Harmony (39 page)

Impassioned with ire over Mr. Lancaster's duplicity that left her more than a little shaky, Edwina gazed seriously at her students. “This is why you must think of entering into marriage with your own funds so that you will never be subjected to working for nothing.”

15

S
moking a cigarette, Tom stood beside the open windowsill and gazed at the scene below the second story of the Knotty Pine hotel. The air rolling in through the opening was brisk and there was a feeling of Christmas in it. Outside, snow and ice gleamed in the paths and wheel ruts of Alder's streets. The sun had begun to set over the western pines, splashing the background behind them in muted hues of salmon.

He'd just come in and gone to his room after he and Edwina had spent the afternoon having lunch, then walking through the small town. They'd looked in shop windows and taken in the modest sights. Then he'd rented a bell-rigged sleigh and they'd ridden through the back hills with a fur blanket across their laps. It had been a good, relaxing time full of laughter. He'd enjoyed himself.

After they'd returned the sleigh, she'd gone back to the hotel without him. He'd gone inside the general store and picked up a few things for their dinner. The bags were on a table near the foot of the bed.

Pitching his smoke, he closed the window and walked through the room. His travel bag rested alongside the wall and his wet boots dried by the fireplace. A softly
crackling fire burned within, warming the room and chasing the cold he'd let in from the window. In front of the fireplace, he'd laid out his bearskin rug, and on top of the dense fur sat a postal parcel in brown paper that he'd brought from Harmony.

Withdrawing his pocket watch, he glanced at the time before setting it on the table along with his change and billfold. He scraped a chair back and sat in it with a slouch, propping his feet on the tabletop. Knitting his fingers behind his head, he stared at the fire.

He'd been doing some thinking. He wondered if Edwina had had an affair with the man she'd been with before. If that was why she felt fine about all this—because she thought she knew what she was getting into. But Edwina didn't know what she was getting into with him. For him, he didn't think a purely sexual relationship was going to be enough.

Though he hadn't fallen in love with her, he'd felt the stirrings of it when he had her in the sleigh and got her laughing about a story he'd told her that involved him and Shay in Texas. When she'd smiled and gazed at him, her eyes warm with humor and tenderness, he'd been hit by a fast fist in the gut—an unseen one, but one no less powerful than if it had been Shay slugging him.

A light knock on the door had Tom jumping to his feet and twisting the knob to let Edwina in. Her room was down the hall and around the corner toward the front of the hotel and by the stairway to the lobby. He'd requested a room at the end of the corridor so she could come with little opportunity to be seen.

“Hey, Ed,” he said and closed the door behind her. She walked to the center of the room and turned to face him, arms at her sides, a bit of bashfulness on her face.

“Hello.” She raised her eyes to catch him watching her.

She'd changed dresses since they'd parted. This one was a two-piece thing in what looked like silk fabric with a shimmering effect to it. The outfit was a garnet color that appealed to him. It had a collar he knew was called
a Gibson—he'd seen a case of them in Plunkett's mercantile with a sign selling the attributes. A type of sailor's tie at the base of the collar knotted at the top and fell over the fullness of her breasts. Her narrow waist was cinched with a belt the same color as the bodice. The skirt buttoned in the front all the way down to the floor.

He went toward her. “You're beautiful, Edwina.”

Giving him a demure smile, she gazed at her dress, then at him. “This old thing?”

“It doesn't look old.” He took her into his arms and lightly kissed her lips.

“Well, it is.” She kissed him back.

The kiss was more of a greeting than anything else, an affirmation that they were together as a couple. As soon as he loosened his hold on her waist, she slipped free. Sweeping her gaze through the room, she commented on the bearskin. “Isn't that Mr. Dufresne's Halloween costume?”

Looking at the spread-out hide with its mammoth head and long body, Tom conceded, “Yep. I brought it from home.”

“Whatever for?”

“To sit on. Haven't you ever sat on a skin before?”

Thought lit her eyes. “No . . . I can't say that I have.”

“You'll like it.”

Edwina further assessed his room. “You've got a fireplace. I have only a heater. How did you manage that?”

“I asked for one.”

“Well . . . my goodness. I should have, too.”

“There's only two in the hotel. This one and one in the room directly below mine.”

“Then I'm glad I didn't ask. Walking past the registration counter and coming upstairs would have surely had the clerk wondering.”

She seemed to be at ease, but telltale signs—like fidgeting with the folds of her skirt with her right hand, and trying to do it discreetly—tipped him off to the fact that she was more nervous than she was letting on.

“I got us some dinner.” Tom moved to the table. “Do you want to eat?”

“If you do.”

He didn't like when women wouldn't come out and state their preference. It wasn't like Edwina to be undecided. She normally said exactly what she meant or wanted. With a turn, he faced her. “You're being mealy-mouthed, Edwina.”

She reacted exactly how he'd hoped—irritated. With fire in her eyes, a lift of her chin, and her hands placed belligerently on her hips, she begged to differ. “I most certainly am not being mealy-mouthed. I thought I was being polite.”

“Don't be polite with me. I like you best when you're on your worst behavior.”

