Scones and Sensibility (25 page)

The sound was not coming from below me but from behind me.

I turned to see Mr. Nightquist, a kite in hand, walking toward me, his arms beckoning me to turn back. “Polly? For all that’s holy,” he screamed above the din of the ocean. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was … I was just—” But as I stepped toward his open palm, my wounded foot slipped and I fell into the surging water below.

I swam through a sea of melting visions. A black top hat, a kite, kind eyes, silver braces.

Finally, I heard a voice. “Polly? Polly?”

“Come on.” I felt a tapping on my arm and my head being lifted up. “Come on, wake up.”

“What’s going on? Where am I?” I mumbled. My eyes flickered open and beheld a haze of light and the silhouette of a head and shoulders. After blinking again and again, the vision clarified, and I awoke in the kite shop with Bradley above me. My heart thumped wildly in my chest at the sight of him.

My hero. Indeed he had saved me.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Mr. Nightquist came to my side and held my hand in his own.

“What happened?” I asked, my mouth dry and my throat aching. I attempted to sit but was pierced by a fierce ache in my head that kept me reclined.

Mr. Nightquist leaned back against the cabinet and sighed. “Girl, you gave me and this young guy quite a scare. You slipped right off the end of that jetty.”

I gazed upon Bradley, my knight in shining armor.

“Glad you’re okay,” he said, his face turning a handsome and bashful crimson.

But then the unpleasant memories of my misdeeds coursed through my veins. I rolled over, ashamed, wishing they had not saved such a wretched soul as I. Wishing that I had perished in the watery sea without having to face my sins. Becoming a sea wraith, mourning my sins in the ocean depths. “I can’t go back. I’m so ashamed.”

“Enough of that talk, Polly girl,” Mr. Nightquist said, his rough hand upon mine.

The anguish returned like a tidal wave upon my soul. “Oh, but you don’t know what I have done. Ruined lives lie in a wake behind me and I am hopeless.”

“Hmmm,” was all Mr. Nightquist said before he got up and left the room. Bradley followed behind. I had most likely ruined his and Miss Wiskerton’s lives as well and should be banished from the sight of all mankind.

But dear Mr. Nightquist did not abandon me completely, for just as I had made up my mind to leave the shop and become a nomad roaming the earth like a plagued ghost, he emerged from the back and held
out a steaming cup. “Here, it’ll warm you up. Your parents should be here soon. I called them a few minutes ago. They were pretty worried.” He stopped and gazed at me, one bushy eyebrow raised in suspicion. “Everything all right?”

And that is when I divulged all the wrong I had committed and the pain I had caused. “But I didn’t mean for it to all go wrong, really. I just wanted things to work out like it did for Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy and Anne and Gil. You know, true love and happy ever after.” I sniffed most inelegantly. “But instead I ruined everyone and everything. Clint and Clemmy are through, Clemmy hates my guts, and I’ll be lucky if Fran ever speaks to me again.”

I lowered my head in shame.

He spoke nothing at first but took the mug from my hand and smiled. “Hmm. Aren’t Elizabeth and Darcy and the other names just characters in a book?”

“Why, yes,” I said. “They enjoyed love’s complete fullness in each other’s arms.”

He rubbed at his chin. “They did, did they? Well, did those people go through a divorce before they met?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Did they lose their wives to death? Were they
teenagers in high school trying to figure out what love is? Had either of their parents been divorced before? Were they older men or women who’d never had a shot at love before?”

“I don’t know,” I said, quite confused at his questioning. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Nightquist.”

He stood to open the back door where a frantic knocking had commenced. “Well, Polly girl. I don’t doubt that you wanted the best for us all. But love’s not a book, is it?”

I did not understand, nor was my mind working properly to attempt to discover the mystery of his words, for both Papa and Mama entered the room and took me into their embrace. This only made the sting of my sins harsher inside me. The short drive home was silent and calm, and I began to feel feverish and dizzy, chills running up and down my spine. I welcomed the fever, if only to pay for my wrongdoing.

“You don’t look too good, Polly,” Mama said, placing the side of her soft cheek against my forehead. “I think you need to go upstairs and rest.”

I trudged up to my room, the weight of the wet dress feeling light compared to the heaviness in my own heart.

I slipped into another gown and curled up under the covers, beckoning to the scarlet fever—for that is what I was certain I had succumbed to—that would give me my due.

And indeed, the fever did its work, and I spent the next few days in and out of sleep, shivering, dreaming, and drinking the warm chicken broth my mother held up to my lips. Dreams fluttered in and out in my mind and gave me no comfort, for they seemed only to taunt me with images of what I had done.

Yet it was what I deserved.

But late in the night of that third day I awoke into the darkness of my room sadly rejuvenated. I had been forced back into the land of the living with my transgressions still before me.

With the matches that I had secreted under my mattress many months before, I lit the candlestick in its candelabra and brought it to the nightstand. Writing by candlelight was utterly romantic, and after spending lifeless days in my bedroom, I needed its healing glow upon my heart and mind.

I needed its aid in helping me redeem myself.

Mr. Nightquist’s words were called forth in my mind. “Love’s not a book, is it?”

From the drawer beside my bed, I took out my stationery, calligraphy pen, and inkwell. I let the pen scratch across the surface of the paper.

I indeed wished for the happiness of those who were dearest to my heart.

