Chuckling, he stood to pull her into his embrace. “Prob’ly ’nother couple years or so. By then he’ll figure he knows you well enough to get so familiar. C’mon, let’s go inside. These goldarn skeeters have putineer eaten me alive.”
Chapter Eight
SUNDAY DAWN CAME SWEETLY and softly, peeking over the eastern horizon to encompass the last bit of fading night. Cool and fresh and clear, first thing, with a scent from Juniper Creek that mixed in with dew and the fragrance of flowers and effluvia from Norton’s stable; enervating heat would come later, and humidity that wilted hairdos and flushed faces and sapped vitality.
Turnabout, having been built near flowing water, into the dip of a valley, in the midst of hundred-year-old oaks and sycamore, suffered less during the throes of summer sultriness than did the average Texas municipality set under a blazing sun. Busy residents and visitors rarely gave thought to the extremely fortunate circumstances of their existence, but clergymen of the five established Houses of God often exhorted their parishioners to give thanks for blessings received.
On a typical Sabbath, townsfolk went about their usual routine. Church attendance was hardly mandatory; it was, however, expected, unless one were too ill to go out or absent elsewhere. A service might last anywhere from a single to several hours (depending upon how stoked up a particular preacher might be). After being repeatedly warned against the d
angers of hellfire and being occasionally promised the glories of heaven, congregants—somewhat dazed by their time spent imprisoned in sacred surroundings, only to be either harangued or baited—would wander out into the sunshine, to congregate gratefully elsewhere.
Such was the case now, heading toward high noon.
A few inhabitants had ambled home, to partake of a hearty dinner and an equally hearty nap. A few others—mostly those with nowhere else to go—were on their way to the Sittin’ Eat Hash House, or the Sarsaparilla Café, to gobble and gab in their usual routine. Yet others, such as Ben Forrester, were working in defiance of custom, this being a so-called day of rest.
Some of the more notable locals were also out and about, doing whatever needed doing.
One was Hannah Burton. Not only had she totally taken control of her sister’s sprawling flower garden, she had enlisted the aid of Amazin’ Adam Hayes and his trusty spade to dig up where and when she so ordered. Amazin’, who was floundering in the pangs of dedicated hero worship at the ripe old age of almost sixty, generously agreed to whatever Miss Hannah, ma’am, wanted.
Along the way he imparted his own wisdom: this blooming plant would look best mixed in with that blooming plant; those hollyhocks would do well smack up against the picket fence; summer squash and a second crop of pisum sativum (green peas) could easily still be grown, over in that corner next to the shed. Come spring, he would put in a plot just chock full of vegetables; they’d have plenty for fresh eating, and for canning later on, too. Maybe even sell some of the surplus at Forrester’s Store.
Hannah couldn’t help feeling a trifle dubious about the preservation part. She wasn’t sure just how Camellia would greet the news that she would be coerced into such hard, hot, and unfamiliar labor. Still... she shrugged. That was nearly a year away. A lot can happen in a year.
So she happily accepted Amazin’s undertaking, paid him weekly out of the meager stipend Camellia was allowing, and promised him a portion of whatever they managed to successfully grow.
Besides that, the two of them were drawing up a design of walkways, rose beds, a fountain of sorts, plantings of shrubs, and landscaping, plus trimming bushes and grass, and the like. Amazin’ seemed especially taken with the Royal Star Magnolia tree, tucked away in bare ground, that Dr. Havers had given Camellia as a housewarming gift. Although he did complain that the poor thing desperately needed water and he would get on that straight away.
It was such a treat to watch Hannah and her helper wrangling cheerfully over the major points of gardening that Camellia, from inside her kitchen, couldn’t help smiling. If nothing else, their industry served as a distraction. So, too, did the double recipe of bread she had mixed up and was now kneading with a fury and determination that ought to guarantee positive results.
She was waiting impatiently for the first sign of Molly, anxious to hear a report on the girl’s initial impactful night of marriage, her circumstances, and every other detail that could be squeezed out and shared. However, there had been no sign of Quinn anywhere yet today, and Camellia could actually feel her body vibrating with nervous anxiety.
Letitia, too, had her plans in order for the day. She had eaten a filling breakfast at the boarding house table, politely conversing with some half-dozen similar boarders. Then, turned out in a white cotton dress printed all over in lavender flowers, with ruffles and laces and flounces to her heart’s content, she had meandered on over to the Church of Placid Waters. There, at least, the sermons by Rev. Beecham didn’t leave her nodding off to sleep in the pew.
Her duty done to God, she continued on with her duty to be done to mankind.
Namely, sashaying into Dr. Gabriel Havers’ office as if she owned the place and demanding his presence.
“Lawdamercy, child,” he complained bitterly, emerging at last from some back room where, clearly, he had been taking a nap, to judge by the wild state of his dark red hair and the wrinkled state of his loose white shirt. “You got no call bustin’ in here, botherin’ me on a Sunday mornin’. What’s put you all in a lather, anyway?”
Letitia, being brimful of the grace of the Holy Spirit, was in no mood to put up with the antics of a curmudgeonly purported employer. Pulling out a hatpin that looked as sharp and malevolent as a dagger and removing the white straw hat topped by purple silk flowers, she calmly took a seat.
“I’m here,” she told him, “for my first hours of instruction in your—um—facility.”
Looking besieged, Gabriel rubbed his eyes and collapsed into the wooden chair behind his desk as if both legs had suddenly given way. “Huh. Did I agree to that?”
“Need I remind you? Yes. You took me to dinner and we discussed my working for you. And so I’ve arrived.”
“I see that.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes again.
She looked him over with a curious, assessing glance. Quite astute, these Burton females, and more mature than their years might lead one to expect. “Do you ever tend cases during the day, or are you always called out at night?”
Gabe had the grace to give her a sheepish grin. “Well, now, I can’t exactly blame this hangover on my doctorin’. A night of drinkin’ and poker will do that to a man.”
“I should think you would need a steady hand in case any medical emergencies come up,” Letty tut-tutted him.
“Oh, my hand is steady enough.” Laid straight out in the air, his palm showed no sign of unsteadiness, proving his claim. “Just got a headache to beat the band, and a powerful thirst. Lemme get some coffee for us.”
“None for me, thanks,” Letitia told him primly. “But, pray, don’t let me stop you.”