WILD OATS (6 page)

Jedwin stared at her silently for several minutes. The tension between them was tangible as he watched the agitated rise and fall of her breast. His eyes focused on her so intently, Cora felt like a specimen under a microscope. She was no longer frightened. She was embarrassed. She was humiliated at her own behavior.

"I have apologized, Mrs. Briggs," Jedwin said quietly. "I believe I deserve another chance.”

Cora swallowed bravely and looked him straight in the eye. "Mr. Sparrow," she said. "I don't believe that our continued acquaintance can be worthwhile for either of us."

Jedwin folded his arms in front of him and gazed at her thoughtfully. She was, he decided, without doubt the most exciting, enticing woman he had ever seen. He wondered briefly about Luther Briggs's sanity. If Jedwin had a wife like Cora Briggs, there would be nothing she could do to make him want to leave her.

An almost physical catch jerked in his chest. He stood looking at the woman he'd dreamed about for so long. She was only a few feet away from him. And she needed him, he was sure. Jedwin decided, right there, that he'd sow his wild oats with Cora, or he'd not sow them at all.

"On the contrary, Mrs. Briggs," he said, his tone firm and decisive. "I believe our continued acquaintance could be worthwhile for both of us."

"No," she assured him, shaking her head and nervously studying her hands. "It can't. I know that yesterday I... please try to forget yesterday, Mr. Sparrow. I was not myself."

Jedwin raised a curious eyebrow and smiled. "Who were you? Can we get her back?''

Cora looked up shocked, until she saw his playful grin.

Jedwin took a step toward her and leaned an elbow against the wall. He was not touching her in any way, but he was very near.

"Please, Mr. Sparrow—" she began.

"I understand, Mrs. Briggs," he told her quietly, coaxingly. "I forgot the rules, didn'j. I?"

"Rules?"

His smile died and he let his gaze drift over her face. The smoothness of her forehead, the curve of her brows, the sweet, ordinary brown eyes and the flushed cheeks that narrowed to the fine, feminine oval of her jaw; he explored it all slowly, leisurely. When his eyes focused on her lips, they parted and she heard his involuntary indrawn breath.

"Wild oats is not what we agreed upon, was it, Mrs. Briggs?" he whispered. "We agreed upon romance."

"No," Cora insisted nervously. "We agreed upon nothing."

"Have you so quickly forgotten?" he asked. "You granted the honor of allowing me to try to win you."

"Mr. Sparrow, I—"

“Mrs. Briggs, I admit to being inexperienced, but I think I understand what you want. I am not giving up."

"What do you mean?"

"I intend to give you what you want," he said.

"Mr. Sparrow," Cora replied with the tone of a prickly schoolmarm. "You can't possibly know what I want."

"Of course I do, Mrs. Briggs, you told me yesterday," he said. "You want flowers and poetry; sweet, quiet moments and longing looks."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean, Mrs. Briggs, that I intend to give you a romance."

Chapter Four

"You're not wearing that?" Jedwin's words were more a sigh of resignation than a question.

"What's wrong with it?" Haywood Puser asked as he glanced down and straightened the short gray and brown checked jacket of his sack suit.

Jedwin shook his head. "If Mama sees you headed to a bereaved patron's home without a mourning coat she'll be furious."

Haywood smiled broadly, his perfect white teeth cheerfully framed by his smooth thick beard. "I don't mind sending Old Mellie on a conniption," he assured Jedwin. "Besides, that damn mourning coat is pure wool and hotter than a stovepipe."

With a sigh, Jedwin nodded. "Just get out the back door before she gets a look at you." He stopped in front of the mirror and examined his appearance. Stepping closer, he bent his head slightly and began fingering the thinning hair on the top of his head. After a moment's assessment, he reached into the bottom cupboard next to him and pulled out a big yellow onion from a sack he'd placed there. Taking a cleaver from the drawer, Jedwin halved the onion cleanly. With one half in hand, he stepped back to the mirror.

"Whew!" Haywood complained, waving a disgruntled hand before his face. "You're not still on that baldness cure?"

"It's working!" Jedwin claimed as he began rubbing the top of his head with the smelly yellow onion. I'm sure there's more hair up there today than there was yesterday."

Haywood shook his head. "You still got plenty of hair, but no onion is going to stop the hands of time. For a fellow like you, baldness is as inevitable as death."

"And I'm willing to accept both," Jedwin said. "I'd just like to wait till I'm an old man to experience them."

Haywood chuckled and Jedwin began smiling himself. "I'll be down in the basement if you need me. I want to see how the flowers are doing."

Haywood smiled at the retreating back of the young man he had so come to like and admire. He'd been working for Sparrow Mortuary since shortly after old Jedwin's father had passed on. He'd never known the old man, but he thought Big Jim very lucky. If Haywood's son had lived, he would have liked him to be like Jedwin.

