Still House Pond (29 page)

Mr. Still helped her up and then picked up the baby. Lilly could swear the old lady's knees sounded loud as the rusty hinges on the short door.

“So what'll we do about the girl?”

“Smart, is she?” Mrs. Still asked.

“I reckon so. She had a lever in there prying the bar offen the door.”

“Then I say we pack up and head out. They ain't gonna let you off on a few
sorry
s. No matter your gift of gab.” Mrs. Still seemed to survey her surroundings. “I'm right tired of this place anyhow.”

“What about the girl?”

“If she's as smart as you say, she'll figure it out. Besides which they're sure to find her sooner than later. I'm surprised they haven't already.”

Mr. Still tapped the side of his forehead. “Probably because I threw them off the trail.”

“How so?”

“The girl's hat was caught up in the weeds at the pond. Nearly gave me a stroke when I saw it. But then I set to thinking it over.”

“Chaw it slow and spit it out. We ain't got all day for your pronouncements.”

“I figured I'd use that hat to confuse anybody looking for the girl, so's I took it yon side of the creek and up past the churchyard. Left it right beside the road in plain sight.”

“Good thinking, Son. Sometimes you surprise me.” The old lady reached up and patted Mr. Still's face. “Still, that won't work for long. We'd best get out while the getting's good.”

“When are you thinking?”

“Tomorrow. If they'd have been looking today, they'd already be here. For now, put Tern over by the rock fence. He'll know if anybody's a-coming, and we'll light out like Snyder's hound.”

“I'll get the dog, then.”

“Isa, think! What do beagles do best? Track. Track and hunt. It's liable to come right back here and then lead the law straight to you. Leave it be!”

“I reckon the girl can have it for her trouble,” he said. “But, man, I sure do hate to leave my fishing pond.”

“Ye can make another. Ain't that hard. All it takes is a shovel and a strong back.” The old lady stacked the diapers across her shoulder and took the baby from him. “Ye got a shovel, don't ye?”

Mr. Still didn't seem to take offense at his mother's retort. He just carried the used diaper pinched between two fingers and followed her across the yard.

Lilly was sorry to see them go. She hadn't realized how hungry she was for somebody else's words, even scary words, even scary words directed at her. At least she knew Mr. Still wasn't going to snap her neck or drown her like he drowned the puppies.

Since she knew he wasn't watching, she went to the open door. He really was as dense as his mother said if he thought she wouldn't take the first chance she got to climb down that ladder. All she had to do was figure out how to take the dog and the puppy with her. Her hopes drained away when she saw the ladder lying on the ground. She was high up in the treetops. It was much too far to jump.

If they really left her here, could she ever escape? She needed to come up with a plan. But first she went to the hamper and took out the boiled eggs, the little waxed-paper twists of salt and pepper, and the red ripe tomato. The dog ate from Mr. Still's greasy packet while tomato juice dripped down her chin.

A gloom settled over her. Why hadn't her daddy come? Didn't anybody even miss her? And why hadn't her heavenly Father answered her prayers? She rinsed her hands and took the Bible off the table. At least she could memorize her Sunday school Scripture while she had the time.

Turning to 1 Peter, she read about being steadfast in difficult times. God promised there would be suffering only for a while and that the suffering would strengthen and settle you. She guessed she could remain steadfast through one more night if that was what God wanted her to do. She would bide her time until she knew the Stills were really gone, and then she'd get out of here one way or another.

She eyed the valise and then the dog. When Mr. Still put the ladder up before he left, she could put the dog in there and carry her down, then come back for the puppy. It was like a riddle waiting to be solved. The beagle put one paw on the grease-stained paper, anchoring it while she licked. She wanted to enjoy every last bit.

Lilly took the paper away. “You're not a billy goat.”

The dog wagged her tail. Her brown eyes looked happy.

“Are you a happy girl?” she asked, scratching between the dog's ears. “I think I'll name you since it looks like you belong to me.” Lilly studied the dog's face, searching for clues. “I think Steady would be a good name for a dog such as you because you have been so steadfast in your suffering.” The puppy lay sleeping like a fat little blob. “We'll wait until your baby gets some personality before we pick a name. Don't you think that's a good idea?”

