Beyond This Moment (20 page)

It was Monday morning and Molly had two overfull weeks of work ahead before school started. And it wasn't getting done with her just standing here, drinking coffee, staring out at the stream behind her cabin. She rinsed out her cup and left it by the washbasin.

Wearing her own black dress, freshly brushed, she grabbed her reticule, along with her teaching satchel packed with lesson samples and books, and checked her image in the mirror hanging by the door one last time.

Propped on a side table, the board containing the still-much-tooalive-looking bugs drew her attention. They were dead-she felt certain. But the way the big black one on the end stared back at her did make her wonder.

But better a collection of bugs than a snake. Her spine crawled just thinking about it.

A neighborhood boy had slipped a snake into her lunch pail once, and she'd nearly fainted when she found it-and she'd been fourteen at the time! From then on, whenever a fellow classmate made fun of her, the others would laugh and make a hissing sound.

Cute little Kurt Boyd had spent no telling how many hours collecting these for her. Still, she didn't like the idea of keeping them in her home.

An idea came. Why hadn't she thought of it before?

She slipped on her gloves and carried the board, along with her reticule and satchel, the short distance to the schoolhouse. She gave the insect collection a prominent place on a shelf and planned to use it for a science lesson the very first week. Surely Kurt Boyd would approve of that. But the best thing was-the bugs were out of her house!

Sunlight filtered through the bank of windows on her left, falling across the rows of desks and illuminating specks of dust in the air that otherwise would have gone unseen. She walked up the aisle to her desk and slowly took a seat in her chair, facing the classroom, memorizing the moment, and imagining the room full of children, all chattering as they bustled to their desks, the noise level rising to a deafening crescendo.

For now, quiet reigned. Everything was pristine. Perfect. Orderly and in its place. But it wouldn't stay that way.

Just as her life wouldn't. Not that her life was perfect. It certainly wasn't. But the imperfections were hidden. Where no one could see. And she wished she could keep them there.

A wave of dread rose fierce from somewhere deep inside her. Her days were numbered in Timber Ridge-she felt it. An ache settled in her chest. Tomorrow marked the first of August-and the third full month of her pregnancy. What was Jeremy Fowler doing this very moment? Did he even give her-or the baby-a passing thought? Especially now, as his marriage to Maria Elena Patterson drew closer.

Fall semester would soon be under way at Franklin College. Professors would return to campus, report for faculty meetings, and share lunch in the college cafeteria. Was the new administration building completed yet? And what of the new Language Arts facility? Where her new office would have been.

She'd known Jeremy for three years. They'd been colleagues, serving on committees together. Then they'd moved to being friends. He'd invited her to lunch, and they gradually began attending faculty gatherings with each other, even going to church together on occasion. But when her father fell ill, their relationship had developed into something ... more.

Jeremy had stayed by her side during those last difficult days, then the ones leading up to the funeral, and after, helping her with details and being there whenever she needed support or someone to talk to. They'd discussed marriage but never made a formal announcement.

Looking back, Molly wondered if she'd inferred more than she should have. Remembering the last time she'd been to his house, she closed her eyes, feeling as if it were three years ago instead of only three months.

"I want you to know how much I appreciate your doing this for me, Molly." Jeremy had led her through the spacious lobby of his home into a front parlor. "You're an expert on grant requests. It won't take long, and your knowledge will benefit the entire college:"

She tried not to be obvious as she took in the elaborate surroundings of his home again. She'd been there before for faculty gatherings and evenings spent with him discussing their shared love of literature. Antiques filled the home, and the plush Persian rug underfoot served to remind her how different his background was from hers.

Jeremy tossed his jacket over a wingback chair. "I'll make us some coffee before we get started. Mrs. Fulton's already left for the day, so I'm afraid you'll have to suffer through my sorely unrefined culinary skills:"

Molly hesitated. Mrs. Fulton isn't here? The housekeeper had always been present in the home when she'd visited before. The elderly woman never joined them but could always be heard in the kitchen or upstairs in one of the bedrooms. "Perhaps I should leave, Jeremy. I didn't realize that-"

"Don't be silly." He tossed her a look that said she was being foolish. "You and I have been alone before. In my office. In your office. In our classrooms. We're mature adults, Molly. Not schoolchildren who need constant supervision:"

When he put it that way, she felt as if she'd overreacted. Her father's passing had left a gaping hole in her life, in her heart, and Jeremy's companionship had served to fill part of that void. She laid aside her wrap and headed toward the kitchen. "I'll make the coffee, then. Just show me where everything is:"

He caught up with her in the hallway and grabbed her hand. "You're a jewel, Molly Whitcomb:" He brushed a kiss to her knuckles. "And for what it's worth, I think you should have gotten that promotion rather than Alex Hollister."

Molly bowed her head. Appreciating his reassurance, she was sorry he'd brought up the topic again. She'd managed to set aside her disappointment for a few moments.

Jeremy brushed the hair back from her temple. "I doubt President Northrop sees his mistake right now. But he will, in time. You're a gifted teacher, Molly. You'll do well here at Franklin. Just give it time" He quirked a brow. "You'll shake up this old men's fraternity yet:'

She laughed at that, and when he kissed her cheek-once, twice-she couldn't decide whether it was pleasure she felt, or discomfort. They'd kissed before, and she remembered each one vividly. But she was also aware of how alone they were.

He moved closer, but she laid a hand to his chest. "You mentioned coffee?"

He smiled, giving a quick nod. "That I did:" Taking her hand, he led her into the kitchen.

The creak of the schoolhouse door opening brought Molly's head up and swept aside the thick cobweb of memories.

