"That ridge," Livvy said, pointing off into the morning sun and squinting, "hides Lake Michigan. Let's start there."
They walked for a little while in silence, Livvy reminding herself with every step that Bess couldn't manage on the farm anymore and that Mr. Makeridge could solve all her brother and sister-in-law's problems.
"So, you were born here then?" Mr..Makeridge asked as they followed the gradual rise up toward the ridge.
"Born here on this farm and lived every day of my life within sight of my papa's trees. From Marion's and my bedroom we could see Lake Michigan." Well, the lake would still be there, anyway.
"Does the idea of the railroad coming through here upset you?" He slipped out of his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. "You don't mind, do you? It's awfully warm out here."
Sacotte Farm was home, had always been home. When she'd come back to it with the children, she'd felt that she had some sort of right to be there. If the farm was sold, where would she and the children go?
"No," she lied. "Bess isn't very well, you know. And farming is hard work. It would be wonderful if you bought Sacotte Farm."
"Would it?" He stopped in his tracks and Livvy sensed that he would have liked it if she did, too. He would have liked it if she stopped, turned, and let him kiss her, and the knowledge flattered and scared her.
"Look," she said. "There's Lake Michigan. I bet that's what it's like to see the ocean."
"Very much so," he agreed.
"Have you seen the ocean, then?" she asked, turning to him. "My brother-in-law is out west in San Francisco and I imagine him looking out across the water, just blue forever, like the sky, and I think how happy it must make him."
"Have you always wanted to travel?" he asked, keeping pace with her as she followed the line of trees south.
"Oh, no," she admitted with a laugh. "I've never dreamed of being anywhere but here. And even my little dreams haven't come true."
He put his jacket on the ground and motioned for her to sit. "It's a big farm," he said. "And you are a very lovely guide."
She nodded, accepting the compliment graciously.
He dropped to his knees beside her and played idly with the hem of her skirt. "I understand that things between yourself and Mr. Williamson are not going very well."
"How are things going between you and Emma?"
Waylon leaned in toward her and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, leaving it there while he spoke. "Emma Zephin's wishing something doesn't make it so."
"Neither, sir," Livvy said, pushing his hand away and getting to her feet, "does yours."
Mr. Makeridge shrugged and rose, as well, then leaned back down to retrieve his coat. "I suppose in that way, she is just like the rest of us."
"And I suppose that the problem with wishes is that our own are often in the way of someone else's."
"So only one of us can get his wish?"
"I think that no one gets his wish, more likely."
After all, Bess was wishing that Makeridge would buy Sacotte Farm. And Livvy was scared to death of Bess's wish coming true. For if it did, where would she and the children go?
"Well, we'll see tomorrow, won't we?" he asked.
"Tomorrow? Oh, you mean at the meeting? Will you have made your decision by then?" Livvy looked around her at row upon row of trees burdened with clusters of ripening cherries and knew that Makeridge's mind was already made up. He hadn't even looked at another site and the town council was called for tomorrow.
"I've known the value of Sacotte Farm since the night I came from Milwaukee," Makeridge said.
"And when will things get started?" Livvy asked, wondering how long she had to come up with some plan that would keep her and the children together.,
"Oh, not until after the harvest." He brushed back a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. "I wish to be sure to enjoy all the fruits the farm has to offer."
Livvy smiled. She'd just told him about wishes, hadn't she? Some men just never learned. There was one thing about which she was certain. Makeridge would never get what Livvy was well aware he was really wishing.
From now on, her cherries were all her own.
Chapter Nineteen
She knew it the minute he walked into the hall, just the way she had always known when he was around. She didn't have to hear the greetings or, as there were tonight, the whispers. Every inch of her skin prickled and she fought the urge to rub her arms, fearing it would make her look lonely and forlorn. Which maybe she was, but she wasn't about to advertise it.
"This seat taken?" he asked. He stood so close that his leg made a valley in her skirts.
