The Bridegrooms (24 page)

“And you,
cher
. What are you in all of this?”

“I’m…” She looked for the word. “I’m lost. Everything I ever wanted—” She let out a soft, rueful laugh. “I can’t even remember what I ever wanted.”

“You and
les belles soeurs
. Just four little duckies on a pond, eh?”

“Duckies?”

“It’s something we say.
En baseball
. When you have men on base, waiting to run home, and the last guy gets up to bat, and
whiff, whiff, whiff
. He strike out or hit a pop fly, easy out. And those three men, they just standin’ out in the field. Can’t do nothin’ but walk on in. And all them runs they were gonna score, just—
pfft!
Gone.”

“Yes. I guess that’s us.”

“Your
maman
, you never hear nothin’ from her again?”

“No, not from her.”

“And this man who took her?”

She didn’t know why she told him, but soon every detail she knew about Mr. Triplehorn, every moment of that disastrous luncheon and yesterday’s confrontation, spilled out unchecked. Maybe because LaFortune seemed worldly enough, impetuous enough to help her understand. Maybe because he was recessed so far in the shadows, with only the tiny link of his finger connecting them, she felt she was speaking into a void,
saying out loud everything she’d been forced to repress. All of her questions. All of her fears. And, finally, her resolve.

“I’m going to see him again.”

“Pourquoi ça?”

“To tell him to go away.”

“Which you did already, non? Twice?”

“Things have changed.”

“How, that?”

She stepped back into the shadows with him and brought her hand up to touch his face. “It would be so easy…” To give in to this temptation, claim this moment for herself. But the denial of it made her stronger. Stronger than she’d been at the hotel that Monday afternoon. Stronger than she’d been on her steps last night. Stronger than she’d been just moments ago.

He captured her touch, turned, and kissed her palm. Lingered at her wrist, her pulse pounding against his lips.

“I am here just two more days.” His words felt delightful. “Will you spend them with me?”

“No.”

“It is far less dangerous than to run away, non?”

She extracted herself, slowly, lingering, until she knew the darkness held nothing for her.

“Good-bye, Mr. LaFortune.
Et bonne chance
.”

A SECOND ENCOUNTER

Vada hadn’t slept. Not a bit. And it wasn’t because Hazel snored, and it wasn’t because she knew Althea was across the hall sitting straight up in the chair at Eli’s bedside. Vada didn’t spend time worrying about the Lisette and Kenny affair, except for a few minutes feeling a bit sorry for the young man, because he did seem sweet. Unlike her body, which remained comfortably settled and still next to her sister, her mind tossed and turned, reliving every moment of the day, all of it cowering in the encompassing shadow of Louis LaFortune.

How many nights had her mother done this same thing, lying in bed next to Doc, filled with longing for Alex Triplehorn? Because certainly she longed for him. A woman doesn’t leave the life she created unless she longs for something else. And why would she invest the time in growing this family—marrying Doc, raising three daughters, conceiving a fourth—if she was going to be so easily uprooted?

And yet, this was the stock Vada came from. The fruit of that kind of woman. And here she was in bed, longing…

She would go to Alex Triplehorn today and tell him he must not attempt to make amends. Indeed, there were no amends to make. He hadn’t dragged Mother hogtied and kicking away from this family. She simply left. He hadn’t held her prisoner during the time they roamed and lived together, she simply stayed. He certainly didn’t ban her from
stationery and pen, hadn’t withheld postcard privileges, barred her from telegraph offices. If Mother’s desertion proved anything, it proved that she was a woman who knew—and got—exactly what she wanted in life.

Seventeen years ago, Mother decided she wanted Alex Triplehorn. Last night, in the alcove beneath the front steps, Vada understood why. Because there in the dark, when she wasn’t dwelling on her mother’s choices, she was facing her own.

Long after the time she’d spent on her knees, her face now buried in the mattress beside her sleeping sister, she confessed,
Lord, holy Father in heaven, forgive me. For my dishonesty with Garrison, for my behavior with him. And tonight…
She couldn’t bear to form words around her shame. But God had been watching. He knew.
Take away this taint of lust that has settled on my spirit. And have mercy on me, Father. And keep Mr. LaFortune away…

But hadn’t she prayed that very thing over tea and lemon cake in Moravek’s? And hadn’t God allowed LaFortune to wander, unfettered, right up to her front door? She lifted her head from the mattress, looking up and out into the moonlight through the window.

“Then be my strength.”

As much as she knew that her Savior granted grace, that her sins were forgiven, she felt no comfort. Confession to Jesus wasn’t enough to grant her peace. That would only come with confession to the man she betrayed. The man who, if the embrace in his office stairwell was any indication, was just as capable of passion as was this passing stranger. How could she tell him, after all these years of faithfulness, that she’d chucked it all away for one moment of reckless abandon?

