I said as the horse began walking. “Emma goes to a lot of trouble for all of us. You know how she is. And this year little Louise must be very excited . . . looking for Santa and all.” I turned to see if I was giving Henry something to smile about. “Hope Emma’s children are going to let her hang onto the anticipation a few more years, don’t you?”
“I enjoy it, Sis. No doubt about that.” Henry swallowed hard as a gust of bitter breeze swirled in our faces. He reached over and pulled my scarf higher over my mouth. “You’re a pretty girl, Sis. And you’ll get married. Be gone for good then. Hillbound’s never been the same without you.”
“Now, Henry, we have to look on the bright side, don’t you think? Besides, marriage is about the last thing from my mind. One day, of course. No time soon. Will you join us for church tomorrow?”
“Nah. You did the right thing by Moe Lee’s children—all those colored children, Amos’s—teaching them to read and write when you had the chance. I should’ve never given you a hard time about it.”
“Goodness! Those children were my inspiration. Without them I might not have gone into teaching or the mission field. We have to work with what God puts in our path. He’ll mold raw materials into something beautiful . . . if we let Him.”
Henry mulled over the suggestion. Part of me wanted to say more, to find a way to paint a picture of him with a wife, children, maybe. Managing the farm, tapping his natural wherewithal as a farmer, making Hillbound thrive once again with tobacco—completely restored as the tobacco farm that our father had squandered in his counterfeit trade for race horses, gambling, and glitz. I could feel myself relishing the savory wintry morning, soaking up in my memory the smell and richness of tobacco crops, reaching out to the touchable Maxwell legacy that Henry so tentatively held onto.
Either deep thought or melancholy had set in. It was hard to tell, but after a long silence Henry’s shoulders straightened and he gave a little giddy-up to the reins. “You got a suitor coming over to Millicent’s? It’s what I heard.”
“Oh. Well, sort of, maybe. Simon Hagan’s coming for tea. That’s all. I’m looking forward to finding out about him, anyway.”
Henry’s head lurched backward in a burst of laughter. Hearing him joyous again was the music to my ears, even at my expense.
“Not funny, Henry.”
“Don’t know if his brother ever played football at the high school, but he was sure enough there before I had to quit. I was a good athlete back then, Sis.”
He turned to see if I agreed. Inwardly, I agreed that his talent, too, was lost when trades were made: trade for Henry’s labor over Henry’s education. But I gave him a sincere and affirmative nod. “You have all kinds of talents, and don’t ever forget it.”
“He probably would’ve played after that . . . ol’ Alan. Alan Hagan. Yep, would be Simon’s brother. Wonder whatever happened to him . . . And now that I’m thinking, I believe he died somehow, a few years back.” Henry rambled on, seemingly in need of someone to talk to, and I was content to let him speak his mind as Trojan Girl trotted us past field after field and the grassy broadleaf weeds that had sprung up along the road and in between the stubble of harvested wheat.
But the mention of Mama never came up, and I let the subject be.
Chapter 6
The carriage headed up South Main Street. I was inside Millicent and Jim’s house before Henry rode out of sight.
“Are you just about frozen? Here,” Millicent said, turning me around, “warm your backside. Give me your coat . . . all this extra . . . and thaw out! Why didn’t Henry come in? He should have. I mean, he’s been out in the cold for hours!”
“Stubborn. What else? I think he was a little bit insulated, if you know what I mean.”
“No! I don’t want to hear it.” Millicent put up a hand to ward off the mention of alcohol. “Is he going to Emma’s Christmas Day?”
“He promised. But I guess I didn’t even bring up Father and Francine. Should I have?”
“Probably not. Emma’s planning on everybody! Father won’t disappoint her . . . awkward as that’s gonna be.”
Millicent and I gave each other knowing looks. With no further speculation about what to expect come Christmas Day, we moved into the kitchen.
“I didn’t give you much of a chance to get warmed up,” she said and busied herself with uncovering the shortbread while I tinkered with the tea kettle. “It’s fine, fine,” I said.
But it wasn’t—the expectation was too high to contain, and practically at the same moment and without warning, we both squealed like stuck pigs.
“What time’s he coming?” I carelessly twirled myself around between the washbasin and stove, teapot held high in the air.
“Oh, dear!” Millicent was coy. “You are expecting someone?”
“Sister!” I brushed by her as Louise came bounding into the kitchen.
“Well! My favorite second grader, right here!” I squatted just in time for her to come flying into my arms. “And tell me: what is Santa bringing you?”
Dark-brown hair spiraled in curls over her shoulders. Her smiled showed the loss of two front teeth. “Flossie Flirt,” she said and skipped away.
“A doll, of course. The thing says ‘Ma Ma,’” Millicent whispered with a wink. “Alright. Now, Gracie Mae. Mr. Hagan will be here about four o’clock. That is if Jim lets him off. Ten after, maybe. Your cheeks are still nice and rosy from the out-of-doors. That’s good.”
Whether they were bitten by the cold ride from Russellville or the rip-roaring fire in the fireplace in the living room, by the time Simon Hagan arrived they were completely flushed. I could feel it.
Millicent and even little Louise had made themselves scarce. I heard the knock on the door and took a deep breath. One last peek in the mirror, one last twist to the notable black curl at my left cheek.
“And a good afternoon to you, Mr. Hagan. Do come in.”
Hat in hand, it seemed his head narrowly cleared the door frame. “Gracie Maxwell! So good to see you again. Jim’s done me a big favor, I’m sure, arranging this time.”
“May I take that for you, and your coat? It’s lovely to have you visit. Please, have a seat. won’t you?”
“You were in quite a hurry to leave his store . . . on our meeting—”
“Oh, that!” My face couldn’t have gotten any redder. Convinced it was trying, I sat in the chair next to the maroon mohair divan where he settled. “I’ll pour us some tea. Cream?”
“Yes, I think so.” He laughed. “If you are. I’ve not had much tea in my lifetime. This is a real treat, and I’ve been looking forward to getting to know you. So this is also a treat. I’d like to think I masterminded our improbable little meeting at the candy counter. However that happened, I’m glad for
