The Amish Clockmaker (30 page)

Instead, as she slowly lowered her forehead and rested it against his, all he could remember was that this woman was his wife and this child was to be his child, and there was not one single other thing in the entire world he wanted or needed beyond that.

A few nights later, as they were getting ready for bed, Miriam called to him from across the room, asking for his help with something. He glanced over to see her standing in front of the bureau, fooling with her hair, her
kapp
hanging from the hook nearby.

“One of the pins is stuck in my braid and I can't get it out. I just need you to pull the comb through the tangle until the pin comes lose.”

He finished putting away his suspenders, slid the drawer shut, and then limped over to her. Taking the comb from her hand and moving into position
behind her, he stood there for a moment, unsure of how to help or where to begin.

She smiled in the mirror. “Is everything all right back there?”

“You may be surprised by this, Miriam, but I don't often style my hair.” His eyes narrowed as he examined the tangle. “The only combing I've ever done is to a horse's mane, and they don't generally wear braids or pins—or
kapps
, for that matter.”

Miriam's eyes crinkled with her laugh. “It's not so different from that. Just pull the comb through until the hair falls free.”

“All right. I'll try.” His brows knitted in concentration, he stuck the comb in the tangle and began to tug.

“Ow! Gently, Clayton!” she said with a laugh. “Let me show you. You have to come at it from the side.”

She placed her hand over his and started the comb at the top of her head. Then she led it down the back of her hair, along the side of the tangle, to the very ends that hung well past her shoulders. She showed him once more, moving closer to the tangle this time and catching just the edge of it as she went, and then she released his hand.

“Now you try.”

He did as he was shown, trailing the comb through her long auburn hair from the top of her scalp to past the middle of her back, until the motion felt natural. When he looked in the mirror to ask if he was doing it right, he saw that her eyes were closed, her lips parted. He continued to comb, long after the tangle had loosened and the pin had dropped to the floor. She didn't ask him to stop.

He remembered the night he had seen her run from the car, her loose hair trailing behind her, seductive and forbidden. He'd had no choice but to watch her from a distance and imagine what it was like. What did it smell like? What did it feel like?

Since the wedding, he'd seen it down and loose plenty of times in the privacy of their bedroom, but for the most part he'd tried not to look, knowing to do so might tempt him beyond all reason. But now not only was he looking at her hair, he was touching it, touching
her
. And here she was, in the flesh, standing before him and seeming to enjoy his touch. It was like a dream.

It was more than he could bear.

Silently, he set the comb on the bureau and then returned his hands to her head and inserted his fingers among the strands of her hair. Holding his
breath, he slowly ran them downward through her thick mane, scalp to tips. Inhaling deeply, he pulled the bottom of her hair toward him and pressed it to his face and breathed her in, breathed in cinnamon and wildflowers and hot sun. Easing her hair to one side, he exposed the back of her neck, soft and white and curved like porcelain. He gripped her shoulders, wanting to lean in and kiss her right there at the nape, to press his lips against her skin and feel the heat of her at his mouth.

For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he realized Miriam was watching him in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her expression unreadable.

“Clayton,” she whispered, and then her eyes darted away. “I… can't.”

Releasing her shoulders, he took a step back and rubbed his neck, trying to catch his breath. “Then when?”

The question came out with more force than he'd intended. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I'm sorry. I want you to feel comfortable. And ready. You know that.”

She hesitated for a long moment and then moved to the foot of the bed, sat, and patted the covers next to her. He joined her there, knowing she had something to say, fearing that by pressuring her he'd only succeeded in pushing her further away.

He was about to apologize again when Miriam said something he hadn't expected to hear.

“It's not that I don't want to. Sometimes I do, you know. Sometimes I desire you… quite strongly.” She snuck a glance at him before looking back at her lap, her cheeks flushing a vivid pink. “I don't know, Clayton, maybe it's just… I don't want you seeing me like this. Not the first time.”

He didn't understand. “Like what?”

“You know… ” She slid her hands to her ever-growing stomach and rested them there. “Like this.”

Understanding slowly dawned on him. She was embarrassed about her body, about how the tiny life form inside was slowly changing it into something she no longer recognized. If only this encounter had happened sooner! In the past week or two, her middle had seemed to cross some sort of line, going from just the slightest bump to a perceptible bulge. Though she'd never been more beautiful to him, he could understand why she might feel insecure about it.

But she had no reason to. His mind spinning now, he tried to think of a
way to make her understand that she couldn't be more wrong, that he loved every inch of her body, big or small, and wanted only to show her exactly how much.

“Miriam,” he began. “You're beautiful this way. And every way.”

She didn't respond, but she didn't pull back either.

“If you had any idea… ” he said, and his voice trailed off into a guttural sort of chuckle mixed with a deep moan. How could he put into words the ache that he lived with from morning to night, the ever-constant desire to take her as his wife and possess her completely?

He was about to try again, to pull aside her hair and this time just follow his instincts and start kissing her there. But as he was about to do so, she rubbed the sleeve of her nightgown across her eyes and he realized she was crying.