Well, more than one moment, if she were to be truly honest. Her willful surrender to LaFortune seemed, in light of the circumstances,
an inevitable misstep. She would need to acknowledge the enticement at the time she gave him the buttons. No, to the conversation at the ball field. In truth, at the moment she first laid eyes, then a comforting hand, on him.

For three days he’d been a plague on her thoughts, slowly casting a pall on the heart that once was so full of love for Garrison. The love was still there, to be sure, but in light of these past days, it was a shadow of what it once had been. How would she tell him?

Or should she?

Two more days, LaFortune had said. Two days and he’d be on the train to Brooklyn or Chicago or Philadelphia—anywhere but here. Gone, and no doubt forgotten all about her. For three days she’d protected Garrison from this pain, surely she could shield him for two more. It would be easier once LaFortune was out of town, when she knew he wouldn’t show up unbidden on her doorstep. And then she and Garrison could continue on as they were before. The same slow, steady path of understanding. In time, this monstrous mass of self-loathing would diminish, become a pebble of memory she’d carry forever, like the shiny, smooth stone in Eli’s pocket.

She might even come to forget about it for days on end. After all, that’s what happened with the pain she felt when Mother left. Althea allowed it to steal her voice, and Hazel wrapped herself up in it. But Vada had stamped it down, down, down, becoming stronger—the strongest person in her family by any measure. If she could walk away from that pain, she could walk away from this. Her life, as far as anybody knew, unscathed.

What would her life have been if her mother had made the same choice all those years ago?

Which started the cycle of thoughts all over again.

The moment she heard Molly’s heavy step through the back door, Vada gave up any pretense of trying to sleep. She took her pink floral wrapper from its hook and tied the belt as she walked across the hall to observe the scene in her own bedroom. It was as familiar now as any other—Eli, still as a corpse, his hands heavy against his sides, and Althea, slumped in the chair, her head resting against the wall.

Moving in, Vada noticed a new addition to the tableau as Althea’s thin, small hand rested on Eli’s bare shoulder. She thought immediately of LaFortune, how his body felt beneath the thin layer of wool. Here was a touch far more intimate, yet without a hint of salaciousness. What she wouldn’t trade for such innocence.

Her first instinct was to pad across the room, take Althea in her arms, and lead her, sleepwalking, to bed. Either her own or in with Hazel. But as Vada approached and Althea’s face became more distinct in the pale predawn light, she was struck by the peace she saw there. This was a choice Althea had made—to stay by this man’s side no matter the cost. Who was Vada to judge what constituted comfort?

So, as silently as she entered, she backed away, padding barefoot downstairs to the kitchen.

“Well, don’t you look like somethin’ the faeries rummaged out of the slop house last night?”

“Good morning to you too, Molly.”

“I’ll be gettin’ the coffee on as quick as I can, but it looks to me like what you’re needin’ is to march yourself back up those stairs and finish sleepin’.”

“I tried.” Vada made her way to the table. “But I woke up a while ago, and it’s useless.”

“Was it a bad dream?”

“No. No dream.”

Molly opened one of the drawers underneath the narrow table to the right of the sink where she stored her apron. “Sometimes there are things in this world that strike such fear in us; the only way to face them is in our dreams. Not sleepin’ is how we run away.”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Oh, of course not.” The effort of wrapping the apron strings and tying them behind her left Molly a little breathless, and she sat in the chair opposite Vada to continue. “Known ya goin’ on fifteen years now, isn’t it? Even when you were just a little bit of a girl, you was always fearless. Protectin’ everyone. And ya know what?”

“What?”

Molly leaned close and rapped her knuckles on the table. “You didn’t fool me then either.”

If only she were ten years old. She’d crawl into Molly’s ample lap, nestle down in her soft bosom, and talk and weep and sleep. Not that Molly would ever allow such piffery.

“I guess I am worried about Eli.”

“Him? Now how is he goin’ to add a single day to your life?”

“Althea loves him.”

“And that’s naught to do with you.”

“Were you there to witness Lissy’s change of heart in regards to our young Mr. Cupid?”

“I think ’tis a matter of your own heart you’re wrestlin’ with. Like Jacob with the angel. ’Bout to break your own leg too, from what I can tell.”

“I’m fine. At least I will be once I have some coffee.”

“Well, then,” Molly braced herself against the table to rise to her feet, “let me put the pot on.”

Vada buried her head in her arms and let her loose hair form a dark cave around her. Outside of it, a match was struck, a stove lit, a kettle filled.

“What d’ya say I make us a special breakfast this mornin’? Maybe those French puffs you like so much.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’ll let you dip them in the sugar.”

Molly’s tone was wheedling, almost playful, making Vada wonder if the woman used up all her softness in the first hours of the day, before anyone was awake.

Vada lifted her head high enough to peer through the strands of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. “Can I lick the bowl?”

“If you help me get them stirred up before your sisters come down. I don’t want any fussin’ over it.”