The Storm (12 page)

*

Jaq drove an ambulance over a pot-holed, muddy road to the front lines. Women smoked cigarettes, men drank whiskey, and pianos danced toward her on two legs and chased everybody. A spider spun a huge, sticky web around them all and carried them up in the air. It opened its mouth and—

Jaq woke, exhausted, pulled on an old housedress, and stumbled downstairs to fix what passed for breakfast. What a strange dream that was. She drew several pails of water from the well, heated it, and washed dishes. Her hands were callused from the rope and wrinkled from the dishwater. After eons of drudgery, she trudged back upstairs and fell across the bed.

She woke up again with a start and felt her forehead, lingering on her raised scar. Her forehead was hot, she was sick. Maybe she had the flu. Better call Molly and cancel their visit.

The minutes ticked by and she fidgeted, increasingly disgusted with herself. Damn it. She'd driven over muddy roads full of shell holes—with bombs exploding around her and bullets whistling over her head. She'd seen men with their legs blown off and listened to them scream. She'd tried to drive slow enough not to jar them and fast enough to get away from the gunfire. Anything to stop those screams.

All that, but she was afraid to spend the afternoon with a tiny redhead. So what if those green eyes saw her secrets, if Molly scared her spitless? She was a coward, trying to take the easy way out. She'd even made herself sick so she could tell Molly she couldn't come.

Turning onto her side, she propped her head on one hand and stared at the dresser mirror. The image opposite her needled her cringing self.

She was pathetic. Was she afraid Molly could hurt her like Sister Mary Therese and Helen had? Hadn't they taught her anything?

Molly was beautiful, like them. She was understanding, like them. And she was unavailable, like them. Why put herself through the wringer?

But she was stronger now. She could just go tell Molly she wasn't interested. She needed to face this battle instead of run away, like she had from the War and from Washington after the doctors poked feeding tubes down her.

She flopped onto her back. She was no coward. She'd visit Molly just once. But she definitely wouldn't encourage her. Hell, it wasn't fair to lead her on. What they could have would only halfway satisfy them. That was it. She'd tell Molly she and Eric were leaving New Hope soon. Say she'd rather not start something she couldn't finish.

That way, she wouldn't hurt Molly too much. Or herself. It'd be over before it even started.

The kind of childish friendship Molly was apparently angling for was a lie. Women like the two of them were probably just kidding themselves if they got emotionally involved like Molly obviously wanted to. She would rather be shot than participate. She'd learned her lesson.

*

For the past few weeks Molly had found refuge at the small pine-encircled pond down the hill from the house. Today it provided sanctuary as she waited for Jacqueline. The hours crept by like a child learning to walk.

When she'd risen at first light, she'd been afraid Mother Russell would change her mind and decide to stay home instead of attending the Red Cross meeting. So she'd milked Nellie, helped cook breakfast, roused Patrick, drawn water from the well, heated it and washed dishes, swept the house and the yard, and picked up Mr. James's dirty work clothes.

Mother Russell measured her with granite eyes during this bustle of activity, but she pretended she was always this energetic and even helped Mother Russell hitch the horse to the buggy.

Now she paced the bank of the pond until she raised such a cloud of red dust that she sneezed. One minute she perspired, and the next a cool breeze blew across the water and chilled her.

Why did she crave to spend the afternoon alone with Jacqueline? Would Jacqueline enjoy their visit? How long would she and Eric stay in New Hope?

As Molly wandered among the tall pines, wondering what was happening to her, she peeled off a glove and ran her hand along the thick, rough bark of the tallest tree in the stand to steady herself. She felt as nervous as if she were about to direct the annual Christmas program.

She meandered to the next tree, puzzled. Why was she throbbing all over, her insides trembling, her arms and legs weak? Jacqueline McCade was simply paying a social call. They would make rose water, eat tea cakes with milk, then return to their husbands. Nothing queer was happening.

She sat on a log, peeled off her white cotton gloves and her bonnet, and studied a young snapping turtle lying on a log in the lake, sunning her cold, brown-black body. Molly longed to be as placid as the turtle.