“Oh, Miriam,” he said, freezing in midstride. After a long hesitation, he exhaled slowly, his desire ebbing only slightly. What was he supposed to do now?

He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and put it into her hands. She pressed the cloth to her face, the whimper that accompanied that movement nearly breaking his heart in two. Bad timing or not, when she hurt, he hurt. It was that simple. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

Miriam went willingly, her silent tears turning to audible sobs as she buried her face in his chest. He didn't know what this was about or how he could help, so he simply held her as she continued to cry.

A while later, when her trembling shoulders finally stilled, he pulled her in even closer for a hug and gently kissed the top of her head.

“When you're ready, my love, and not before,” he promised in a whisper, and then he let her go.

She was so spent that he practically had to put her bed as he would a child. He helped her stand, and then he pulled back the covers and held them as she slipped between the sheets. After tucking the quilt in around her, he leaned forward and gave her one final kiss on the forehead.

“I don't deserve you, Clayton,” she whispered.

But before he could think of a reply, she was asleep.

Clayton tossed and turned for much of the night, his emotions sliding back and forth between desire and joy and fear and dread like the steel sphere in a Congreve clock. When a woman said she didn't deserve you, what was
she really saying? That she didn't want you? Or that she did but just needed more time?

Long after midnight, he was still awake, trying not to listen to Miriam's breathing or the steady beat of his own heart, when he finally decided to get out of the bed entirely and go for a walk. It wasn't something he made a habit of, but the moon was out, the room was stuffy and hot, and if he didn't take some kind of action soon he feared he might go crazy.

As he pulled back the covers to leave, his hand accidentally bumped into Miriam's, startling her partially awake. She stirred, mumbling something he couldn't understand.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” she sighed, her voice thick with slumber as she turned his way and nestled against him.

Clayton stayed where he was, waiting for her to drift back into a deeper sleep before continuing to extricate himself.

But then he felt her shift again, this time sliding her warm hand into his and slowly intertwining their fingers together. She sighed, though whether from sleepiness or contentment, Clayton wasn't sure. It didn't matter.

Abandoning his plan, he relaxed against her as well and stayed right where he was, finally able to call it a night. As he drifted off to a much-needed rest, one thought filled his mind.
Perhaps there is hope after all.

The next day, about an hour after lunch, a woman came into the clock shop for the third time in four days and announced she'd finally made a decision. A wealthy tourist from Florida, she and her husband were staying at a nearby inn, visiting the region together in the morning and then splitting up each afternoon so that he could golf and she could go shopping. The first time she'd come into the store, on Monday, she had introduced herself as Florence Upton and explained she was looking to buy a clock for her husband for their upcoming anniversary. She wasn't sure what kind he would like, so Miriam had spent nearly an hour with her, discussing the various features and designs and mechanisms of the many clocks in the showroom. When Mrs. Upton finally left without purchasing a thing, both Miriam and Clayton figured that was the end of it.

The next day, however, she returned, having discreetly picked her
husband's brain the night before and narrowed down the choices from all that she'd seen. The problem was that she liked the design of one but the utility of another and the sound of yet another. That was when Clayton had stepped in to help, suggesting that they combine elements of all three and custom build exactly what she wanted. Mrs. Upton had been delighted, and the two of them set about doing just that. As they talked and Clayton sketched, he knew the end result wasn't going to be cheap, but judging by the quality of the jewelry she wore, he figured cost probably wasn't an issue.

Decisiveness was an issue, however, and when all was said and done, there were still several elements she simply couldn't make up her mind on. In the end, she told Clayton she wanted to sleep on it but that she'd get back to him with her final decisions tomorrow.

She never showed up, however, and Clayton assumed that meant their exchange had been a complete waste of time. But now, Thursday, she was back and ready to take the plunge at last.

“With all the rain yesterday, Homer never went golfing, so I couldn't slip away,” she explained as she came toward the counter. “So sorry about that.” She set her purse on the wide wooden surface and rested a hand on top of it. The cluster of diamonds on her ring finger caught the sun's rays and scattered them in prismatic pinpoints across the room.

“After much consideration, I really do know what I want. For the case, the Windsor cherry with inlays and not the tiger maple. For the drawer, the recessed latch and not the keyed lock. For the chimes, Westminster and not Whittington.”

“Wow, you sound a lot more certain today than you were when you left here on Tuesday,” Miriam told her with a smile.

Mrs. Upton nodded, replying that a good night's sleep—or two—always made everything clearer.

Because it was a custom clock, Clayton wrote up the order himself, double-checking each element yet again and then totaling the price. He announced the final figure, a hefty amount that would have given many of his customers pause, adding that he would need half up front as a deposit and the other half once the clock was done.

“Or if you pay in full now,” Miriam chirped from beside him, “we'll ship it at no extra cost.”

“Then you have a deal,” the woman replied, digging her wallet from her purse and writing out a check for the entire amount without batting an eye.