Homespun Hearts (47 page)

She glanced over at Cleav. He carefully stifled a yawn by turning it into a little cough. Their eyes met and silently communicated their agreement that a week of fine sermoning had fizzled into a final fiasco.

Though the evening got later, the temperature seemed to grow hotter. Esme was handed a fan, a triangular piece of paper attached to a stick. One side read "Moreley Undertaking and Mortuary; Russellville, Tennessee." The other side had a Bible verse: "Whatsoever ye ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." Esme began asking that the service would end. She didn't, however, believe that it ever would. So it didn't.

As if sensing Esme's annoyance, Cleav sneaked his hand into her lap to grasp her fingers. Esme looked up at him, but his gaze was focused straight ahead and his expression was one of rapt attention.

Slowly the softly callused pad of his thumb began making lazy circuitous rounds across her palm. The tender touch had a strange, sensual effect on Esme. As if the hot room had suddenly become chilled, she felt her nipples tighten and glanced down quickly to assure herself that no evidence of that effect was visible.

She tried to pull her hand away, but Cleav's stayed her. With a quick glance down into Esme's eyes, he gave ho- a knowing smile that flushed her cheeks as bright as berries.

He was teasing her! The reality was simply shocking. Right here in the middle of a sermon, he was doing this on purpose!

Esme couldn't quite stop the naughty grin that curved her lips. Slowly, surreptitiously, she crossed her legs in a very unladylike fashion and began to stealthily caress the back of his calf with the top of her new high-buttoned shoe.

Cleav looked at her again, his eyes wide with surprise at her attempt to turn the tables.

Esme immediately turned her attention to the preacher, seeming to hang on his every word as her husband squirmed somewhat uncomfortably beside her.

She should be ashamed of herself, she thought with a momentary flash of guilt But the self-reprimand quickly faded.

Whyever would heaven give the evangelist such a boring sermon if they were expected to actually listen?

The Rhys' momentary diversion lightened the evening to some extent but could not eradicate the long, wearying evening completely. The increasingly loud sound of a quartet of snores from the "amen corner" was the only other diversion.

Esme spied Mrs. Tewksbury in the first row, nervously making an almost continuous survey of the crowd.

Pearly Beachum also seemed to have her eyes constantly scanning the rest of the congregation. Probably taking notes for tomorrow's gossip, Esme thought unkindly.

Eula Rhy was carefully examining the cloth on her second-best black silk gown.

The lantern to the left of the pulpit sputtered sporadically, threatening to give up the meager amount of light it was throwing on Brother Wilbur's insistent pacing back and forth.

It was nearing midnight when the exhausted, sweating, and genuinely petulant preacher finally called for the invitational hymn. "Just As I Am" had never sounded so good.

The old men in the "amen corner" came awake with the typical coughing and hacking of aged lungs. Esme almost giggled as she watched Pa, bleary-eyed, shake his head like a wet dog, trying to clear his brain.

As the congregation raised their voices in song, the preacher compelled any sinners present to come forward and "make themselves right with the Lord." Esme almost groaned. That type of invitation could last for hours if enough people felt led to make their way to the altar. Even non-sinners could be moved to come forward to confess troubles and ask for prayers and guidance. A good sermon could set dozens of repentant feet in motion.

With tonight's message, however, even the most pious among the crowd didn't budge.

The congregation, standing, was pitifully warbling out the third verse:

"
J
ust as I am
! Tho tossed about,

With many a conflict, many a doubt . . ."

w
hen a stir started
in the back of the crowd.

Like everyone else, Esme turned. Could someone be coming forward? Esme couldn't imagine it after that sermon, but the Lord did work in mysterious ways.

Craning her head to peer around the dozens of others straining for a look, she finally saw the instigator of the excitement: Armon Hightower.

Her mouth dropping open in surprise, Esme heard a little huff of disbelief from Cleav.

With Sophrona Tewksbury at his right, Armon was making his way down the outside aisle to the front of the brush arbor. Speculative murmurs ran through the crowd.