Lilly sat cross-legged on the pallet and lifted the puppy into her lap. Through the open door she could see storm clouds brewing in the distance. Thunder rolled across the far mountains, and a sudden breeze cooled the air. The old lady's words came back to her like a portent of things to come:
“That rotten shack could give way at any time. . . . That gal could be kilt.”

As she stroked the puppy's soft ears, she thought of all the times her family had gathered on their tin-roofed porch to enjoy a summer storm. When Daddy John saw the first bolt of lightning strike or when the thunder boomers followed after another, he'd herd everyone into the house. She and Mama would draw chairs up to the screen door and listen to the rain tap-dancing on the roof. It was the safest place in the world.

The light outside the open door turned greenish black. Tree branches thrashed and scraped against the walls. Rain fell in dark sheets. Lilly settled one arm around Steady and one around the puppy. Was her mama on the porch looking to the mountains right this moment? Was she wondering where Lilly was? Were her tears falling like the rain?

Suddenly the door slammed against the facing. The wind shifted and sucked it back open like an unseen hand. Marble-size hail bounced across the floor before the door banged shut again. The hail ricocheting off the tin-walled hut was so loud Lilly couldn't hear herself think. The puppy nuzzled her arm, looking for his mother.

Lilly bent her head. She'd never been so alone.

29

Darcy was right. Hardly anyone gave Manda a second glance as they walked to the dress shop. It was such a beautiful morning, and Manda was so excited to be there that she almost forgot her troubles.

Darcy twisted the key in the lock on the door and ushered Manda inside. Right in the middle of the room was a big oblong table where Darcy measured and cut the cloth to order. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held meticulously labeled bolts of fabric: serge, cheviot, silk, velvet, ladies' cloth, tweed, polished cotton, melton, kersey, and even beaver, among others. The fabrics were so varied and rich-looking, Manda wanted to wrap herself up in them.

The room was feminine but also serviceable with a seating area featuring delicate, curved-legged chairs under a crystal chandelier. Darcy's desk was a Victorian writing table. Ferns like the one in Darcy's parlor hung in the two windows that faced the sidewalk.

“You want folks strolling by to notice but not really be able to see inside. It gives the ladies shopping here some privacy,” Darcy explained. “Plus, the plants mute the light coming in. Sunlight devastates fabric.”

Manda wanted to touch everything. There were dozens and dozens of cards of buttons and frogs, yards and yards of lace, ribbon, braid, and gimp trims, so much it put the dry goods store at home to shame. A glass-topped display case held folding fans adorned with feathers, gloves with tiny pearl buttons, handkerchief cases, and ribbon bags.

“Take a look at these. I just got them in yesterday.” Darcy set a white cardboard box on the table and pulled back a piece of tissue paper. “This is a Russian appliqué collar. I ordered a dozen. Did you ever see anything so elegant? Of course you can't tell how very beautiful it is until you remove the muslin foundation. See? It's worked upon the wrong side. Imagine how tedious.”

Manda was afraid she might drool on it. “Who in the world could afford to wear these?”

“Anyone with a wealthy husband or old money,” Darcy said, holding one up to Manda and cocking her head. “These wide collars are not becoming to every figure, but this would look nice on you.”

“What if a customer wants it, but you think it doesn't flatter?”

“Well, I try my best to steer the portly ladies to something else.” Darcy pulled another box from a stack of boxes on a long shelf under the table. “For instance, a vest and cuffs in point lace like these or perhaps a collar of dainty ribbon stock and bow.”

Holding the appliqué collar under her chin, Manda tilted a cheval glass and stared at her reflection. She looked like death warmed over. “But surely these are more expensive. Wouldn't you make more money if you encouraged them?”

“Don't you think that would be dishonest, Manda?”

Manda felt small as a worm. What would Darcy think about the eggs she had taken from Miz Copper without asking?

Darcy looked over Manda's shoulder and into the mirror. “Thankfully you didn't inherit Mommy's double chin like I did. See how pretty you look?”

