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Authors: Lori Copeland
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firm no, but another part, one he identified as plain ol’ curiosity, was eager to hear her response. The woman’s almost skeletal frame settled back against the couch.
“No. Just always favored the name Beatrice.”
“Maybe you like it because the name brings back fond memories of someone you once knew,” Mae reasoned.
“Miss Pauline—”
She stopped him. “Call me Auntie.”
For the time being he’d comply with her request. “Auntie.” If the clothes didn’t make him feel like a buffoon, saying the name sealed it. He felt about as foolish as judging a horse by its harness. “Do you have any idea why you had my name and address in your desk drawer?” The cat that sat before the fire suddenly got up and leaped into his lap, and then he promptly climbed Tom’s shirt and curled around his neck.
Pauline drew back, seemingly affronted. “I don’t have your name in my desk drawer.”
Slipping to the edge of the couch, Mae explained, “Remember a while back when we straightened your desk? I took the liberty of writing down a name and address I found there. I wasn’t being nosey. I was simply trying to locate your kin.”
Pauline’s eyes were now fixed on Tom, studying him from head to toe. The woodstove pumped heat into the already sweltering room, and sweat beaded his forehead. Maybe she was in her right mind momentarily and was trying to make the connection. Long moments stretched before she spoke.
“Sonny?”
“Yes…Auntie?”
“Who does your sewing?”
He glanced down at his clothing and hoped for the strength to get through this humiliation. “I…tore my shirt pocket, and Miss Mae kindly mended it for me.”
Pauline’s sharp gaze switched to Mae. “This is your idea of sewing?”
“Oh, no. That’s Papa’s shirt. And pants.”
A frowned deepened Pauline’s already creased forehead. Shaking her head, she tsked. “Honey, your papa’s been gone a spell. I recall the day we laid him to rest. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. There was a dark thundercloud in the west, and the pastor had to cut the preaching short before the storm moved in. I was wearing a new pair of shoes—black—and a fine hat that was frilly but had a black ribbon tied around the rim. I was torn between getting my shoes muddy and my new hat wet and paying proper respect to your papa.”
Tom glanced at Mae. The woman could recall all of that but couldn’t remember her kin? And even if she wasn’t his kin, he was beginning to feel an obligation.
Another sneeze made its way to the surface, then another and another. As he lifted his borrowed handkerchief to his nose he noticed again the scent of jasmine that lingered on delicate cloth and wondered why the pretty Miss Wilkey had never married.
Eight
T he sun was slanting to the west when Mae and Tom let themselves out.
Mae walked in silence with Mr. Curtis, uncertainty bothering her. Had she made the proper connection between dear Pauline and this man? She’d caught both Tom and Pauline staring at each other for long periods during the afternoon, and she could practically see the wheels turning in Mr. Curtis’ head. He struggled with the idea of lost kin as hardily as Pauline gleefully accepted her newfound family.
While they sat there, two hours passed before the older woman finally settled in her chair and dropped off to sleep mid-conversation. They quietly got up to leave and softly closed the door behind them. Mae glanced up at Tom Curtis. As he settled the quilt about him again, she noticed how the borrowed shirt pulled tight, amplifying his broad shoulders. She broke the awkward silence as they stepped off the porch and into the street. “Um…where do you plan to stay? I would offer accommodations, but I’m afraid I don’t have the room.” She’d slept on Jeremey’s pallet until her younger brother came along. Father didn’t have funds to build another room, so she’d made her pallet on the other side of the stove until Father
“No. Just always favored the name Beatrice.”
“Maybe you like it because the name brings back fond memories of someone you once knew,” Mae reasoned.
“Miss Pauline—”
She stopped him. “Call me Auntie.”
For the time being he’d comply with her request. “Auntie.” If the clothes didn’t make him feel like a buffoon, saying the name sealed it. He felt about as foolish as judging a horse by its harness. “Do you have any idea why you had my name and address in your desk drawer?” The cat that sat before the fire suddenly got up and leaped into his lap, and then he promptly climbed Tom’s shirt and curled around his neck.
Pauline drew back, seemingly affronted. “I don’t have your name in my desk drawer.”
Slipping to the edge of the couch, Mae explained, “Remember a while back when we straightened your desk? I took the liberty of writing down a name and address I found there. I wasn’t being nosey. I was simply trying to locate your kin.”
Pauline’s eyes were now fixed on Tom, studying him from head to toe. The woodstove pumped heat into the already sweltering room, and sweat beaded his forehead. Maybe she was in her right mind momentarily and was trying to make the connection. Long moments stretched before she spoke.
“Sonny?”
“Yes…Auntie?”
“Who does your sewing?”
He glanced down at his clothing and hoped for the strength to get through this humiliation. “I…tore my shirt pocket, and Miss Mae kindly mended it for me.”
Pauline’s sharp gaze switched to Mae. “This is your idea of sewing?”
“Oh, no. That’s Papa’s shirt. And pants.”
A frowned deepened Pauline’s already creased forehead. Shaking her head, she tsked. “Honey, your papa’s been gone a spell. I recall the day we laid him to rest. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. There was a dark thundercloud in the west, and the pastor had to cut the preaching short before the storm moved in. I was wearing a new pair of shoes—black—and a fine hat that was frilly but had a black ribbon tied around the rim. I was torn between getting my shoes muddy and my new hat wet and paying proper respect to your papa.”
Tom glanced at Mae. The woman could recall all of that but couldn’t remember her kin? And even if she wasn’t his kin, he was beginning to feel an obligation.
Another sneeze made its way to the surface, then another and another. As he lifted his borrowed handkerchief to his nose he noticed again the scent of jasmine that lingered on delicate cloth and wondered why the pretty Miss Wilkey had never married.
Eight
T he sun was slanting to the west when Mae and Tom let themselves out.
Mae walked in silence with Mr. Curtis, uncertainty bothering her. Had she made the proper connection between dear Pauline and this man? She’d caught both Tom and Pauline staring at each other for long periods during the afternoon, and she could practically see the wheels turning in Mr. Curtis’ head. He struggled with the idea of lost kin as hardily as Pauline gleefully accepted her newfound family.
While they sat there, two hours passed before the older woman finally settled in her chair and dropped off to sleep mid-conversation. They quietly got up to leave and softly closed the door behind them. Mae glanced up at Tom Curtis. As he settled the quilt about him again, she noticed how the borrowed shirt pulled tight, amplifying his broad shoulders. She broke the awkward silence as they stepped off the porch and into the street. “Um…where do you plan to stay? I would offer accommodations, but I’m afraid I don’t have the room.” She’d slept on Jeremey’s pallet until her younger brother came along. Father didn’t have funds to build another room, so she’d made her pallet on the other side of the stove until Father
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