The Storm (5 page)

Why had this country pianist made her remember that moment?

She stared at the woman's long fingers. They appeared elegant and capable, and she stroked the keys like she was making love to them. Pressing gently yet firmly, she seemed to know what each key was capable of and to be able to tease every ounce of beauty from it. And she didn't even act like she was aware of her own ability.

The pianist sat up straight on the hard bench yet didn't seem rigid like the other women in the congregation. She moved her arms and hands fluidly and swayed gently with the music as she played. How wonderful it would be for those hands to touch her shoulder, slide down her arm then around her waist, pull her close, engulf them in a music that sounded more like a hymn to human love than one that praised a God who let innocent men and women die in a senseless war.

The woman's obvious tenderness as she directed the trio of singers made a lump form in Jaq's throat. The pianist seemed to have taught them to express the pure emotion contained in each tone and word. Purity and innocence? Jaq's throat tightened. Those were myths, but this woman and her young charges made her almost believe they still existed.

She took a slow, deep breath, and her drumming fingers gradually slowed to match the rhythm of the song the young people performed. As their voices rang out clear and true, she once again saw Sister Mary Therese in the choir at the academy where she taught fine arts.

She'd been a schoolgirl there, with such a crush on Sister Mary, her favorite teacher. But she'd gotten over that and vowed to never again make such a fool of herself. Who was this woman who attracted her the way Sister Mary had?

Hmm. If Eric couldn't find some help for his father soon, she'd need something to distract her. Maybe she could get to know the pianist's story, but she sure wouldn't get involved with her in any way. She'd learned her lesson the hard way.

During the sermon, Molly couldn't keep from peeking at the stranger more than she should have. Her distant expression, like a bubble around her, kept people at bay. They still stared, though, as if they'd never seen a beautiful woman, especially one who seemed so confident and sophisticated.

Mr. James sat next to Mother Russell as obediently as Patrick did. Had he noticed the newcomer? He was probably too busy imagining himself as Ajax fighting in the Trojan War or thinking about Boy Jim Harrison. He would rather read his two favorite books, Homer's
Iliad
and
Rodney Stone
, by A. Conan Doyle, than eat.

At forty-seven, Mr. James sometimes seemed Patrick's age; they both kowtowed to Mother Russell. But after a long day in the cotton fields, he often bowed his broad shoulders like an old man. And when he took off his straw hat, his hair was more gray than brown.

Slipping along in his wake, she would never be able to do any of the things she longed to. She was stuck in this isolated community with an aging husband and a mother-in-law who would live forever. Even without its diamond, her ring enslaved her like a manacle. Her unshed tears blurred the notes in front of her as she mechanically played the Easter favorite “Christ the Lord is Risen Today.” If only she could experience resurrection—into a new life of freedom.

After the doxology she stole another glance at their visitor. The woman stared at her like a man would, as if she could see through her corset.

Her cheeks grew as hot as the farm kitchen on an August afternoon, and she tingled all over, like she'd heard a beautiful Mozart aria. Why would the stranger affect her that way?

She didn't know whether to frown or giggle, but thankfully she'd finished performing. Otherwise, the tremor in her fingers would most likely make her miss another note. And that simply wouldn't do. Everyone praised her flawless piano playing, which took long hours of practice to achieve. Her music had to be perfect, even if nothing else about her was, according to Mother Russell.

What did the newcomer think about this one-room church—and about her performance? Did the stranger consider her as much of a hick as she herself regarded some country people?

After the service, she pulled on her white cotton gloves and hurried across the church to Mr. James and his mother, who stood in the front pew chatting with the neighbors. On occasions like these, Mother Russell obviously fancied herself a queen holding court.

“Sure glad we got that shower yesterday, aren't you? The potatoes and onions need it bad.”

“How many acres of cotton are you planning to plant this season?”

“Think the price of a bale will be any higher this year than last?”