"As a matter of fact," she said, her eyes fastened on the front of the room, "it is."
Something buzzed by her right ear and she tried to ignore it. There was a much bigger pest that was claiming all her attention.
"Don't move," he said, raising his hand to her hair. "There's a June bug that's finding your hair as irresistible as I do."
She stood still while he gently fingered her hair, all the while concentrating on keeping her breathing even and trying to swallow as if his very touch didn't stop her heart from beating.
"Almost got it," he said, tipping her head slightly with one hand as the other trailed up her neck to her loosely coiled bun.
"Spencer, I can . . ." she started when she finally found her voice.
"You can what, Liv? See behind your head?'
She tried to pull away from him, preferring to let a bug burrow into her hair than let her husband burrow into her heart.
"No," he said. "Uh! He got into the knot. You shouldn't have moved."
With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her so that her back was fully to him. This is the man who tricked me, hurt me, made a fool of me, she reminded herself. Despite that, her shoulders still rose and fell raggedly, so raggedly that he had to know what he was doing to her.
"It's only a June bug," someone said. "Nothing to carry on about."
She felt him slip the comb from her hair and felt the locks tumble toward her waist. "What are you doing?"
"I lost it in the coil somewheres," he said, his voice so close to her ear she could feel his breath. "This time don't move."
His fingers slipped into her hair, raising it off her neck, his fingertips just grazing her scalp and sending shivers down her spine.
"There's nothing to be afraid of, Liv," he whispered. "It's only me."
"Spencer, I . . ." The hair was off her neck again and his breath replaced it. "Spencer," she said, turning her head to look at him.
"Damn," he said to the people that surrounded them. "Lost it again. Hold still there, Liv."
He put an arm around her to steady her. It did anything but.
"So hard to see him against this dark hair," he explained to anyone watching. "Darn smart bug. Try just shaking your head, Liv."
She did, and heard him groan. Dear God, in front of all of Maple Stand, the man was making love to her hair. And if that wasn't bad enough, she was enjoying it.
Well, not
enjoying
it. She was hating every minute that he was near her. Only her body didn't seem to know what her mind was thinking. Her stupid breasts—which always just hung there, getting in the way when she was baking or hanging the wash—suddenly had thoughts of their own. Thoughts she tried not to acknowledge as they tightened and became acutely aware of the muslin camisole she wore. She could feel the coarse fabric against her nipples with every intake of breath and finally crossed her arms over herself to ease the exquisite pain.
"You scared, Liv?" Spencer asked.
"Of a little June bug? Of course not," she snapped at him.
"I didn't think you were scared of a bug," he said, then lowered his head so that no one could hear as his words brushed her ear. "You're shaking. Is it me, Liv? You scared of me?"
"Forget the stupid bug," she said, pushing her hands through her hair and shaking it. "It's bound to get bored and fly away."
"Don't count on it, Liv," he said, tucking behind her ear the one lock that always escaped her bun.
"The meeting's going to start," she said, taking her seat and looking around for Neil. Where had he gotten to, anyway?
Spencer sat down in the seat next to her.
"That seat is taken," she reminded him.
"It certainly is," he agreed.
"Hi, Uncle Spence," Neil said, appearing from nowhere a full five minutes later than Olivia could have used his presence. "See you found her just where I said she was."
"Your uncle has taken your seat," Livvy said formally.
And his thigh is pressing against mine and I may never breathe normally again.
"Perhaps we'd better move."
Spencer put one arm on the back of her chair and then leaned over her, his shoulder grazing her chest, his ear so close to her mouth that if she stuck out her tongue she could trace its pink rim. She blushed furiously at the thought.
"Mind moving over a seat?" he asked the people to her left. His right forearm was grazing her knee as his hand rested on the far edge of her seat. "My wife and I need room for the boy." He gestured with his head toward Neil.
Leaning back put her against his left arm. Leaning forward pressed her to his chest. While she tried not to breathe at all, he inhaled deeply.
