Vows (19 page)

 
When Charles was gone, Emily helped Fannie and Papa clean up the house and wondered if Tom Jeffcoat was pushing Tarsy against her porch wall and if Tarsy was enjoying it.

 
Silly question! Tarsy probably had
him
pushed against the porch wall!

 
She wondered about kissing and why some girls enjoyed it and others didn't. She thought about herself earlier tonight with Charles, and how she'd felt almost reviled by his groping. She was engaged to him now, and if Tarsy were any authority, it was supposed to be enjoyable, even desirable.

 
Maybe there was something wrong with her.

 
She went upstairs five minutes before Fannie and sat in the lamplight worrying about it. Should a girl prefer working in a stable to kissing her intended? Surely not. Yet it was true—sometimes when Charles kissed her, when she gave in to him out of a sense of sheer obligation, she thought of other things—the horses, pitching hay, riding across an open field with her hair blowing like the mane of the animal beneath her.

 
Dejectedly Emily removed the pink dress and hung it up, took down her hair and brushed it, thoughtfully studying her reflection in her mirror. She touched her lips, then closed her eyes and skimmed her fingertips over her own chest, pretending it was Charles. When he was her husband he would touch her not only here, but in other places, in other ways. Her eyes flew open and met their mirrored images, chagrined. She'd seen horses mating and it was a graceless, embarrassing thing. However could she do that with Charles?

 
Worrying, she donned her nightdress and slipped into bed, listening to the murmur of Papa and Fannie as they came up the stairs and said good night in the hall. Then Fannie came in and closed the door, unhooked her dress, untied her corset, and brushed her hair, humming.

 
Oh, to be like Fannie. To whisk through life worrying about nothing, single and happy to be, pursuing whatever flight of fancy beckoned. Fannie would have the answers, Emily was certain.

 
When the wick was lowered and the bedsprings quiet, Emily stared at the black ceiling with a lump in her throat.

 
"Fannie?" she whispered at last.

 
"Hm?" Fannie murmured over her shoulder.

 
"Thank you for the party."

 
"You're welcome, dearling. Did you have a good time?"

 
"Yes … and no."

 
"No?" Fannie rolled over and touched Emily's shoulder. "What's wrong, Emily?"

 
Emily took a full minute summoning her courage before enquiring "Fannie can I ask you something?"

 
"Of course."

 
"It's something personal."

 
"It usually is when girls whisper in the dark."

 
"It's about kissing."

 
"Ah, kissing."

 
"I'd ask Mother, but she's … well, you know Mother."

 
"Yes, I do. I wouldn't ask her either, if she were my mother."

 
"Have you ever kissed a man?"

 
Fannie laughed softly, rolled to her back, and snuggled more deeply into her pillow. I love kissing men. I've kissed several."

 
"Do they all kiss the same?"

 
"Not at all. A kiss, dearling, is like a snowflake—no two are alike. There are brief ones, long ones, timid ones, bold ones, teasing ones and serious ones dry ones and wet ones—"

"Wet ones, yes. Those are the ones! They're … I … Charles … what I mean to say is…"

 
"They're heavenly, aren't they?" mused Fannie.

 
"Are they?" Emily returned doubtfully.

 
"You mean you don't think so?"

 
"Well, sometimes. But other times I feel like … well, like it's not allowed. Like I'm doing something wrong."

 
"You don't get heady or impatient?"

 
"Once I did … rather. It was the day Charles proposed. But I've known him so long sometimes he seems more like a brother to me, and who wants to kiss their brother?"

 
All grew quiet while the two lay in private thought

 
Finally Emily spoke. "Fannie?"

 
"Hm?"

 
"Have you ever been in love?"

 
Silence again until, across the hall, Josephine coughed and another occupant of the house rolled over in his bed.

 
"Deeply."

 
"How does it feel?"

 
"It hurts." The pillowslip rustled as Emily turned her head sharply to study Fannie in the dark. But before she could ask any more questions, Fannie ordered gently. "Go to sleep now, dearling, it's late."

Chapter 7

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T
he following day was Sunday, and Tarsy was waiting to pounce on Emily outside Coffeen Hall even before church services began. She grabbed Emily's arm and pulled her aside without so much as a greeting.

 
"Emily, wait till I tell you! You won't believe it! But there isn't time now. Tell Charles you're walking home with me and I'll tell you everything then!"

 
As it turned out, Tarsy was walked home by Tom Jeffcoat, but she found Emily later that afternoon at the livery stable.

 
"Em, are you here?" she called.

 
"I'm up here!" Emily answered from the hayloft.

 
Tarsy crossed to the foot of the ladder and peered up. "What are you doing up there?"

 
Emily's head appeared overhead. "Studying. Come on up."

 
"I can't climb that ladder in my dress."

 
"Sure you can. I'm wearing mine. Just hike it up around your waist."

 
"But, Emily—"

 
"It's nice up here. This is one of my favorite places, especially on Sunday when nobody's around. Come on."

 
Tarsy hitched up her skirts and made the climb. The immense arrow-shaped grain door was open, letting a swash of sunlight set the hay alight. Swallows flew in and out, nesting in the rafters, and beyond the open door lay a panoramic view of the town, the southerly opening into the valley and the blue Big Horns to the southwest. Tarsy noticed none of it. She collapsed and fell back supine, stretching and losing her eyes.