She always tried to be pleasant to the women who flocked around Mother Russell, but they treated her with kind indifference, almost as if she were a simpleton. She didn't have anything to say about crops and the weather, and they didn't mention today's music.

She hovered on the fringes with Patrick and wished at least one of them would comment on her little trio's stellar performance instead of the price of cotton. She felt like throwing down a hymnal, anything to elicit a response, but she refused to give them the satisfaction of asking for their opinion.

As she and Patrick stood there, he gazed up at her with innocent blue eyes. “Mama, can I have a drumstick at dinner? The preacher ate both of them last time he came. He acts like his wife don't cook good.”

“Say ‘doesn't cook well,' Patrick. I'll try to save you one, but you know the preacher always gets the best pieces because he's company.”

Eventually the Russell clan began to stroll toward the back of the church, and she smiled over Patrick's red hair at Mr. James. Then she clasped his arm briefly, though she knew he would escort Mother Russell up the aisle instead of her.

She'd tried to tell him several times how much this gesture humiliated her, but either he didn't understand or didn't listen. Or perhaps he didn't care. He would obviously rather upset her than his mother.

She walked as proudly as possible at the rear of the family procession, holding Patrick's hand as Mr. James and his mother led the way. If she couldn't leave, she would somehow make him recognize her as worthy of his respect someday, perhaps even his equal.

*

Jaq tapped her foot as she stood near the church's front door. She wanted to examine the redhead up close and see if she was for real. Besides, Eric had run off to talk to his admirers.

Everybody around here most likely still considered him the smartest, bravest, and most handsome man ever, especially the pretty girls. He hadn't lost his blond good looks and strong physique. However, he'd changed a lot since the last time they saw him. This war had cost him plenty.

She watched several couples emerge from the church, the women clutching their husbands' arms when they spotted her standing there alone. How could a woman fall for phony promises, give herself up to a power monger, and then spend the rest of her life worrying about some other woman taking away the man she'd sold herself to?

Thank God she'd come to her senses. She'd been almost as blind as these local women obviously were.

Last year in London Eric had said, “Jaq, marry me and we'll travel everywhere you want to go—Egypt, Russia, India, Japan. Anywhere. We'll always have each other to lean on.”

He must have realized how much she loved adventure. For once she'd appreciated her pretty face, because it could have helped her do some of the things she'd always dreamed about.

But she should've known better than to marry him. They'd gotten caught up in all the wartime excitement.

Their first night together—what a disaster. She'd tried and he'd tried, but they just didn't fit. She'd made sure that night was their last.

After the gin wore off, she couldn't fool herself—or him. She'd had to level with him. “Eric,” she'd said, as they lay in bed smoking, “I thought things might be different with you, but I don't feel anything when a man touches me. You don't repulse me, like most men do. But I had an experience with a woman when I was a teener and loved the way she felt. I hoped I'd outgrow it, but I haven't.”

She thought of Willie and all their nights together. Nope, she hadn't outgrown it.

For a minute Eric had looked hurt, like she'd kicked him in the crotch. Then he took a drag and winked. “We'll keep that to ourselves. No harm done.” He'd obviously never had any trouble persuading a woman to share his bunk.

“When this war's over and we can spend more time together,” he'd said, “I bet I can convince you to like men more than you think you do.”

That hadn't set too well. He didn't know what a hard sell he had in store.

They'd spent the last few days of his leave in the pubs. Someone would yell, “Hey, Eric. Let me buy you a drink.” So he let them, again and again. He and she didn't waste a second worrying about the future. The days flew by, and the next thing she knew, he'd flown away.

They'd lost touch except for a few letters. When he showed up in New Orleans, the black patch over one of his clear blue eyes almost made her cry. He'd probably never fly solo again, though his eye might heal in time. And maybe he wouldn't always have to depend so much on a cane.

She'd had to do something decent for a change, help him straighten out his life. Then maybe she'd do the same for herself.