The singing slowly faded to silence as Armon reached the front and spoke a word to Brother Wilbur, who seemed as surprised as everyone else. Sophrona stood in the background looking distinctly ill at ease, avoiding a glance to the side of the room, where her parents sat.

The preacher nodded at the younger man several times during their discussion and then stepping away from him, raised his arms. "Brothers and Sisters," the preacher began, "this young man has come forward this evening, wishing to address the crowd."

The stunned silence was broken by a whispered flurry of voices, each asking the person beside him, "What does it mean?" "What's this about?" "Young Hightower getting saved? Unbelievable!"

As the rustle of quiet questions began to fade, Armon gave a hasty glance at Miss Sophrona before stepping forward.

The handsome young man cleared his throat nervously. "Lots of you folks were here on Monday," he began. "And those that weren't, well, I suspect you heard that my granny got up here to ask you all to pray for the salvation of my soul."

There were nods of agreement throughout the room.

Armon's darkly attractive good looks were enhanced by the bright blush of embarrassment that flushed his cheeks.

"Truth to tell," he admitted, "I never really thought much about getting saved. It always seemed kind of contrary to my nature."

A chuckle of agreement was heard from the "amen comer," and Esme gave her father a disapproving look.

Running a worried hand through the thick hank of hair that crept toward his brow, Armon forced himself to scan the crowd bravely.

"I've been studying on it a bit more lately." His eyes stopped at the sight of the bent and aged woman who sat on the far right end of the second pew. "Granny," he said, his voice lowered slightly in tenderness, "I know you been praying for me, steady, for a lot of years now."

He swallowed visibly. "I want to thank you for that. And for everything else I got in this world," he added. "You done kept me clean and fed most of my life. And that ain't easy for a widow woman, and we all know it."

Catching his upper lip between his teeth, he rubbed his hands together as he contemplated his next words.

"I'd like to tell you, Granny, that I've done made a decision for the Lord," he said. "But it'd be a lie."

A ghost of a smile curved his lips as a memory wafted across his thoughts. "If you remember, I promised you years ago, when you told me your old arms were too tired to take a switch to me no more, that I'd never lie to you again."

The old woman smiled back at him with love.

"I ain't been saved yet," Armon declared honestly.

A strange sigh went through the crowd, as if a hundred people had been holding their breath.

"I'm thinking on it, real serious," he said. "And I want you, and everybody else here, to remember me when you're a-praying to God. I'm sure going to need all the help I can get."

Another chuckle filtered from the "amen comer," and Armon, himself, was able to bring forth a slightly jittery smile.

"The good Lord seems to know that," he continued more calmly. "'Causing he done sent me the best kind of help that a man can have."

Turning his head, he gave Sophrona a glance.

"I ain't been saved," he told the crowd. "But I have decided to change my ways."

With a warm smile he held out his hand, and Reverend Tewksbury's daughter stepped up to his side. The big-bosomed beauty was flushed and pretty as she shyly kept her eyes down, holding Armon's hand tightly, as if for strength.

"I done give up being a wild hill boy," he announced. "No more liquor, cards, or ladies for me. Now I'm just another dour-faced old married man."

Sophrona grinned broadly.

"I want you all to be the first to meet my new bride, Sophrona Hightower. We was married in Russellville this afternoon."

If the boys in knee-pants on the back row had been waiting for excitement all evening, they got it now.

Granny Hightower clapped her hands above her head and cried, "Hallelujah!"

The Crabb twins screamed in harmonic horror.

And Mabel Tewksbury fainted dead away.

T
he next few
weeks in the biggest house in Vader, Tennessee, were seen differently by different people.

The twins, Adelaide and Agrippa, could only be described as in mourning. Armon Hightower’s fickle heart and unexpected marriage was their only subject of conversation. The two cried in each other's arms and vowed off men for a lifetime. Esme quashed their hastily made plan to join the sacred sisters in Bletherton when she advised them that they had to be Catholics to become nuns.

Pa settled into "life in town," as he called it, with ease. Mornings he began joining the old men at the General Merchandise. Too lazy to play, he spent hours watching the endless games of checkers. Afternoons, between naps, he sat on the shady side of the porch and played his fiddle until suppertime. Typically, he was content to accomplish nothing.

