Cecilia and Gunther

Cecelia and Gunther

 Cecelia straightened her hat, and collected her things in a rush with quivering hands. ( what are her things?) As the train slowed, she made her way to the front, thin hips slapping the sides of the velvet covered seats.

It was sparsely occupied car, but the gentleman in the overcoat and top hat who had nodded when they reboarded at ............ waited as she passed.He was a prosperous looking man, handlebar mustache, fine wool coat with brass buttons.

 "Will you need help with your things Ma'am, getting to the hotel?" he asked politely. 

"I- No, sir, but thank you. I'm. . Guther Goodman is to meet me," she said, wondering if her voice sounded sweet, like a wife's, or crisp and firm, like a school marm's.

"Ah, Gunther Goodman, yes, good man," he said, stretching out a gloved hand in a greeting as the train screeched to a  halt. "I'm Peter Allman," he said, his low tone handsome and modulated. "You're a relation of the family, then?" 

"No, a friend. I'm. . Bridgette Goodman is. . was. . a good friend," Cecelia said, reddening as she stumbled over her words. "We were. . She and I, we corresponded, these past years. Her death was a terrible shock. I'm here to help. . " 

Cecilia Louise Maplethorpe had not stumbled over her words since primer spelling, since her first time in the front of one room schoolhouse on the Kansas Praire, a sparse furnished room that had included Gunther, two years older, a wise smile 'neath his blond hair in the third row, boys side, and Bridgette, on the girl's side, who occupied the seat next to the one Cecelia had just vacated, her golden braids wrapped atop her head, just as she would all those happy childhood years, until they were seventeen, Gunther gone already, to Green Junction, Colorado alone, to work the trains. 

Bridgette, a storekeepers daughter, had always worn calico and pinafores and hair barrettes beyond Cecilia Maplethorpe's wildest dreams.

 Peter spoke cheerfully, a warm smile on his face as he grasped the handle of the heaviest of her bags."You're here to help the family!" 

"Yes," she answered shyly, her voice suddenly choking. She cleared her throat. "I'm here to help Gunther make the best of things. We're to be married," Cecelia murmured, her voice barely a whisper. 

The man let her pass, and followed behind."Married, you say?" Peter smiled, grasping her cold hand with his gloved on, as she alighted the steps and stepped over the cinder track. "Sunday, after the services?"

"No." Cecelia had no idea why she was speaking to this man. But the truth was the truth, no sense hiding from it. "Tonight. In a few minutes, actually. In the hotel lobby." 

"Making the best of the circumstances, I see."

"Yes, I- ," But why would Cecelia tell this man anything? She looked at him, really looked at him, and decided she didn't really like him very much at all. Did she? 

She didn't know, couldn't tell if he was leering, or being friendly. When had she not known how she felt about things? Was this what it would be like, now? 

Her nerves were getting the best of her. They were off the train now, the man still next to her, calm, polite. Searching  through the black of night, seeking a sign of Gunther, her heart raced. 

He'd be alone, he'd written, after leaving the children at the in-laws. 

She summoned her warmest smile, for a stranger, that is. "Good Evening, Sir."