A single tear tracked down Manda's cheek. “I don't look pretty. You know I don't.”

With her index finger, Darcy lifted Manda's chin. The light on her face shifted, defining her high cheekbones and lessening the purple shadows under her eyes. Even her split lip didn't look so bad when your eye was drawn to the Russian collar.

“Did you know our great-great-grandmother on Daddy's side was Cherokee? That's where your cheekbones come from and your pretty straight nose. If your hair was dark instead of yellow, you could pass.”

Manda fitted the collar back in the box and smoothed the tissue paper in place. “I can see why your shop is so successful. Every woman wants to feel beautiful—whether she is or not.”

Darcy tapped her foot on the floor like she always did when she was aggravated. Uh-oh, Manda had pulled her chain.

“Dory Manda, beauty is easy to find if you look through kind eyes.”

Shame coursed through Manda's veins like hot blood. The things she'd done to lead her to the ugly scene in the barn loomed large in her mind's eye. She'd flaunted herself shamelessly, she'd stolen and lied, she'd abandoned Lilly, she'd hurt Gurney for no good reason, she'd been rude to Miss Remy, she hadn't touched her Bible in months . . . The self-condemning list went on. There was no beauty inside herself to shine out on anyone else.

Darcy went to the door and turned the sign to Please Come In. She looked at the clock on her desk. “Let's get you started on some piecework before my first appointment. I've got things set up in the back room.”

Manda spent a quiet morning with needle and thread. Darcy's designs combined machine stitching with hand, which produced durable goods with great attention to detail. No wonder her shop had been bustling all day.

Manda was just finishing a hem on a dress with a bell-shaped skirt when Darcy came to get her.

“We'll walk home for lunch,” she said. “I can't wait to see little Henry.”

Manda fitted the garment over a dress form.

Darcy lifted the skirt and perused the hem. “That's good work. Mrs. Jones is going to love this.”

“How do you keep the dress forms straight? I couldn't find a label on any of them.”

“Ah,” Darcy said with a twinkle in her eye, “you don't want your customers to compare their shape to another's. If the forms were named, then matronly Mrs. Jones, for instance, could see that she is more full-figured than young Mrs. Smith. Even though every woman's figure changes with children and age, one doesn't like to admit it. I know which form to use the minute a patron walks through the door.”

Darcy flipped the sign to Closed. “We should collect Henry Jr. and take him to the park.”

Manda walked along, window-shopping. “I feel so at home here with you. I'd really like to take you up on your offer.”

Darcy grabbed Manda's hand and swung it like they were girls going off to pick blackberries or jump in the creek. “I'd love to have you. Sometimes I get so lonesome I could cry.”

“Surely you have lots of friends here, you owning your own business and all.”

“When your husband is in prison, folks tend to shun you. Don't get me wrong—everyone is nice. Nice and cool in a kind of sorry-for-me way.” Darcy's sunny, round face clouded. “I never could stand pity. It gets my dander up.”

“Boy, not me. I can use all the sympathy I can get.”

“Sympathy's one thing. Pity's another,” Darcy said.

“How so?”

“Sympathy says, ‘I understand. I've been through it too.' Pity says, ‘That will never happen to me. You brought it on yourself.' Sympathy shares. Pity's haughty.”

“You've changed so much since you came here. You don't even talk the same. Your words are more particular.”

“I would hope so,” Darcy said, pointing out a drugstore. “We'll stop here on the way back after lunch. They have all kinds of paper and envelopes to match. You can pick out something for your letter to Miz Copper.”

“I won't know what to say. I'm afraid Miz Copper's mad at me.”

“You'd have to do something really bad for that to happen. I'm sure she's just puzzled and probably concerned. I'll help you. As soon as it's in the mail, you'll feel 100 percent better.”

Manda hoped it was so.

* * *

They chose to picnic on a bent-willow bench under the shade of a sugar maple tree. The park was sparsely populated today, but Manda couldn't help noticing a young couple strolling by the lake. “Wish that was me,” she said.

Darcy unpacked cheese and bread and red grapes. “Give it time. Your turn will come.”