Eula had strangely taken up a liking for the old man. His laziness only seemed to bother her in the abstract. She'd leave her flowers when the sun was the hottest and sit on the porch with him. Yo would continue his music, unconcerned.

And Eula would ponder aloud whether she should weed out the canna bulbs on the south side of the house and plant impatiens.

Cleav and Esme were a little too self-absorbed to worry much about the changes occurring. Daytime they worked together as often as they could. Esme would rush through the housework to join Cleav at the store. Cleav hurried through the fish tending to return to her side.

Evenings they sat together in the fresh coolness at the ponds and named all the brood fish. Holding each other's hands tenderly, they talked of the future. The improvements they could make on the ponds, the added attractions they could bring to the store, and the changes they could make in the house.

"It ought to be blue," Esme told him, not for the first time.

"Hillbaby," he answered her, gently nibbling the nape of her neck as he sat behind her on the grass looking up at the house. "Houses are meant to be white. Someday I'll take you to Knoxville and you'll see. Practically all the fine houses in town are white."

Esme shrugged unconcerned. "I couldn't care a flip about houses in Knoxville," she told him. "That house ought to be blue like the sky, not white as death."

Cleav shook his head and laughed lightly. "You are not getting your way on this, Esme," he said with mock severity. "If you want to paint something blue, we can paint the store. My house is going to be white and nothing else."

"The store can be blue," she said, nodding. "At least for now. I suspect we'll be building a bigger store in a few years anyway. It will have to be brick, of course."

Cleav nuzzled her neck and gave her a playful bite on her throat "Of course," he agreed with a chuckle.

Since the night of love in the hatching house, Cleav had given up his late evenings in the library. As soon as it was decently dark the young couple hurried to the privacy of their room. Romping like children, they wore the bedsheets thin.

If in the still, sated silence of the darkest part of night Esme doubted she could make him happy, she never let it show.

If the dark circles under his eyes indicated a habitual lack of sleep, Cleav never complained. But he did wonder to himself if having her love him could be any better.

Cleav could no longer even imagine life without Esme. And Esme felt that she had never lived before she lived with Cleav.

They were easy together.

Sorting the barrels in the store together, their conversation strayed to both commerce and fish breeding.

"If we could figure out a way to keep the ice from melting, we could take a wagonload of fresh trout down to the city and make a pretty penny," Cleav suggested.

Esme, standing on a small stepladder beside the shelves, looked down at her husband.

"And if we had wings, we could just fly over the mountains, too," Esme replied with feigned impatience.

Cleav refused to be daunted. "We could store the fish in a mesh sack and drag them downriver in a boat," he said, his eyes thoughtful as he considered the possibility.

Esme nodded hopefully. "And what the gators didn't eat, the folks in the city could?" she suggested.

"There are no gators in the Nolichucky River," Cleav answered.

"Well, save to graces," Esme exclaimed. "Let's raise some and put them in there!"

That remark earned Esme a gentle slap on the fanny.

With a snort of disapproval, Pearly Beachum stopped examining the nickel powders and stormed out of the store in protest.

The two, finding themselves unexpectedly alone, glanced at each other guiltily before good humor overwhelmed them.

Laughing, Esme jumped down into her husband's arms, wrapping her long, stocking-clad legs around his waist.

"We are shocking the neighbors," she declared as she rubbed her bosom wantonly against his chest.

"It isn't the first time," Cleav answered, his hands cheerfully cupping her bottom. "That's how we got together in the first place."

"Are you sorry?" Esme asked, surprised at her own candid question.

Cleav's expression momentarily turned serious and then a mischievous smile brightened his face. Rubbing himself lewdly against her, he answered, "Only if you're going to make me wait until after supper."

Esme playfully reprimanded him with a slap on the shoulder. "I most certainly am going to make you wait. You have got to get back to work, Mr. Rhy. You've got a family to support."