Jaq's kid gloves were coming in handy again. The preacher—he was about her age but acted like he was fourteen—wouldn't let go of her hand or stop chattering. “We're so glad you and Eric attended our Easter service, Miss Jacqueline,” he said. “I'm so sorry about what happened to him overseas…”

Would he ever shut up?

He had to think she was an idiot. His words were a smoke screen for the hand almost caressing hers. And his sweating palm had made her black glove slippery. Ugh. She couldn't stand for anyone, especially a man like him, to touch her.

She was about to jerk her hand away from the salivating preacher and go find Eric when an unusual couple marched out the front door. He was tall—at least six feet—the older woman beside him only a few inches shorter. Long black skirt, starched white blouse, and thundercloud-gray hair yanked hard into a tight knot. A black straw hat topped her head.

The minister squeezed Jaq's hand one last time and dropped it when the haughty woman stared at him. She'd patted her weathered face white with rice powder, and her sharp eyes and large ears probably didn't miss a thing. The diagonal gashes in her long earlobes indicated that she'd once worn heavy earrings. Maybe she'd been beautiful back then and thought she still was.

Jaq had seen the queen in a royal parade in London—head high and spine straight, with an air of superiority. This woman must have been her understudy.

Finally, the pianist appeared, meandering after a small group of women and children in the older couple's wake and guiding a boy of about seven. Was she the old woman's lady-in-waiting? Their daughter? A distant cousin? The preacher's sweaty palm had made her even more cynical than usual, and she kept up her guessing game partially to get her mind off him.

But the little boy, plus the cut and fashion of the woman's simple dress, indicated that the young woman was a wife and a mother. She recognized the look. Damn. What a shame.

This woman's clear green eyes drew her in, pulled her nearer, and made her want to dive into them, like Sister Mary's did.

And like Willie's arms did. From the sacred to the profane. She should be ashamed of herself, but she wasn't.

The pianist and the boy stood to the side while the rest of the congregation fluttered around the puzzling older couple. Surely the old woman wasn't married to the younger man. He had to be the husband of the red-haired pianist, though he looked at least twenty years her senior. And the child most likely belonged to them. Damn it again.

“Mrs. Jacqueline McCade, may I present Mrs. James Calvin Russell,” the preacher said. “And this is her son, Mr. James.”

She stood her ground and pasted on her social smile. Her mother and the nuns had made sure she had an airtight one. She extended her hand as graciously as she could manage—first to the regal woman, then to her escort.

She hoped the preacher hadn't made her gloves too slick. It wasn't good manners to greet royalty with slimy hands.

*

Mrs. Russell couldn't keep from bristling as she held out her hand to the stranger. Lordy, so this was Angus McCade's new daughter-in-law? He was as unlucky as she was.

She looked kinda like a boy—a wild one, to boot. Those black eyes seared right through you and dragged you in at the same time. Probably made men want to tame her. Well, Eric was the right one for that job.

Her mind was spinning, but she forced herself to smile. In her position she had to keep up appearances.

Though she hated to admit it, Eric's wife was as handsome as he was, him with his blue eyes and her with those dark ones.

Straightening her hat, she let her inner conversation run its course. Wonder what brought Eric back from the War before it was over. That patch over his eye, most likely, and that bad limp. Losing his ma had to have upset him something terrible too. She always did anything he asked and didn't make any bones about him being her favorite. And him not even at her funeral last month. Now all of a sudden he turned up, with a wife. Men nowadays didn't have much sense when it came to choosing a helpmeet.

Something didn't add up. Why wasn't Eric standing here beside her, instead of loitering in the parking lot flirting with those pretty girls? He was behaving like he did before he ran away to race automobiles, then off to the War. Why, he used to act like he thought he was a prince, and nobody disillusioned him.

At least he could come speak to James, who'd put him on a pedestal since he was a youngster. Always called him Ajax and Boy Jim, after some characters he admired in those infernal books he always had his nose stuck in.