Read Online Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) by Sharlene MacLaren - Free Book Online
Authors: Sharlene MacLaren
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Mrs. Beauchamp.” She plopped down into the old settee that had been sitting against the same wall since before her father passed. “How do you do, Mrs. Beauchamp?” she said in a singsong voice, mimicking Thelma Younker, the reverend’s wife. “Lovely day, isn’t it? My, my, I do declare, the longer you and Harold have been married, the more you two look alike.” That thought snapped her back to the present and made her groan.
Resting her head on the back of the sofa, she stared at the ceiling. “Oh, Lord,” she vented in sheer frustration, “is Mr. Beauchamp really Your best choice for me?”
Wait and trust.
She groaned. “Wait and trust, wait and trust. What does that mean, Father? Show me a sign.”
But all she got in return was the constant, irksome ticking of the heirloom clock on the fireplace mantel in the front parlor.
***
Sam mopped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve, ready to clean up after a long day of work. This time of year, Connors Blacksmith Shop grew uncomfortably warm. The fact that it had been built into a hillside, constructed of stone, with plenty of shade trees surrounding it, meant that it stayed cool in early summer, but these factors were no match for the relentless rays of the late July sun.
Across the room, his uncle, not quite ready to call an end to his labors, put the final touches on a garden gate he’d been crafting for one of their customers by attaching a forged hinge to it.
Sam took up the broom and started sweeping dust and shavings from under the table onto the dustpan, then dropped the debris into the nearby wastebasket.
“You find y’rself a place to live yet?” his uncle asked.
“Nope.” Sam glanced at Uncle Clarence, who hadn’t bothered to look up. “But I did learn Bessie Overmyer has a room to let at the boardinghouse.”
Now Uncle Clarence shot him a quick glance, his gray eyebrows upturned. “You must be pretty desperate to get out from under your ma’s clutches if you’re thinkin’ ’bout movin’ there. Hear them rooms are about as big as Mother Goose’s shoe. Ain’t she mostly set up for travelers passin’ through?”
“Yeah, but I talked to her, and she says she has a room at the back of the second floor that would accommodate a longer stay. ’Course, I’d have to share the single washroom with the other tenants.”
His uncle wrinkled his nose. “Seems y’ought to be able to find somethin’ better’n Bessie’s Boardinghouse, son. Think I’d endure your ma’s constant carryin’ on for the comforts of that big ol’ farmhouse ’fore I’d resort to livin’ in a twelve by twelve room.”
Uncle Clarence never had been one to mince words when it came to Sam’s mother. He couldn’t fight back the grin. “You don’t live with her.”
“Thank the good Lord for that!”
Truth was, Sam had been giving serious thought to approaching Mercy Evans about her need for a husband. As far as he could tell, he’d be her best bet. Just that morning, while sipping a tin mug of hot coffee over at Juanita’s Café, a dingy little hangout where the local laborers liked to gather before heading to their job sites, he’d overheard a few men jawing at another table. “If I weren’t married m’self, I’d offer up my services to that pretty little Evans dame. That one’s a looker.” This from the rough-and-tumble Bill Jarman, who worked over at the tanning factory. Several men had added their two cents on the matter, one middle-aged fellow joking that it might be worth a divorce, and one old codger saying, “Divorce nothin’. My wife died five years ago. I been thinkin’ on startin’ over with someone.”
Juanita Mendez, the healthily plump owner of the establishment, had sauntered over with a tray of breakfast buns, her black hair done up in its usual braided knot at the nape of her neck, her long red skirts whooshing around her chubby ankles. “You boys don’t stand a chance,” she’d said in her machine-gun-fast
Resting her head on the back of the sofa, she stared at the ceiling. “Oh, Lord,” she vented in sheer frustration, “is Mr. Beauchamp really Your best choice for me?”
Wait and trust.
She groaned. “Wait and trust, wait and trust. What does that mean, Father? Show me a sign.”
But all she got in return was the constant, irksome ticking of the heirloom clock on the fireplace mantel in the front parlor.
***
Sam mopped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve, ready to clean up after a long day of work. This time of year, Connors Blacksmith Shop grew uncomfortably warm. The fact that it had been built into a hillside, constructed of stone, with plenty of shade trees surrounding it, meant that it stayed cool in early summer, but these factors were no match for the relentless rays of the late July sun.
Across the room, his uncle, not quite ready to call an end to his labors, put the final touches on a garden gate he’d been crafting for one of their customers by attaching a forged hinge to it.
Sam took up the broom and started sweeping dust and shavings from under the table onto the dustpan, then dropped the debris into the nearby wastebasket.
“You find y’rself a place to live yet?” his uncle asked.
“Nope.” Sam glanced at Uncle Clarence, who hadn’t bothered to look up. “But I did learn Bessie Overmyer has a room to let at the boardinghouse.”
Now Uncle Clarence shot him a quick glance, his gray eyebrows upturned. “You must be pretty desperate to get out from under your ma’s clutches if you’re thinkin’ ’bout movin’ there. Hear them rooms are about as big as Mother Goose’s shoe. Ain’t she mostly set up for travelers passin’ through?”
“Yeah, but I talked to her, and she says she has a room at the back of the second floor that would accommodate a longer stay. ’Course, I’d have to share the single washroom with the other tenants.”
His uncle wrinkled his nose. “Seems y’ought to be able to find somethin’ better’n Bessie’s Boardinghouse, son. Think I’d endure your ma’s constant carryin’ on for the comforts of that big ol’ farmhouse ’fore I’d resort to livin’ in a twelve by twelve room.”
Uncle Clarence never had been one to mince words when it came to Sam’s mother. He couldn’t fight back the grin. “You don’t live with her.”
“Thank the good Lord for that!”
Truth was, Sam had been giving serious thought to approaching Mercy Evans about her need for a husband. As far as he could tell, he’d be her best bet. Just that morning, while sipping a tin mug of hot coffee over at Juanita’s Café, a dingy little hangout where the local laborers liked to gather before heading to their job sites, he’d overheard a few men jawing at another table. “If I weren’t married m’self, I’d offer up my services to that pretty little Evans dame. That one’s a looker.” This from the rough-and-tumble Bill Jarman, who worked over at the tanning factory. Several men had added their two cents on the matter, one middle-aged fellow joking that it might be worth a divorce, and one old codger saying, “Divorce nothin’. My wife died five years ago. I been thinkin’ on startin’ over with someone.”
Juanita Mendez, the healthily plump owner of the establishment, had sauntered over with a tray of breakfast buns, her black hair done up in its usual braided knot at the nape of her neck, her long red skirts whooshing around her chubby ankles. “You boys don’t stand a chance,” she’d said in her machine-gun-fast
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