Cleav shook his head in mock solemnity. "You're right about that," he said. "I've got a garden-grubbing mother, a fiddling father-in-law, a set of lovelorn twins, and a positively wicked wife with the longest, lustiest legs in Tennessee.

Esme giggled and then gave a flirty swipe of her tongue to his ear.

"I do promise, Mr. Cleavis Rhy, my dear husband," she stated baldly, "to make myself absolutely worth the wait."

And she was.

It was on a Thursday when the mail arrived that Cleav, brimming with excitement, left the store in the not very dependable hands of his father-in-law and rushed to the house.

"Esme!" he called, banging open the front door with atypical unconcern for the fine piece of oblong beveled glass in its middle. "Esme! Where are you?"

Her hair tied up in a kerchief, Esme stepped out of the back parlor, feather duster in hand. "Save to graces, Cleav. What has happened?"

As if in answer, he held up a long, slim envelope.

Esme looked at it curiously.

"What is it?"

"A letter from Mr. Simmons of Springfield, Massachusetts," Cleav replied, his eyes bright with enthusiasm.

"Who?"

"The gentleman of the American Fish Culturists Association." Cleav's face was wreathed in smiles that were instantaneously contagious.

"Oh, yes," Esme said finally. "One of your trout friends from up north."

"Well, he's not a friend," Cleav corrected her modestly. "Although the gentleman is a frequent correspondent" Smiling broadly, he added, "And today he sent some very thrilling news."

Esme grinned. "Well, are you going to tell me or make my bile choler trying to guess?"

"Mr. Simmons is coming to Vader," he said, hugging her to him.

"What?"

Cleav laughed out loud at his wife's expression.

"Mr. Theodatus G. Simmons of Springfield, Massachusetts, is coming to Vader, Tennessee, to"—Cleav opened up the envelope and read from the letter inside—" 'survey the trout-breeding experiments of a fellow pisciculturist'— that's me."

Esme's face paled and she stood speechless before him.

"Surprised?" he asked but continued without waiting for a reply. "There's more. On his way down here he'll be stopping in Washington, D.C., to meet his friend, Mr. Benjamin Westbrook of the U.S. Deputy Fish Commissioner's office, to accompany him."

Cleav laughed with genuine joy. "Can you believe it? Two of the most important gentlemen in the fish-culture movement are coming to Cleavis Rhy's little trout farm in Tennessee!"

"That's wonderful," Esme said. Her words rang flat and toneless, but Cleav was too excited to notice.

"I suggested such a visit months ago," he explained. "But never in my most optimistic dream did I imagine that they would actually accept my invitation."

Laughing again, he pulled Esme close and held her tightly. "Do you realize what this means, Hillbaby?" he said. "It means recognition of my accomplishments, validation of my work." He shook his head with delighted disbelief. "It means that maybe, just maybe, my achievements will see acknowledgment. Pisciculturists all over the country"—he raised his arms in a broader gesture— "maybe all over the world will hear about my experiments, my ponds, my trout."

"That's wonderful," Esme tried again more enthusiastically, but something about her reply still didn't ring true.

"Three weeks," Cleav told her excitedly. "Just three weeks and we'll have those esteemed gentlemen right here in this very house!" With his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, Cleav lifted Esme right off her feet and spun her around like two children playing Whirling Dizzy.

"Yes!" Cleav hollered as he spun.

Esme found herself pushing back the block of cold fear as she tried to join her husband in laughing at his foolish antics.

When he finally stopped, they both weaved in place for a moment as the room continued to spin. Then Cleav lowered his lips to hers in a sweet, joyful kiss that, with a quick flick of the tongue, turned to naughty loveplay.

Esme basked in the hot sensuality for a moment before hearing a giggle from the doorway of the sewing parlor. Pulling away from her husband, Esme gave Adelaide a disapproving look.

"Mind your own business!" she told her huffily.

"Business!" Cleav said and slapped his palm against his forehead as if his brain didn't work perfectly. "You mind your business, Miss Snoopy Crabb," he told the twin. "And I'd best get back to minding my own," he added to Esme with one last hasty kiss. "Your daddy is probably fiddling as the store burns!"