 
"Oh, I'm so tired," she breathed.

 
Emily sat nearby, watching a battalion of dust motes lift, smelling the scent of stirred hay. "It was a late night," she said.

 
"But I had such a good time. Thank you, Emily." Tarsy opened her eyes to the swallows and the rafters, stretched out a tress of her hair, and murmured dreamily, "I think I'm in love."

 
Emily threw the girl a jaundiced glance. "With Tom Jeffcoat?"

 
"Mmm … who else?"

 
"That was fast."

 
"He's wonderful." Tarsy gave a self-satisfied smile and wound the lock of hair around a finger to her scalp. "He walked me home last night and we sat on the porch steps talking until nearly three o'clock. He told me everything about himself, everything!" Tarsy's exhaustion seemed to vanish in a blink and she popped up with bright-eyed exuberance. "He's twenty-six years old and he lived in Springfield, Missouri, all his life with his mother, father, one brother, and three sisters who still live there. He borrowed the money to come here and set himself up in business from his grandma. But he says he plans to pay her back within five years and he knows he can do it because he's sure the town will grow and he's not afraid of hard work. But listen to this!" Sitting cross-legged, Tarsy leaned forward avidly. "A year ago he got engaged to a woman named Julia March, but after nine months she threw him over for a rich banker named James or Jones or something like that, and yesterday, back in Springfield, it was her wedding day. Imagine that! All the while he was dancing and putting on a happy front at your party, he was really hiding a broken heart because it was his ex-fiancée's wedding night. He seemed so sad when he was telling me about it, and then he put his arms around me and held me and rested his chin on the top of my head and pretty soon he kissed me."

 
What was it like?
The question popped into Emily's mind before she could block it out, and Tarsy answered it unwittingly.

 
"Oh, Emileeeee…" She sighed and fell backwards in the hay as if bedazed. "It was heavenly. It was like sliding down a rainbow. It was like angels dancing on my lips. It was—"

 
"You've only known him a week."

 
Tarsy's eyes opened. "What difference does that make? I'm smitten. And he's so much more grown up than Jerome. When Jerome kisses me nothing happens. And Jerome's lips are hard. Tom's are soft. And he opened them, and I thought I'd absolute
die
of ecstasy."

 
Emily felt a flash of irritation. It had never been like that for her with Charles. Sliding down a rainbow? How absurd. And how imprudent of Tarsy to reveal such private details to anyone. What the girl did with Jeffcoat should have been held in strictest confidence. It made Emily uncomfortable, listening, as if she'd hidden and watched the episode undetected.

* * *

After the day in the hayloft, every time Emily saw Tom Jeffcoat she remembered Tarsy s rapturous account and, picturing it, speculated about what his reaction had been. By choice she would have avoided him, but he walked past several times a day on his way to and from his own livery stable. Often as not, Charles was with him, since the two ate many of their meals together at the hotel and worked daily, side-by-side on Jeffcoat's building. Sometimes Charles would drop in at Walcott's Livery just to say hello or to let Emily know if he'd be coming to the house in the evening, and Jeffcoat would stand in the background, never intruding but always making her wholly aware of his presence. While she and Charles talked he'd lean against a beam chewing a piece of hay with his hat pushed back and one thumb in the waist of his indecently tight pants. As the two left Jeffcoat would nod politely and speak for the first time: "Good day, Miss Walcott," to which she'd reply flatly without glancing at him. Why he should irritate her so keenly, she didn't understand, yet he did. His very presence in her father's stable made her want to plant a boot in his backside and send him flying!

 
She avoided his livery stable assiduously, even when Charles was there working. Sometimes she would stand at the great open grain door of her own and listen to their hammers, watching the building near completion and wish a bolt of lightning would flash down out of heaven and level the place.

 
And sometimes she'd stand there and wonder if his lips were really soft.

 
On the Friday afternoon following her party she was alone in the office, memorizing ointment recipes with her feet propped on the desk and her back to the door, when a voice spoke behind her.

 
"Hiya, tomboy."

 
She catapulted from the chair as if propelled by black powder. Her book clapped to the floor as she spun. There, lounging in the doorway, grinning crookedly, stood the rat, Jeffcoat.

 
"A little jumpy, aren't you?"

 
"What are
you
doing here?" she glowered.

 
"Is that any way to greet a friend?" He peeled himself from the doorframe, swiped up the book, and handed it to her. "Here. You dropped something."

 
His lips—damn them!—did look like something angels might dance on. She grabbed the book rudely and slammed it on the desk. "What do you want?"

 
"Can we talk?"

 
"About what?"

 
Without answering, he sauntered toward the cot where the caramel cat slept in its customary place, scooped it up, and stood with his back to Emily, nose to nose with the creature while it hung from his thumbs. "You've got some kind of life, critter. Every time I come in here you're curled up sleeping. What's your name, huh?"

 
"Taffy," Emily replied indignantly. "Is that what you came to find out, the name of my cat?"

 
Jeffcoat threw a half grin over his shoulder, then returned his attention to the cat. "Taffy," he repeated, scratching it beneath the chin. In his own good time, he dropped to the cot, still cradling the feline and making it purr. "I need to buy stock for my livery stable," he announced, with his eyes still on the cat. "Will you help me?"

 
"Me!" Surprise set Emily back on her chair. "Why me?"