“There is. I always see you flirting, smiling. Women fancy you.”
“I’m charming. Friendly. Sweet and kind.”
“I just don’t want my heart broken. And then we live in the same town. Seeing somebody every day who caused me great pain would be too much.”
“I would never break your heart, Hannah. You just need to give me a chance.”
“Yes, you will never break my heart because we will always stay friends.”
“Playing it safe. That will get you nowhere in life. Take a chance.”
“We’re here,” Hannah said. “Thank you so much for all your help.”
Chapter Two
“TAKE MY WORD FOR IT, you simply must visit the Table.” Hannah, seated beside her eldest sister during the Thanksgiving Communal dinner, was waxing enthusiastic while she spooned into a generous serving of sweet rich cornbread. “It’s a veritable treasure trove of all things imaginable.”
Camellia, who had occasionally felt a stab of concern for the circumstances of this last remaining single Burton, was pleased to see such vivacity in one whose mood was so often acerbic. “By all means. She serves tea, you said? And you can just sit about and chat? Sounds very sociable. Like being invited into someone’s home.”
“It’s just the place for you to put your feet up and relax a bit,” promised Hannah. “Benjamin, dear, would you hand me that plate of relish?”
“That’s quite an appetite you got goin’ there,” Ben observed mildly, as he complied.
“This is a day for feasting, isn’t it?” Hannah took the josh in the spirit it was given, and shrugged. “Well, I’m adhering to Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation. Listen, Ben, you need to loosen your purse strings and allow your burdened wife a little freedom. She would loooove the Table.”
Taken aback, he put down knife and fork with a loud clunk. “I beg your pardon. I don’t believe I’ve ever kept—”
“After all, you have put the poor thing into a most questionable state of affairs. I’d say she deserves some freedom away from all the household chores. And your demands.” With a deliberate lack of decorum, she licked the spoon in her hand while surveying her brother-in-law with innocent eyes.
“Now, wait just a minute. You got no right to—”
“Oh, hush, Ben,” his wife adjured, with her usual easy charm. “Hannah is only chaffing you, in return for all the times you’ve teased her. I would like to meet this Mrs. Fitzsimmons, though, Hen. Is she here today?”
“I don’t know. Certainly she’s been invited, in the general notice sent out by the council. I’m hoping she’ll join us, so I can get my interview for the paper.”
The Church of Placid Waters, although modest in scope and size, boasted two important features. One was the impressive steeple which held an equally impressive iron bell, whose musical peal sounded for every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening service, and other spiritual celebrations in between. The other was an attached hall, whose space, tables, and compact kitchen served not only the church members, but also the community at large for special events.
Such as the one today.
Thanksgiving, as a national holiday, was barely into its childhood, having been established by President Lincoln, in 1863, to thank the Union Army for its pivotal victory at Gettysburg. By now, traditions were being formed: a gathering of grateful citizenry, prayers and blessings, sociality, and a collective sharing of the year’s bounty.
Rev. Martin Beecham had provided those prayers and blessings. As he circulated amongst the attendees of his flock, Burton clan members, in particular, having been more touched by grace than usual, thanks to the good reverend’s intervention, returned his smile full force. There was nothing he might ask for from them that the family would not try their best to provide.
The streets were relatively quiet, with only an occasional reveler deciding to shoot up the peace (the bars doing a brisk business with its regulars). Sheriff Paul Winslow had managed to consume a hearty meal and spend some quality time with his wife before slipping away to relieve both deputies at the office.
As for Letty and Reese, Hannah could barely stand to look at them, since, married so recently, they were still at that stage of canoodling that made any spectator want to gag. At least, in her opinion, jaded though it might be. They had nibbled from each other’s plates (disgusting) and paused in their inhaling and imbibing to share long, languorous looks (stomach-churning). Really. Had the honeymooners no sense of decorum? No embarrassment of place or time?
However, if she were to be truly honest (and she usually was, sometimes to the detriment of herself—and others), it wasn’t so much the heart-rending happiness she observed for her sisters and their spouses, but the sense of herself being left out in the cold. A relic. A last dinosaur, meandering on its own, before fossilization set in.
The spacious bedroom allotted to the Burtons at Mrs. McKnight’s boarding house, slightly cramped but cozy for three, seemed a rattling-around echo chamber for one. A place no longer quite so desirable to ascend to, via a single flight of stairs; instead, she was often driven to seek company in the parlor, along with other singles, during evenings when the empty hours stretched bleakly out ahead of her .
Since their final departure from that St. Louis mansion, Hannah, more so than her siblings, had known a degree of homesickness she could never have otherwise imagined. She hid it behind an acidic tongue and a vinegary disposition. Not that she wanted to return to her old existence. No, that was out of the question.
But she longed for the way things used to be, and never could be again, with a fierce pain that sometimes roiled up out of nowhere to send her gasping for breath and nearly bent double in agony. Probably, Hannah reasoned, in her saner moments, she was just having a hard time adjusting to all the changes in her life. Talking with her sisters might have helped ease the transition. Except that Hannah, always an independent soul, would rather fight through this very unpleasant aspect on her own, instead of bothering all three newlywed couples already so busy and settled.
She had kept in touch with a very few dear friends from the past, sending occasional voluminous letters that said nothing of her disconsolation and everything of adventure in a small town. Would it be feasible to plan for a visit sometime, to renew her acquaintances there? Or would that be like ripping a bandage off some barely healed wound, sending her even farther backward instead of forward?
Too, finances would dictate the answer.