"Lilacs," he said with a smile, leaning back into his seat and closing his eyes. "The way you smell, it's a wonder you're not covered with June bugs all over."
From the way she was tingling everywhere, Livvy thought that maybe she was. The people to her left smiled and moved down, and Livvy was relieved to be able to shift over and burrow her fanny into the hard wooden chair. Could she really itch for his touch?
As if Neil were a log and she was being swept away by the current, Olivia reached for her nephew and maneuvered him quickly into the seat she had just vacated, effectively separating herself from her husband.
She'd have congratulated herself on the move if he hadn't looked at the boy and then at her as if she had just given him proof of his effect on her. And if he hadn't stretched his arms up high as if his back were stiff and then come down with his left arm on the back of Neil's chair, his hand in fiddling distance of her sleeve.
And fiddle he did. While beneath the folded hands in her lap, Rome burned.
"Doesn't your aunt look wonderful tonight?" Spencer asked their nephew.
"Sure," he said with a shrug. "You get that wheat in?"
"Could use some help, actually," Spencer said, all the while inspecting the puff of her cotton sleeve with just his pointer finger.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please," Charlie Zephin said over and over from the podium where next to him stood Waylon Makeridge and Mr. Delisse from the bank. It took several minutes for the crowd to quiet down. When finally the hall became so quiet that all Livvy could hear was her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, Charlie began.
"Well, we got it!" He wiped his brow with a hankie while people cheered, and then waved the cloth in the air for people to quiet down once again.
"And this is the man that did it!" Charlie said, pointing to Makeridge. Livvy looked around for Emma, expecting that she would have been up on the podium or at least nearby, but couldn't spot her. She did, however, see Bess and Remy, who were beaming with joy. She smiled at her brother. His joy was hers, of course. And Sacotte Farm would always be there in her memories. It was just a yellow house and a bunch of trees. That was all.
The dandy came to the podium and was enjoying the cheers for a good long time. Long enough for Neil to get bored and fidgety sitting between his aunt and uncle.
Uncle Spencer was right about how good his aunt smelled. But he wondered if that smile she had pasted on her face was fooling anyone. He was sure his uncle wasn't tricked into thinking she was happy. And his uncle hadn't been there night after night to hear her cry.
"It gives me great pleasure," Mr. Makeridge was shouting, "to be in a position to help towns like yours." Mr. Makeridge looked familiar. He reminded Neil of his father. They wore the same kind of suits and had the same kind of air about them, like their shoes didn't touch the dirt in the road.
He looked down at his boots and the ones that Uncle Spencer wore, so very much like his own. No matter how they cleaned and brushed them, the farm was there in every crack and crevice of the leather. He smiled up at his uncle. Their picnic had been fun. Even the hard work of helping on the farm was fun.
He smiled up at his aunt. She took his hand and squeezed it gently. She was soft, and warm, and it made him happy to return the squeeze. He loved her cooking, loved her fussing over him and tucking him in, even if he was too old for such things.
He looked from the grown-up on one side of him to the grown-up on the other.
It was too bad that such nice people had to get so stupid. They'd been pretty smart when he and his sisters had come to Maple Stand, but the longer they were there, the dumber his relatives seemed to become. Just take his aunt. She couldn't even make up her own mind anymore. He'd asked her about selling Sacotte Farm, and she'd said it was wonderful. Then she'd cried and admitted that it hurt to see her history swept away by what was the future. Then she'd told Bess how happy she was.
And Uncle Spencer. All he could think about was Aunt Liv. On the picnic he'd wanted to know every detail of her day. Yesterday he'd asked Neil what dress she had on. And he'd been annoyed that Neil hadn't noticed.
But Neil had other things to concern himself with. Like losing his birthright, for one. Sacotte Farm should have been his, at least in part. His and his children's. He'd thought he wanted the railroad to come to Maple Stand, but he hadn't realized it would mean the end of Sacotte Farm. And just when he was beginning to feel like he really belonged somewhere, too.
