Owen froze at the sight of the two girls seated in front of him.
“May I help you?” asked the one on the left.
Owen simply stared at her, wishing he’d had a drink or two to loosen his tongue.
“Would you like to buy some Welsh cakes?” asked the one on the right. “A penny a piece, or three for two cents.” She smiled broadly, her teeth perfectly straight, her cheeks inexpertly rouged. Graham returned the smile. Owen remained transfixed on the first girl, with long brunette curls and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
Graham ignored his friend, searched his pocket, found a nickel, and passed it to the redheaded girl on the right. She pushed forward two plates and said, “Kindly return them when you’ve finished eating.” She placed the nickel in a cigar box and retrieved a penny.
Graham held up his hand. “A donation for the church.” The pair shared another smile before he managed to shove Owen away from the table.
“What’s got into you?” Graham asked, handing Owen a plate.
“I’ll take the chubby one.” Owen’s first words.
“You don’t say.” Graham patted his friend’s shoulder and laughed.
Owen paused to collect his thoughts. “I’d like to court the one on the left. If she’s not spoken for. Her with the pretty blue eyes.”
“So long as you leave one for me.”
* * *
Owen and Graham began attending the Providence Christian Church of Scranton the very next day, two services every Sunday and one on Wednesday nights. The chubby one, the girl on the left, made no offer of her name. Owen reminded himself that a proper lady waited to be asked. Each time he saw her, he tried to muster the courage, but failed.
The one on the right, Louise, wasted no time introducing herself to Graham. She told him about her life as the child of a maid in the Jones household. How Mrs. Jones refused to allow her daughters to “consort” with Louise, even the youngest, who was her age. The two played together anyway, but in secret, the beginning of a lifelong friendship. She also made mention of a scandal resulting in Mr. Jones’s demise. With the family disgraced, the youngest Miss Jones was forced to take a job as a maid herself, “her with the pretty blues eyes.”
Graham passed all of this along to Owen, who only became more nervous when he realized Miss Jones had been raised with certain advantages. Even if she’s not living that life now, he thought whenever she sat in the same pew at Christian Endeavors, a Sunday school class for the young adults of the church, what could I offer so fine a woman?
Owen’s paralysis persisted, even after three months of church attendance. When she’d glide past him to collect the Bibles, he couldn’t breathe. If she stood to make an announcement about a covered-dish dinner or a visiting missionary, he’d avert his eyes so that his affection would not spill out.
And then came Thanksgiving.
Hattie had invited Owen and all the men without family to share in a meal. Owen donated the bird, one he’d shot a couple of days before in Chinchilla, the next town over. When Hattie called everyone to the table, she suggested Owen sit at the head, since it was his turkey they were serving.
“A beautiful bird,” one man said admiringly.
“Chester never looked so good,” Owen said with a wink. Chester was Hattie’s prize rooster and the bane of every man who boarded there. In addition to his sunrise duties, Chester crowed whenever someone tried to sneak in after Hattie’s ten o’clock curfew. He also nipped the ankles of anyone he disliked, and he disliked everyone except Hattie herself.
“Chester may be the ugliest bird God gave breath to,” Hattie said, “but he’s the best watchdog I ever had.” She sat down on Owen’s right, near the kitchen door so she could clear the table and refill dishes. “And I know that’s not Chester on my platter because he’d have bitten your nose off by now.” Everyone laughed.
Just then, Miss Jones with the pretty blue eyes rushed into the dining room full of apologies, her cheeks flushed, her brow dappled with sweat. On one side, strands of dark hair pulled free from her bun and fell across her face.
Owen looked at Hattie. He’d seen the two women talking together at church on occasion, but it hadn’t occurred to him that they were more than acquaintances. They never sat together that he could recall.
“The colonel’s dinner took longer than expected. I hope you didn’t wait for me.” Miss Jones paused for a moment, glanced at Owen stuck to his seat, and pulled out her own chair. “We had forty-eight people. Can you imagine?” she asked him, turning to the right. “I’m Grace. Grace Jones,” she said. “Hattie’s sister.” Owen didn’t stir. “I believe we both attend Providence Christian.”
Owen wanted to speak, to tell her how lovely she looked with her hair pulled back and a silk flower behind her ear. He yearned to tell her how sweet she smelled, an intoxicating blend of lilacs and vanilla, but he couldn’t find the words.
“I work as a live-in maid for Colonel Watres, like my sister, before she married.” Grace unfolded a linen napkin and arranged it on her lap. “Over on Quincy Avenue. And I also teach piano to his children.”
Hattie interrupted: “Owen, will you lead us in the blessing?”
His throat clamped shut so tightly that words, even if he’d been able to find them, could not escape. He took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and with great effort, managed to loosen a single syllable: “Grace.”
After an embarrassing silence, Graham jumped in. “That’s prayer enough. Amen and let’s eat.” He grabbed a bowl of cooked rhubarb and spooned some onto his plate.
Red-faced, Owen pushed himself away from the table and hurried into the kitchen. He took a few swigs from a flask in his pocket as he paced back and forth. Occasionally he stopped and mumbled “Simpleton” or “Half-wit,” then started up pacing again. Just as he began his fourth pass across the kitchen, Grace pushed through the swinging door with an empty bowl in her hand.
“I’m not much for rhubarb myself,” she explained, “but the others sure seem to like it.” She laughed easily and strolled past Owen toward the stove.
He watched her back, the curve of it, the dampness of the blouse clinging to it. She turned toward him, and in one decisive movement, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into him for a kiss—hungry, urgent, necessary. He tucked the errant strands of hair behind her ear, pressed his lips against it, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found Grace on tiptoe, stretched toward him, her eyes wide. Betrayed by her own eagerness, she blushed and tumbled backward, her boot heels slapping against the linoleum floor. She scowled at Owen, who smiled broadly, suddenly emboldened by her chagrin and the contents of his flask. He pulled her in and kissed her again, allowing his lips to linger this time.
Grace and Owen married at the Providence Christian Church six months later, on May 11, 1900, the same day he signed the Temperance Pledge under his father’s signature in his family’s Bible. If he’d had his way, they would have wed sooner, but Grace wanted to wait for the lilacs to bloom.
* * *
Owen smiled at the memory, stood up unsteadily from the church
