’d walk. It’s not far and it’s such a pretty night. And somehow I feel safe around here.”

“I’ll drive you,” Casewell said. “It’s on my way.”

Perla hesitated then nodded her agreement. She picked up her empty basket, and they started out in the cool of the evening. At first they rode in silence. Casewell wanted to know so much about Perla, but the questions that ran through his head weren’t the kind he could put to her directly. Finally, Perla broke the quiet.

“How long has your family lived around here?”

“Oh, about six generations or so,” Casewell said. “The Phillips brothers came down from Massachusetts when this was still part of Virginia. There were three of them, and they all settled within a day’s travel of each other. John Phillips is the brother I came down from. Guess I’m the last of his particular line for now. I know my parents would sure like it if I married and had a son to carry on the name, but, well . . .” Casewell trailed off.

“Never met the right girl?”

“Reckon I’m somehow related to most girls around here, but yes, you’re right. No one’s ever caught my eye that way.”

“You might have to look further afield,” Perla said.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Casewell felt a little clumsy with this gentle banter, but he realized he was enjoying himself.

“Guess there are plenty of rumors about me and how I’m not married,” Perla said.

Casewell had an impulse to stomp on the brake, but he controlled himself as he struggled for a response. “I don’t pay much attention to gossip,” he said at last.

“But you’ve heard some things.” It was a statement, and Casewell didn’t deny it. Perla continued. “I don’t know you
that well, but from what I’ve seen and heard of your family, I tend to think you’re good people. I’d like to tell you the truth. I don’t know exactly what folks are saying, but I see the way women stop talking when I step up to them and how men look at me like . . . well, it’s an uneasy way to be looked at. Do you mind to know?”

“If you want to tell, I can listen,” Casewell said, feeling a mixture of anticipation and dread.

“All right then. I’m not married, nor have I ever been. Nobody knows who Sadie’s father is, and that’s something I won’t tell. But he’s not to blame. I am. And although it’s been hard raising that child on my own, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.” Perla’s chin rose in the air, and she looked out the side window into the dark. “She’s the single best thing in my life, and I thank God for her every day—no matter how I got her. I had the idea that if I came here, I might leave the gossip and mean talk behind, but I see that it’s followed me. I’m not expecting you to stand up for me, but you seem kind, and I wanted you to know that while I am what they say, I’m not ashamed of having Sadie.”

Casewell’s mind filled with warring emotions. He admired Perla’s spunk, and as she became more animated and determined, he thought she was probably the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But how could she talk of her sin so lightly? How could she say she wasn’t ashamed? He compared her in his mind to some of the other women he knew—Delilah, his own mother, and even Melody from the dance. None of them would ever do such a thing. He felt certain of it.

Casewell let his silence stretch too long. A single tear slid down Perla’s cheek.

“You judge me, too,” she said. “I can’t ask you not to, but somehow I hoped . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Casewell said. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know,” Perla said. “Sometimes I can’t take it in myself.”

“I appreciate your honesty, but how can you not regret sinning against God?”

Casewell had to navigate a curve before he could look at Perla. He thought she swiped at her face, though he couldn’t be sure.

“I am a sinner. But God used my sin to bring me the most wonderful love I’ve ever known. How could I regret that?”

Casewell had no answer. He was relieved to see the glow of the Thorntons’ porch light.

“Thank you for carrying me home,” Perla said. “It was kind of you.”

Casewell thought maybe she wanted him to thank her for sharing her secret with him, but he couldn’t do that. He wished that he didn’t know and that he’d never laid eyes on Perla Long.

“Good night, then,” he said and, after watching her safely to the porch, drove away.

Perla tiptoed into the house, hoping everyone was in bed so she wouldn’t have to explain her teary eyes. She slipped into her room and saw Sadie curled on the bed, fast asleep. She drew the door shut, removed her gloves, and began unfastening her hat. She heard a tap at the door.

“Perla, I tucked Sadie in. Robert and I are about wore out. You need anything?” It was Delilah.

Perla leaned against the door and whispered back. “I’m fine.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound shaky.

“’Night, then.”

Perla put a hand against the door and whispered, “Good
night.” Then she slid to the floor and cried in earnest. The first time she’d laid eyes on Casewell Phillips, she thought he was quite possibly the finest-looking man she’d ever seen. Oh, she’d liked the looks of Sadie’s father well enough, but Casewell seemed more . . . complete. More self-contained and whole.