Harmony (28 page)

O
n Edwina's porch, a cluster of jack-o'-lanterns glowed. They sat on the railing and the steps leading to the front door. She had even put them around the side of the house so that those taking some air through the parlor door could do so and still enjoy the atmosphere. Sun-golden cornstalks had been decoratively tied to the porch posts. On the front door, a big bunch of orange crepe hung in a bow.

Edwina, Crescencia, and Marvel-Anne worked in the kitchen, preparing last-minute items. While stacking the sand
witches,
Crescencia chattered ceaselessly. Periodically, Edwina would sneak a peek at her and smile. This evening, the young woman was actually stunning. Her complexion softly glowed, and she'd put up her hair with rhinestone combs and a barrette. The costume she'd chosen was a rose-printed mousseline de soie made up over all silk; and she'd brought a white parasol with chiffon ruffles half a yard wide. She said she was portraying Jane Austen.

“Did I happen to tell you what Mr. Dufresne said to Papa that night we went out to dinner?”

Only a hundred times.
Giving Crescencia an inviting
smile, she said warmly, “I think you might have, but please refresh me.”

“Well, he went right up to my papa and shook his hand. He said he'd been intending to call on me sooner but that he'd been away on business. Then he just came right out and said, ‘Mr. Stykem, I'd surely like your permission to take your daughter out for dinner. And even if you don't give me it, I'm going to take her anyway.' Well, of course, Papa gave him his permission. Then Mr. Dufresne said that my mother must have been a very beautiful woman because I surely reflected the image of that beauty. And
then
he said he hoped my papa would approve of him, because he planned on calling for me as frequently as he could.” Crescencia put the sandwich platter next to the deviled eggs and devil's food cake Marvel-Anne had just finished icing.

“I'm happy that you're happy, dear.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I'm so very happy! Why, I've hardly stuttered a bit since Mr. Dufresne said what he did to my papa. I can't imagine why.”

“I think it's because Mr. Dufresne gives you the confidence that you didn't believe enough to give to yourself.”

“Maybe.” Then she giggled, as if recalling some private moment—of course having to do with Shay Dufresne.

Ever since Saturday night, Crescencia hadn't been herself. Edwina had witnessed her breathlessly laughing in class over the most trite things. She'd never heard her laugh so. Her voice wasn't the same; neither were her eyes, now wide with joy behind the lenses of her glasses. Even her face seemed softer, more mature.

“Well, what else shall we do?” Crescencia asked.

Marvel-Anne set the last pumpkin pie on the table and said, “If it's all right with you, Miss Edwina, I'd just as soon serve in the parlor so no one has a reason to traipse through our dining room and get any ideas to come into my kitchen.”

Edwina nodded. “Of course.” Though the kitchen
area was flawless as usual. Even the sink had been scrubbed bone white.

Edwina and Crescencia brought the food to the parlor. Warmth pervaded the room from a softly burning fire in the hearth. The bay window, full of houseplants and a lace-clothed narrow table, was perfect for the array of food. Soon, all was set out. Edwina quickly studied the decorations to make sure she hadn't left anything half done.

Candlelight had been used rather than the oil ceiling lamps, save for the one that lit the stairwell leading upstairs. Sheets were draped across the furniture, as well as over Edwina's dress form and two brooms, for ghosts must have a ghostly atmosphere. Dangling by threads from the ceiling were bats constructed from brown cheesecloth and whalebone; ghosts and skeletons made of brown sticks and sheets had been strategically played in the vestibule. In a corner of the parlor, on a sheet of gutta-percha, a large tub filled with water—apples floating on the still surface—waited for partygoers to bob in.

“Well, now all we need are the guests.” Edwina finished the slow circle she'd made and folded her arms beneath her breasts, which were corsetless. For her costume, she'd chosen a Greek chiton of royal purple silk and gold thread that she'd made the previous winter while in college. The party she'd gone to had been with the set of friends she and Abbie traveled with, quite in vogue and liberal. Perhaps Edwina had made a mistake in selecting such a costume to wear within Harmony's little circle. The short loose sleeves ended at her elbows, revealing her arms, and yards upon yards crossed over her shoulders and down her back to form a type of train. The body of the dress flowed narrowly over her legs as if she wore a film.