Returning to his work, Haywood gathered the necessary equipment. Needa Willoughby's oldest daughter, Nadine, had passed away the night before. Haywood gave a slight sigh of sadness. Death was a part of life and the basis of his work, but it didn't make the loss of a blossoming young girl any easier.

Since it was still quite warm for fall, Haywood intended to suggest embalming rather than ice for preserving the remains for the funeral. Along with a portable cooling board, Haywood checked his dressing case for the pump, arterial tubes, a trocar, needles, forceps, scalpel, scissors, and eye caps. A length of surgeon's silk, a piece of oiled muslin, and a package of court-plaster were added to the case. The embalming cabinet contained two empty gallon bottles which were used for mixing, as well as several bottles of concentrated embalming fluid. A cotton sheet, a paper of pins, and a whisk broom finished up his mortuary needs. An assortment of door badges were the only trappings he took with him.

Jedwin would be meeting with the family later to plan the funeral and decorate the house for mourning. Jedwin could handle that without much trouble. He was good with people.

He liked them. He just didn't like the mortuary business. Haywood understood that. Unfortunately, no one else did.

"Where is Mr. Sparrow this morning?" The voice from the doorway was sharp and shrewish.

Haywood finished his task before glancing up. "And good morning to you, too, Mellie," he said with a lazy smile.

Amelia Sparrow was dressed for mourning, but her gown was a far cry from sackcloth and ashes. The expensive black silk was cut in the latest hourglass fashion, emphasizing her generous bosom and youthfully cinched waistline. Giving her a thorough appraisal, Haywood noted privately that she was a little bit broad in the beam. However, he liked a woman with a good-sized backside on her. And he definitely liked the backside on Mrs. Amelia Pratt Sparrow.

"Pretty day for a funeral, wouldn't you say?"

Amelia Sparrow purposely ignored his good humor. Her bad tooth was positively throbbing this morning, and she was in no mood for pleasant conversation. "Where is my son, Mr. Puser?"

"Jedwin? Oh, he's down in the basement looking through the flowers."

Amelia nodded. "Very good. At least he's begun work on the Willoughby funeral."

Haywood shrugged. It was just like the woman, he thought, to check up on Jedwin as if he couldn't handle things for himself. She hovered too much and sure enough henpecked her son. To Haywood's mind it was only Jedwin's own strength of character that had kept him from being a Mama's boy. He was determined to do what he could to grease the way for the young man.

"I'm headed over there in just a few minutes to take care of the body," he told Amelia. "You can rest your mind about it, Jedwin's got everything under control."

Folding her arms across her chest, Amelia eyed her son's employee disdainfully. "Needa Willoughby is a dear friend of mine, Mr. Puser," she said sternly. "There is no need for you to trouble yourself, James Edwin will do the embalming."

Haywood glanced up, his face expressionless. But disapproval sparked like electricity in the air.

"Ain't no call for that," he said as he picked up the dressing case and headed to the back door.

Amelia's jaw set angrily as he walked away from her before being dismissed. She followed him and watched, temper rising, as he began loading the plain black dray.

"You
are not dressed for mourning, Mr. Puser. Once you prepare the wagon, James Edwin will take it."

Haywood continued loading his equipment. "I'm doing the job," he said.

"I think not."

Haywood took a deep breath with a prayer for patience and turned to her. "You needn't worry about young Miss Willoughby," he told her calmly. "I'll have that poor little sick gal prettier in death than she ever was in life. Jedwin prefers for me to do it, and I'm going to do it. I am very good."

Amelia was not placated. "I am sure, Mr. Puser, that your skills are quite adequate. However, as a friend of the family, James Edwin owes it to the Willoughbys to do the job himself."

Haywood's jaw hardened. "Jedwin doesn't
owe
anybody anything. He downright hates embalming and if you had any sense at all you'd see that, Mellie."

Amelia's jaw dropped in shock and her eyes were shooting daggers. Raising her nose as high as humanly possible without falling over backward, Amelia's tone was deliberately haughty. "I am not the one lacking sense here," she said sternly. "You, Mr. Puser, forget yourself. I am your employer and my name is
Mrs. Sparrow.”

Haywood carefully loaded the cabinet into the back of the dray and secured the door.”I know who you are, and as to who I work for—" His grin was humorless. "You'd best take that up with your son, Mellie. He says that I work for him."

With an insultingly slight tip of his hat, Haywood stepped around Amelia and headed to the front of the wagon.

She followed after him, angrily. "Mr. Puser! You will not walk away when I am speaking to you."

Haywood glanced back, raising his eyebrows ifl a feigned gesture of innocence before climbing up into the driver's seat. Looking down at the furious woman standing with arms akimbo on the ground beside him, Haywood noted her high color. In any man's estimation, Mellie Sparrow was a fine-looking woman. And she was one of the ones that looked beautiful when angry. It was a good thing, Haywood thought, since she was angry most of the time.

"I'm not walking away, Mellie," he said. "I'm driving." With a full belly laugh, Haywood gave a flick to the reins and the chestnut dray took off at a sharp clip. Leaving Amelia Sparrow standing alone and furious in the yard.