“Miss Turtle, I'm so excited I can't sit still.” All morning her legs had rushed her through her chores, her hands working automatically and her mind spinning around the same subject. Jacqueline. Jackie. Jaq. What a beautiful name. She'd thought it and sometimes even spoken it aloud, whispered it repeatedly, enchanted by its music and rhythm. Jacqueline, her new friend.

The turtle raised its large head and, unblinking, gazed at her.

“Would you like to meet her, Miss Turtle? Well, you can't, because I refuse to share her, even with you and the pines. Today she's all mine.”

As she pulled her bonnet and gloves back on, the turtle slid off the log and disappeared into the pond.

Should she ask Mr. James to drive her to the insane asylum? She was going crazy, talking to a turtle about a neighbor woman she planned to spend a pleasant afternoon with, then probably wouldn't see again for weeks. She needed to control herself before she went off the deep end.

She couldn't wait until Jacqueline arrived.

“I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date
.
” Maneuvering her Model T down the bumpy road, Jaq glanced at her new Longines wristwatch. Why would a line from
Alice in Wonderland
pop into her head? Maybe she was going down the rabbit hole. At least she wasn't heading for the trenches.

She'd already encountered new, strange worlds, though she couldn't decide which was the worst. The Storm of 1900, her encounters with Sister Mary Therese and Helen, the battlefields of France and Belgium, and the brutality the suffragists endured haunted her. She wanted to rip them from her mind.

But here she was, getting herself into another disastrous situation.

She was overdressed. Her clothes probably wouldn't even be fashionable in London, but here her outfit would impress, with its new American look. It certainly wasn't appropriate for working in the kitchen, but she intended to awe Molly and show her she was a cut above her. She told herself she was an urban sophisticate who wasn't interested in befriending a nobody destined to spend her life on an obscure cotton farm.

Of course she was lying, but she was desperate. Molly had already claimed more than enough of her attention.

She'd tried her damnedest not to hear the songs Molly played for her on Easter Sunday afternoon, but every morning she woke up humming “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-bag.”

Every time she looked out the window and saw a pine sway in the breeze, she wondered what Molly would look like dancing to her own music. Then she had to remind herself that she'd
never
see her move like that.

Even when she drank a glass of water, she sensed Molly nearby. Her soft eyes gazed at Jaq until she slammed down the glass and told Molly to leave her alone.

How had Molly managed to invade her mind in such a short time? She was a sap.

As she neared the outer gate of the Russell farm, she finalized her plan of attack. She'd act extremely haughty. Her sophisticated outfit and ultra-new wristwatch should help. She'd pretend to be bored and indifferent, which would be hard as hell. Then she'd deliver her carefully prepared speech about leaving this hick burg as soon as possible. That should cut the afternoon short.

She'd avoid falling into Molly's eyes, no matter how much they invited her. And she would
not
touch Molly. Not at all. Not even her little finger.

But, honestly, she craved to hug Molly and melt into her. She ached to lose herself in Molly's sweetness.

She'd never do that, ever. She might be entering the rabbit hole, but she was armed.

*

Molly stood at the front door and watched the black Model T motor up the long, winding, rocky driveway. As it neared, her tension ratcheted as tight as a piano string. If a felt-tipped hammer struck her nerves, they'd vibrate like the highest note on the keyboard.

She chided herself. This was supposed to be a delightful visit with a new friend, not a recital. At least she didn't have to do mindless chores or listen to Mother Russell fuss.

Inhaling the fresh smells of spring in the country, she processed across the porch and down the steps as if marching down the aisle of a cathedral decked with flowers. She mentally heard the swell of a Bach cantata and envisioned vast expanses of stained glass.

She had to jerk herself back to the grassless, hard-swept yard she'd just glided across when she met Jacqueline at the gate. “Welcome. It's been too long,” she said.