A black man stood in the entryway, toolbox in hand. "I's sorry, Dr. Whitcomb, ma'am. Didn't know you was here. I come back directly."

"No, please:" Molly rose from her desk. "You're not bothering me. In fact, I was just leaving" She gathered her teaching satchel and reticule, thankful for the interruption. "I'm on my way to visit the students and their parents:" She paused by the door, smiling up at him. "But I'm afraid you have the advantage, sir. You know my name, but I don't know yours.

He dipped his head. "The name's Josiah Birch, ma'am. I just come by to finish hookin' up that stovepipe over yonder. The air in these mountains gets bone chillin' come fall, and I don't want these young'uns to be comin' down sick:'

Molly quickly put two and two together. "You're Elijah's father?" As soon as she said it, she recalled the mossy green of Elijah's eyes and wished she could take back the question.

But the smile stretching Josiah's deep mahogany features bespoke nothing less than a father's heartfelt pride. "Yes, ma'am. Elijah's my son. He told me he done met you. Belle said she did too. We're sure glad to have you here, ma'am. Havin' us a school like this with a real teacher means a lot to this town:'

What a gracious statement for this man to make, considering his son wasn't allowed to be a student in this school. Molly chose her words carefully. "I was planning on stopping by to visit with you and your wife this week:'

His brow rose. "You comin' to our house?" He let out a soft whoop. "I best give Belle some warnin. She'll be wantin' to fix up things, for „ sure.

The way he said it led her to think he was only kidding, but still Molly shook her head. "There's no need to do that. I just wanted an opportunity to speak with you both about-" she offered up a hasty prayer-"Elijah ... and his education."

The man's smile faded. "His education?" Deep creases furrowed his brow. "I don't rightly follow your meanin; ma'am."

"Your son is very bright, Mr. Birch, as I'm sure you well know. And as much as I wish I could extend an invitation to him to attend this school ... I cannot. For reasons I believe we both understand." She waited, and continued after his gentle nod. "But I would be more than willing to teach him, if you're open to that. After school, or on weekends, if need be. I could instruct him in advanced mathematics, literature, and the sciences. It would open up doors to him that he might not otherwise experience.

Josiah stared. "You done talked to Sheriff McPherson about this, ma'am?"

Molly felt censure in his question and knew it was deserved. "I've made no secret to him about my views on this, Mr. Birch. But I consider time outside of this classroom as my own, and therefore believe I can spend it however I wish:"

"Don't mean no disrespect, ma'am, but the way I see it, the good folks that brought you here aim for you to be teachin' the white children. I don't have their word on it, but I'm thinkin' that's about all the children they's wantin' you to teach:'

"But if I'm willing to sacrifice my time and effort, and pay that price, Mr. Birch, that should be my decision. Do you not agree?"

He seemed hesitant. His eyes darted to hers, then away again. "That's just it, ma'am. You won't be the only one payin' the price:' He eyed her. "You from Georgia, that right, Dr. Whitcomb?"

She nodded.

"You ever wake up durin' the night"-his eyes narrowed-"peer out your front window, and see a cross burnin' bright as daylight outside your house?"

Emotion tightened Molly's throat. She steadied her voice. "In fact ... I have. More than once. My father abhorred slavery, Mr. Birch. He did everything he could to stand against it, and"-she lowered her gaze, recalling the image of looking up at her father and seeing the reflection of a burning cross in the mirror on the wall behind him-"he instilled within me those same principles, and the will to fight for them:"

Mr. Birch seemed to take this in. "I'm thinkin' your father did a lot of good in his life, ma'am."

"Yes, he did;' she whispered.

"I know some white folks who worked hard to change laws up in Washington. Who talked to anybody who'd listen, tryin' to change the way things were:' His expression was gentle. "The way things are:"

"That aptly describes my father, Mr. Birch. He was that type of man:"

His smile held understanding, and compassion. "On those nights, ma'am, when them crosses were burnin' out in front of your house, did your father send you outside? Alone? To reckon with those men hidin' in the shadows?"

Molly could only stare, hearing what he was asking, and knowing he already knew her answer. "No;' she whispered. "He did not:'

"And with all the respect I have in me, ma'am, I'm askin' you.. Earnestness sharpened the concern in his face. "Please don't be askin' me to send my child out there either. I won't do it. Not when I know what's waitin' in the shadows for him:'

16

s the week progressed, Molly carried her conversation with Josiah Birch and his love for his son-not even his own biological childwith her as she visited students and parents in their homes. She introduced herself and evaluated each student's level of progress, and by late Tuesday afternoon, she realized what a formidable challenge awaited her. Not only with parents-a few of whom seemed resistant to the very idea of school-but with her potential students.

While a handful of the children could read and write, to varying degrees, most held only a limited knowledge of language and mathematics. And by Wednesday evening, she'd discarded any hope of teaching these children Italian or French. Instructing them in proper English, along with how to read and write and work their sums, would be the primary order of business.

Thursday afternoon, when she retreated inside Mullins General Store, exhausted and covered in dust, her once-fresh curls hanging limp at her temples, she felt as though she could lie down and sleep for a week. The task before her seemed overwhelming. She'd thought teaching college was a challenge, but this ...

She had nearly thirty students ranging from ages six to sixteen, and they fell everywhere on the scale in regard to ability and knowledge. She'd visited twenty of the pupils on the list Rachel had made and still had half again that number to meet, and the list didn't even cover all her potential students.

She'd taken a lunch and snack with her that day, along with her canteen, to keep up her strength, but she still felt depleted. And the only thing she could attribute it to was the baby inside her, which somehow brought her thoughts back full circle to Josiah Birch and his son.