Just when she felt inclined to go upstairs and change, she recalled the Greek tragedy the ladies' drama club had put on several years ago. All had worn similar such outfits, though not of silk, and headdresses of grape
leaves, but not with their hair unbound like hers. So who among them would cast a disapproving eye?

Perhaps she wanted to tempt fate, to prove to herself that what she'd told Tom Wolcott about herself was true. She wasn't what she seemed.

“I hope Mr. Dufresne will be on time,” Crescencia said hopefully, making a few adjustments to the rows of flatware; she lined up the punch cups so that they made a perfect semicircle around the crystal bowl.

“I'm certain he'll be here at eight.” Edwina glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes away.

“Oh, I'm certain, too.” Crescencia said airily. “I wonder what he and Mr. Wolcott will be wearing.”

The breath was knocked out of Edwina. “Mr. Wolcott?”

“Why, yes, of course. I invited him on Mr. Dufresne's invitation.” Sheepishly gazing through her glasses, she said, “For you, Miss Edwina.”

“For me?”

“I believe he's sweet on you.” The seriousness in the other woman's gaze was uncompromising. “I saw how he looked at you during dinner. I wasn't so occupied with Mr. Dufresne that I didn't notice.”

“Whatever you want to believe, Crescencia, is your business, but let me tell you: Mr. Wolcott and I are never going to be a couple.”

“Don't say that. There seems to be hope for me, so there has to be hope for you. I know it.”

Edwina put hands to her cheeks. How could she explain to Crescencia that she would never marry? That there was no point in trying to pair her with Tom, much less anyone else?

The opportunity to at least try to set the other woman straight never came. The doorbell cranked, and the first guest arrived. Soon thereafter, the house was filled with people for Edwina to oversee, and she didn't have another moment to speak with Crescencia.

The doctors came as a group—all thirteen of them. Most wore pepper-and-salt suits; some wore peg-top
trousers and knobby-toed shoes that were up-to-date. Since they had no costumes, the hotel had supplied them with sheets, which they draped over their shoulders. But their everyday clothes were visible. As smart dressers, they immediately garnered the undivided attention of her students' mothers, who had been milling around with their offspring, awaiting the prominent men's arrival. One in particular caught Edwina's attention as she circulated a tray of oysters.

There was a sort of dash and glitter about him. A diamond horseshoe pin in his tie winked when the candlelight caught it. Black pomaded hair parted smack down the middle and was oiled over his ears. A handlebar mustache curved like two parentheses on either side of his mouth. Edwina noted Mrs. Treber taking a detailed survey of him with her gaze, then nodding to Johannah, who smiled.

Edwina went toward the man and introduced herself. “Welcome to my home. I'm Miss Huntington.” She extended her hand. “And you are Dr.—?”

He grasped her hand and vigorously pumped it. “Dr. Fred Teeter. It's a pleasure, Miss Huntington.” She slipped her hand from his, none too smoothly; he didn't seem to want to let go and was moving in closer. Nonplused by his behavior, she grew especially perplexed when he leaned forward and examined her half smile. “Beautiful arch. No malocclusion. Flawless gingivae.”

“I . . . I beg your pardon?”

“It's nothing, Miss Huntington. Forgive me. Always a professional, I just can't seem to speak to anyone without a
visum scrutari.
” Not giving her the chance to comment, he continued on. “Now who is that fetching young lady over there?”

He motioned in Johannah's direction and Mrs. Treber fluttered her fingertips in a hello while nudging her daughter to stand straighter. “That's Mrs. Treber and her daughter, Johannah. Would you care for an introduction?”

“Indeed I would.”

The proper salutations occurred and Edwina left the three of them to move toward the refreshment table. Mr. Brooks and Mr. Calhoon stood there in a discussion she chanced to overhear.

“My wife is trying to convince me to rid myself of an entire dollar on a new corset for my daughter,” Mr. Brooks declared through the hum of partygoers.

Mr. Calhoon replied, “I've heard that very same notion in my home. Newfangled folderols. What difference does a corset make?”

“Precisely. Don't these women know the gold standard has been ruined by the trusts?”

