The Spinster (Emerson Pass Historicals 2)

“I’d like to skate with my wife now,” Papa said. “I’ll leave my daughter to help you, Phillip. She’ll teach you everything she knows.”

My parents exchanged an amused look before skating hand in hand. What they found so funny, I couldn’t say, but I had a feeling the joke was on me.

I took pity on Phillip despite my embarrassment over my earlier entanglement with his legs and held out both hands to him. “Let me help you.”

He raised one eyebrow as if skeptical but placed his gloved hands in mine. I tightened my grip and attempted to raise him up to no avail. His feet once again slipped out from under him, and this time I landed squarely on top of his chest. For a second I was as frozen as the pond under us, staring into his eyes. A girl could get lost in them and be stuck forever.

A deep rumble of a laugh came from inside his chest. I could feel it even through our layers of clothes.

I rolled off him and onto my knees. “How will we ever get you off the ice?”

“What’s it called if one scoots there on his or her backside?”

I giggled. “There’s no name for it, but it might be our only way out of here.”

He raised his knees and using his hands for support began to inch toward the side of the pond where an empty bench waited. When he finally reached his destination, I was already there waiting.

I planted my feet securely in the inches of snow. With one hand firmly gripping the back of the bench I offered the other one to him. Somehow, I managed to pull him up and onto the bench.

“Good God, that was awful.” His breathing was labored but his eyes twinkled at me. “Why would one ever do such a thing on purpose?” He ripped his cap from his head. “I’m hot, if you can believe it.” His wavy hair was mussed, like a little boy just out of bed. I shocked myself by wondering what it would feel like to put my fingers in that mass of curls.

I forced myself to look away. “You’ll get accustomed to it after a time.” I sat next to him, making sure to keep a distance between us. The feel of his powerful chest and thighs against mine was not something I would soon forget. In fact, I was more alive than I’d been since the news of Walter’s death. No, no, I told myself. This is Walter’s friend. Shame flooded me. How could I betray Walter this way? I’d only just met Phillip, and I was thinking about his hair. What kind of woman was I?

“I’m never going out there again.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he laughed.

Martha Neal appeared with two cups of steaming cider. “Hello there. I thought you might need a hot drink.”

“Martha, nice to see you again,” Phillip said.

“You as well,” Martha said. “Did Phillip tell you we met on the train?”

“He did,” I said as I took the cup from her.

“And how are you faring so far?” Martha asked Phillip.

“Hard to say,” Phillip said. “Other than I cannot skate.”

“Not yet,” Martha said. “Give it time.”

I could have imagined it, but they seemed to have exchanged a collusive glance. Over what, I couldn’t be sure. Surely Martha wasn’t playing matchmaker? She knew I’d sworn myself to Walter. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but my parents and Martha both seemed to be up to no good.

“I hope your husband knows how to set broken bones,” Phillip said. “I’m not sure I’ll get out of here tonight without a broken arm or leg.”

Martha laughed as if that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “My husband does indeed know how to fix broken bones. But don’t worry. Josephine will make sure you’re all right. She’s a most loyal friend.”

Martha gave me a sweet smile, which I returned with one of my own, even though she was acting strange.

“Have fun,” Martha said. “I’ve got to get back to my mother. We’re monitoring the sweets table to make sure none of the children make themselves sic

k with too much sugar. You can return the cups to me when you’re done.” She wriggled her fingers and then made her way down the trodden path of snow toward the dessert table.

I took a sip of cider and nearly choked. There was whiskey in it. “This is spiked,” I said. What was wrong with Martha? I’d never seen her have a drink in my life. At our monthly book club meetings, she always declined sherry even though some of the other women had one. So far it seemed the impending Eighteenth Amendment had only made our citizens take more interest in imbibing than ever before, including the young men tonight who were passing around flasks and filling their cups of cider with whiskey. But Martha? I would have never guessed.

He looked down at his cup, then back at me. “I might like to drink mine if you don’t mind?”

“Don’t hold back on my account.”

“Do you think it will make me skate better?”