“Well, what a thing to say. I pride myself on good manners.”

Reaching inside one of the bags, he spoke in a mild tone. “Unpride yourself when you're with me.” Before she could comment further, he held a tin of crackers in front of her. “Boston butters.”

“Yes, so they are,” she replied tightly, miffed at him.

He laughed at her pique. “I got sardines, too.”

Nose crinkling, she sniffed. “I won't eat a single one. I dislike them.”

He laughed harder, glad she was noncompliant. “I didn't really get any. I knew you didn't like sardines. I just wanted to see what you'd say.”

Following the crackers, he produced a picnic carton of assorted cheeses, a jar of pickles and olives, and a box of lemon snap cookies. Rather than leave the food on the table, he piled it into his arms and carried it to the bear rug. “It's warmer over here. Take your shoes off and sit down.”

Edwina sat on the chair and lifted her skirt hem enough to untie her shoes and loosen the laces. He watched as she set them neatly aside, both toes lined up with one another. The strangest vision came to him: her shoes on the end of a bed—their bed—and them lying
in it . . . eating crackers, making love, not having to leave in the morning, staying together.

He shook the thoughts from his head as she came to him and lowered herself onto the rug, fanning the garnet silk around her bent knees.

“What's that?” She motioned to the package.

“Calhoon gave it to me this morning when I was on my way out of the livery. He caught me by the post office and said it was for you. Asked me if I'd bring it to the store to give to you on Monday.” He stretched his legs out and leaned back on his elbow. “I took it. Couldn't help reading the label. Then I asked him why it wasn't addressed to you. He told me once a month you get a delivery for this said person and bring it over to this said person in Waverly. An old family friend.”

Edwina pressed her lips together to stifle a grin.

Tom went on. “I got to thinking . . . H. T. Katz. It sounded familiar. Then I figured out who it was.” Pointing at her, he said, “Your cat.” As he opened the cracker tin with one hand, curiosity filtered through his voice. “Why would you have something sent to your cat and tell Calhoon it was for someone in Waverly?”

“You know why.”

“Yeah, I think I do. There's beer in that package. O'Linn's.”

She peeled the wax from a cube of cheese. “True.”

“I knew it.”

“Of course. You're smart.”

“No, you're smart.” Placing a large handful of crackers in the center of the rug, he regretted not thinking about plates and napkins. “How long have you been getting beer shipped to you like this?”

“Nearly six months.”

“You're ingenious, Ed.”

“Such flattery,” she said flirtatiously.

He sat up. “As long as we've got the beer, what do you say we open two of them?”

“By all means. It's Saturday.”

Reaching for the package, he asked, “What does Saturday have to do with it?”

“It's my beer night.”

“Beer night,” he repeated, thinking she was the most perplexing woman he'd ever known. Shaking his head, Tom looked hard at Edwina, trying to see through the multiple layers. Her tidy exterior presented modesty and reservation. But get past that and there was a bit of playfulness. From there, she sometimes broke down and became daring to a degree—as she had with the tree swing. That was usually as much of herself as she'd show him, although there had been those few times when she'd gone beyond that and he really got to the bare bones, to where she became uninhibited, like the night they'd danced ragtime together. He preferred that Edwina best.

“Do you have scissors?” Her question threw him from his thoughts. She gestured at the package in his lap.

“Don't need one.” A strong tug pulled the string binding free and a few tears rent the paper from the box. Written across the sides in cursive red lettering was
O'Linn Brewery, Chicago, Illinois.
“I've never heard of O'Linn.”

“It's bottled in a brewery off of Lake Michigan. It was popular where I went to school. They served it in the clubs.”

“You drank in public?”

“Of course.” Frowning at the bottle she said, “We don't have an opener.”

Tom took the beer from her and swiped the cap across the side of a fireplace brick. The metal piece flipped off and suds began to foam from the bottle's mouth. Handing the O'Linn to her, he observed, “You just don't seem the type of woman to drink in a bar. Much less
be
in a bar, Ed.”

She took a sip, then lowered the bottle to her lap. “We didn't call it a bar. The Peacherine was a dancing club. It was acceptable to have liquor while the band played.”

Opening a beer for himself, he drank a long swallow. The liquid was slightly cool. He'd kept it with his horse tack in the local stable until an hour before, when he'd picked up the package.

For a moment, he tried to picture Edwina Huntington in a wild dancing club drinking beer and doing the crazy bones with a bunch of college men. The image unsettled him. He could see her laughing, cheeks flushed from exertion, sitting at a table with that Abbie and casting coy glances around the room, being herself, or who she might have been before that bastard snuffed the spirit from her.

Tom felt cheated. He would have liked to know Edwina when she'd been a carefree young girl. He wished she would be like that now—for always—because what snippets she sparingly showed him, he loved.

Loved.
That part of Edwina, he could truly say he did love.

“Ed, why did you have to change so much?” The question came out before he could catch himself. But since he'd spoken his thoughts, he didn't stop. “Why can't you be yourself again?”

Disquiet surfaced in her expression. Her chin lowered, and her voice became whisper soft. “Being myself got me into a situation.”