“Damn right. The common man will never see good times again.”

Edwina politely closed her ears to them, secretly glad she didn't have such a close-minded father in her life to dictate what kind of corset she wore.

Now choosing the petite sandwiches to offer to her guests, Edwina set off again through the room. At her request, Mrs. Kennison played the organ. The lovely notes filtered through the buzz of voices, making for a merry atmosphere. Edwina had seen little of Crescencia and wondered about the woman's absence—until she went into the vestibule and found her monopolized by a man wearing a bearskin. His back was toward her and the mammoth animal had been strapped onto his arms and legs by strips of leather; the massive head rested on his head.

From the way Crescencia blushed and chirped, Edwina quickly deduced the man in question was Mr. Dufresne. She was set on turning away when Crescencia called out to her.

“Miss Edwina, look at what Mr. Dufresne has worn!” She giggled. “Isn't it too much!”

“Oh, my, well . . . yes indeed.” Edwina gave Mr. Dufresne a soft smile, yet she didn't keep it for long—Tom came from the darkened hallway that led to where Marvel-Anne was hanging up wraps and coats in the closet.

The stairwell cast half of him in light and the other in the dimness from the parlor. She took in his clothing; no costume. Or perhaps to some, it would be—hunting regalia. Wide shoulders filled out a chamois shirt the color of straw that looked to be as soft as Honey Tiger's fur. Pants made of waterproof duck encased his long legs. About his waist was a gun belt; anchored against his hip, a pistol that looked quite deadly. Boots that reached his knees were supple brown leather; affixed to the side of one was a sheathed knife. On his head, he wore a type of hat with two bills. If he didn't look so devilishly handsome in it, she'd say the headpiece was ridiculous.

“Miss Huntington,” he greeted her, his gaze giving her as thorough an inspection as she had given him, sending a thrill up her spine.

“Mr. Wolcott.” And that was that. Suddenly quite self-conscious, she felt the need to excuse herself. After all, there was nothing further to be said. “I've got to check on Marvel-Anne. Please enjoy yourselves.”

She took her leave through the hallway that connected with the kitchen. Of course Marvel-Anne needed no checking on. The housemaid was as reliable as a church bell.

Once in the kitchen, Edwina found it empty, but no matter. She'd needed the distraction—a moment to gather herself after seeing Tom. She had hoped he wouldn't come, that he wouldn't want to be in her company after their night on the swing. She'd avoided him the past few days, thinking that distance could make her forget about him.

She'd been wrong.

How could she pretend that he didn't exist when at every turn, there was something to remind her of him? In the building they shared, she read his name next to hers on the mailbox. In the grove out back, she couldn't look at the trees without remembering the rope. . . .

Edwina, stop doing this to yourself. It's not to be.

Voices sounded and laughter grew closer to the swinging
door that joined the dining room to the kitchen. Not realizing until nearly too late that tears had moistened her eyes, Edwina couldn't let anyone see her. Reaching for the door to the back porch, she let herself out. Only after she'd closed off the jovial voices did she realize she still held a plate of sandwiches. She smiled, then sniffed. She stared at them and let a tear fall down her cheek.

The cool evening drifted over her. She wasn't dressed to be outside, but she wasn't ready to return inside, either. She brushed away the tear. Sinking down onto the steps, she put the plate beside her and gazed at her sandal-covered feet. Cold feet.

A movement from the shrubbery caught her attention and her chin rose. No one she knew would be skulking about. Sitting taller, she called, “Who's that?”

More rustling. What little leaves were left on the shaking bushes sprinkled down into the flower beds. A head appeared, then a long body, slack skin, a tail that wagged. Edwina wrinkled her nose.

Barkly drew up to her, stopped at the base of the steps, and sat. The tail kept on with its to-and-fro motion. He licked his chops. There was a dogged looked about his eyes—what she could see of them, which was mostly the bloodshot whites.

“You've come to beg for food. I believe that's a profession of yours.” Gazing undecidedly at the plate of sandwiches, she then looked back at the hound. “Do you know how to do any tricks? Like speak?”

Nothing.

“Shake hands?”

Again, no response.

“Roll over?”