With a wave and a promise he was off.

Esme closed the door behind him and watched him take the steps down two at a time as he hurried off toward the General Merchandise. There was no smile on Esme's face as she watched him go.

"Three weeks," she whispered aloud. "In three weeks two of the most important gentlemen in the fish-culturist movement will be coming to Vader, Tennessee, to meet Cleavis Rhy." Tears stung her eyes, and she bit her lip to hold them back.

They were going to find some fancy ponds and some dandy fish, she thought. And they were going to discover that their friend—no, their correspondent—Mr. Rhy, was married to an ignorant hill cracker.

"Oh, Cleav." She sighed aloud. "You've wanted this so long. You've wanted to be one of them."

Weaving her hands together in a double fist, she placed them earnestly at her chin.

Oh, please. Don't let me ruin it for him.

T
wo days
later Esme determinedly reminded herself that "the Lord helps those who help themselves" and sought out her mother-in-law.

Eula Rhy was not hard to find. A large floppy hat on her head, her voice was raised in a loud off-key rendition of "Why Are You Weeping, Sister?"

Esme interrupted her right in the middle of "I was foolish and fair and my form was rare."

"Mother Rhy," she said. "I need to talk to you about something."

The older woman looked up from the impatiens she was carefully replanting in the shady spot next to the house. "Why, what's wrong with you, girl?" the woman asked. "You're not looking quite yourself today." The older woman eyed her up and down curiously. "You're not in a 'delicate condition' already?"

"Oh, no," Esme assured her quickly. "It's just that . . . well

Eula Rhy sighed loudly with impatience. "For mercy's sake, child, say what you have to say. These plants don't have time to waste on your nonsense."

"Well," Esme tried again. "I'm not really sure what to say."

Mrs. Rhy snorted in disbelief. "If there's one thing no one would accuse you of, it's not being able to speak your mind!"

Tightening her jaw bravely, Esme finally blurted out, "You know that these fancy fish folks are coming to visit my Cleavis."

"Lord, yes," Eula answered with an unconcerned wave of her arm. "I may be old, but I'm not deaf. That's all that boy can talk about these days."

Deciding that Esme's interruption was unimportant, the older woman kneeled forward again and began working the dirt through her hands.

Esme raised her chin in shameful defiance and admitted the worst

"This-is-very-important-to-Cleav-he's-been-waiting-for-a-chance-like-this-ever-since-he-came-back-from-Knoxville-and-these-gentlemen-just-have-to-like-him-and-accept-him-as-a-gentleman-too-and-I-don't-know-one-blame-thing-about-being-a-lady-or-how-to-serve-gentlemen-or-what-to-serve-gentlemen-and-it's-just-like-you-said-I-won't-be-any-good-as-a-wife-to-Cleav-and-I'm-going-to-shame-him-and-ruin-it-for-him-and-I-just-can't-do-that-to-him-and-you've-got-to-help-me."

It was enough to capture her mother-in-law's attention. The older woman studied her curiously. "You're worried about being an embarrassment to Cleavy?" she asked.

Biting her lip painfully, Esme nodded.

Eula Rhy shook her head in disbelief and chuckled lightly. "Esme," she said. "Dear girl, there was a time when I worried about just the same thing." With a smile of amused remembrance, she continued. "I told you the night you married that you weren't the wife for Cleavis." The older woman's smile was broad now. "But you've proved I was wrong."

Esme looked up, startled. "What?"

"I said you've proved me wrong," she repeated. "I thought my son wanted—no, needed to be a gentleman." She sighed heavily. "Lord only knows what happened in Knoxville to change him so, but he did come back a very different boy than the one I sent."

Picking up one of the flowers, she examined it for insects. "He came back so stuffy and proper," she said. "Truth is, I didn't quite know what to make of it. But I love that boy, and like you, I didn't want to let him down."

Leaning back on her knees, Eula Rhy pulled off one very dirty glove and held her hand up to Esme. "Help me up," she ordered. "One thing about getting old, no matter how much you enjoy doing a thing, your bones do get stiffened up by the time you stop doing it"