But instead:

My dearest Clementine had lost the one she loved. This was because of me. I had wanted for her a man that I found suitable. But perhaps, to her (however farfetched it seemed), Clint was Mr. Darcy.

My dearest Fran, my bosom friend, had most likely lost a potential mother, and Mr. Fisk a wife, who, though she was contacted through the Internet, was a good woman. This also was because of me. Although I felt like Mr. Fisk should be with someone more out of a novel, maybe for Mr. Fisk, Ruthie was as elegant and refined as Elizabeth.

I thought upon Bradley’s honest words and Fran’s spoken anger the night of my crime.

The two were correct. I hadn’t listened to her. I hadn’t truly understood or tried to understand what agony she must have endured over these years since her mother’s departure. Instead, I had treated her feelings and her life like that of a character in a book. Something I could remedy and make right.

Mr. Nightquist’s words struck to the quick of my soul.

I, Polly Madassa, thought myself and my own way the best for others and sought to force love rather than let love write its own story, no matter how unromantic to me it might have seemed.

Yes, this was truth.

And though I was utterly relieved to have uncovered just where I had taken a wrong path, the immensity of my mistakes was not erased or mended.

That would take ardent apologies and beseeching for forgiveness on my part. And so, with pen in hand, and alongside a heart filled with both heavy sadness and floating hope, I constructed a plan of redemption, which I would carry out that next day.

Whether or not my sins would be forgiven, I knew that I must confess my wrongdoings to those whom I had wounded so deeply.

I
awoke the next morning with the beams of sunlight kissing my tear-stained face. The smells from below me were warm and fragrant, and I dwelt on their welcoming scent as I slipped into the shower and prepared myself for the task at hand.

I would confess first to Clementine, and attempt to restore our sisterly bond, if indeed it could be restored.

My heart pounded inside my chest as I descended the stairs in search of her. Twice, I was certain I was going to fall into a swoon, but was held up by the seriousness of my task.

I heard her quiet giggle coming from the kitchen and Mama’s laughter as well, yet when I entered, both ceased.

Mama walked toward me, bestowing a kiss upon my alabaster forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, my Polly.” And she left me alone with my sister—now a stranger to me.

Clementine was mixing a batch of something that smelled of cinnamon, and I went and stood beside her.

Truly, I could not stop the tears from coming. “I’m … I’m sorry, Clemmy,” I managed between sobs. “I only wanted to make you happy and for us to be friends again. We used to have so much fun and now we don’t. And I just wanted that back. But … but I was wrong to do what I did.” I wiped my nose with a towel I found upon the counter. She did not respond, so I sniffed and composed myself. “And even though I do not think that Clint is the man for such a wonderful woman as yourself, I am prepared to go and seek him out on your behalf. I will tell him that it was all my fault and see if he will come over to see you. Give me the word and consider it done.”

It was at these words that Clementine turned toward me. I shrunk away from her gaze, knowing that indeed the words to come might not be ones that I wanted to hear.

“I still can’t believe you did that, Pol. I mean … that was like the lowest thing you could ever do.”

Tears pricked at my eyes again. “I know, Clemmy. I’m sorry.”

She sighed. “Well, at least you know what you did, and you won’t do it again, ever!”

I nodded. “Would you like me to approach Clint and try to remedy the situation?”

She waved her hand. “No. We’re officially done, and I’m all right. Besides, I met this guy on the beach yesterday who’s really cute.”

“Indeed?”

She turned and rolled her eyes at me. “Yes, his name is Sean, and he’s coming into the shop in just a bit.”

“Are you sure he is—?”

She pointed her finger at me. “Don’t push it, Pol. And if you ever mess with my life again, I’ll kill you.”

“I vow that I will not, my dear Clementine. You have my solid vow.”

And then my sister began to laugh quite loud, and quite indecently, she filled her hand with flour and threw it directly in my face. “Oh, shut it, Polly.”

I was quite stunned at first, and could find no words.

“Oh, come, dearest,” she said in a mocking voice.
“Surely thou hast a sense of humor. Dost thou?”

And though it was nice to hear her speak so delicately, I couldn’t help but laugh as well. And after I had tossed my own handful of flour at her face, we had quite a fight until I fell through the doors into the bakery just in time to see a rather disheveled young man enter the bakery and look about. “Yo, is Clementine around?”

“Surely it cannot be,” I said, but was whisked away by my mother into the kitchen, where Clementine was laughing hardily and dusting herself off.

“There’s a boy here to meet you, Clemmy,” Mama said, pinching my arm quite hard.

“Ouch, Mama!” I cried out. “My dear sister, you are quite a mess, I’m afraid. Though I guess you will match his … crumpled appearance.”

“Shoot!” And she dashed for the hallway bathroom and came out looking decidedly better, though still quite covered with flour on her clothing.

“Are you sure you know what you are about, Clementine? I have seen him and am not afraid to survey this young man further for you,” I said with full sincerity, though knowing I would not overstep my boundaries again.

She turned to me and wagged her finger. “Don’t even
start, Pol.” And she disappeared through the door.

I pressed my ear to the wood and listened.

“Hey, dude,” the voice shouted at Clementine. “You look smokin’ hot!”

And at these words I pulled my ear away. Surely hearing any further would only be temptation for me to stop this before it started. And I could not.

“I commit your life to love, dearest sister. No matter where it may lead.” And at that I departed my home.