Jacqueline looked outstanding in her stylish black suit with its long jacket, trimmed with gold braid, and her straight skirt. So military, so trustworthy. And the subtle swirls of embroidery on the sleeves and around the bottom of the knee-length jacket added a touch of softness that the outfit's almost-severe lines initially camouflaged.

She caught her breath and fingered the soft cotton lawn of her simple white dress, with its loose-fitting bodice and comfortable full skirt. She winced. The city mouse might not fancy her country cousin.

*

Why had Jaq worn this stiff, scratchy wool suit? However, it had helped her almost achieve her objective. Molly visibly shrank from her. But why did this little housewife scare her? The Storm and the War were a long way away, thank God. The rose garden and Molly were right here, a very real threat.

She jerked to attention. Molly had just welcomed her and said, “It's been too long.”

“It certainly has.” She pulled herself together. She needed to act more mature. Oh, she'd meant what she'd just said. And she'd softened her tone. But Molly had sounded so hopeful and eager, probably like
she
had when she used to visit Sister Mary, when she encountered Helen unexpectedly.

She felt like she'd just lowered her sidearm. So much for being prepared
.

“Would you like to visit the rose garden?” Molly asked. “It's one of the few interests Mother Russell and I have in common.”

She chattered the entire time they crossed the fenced yard and strolled to the other side of the house. “Mother Russell brought several of these roses from Georgia after the War Between the States ended. Can you imagine traveling all that way with two adults and five children in a covered wagon and carrying rosebushes? She said she had a hard time keeping the roots moist because she stayed so busy feeding and watering her family. Once I overheard her tell her daughter that sometimes she even denied herself water and gave hers to her roses.”

Molly laughed nervously. “Of course, I'd probably have insisted on bringing my piano, but that wouldn't have left room for many children, I suppose.”

Why did Molly have only one child? Maybe when she knew her better—

The climbing roses Molly pointed out had large, sharp thorns. Jaq was glad she'd worn her leather gloves. Those branches could cause a lot of pain. She'd never risk picking those simple white blossoms.

When they entered the rose garden, its fragrance almost overwhelmed her. She recognized some of her favorites right off the bat—Perle d'Ors and Jeanne d'Arcs. Most of this group had large and small pastel blossoms, with shiny green foliage

Strolling beside Molly, she couldn't keep from telling her, “My mother loves roses too. We used to walk through the gardens behind our home in New Orleans occasionally. She knew the name and history of every plant.”

The fragrant roses lulled her into remembering some of the few pleasant times she'd spent with her mother. She'd tour the garden with Molly. After they finished, she'd explain that they couldn't visit like this again. Surely she could do it.

*

Molly's throat grew tight. She'd been so eager to see Jacqueline she hadn't given any thought to what they could talk about. Apparently she'd lost the skill of social conversation, if she ever had it, because she hadn't been able to come up with anything more interesting than Mother Russell's love for roses. She'd always been so busy practicing the piano and playing for church functions that she didn't have time for much else except her chores.

She didn't have much in common with any of the women at church and had lost touch with all her school friends except one. She was even tacitly barred from sitting on the front porch when Mother Russell presided over company out there. Her heart drummed. What could she converse about now?

When she visited Mama and Papa she never ran out of things to say, but she'd known them all her life. Jacqueline was a near stranger, and although Molly sensed that they had a lot in common, so far they'd discussed only heavy subjects, such as the Storm and the War. She wanted to make Jacqueline happy, not depress her. She'd just keep focusing on these beautiful flowers. Maybe they'd inspire her, or perhaps just the flowers themselves would bring Jacqueline pleasure.

“We need to choose ten large blooms that Mother Russell won't miss too badly,” she told Jacqueline, “which is quite a challenge.”

“Why?”

“She knows I use these blossoms for my rose water. But she begrudges me each one and acts as if I'm beheading a living creature. That's why I wanted to do this while she's gone.”

She shouldn't tell someone she barely knew such family secrets, but Jacqueline didn't seem like she'd spread gossip. She appeared to have more important things on her mind.