Since Mrs. Briggs had stated unequivocally that romance meant flowers, romance was definitely meant to be a springtime activity, Jedwin was sure. Stepping carefully amidst the darkness of the basement, he assessed his options. With a wry grin, Jedwin realized that as the funeral director, he was one of the few who could wage a romance in autumn.

While most cellars and basements boasted innumerable jars of preserves and winter's stores of potatoes and peas, his basement was crisscrossed with hundreds of feet of unbleached cotton cord. Hanging blossom down from these lines, stems attached by plain wooden clothespins, was every leftover flower of springtime and summer. In a dark, dry basement, the flowers dried naturally, losing only the most brilliant vibrancy of their color.

Slowly, Jedwin walked through the rows, admiring his handiwork. The Sparrow Mortuary was known as far away as Kingfisher for having flowers at every service, winter and summer. That was Jedwin's greatest contribution to the business. Actually it was his
only
contribution to the business. For years he'd sought some aspect that he could excel at, something that he could offer from himself, something that he could enjoy doing.

He'd seen the idea in magazines and had approached his father with it. The traditional yards of black crepe and mourning ribbons were so lifeless, so depressing, so sad. People were sad enough at the reality of death, Jedwin had insisted. They need to be reminded of life. Jim Sparrow hadn't forbidden his son's pursuit, but he'd been uninterested. Seeking to impress him, Jedwin arranged a beautiful floral tribute to set next to the open casket of Walter Patrick. His father had only shrugged in acknowledgment and probably wouldn't have said a further word.

But fate, in the form of Reverend Philemon Bruder, played into his hands. When the good reverend arrived, he was scandalized, and with hellfire-and-brimstone gravity he ordered the "pagan symbols" out of the house.

At this Jim Sparrow had balked like a jackass at a railroad crossing.

Jedwin smiled as he recalled the memory. He'd really hardly known his father. Living in a house with someone for sixteen years made them familiar, but not always understandable. But on that long-ago day, the Sparrow men, for the first and possibly the only time, stood together.

"My boy put those flowers together," his father had stated flatly. "I think they are downright pretty."

Even in his later years, Big Jim Sparrow was tall and formidably muscled. Although a religious man and a faithful churchgoer, he had an independent streak as wide as eternity and a mile long. He may have let his wife run roughshod over him, but there weren't many others who dared. "If you don't like the look of them, Philemon, don't feel you have to stay. That front door goes out as well as in."

The good reverend was mad enough to spit nails, but he held his peace. Jim Sparrow was a gentle fountain of strength for the grieving. Given a choice, most would prefer to see him over the preacher. So Philemon Bruder
allowed
flowers at the funeral service and from that day forward, Jim Sparrow
insisted
upon having them.

The heady fragrance of dried roses distracted Jedwin and he stopped momentarily to examine the blooms. Immortelles, they called them in the cities, dried flowers meant to retain the beauty of life for eternity. Roses lasted well, as did carnations and greenbrier. Calla lilies, the most favored of funeral flowers, did not last well at all. Mother had wanted calla lilies for his father's funeral. But there wasn't a one to be had in the dead of winter. He'd laid his father to rest with a nosegay of winter-dried immortelles.

Jedwin's expression darkened. Immortelles for a lady's bouquet? It wasn't quite the thing, he thought as he considered the roses.

"Yes, the roses will be perfect."

Jedwin jumped with a guilty start at his mother's words behind him.

"Ma'am?" he questioned.

"The roses are the best choice for the young lady, I'm sure," Amelia answered easily.

Jedwin paled. How had she found him out? By heaven, did his mother have a Pinkerton detective on his trail? He raised himself to full height and set his jaw with determination.

"This is no concern of yours, Mama," he said sternly. "I am my own man and I will not be led around by your apron strings."

Amelia's mouth dropped open in surprise. "I was only making a suggestion," she retorted. "If you prefer the mignonettes or the cacalia, it is certainly your choice."

"Do you think me obtuse, Mama? I know we are not talking about flowers."

Amelia's expression was momentarily puzzled then hardened to a stubbornly set chin and a pretty pout.

"I suppose you heard me arguing with that awful Mr. Puser." Turning away from Jedwin, she folded her arms obstinately. "That man has not a lick of manners. He is common as acorns in August and I just don't know why you keep him on. Do you know what he said to me?" she asked, turning back to Jedwin, her eyes wide with indignation. "He said that this was
your
business, as if I were just some poor relation preying upon your good nature." Amelia began to pace restlessly. "As if I were not the woman who gave you your very life and sacrificed her own hopes and happiness to insure your own! The man has absolutely no respect for my position. Do you know what he calls me? Not Widow Sparrow, or Mrs. Sparrow, or even"—she stopped momentarily to take an exasperated breath—"not even Miss Amelia. That loathsome, ordinary creature calls me Mellie!"