"There are many considerations," Mr. Makeridge droned on, "that go into the choosing of a specific site for the laying of track as well as the positioning of stations and buildings and the actual routing of a railroad line."
Next to him, his aunt shivered. Cripes, it had to be eighty or ninety degrees in the hall. His uncle had wet rings beneath his armpits, and Neil was sitting as far forward on the chair as he could to avoid them. His aunt shifted her legs, sort of fluffing up her skirt a little, and his uncle breathed heavily.
He thought about the discussion he'd had with Philip about Philip's older brother Henry, and Jenny, the girl he was crazy about. Philip had described the goofy way Henry just sighed and looked at Jenny with cow eyes. And how Henry found any excuse to touch Jenny, from helping her with her coat to brushing the hair out of her face.
His uncle reached across him to his aunt, twirled a lock of hair around his finger, then tucked it behind her ear.
His uncle was in love with his aunt! Just like Henry was in love with Jenny. Neil felt the heat of his realization flush his cheeks. Philip had told him what Henry was wishing he could do with Jenny. Philip and Thom-Tom and he had even read the details in Uncle Remy's book by Dr. Napheys.
Aunt Olivia brushed imaginary crumbs from her lap and reseated herself. Uncle Spencer uncrossed his legs, recrossed them the other way, and threw his arm across his lap. Lord!
"Are you all right?" his aunt asked, leaning over and putting the back of her hand to his forehead. "You're all flushed.".
He
was flushed?
"What's wrong?" his uncle asked, bending so that both the grown-ups' heads were nearly in his lap. His uncle's nose teased his aunt's hair.
Oh, Jeez!
"I gotta go," he said, pushing his way out from between the grownups.
"You want me to come with you?" his uncle offered.
"No!" he shouted, horrified. He didn't want to see his uncle. He didn't want to look at his aunt. The words in Dr. Napheys's book sprang to his mind, unbidden.
Sexual organs. Intercourse.
He went running from the hall as if he'd said the words he was thinking aloud and someone was after him with a bar of soap to wash his mouth.
Spencer moved over into the seat Neil had occupied. "What was tihat about?" he whispered in his wife's ear, wishing he could think of anything more to say that would keep him close to her. He didn't suppose she'd sit still for the entire Gettysburg Address.
She shrugged and kept her eyes on the fop at the front of the room. His suit was impeccable and he was handsome in a way that made women swoon. Spencer imagined the man picking his nose and felt better.
". . . And the best site, and I have to say
unfortunately,
now that I've tasted the cherry pies that originate there, is Sacotte Farm."
Beside him, Livvy sniffed, searched in that silly little drawstring purse she carried, and found a hankie.
"I thought this was what you were hoping for," he said. He knew it pleased him, for it had to mean she was coming home. What other choice did she have? But then, maybe that was why she was near tears.
"That's my home," she said to him, a quaver to her voice that he could feel in his chest. "There are memories there, my heritage. How would you feel if you were going to lose your home?"
He considered it for a minute, while around him people shouted and clapped their approval of the offer and Remy's acceptance of it. "I would give up my home, and everything in it," he said as evenly as he could, "to start over again with you. I would give up anything and go anywhere on this earth if I could make you happy."
The most amazing thing to him wasn't the look on her face, nor the doubt he read there. It wasn't even that little flicker of hope she couldn't keep from her eyes. It was the fact that he meant every word he said.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, raising a hand and burning his cheek where she touched him. "It's too late."
Her words hit him like a cold wind, chilling the sweat on his body until it sat like pellets of ice on his skin. In her eyes there was sorrow, not anger, and for the first time since that night in their marriage bed, he thought the unthinkable.
She turned away then, unable, he supposed, to look at him. It was a sign that she was truly and completely done with him.
He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. Next to him Neil stood looking every bit as awful as Spencer felt. His face was sweaty and there was vomit on the front of his shirt.