Walk away. Just turn around and walk away. I won’t stop you. Please, just take the decision out of my hands.
As his words echoed around them, Cookie stared down into Fiona’s eyes, so close that even in this half-light from the kitchen he could see the long lashes framing her incredulity, that mouth shaped so much like another’s. Wide and capable of passionate kisses or lightning quick scorn, where laughter or tender admonishments could equally escape. So close he could take those lips, experience first-hand which response he would be awarded. Perhaps recreate that heaven he’d once had, a lifetime ago, as the man he’d once been.
Or free-fall back into the abyss that had been his life for nearly twenty years, as the man he’d fashioned out of what was left.
He raised his eyes to hers, resisted the growing urge to taste her, but not really her, satisfied himself instead with touching her hair. Gently tugged some strands loose from the chignon she’d fashioned it into, smoothed them through his fingers like skeins of finest silk. And maintained their tenuous connection with his pleading gaze.
“Aye, you’ve got the right of it, Cookie,” she whispered in response to his warning. “But I do know what you’re not capable of.” Her eyes held his, like two small hands gripping him as he hung over the yawning maw of his own creation. He clung to that fragile lifeline, sensed rather than saw when she clasped gentle fingers around his larger ones as they sifted her loosened tresses. Stilled his movements with a soothing touch. She turned his hand over, bent and softly kissed the palm. Closed his fingers over it.
Startled at the unexpected caress, his gaze dropped momentarily to that burned flesh before returning to her face. Met her eyes on a caught breath.
“You could no more hurt me, me darlin’,” she whispered in that melodic brogue, “than I could never lose me temper. You know that to be true. We have a connection, you and I. I’ve felt it from the start. So don’t go threatenin’ me with weapons not in yer arsenal, Cookie me dearest.” She attempted the ghost of a smile, but it was the accent that did him in, that one difference that set them miles apart.
Angered to be reminded of that fact, he abruptly flung her hand away, swung around and stalked off perhaps ten feet before pivoting and facing her once more. He knew his expression was full of pain, could hide it no longer. On a hoarse cry of anguish he ordered, “Don’t call me that, for Christ’s sake. That’s not me. My name is Brody. Dr. Broderick Westfield. Say it. Say it, one damn time, so I can remember who I am. Who I was. Who I’m not.” This last seeped out on an escaped sob.
Mortified, he paced farther into the shadows of the dining room, stared unseeingly at the drawn window shade. Inhaled deep, suffocating breaths of the tainted air around him. At last dropped his head to stare at his shoes, where the left-over pieces of his heart lay shattered.
And then two feminine arms slid around his waist, thin but strong as they pulled him bodily against her slim frame. He could feel her heartbeat thrum through him, felt her lay her cheek against his back. Sucked in a steadying breath that only prolonged his self-made prison of a life.
Her small hands moved up to cover his heart, or at least where it had once been, and she said against his back, “Brody. Dr. Broderick Westfield. A fine name, to be sure. But not for the strong man I’ve come to know.” And she placed a soft kiss where her head lay. The shock of it burned straight through him, sent his hands to clasp hers, to hold the sensation within him, when he felt sure it would explode through his very core.
He stared down at their joined hands, willed himself to turn in her embrace, take for himself those wide lips, drown in the depths of those eyes, conceal his memories in the thickness of that red hair—
But it wouldn’t be her he’d be making love to. It wouldn’t be Fiona O’Toole’s name he’d be sighing, or even her he’d be seeing. He would be using her for another, using her when it wasn’t even her that he pined for. And the honorable man that he’d been, that still lived deep within his crusty outer shell, couldn’t exploit Fiona for his own selfish purposes.
And so, on another frustrated growl, he pulled free from her warmth, from the comfort she promised. Turned to face her, backed up unsteadily and shook his head when she made to follow.
“Don’t,” he croaked. “I only have so much will-power, so don’t. It’s not you I’m wantin’. It’s not you I’d be seein’. It’s her, dammit, it’s always been her, and I won’t hurt you just to bring her back.
“Because, no matter how much I pretend, or wish it, you aren’t her, and I’d be foolin’ myself to think anything different.”
He stared at her across the dark space, backed up as she slowly approached, was sure he heard the crunch of the pieces of his heart under his boots. As she followed his retreat and stepped into the fall of light from the kitchen doorway, it was uncanny how much she resembled the other. It would be so easy to—
No! He shook his head vehemently at her, backed into the wall by the kitchen entrance as she stopped right before him, not a foot of space separating them. He looked pleadingly down into her face, felt the sting of frustrated tears in his eyes. Hated the thought of becoming a sobbing mess of an old man before her.
“Who am I to you, Brody?” She whispered, looking up into his face. “Who do you think of when you see me? What is our connection?”
He closed his eyes at the sound of his real name off her lips, leaned his head against the wall and sighed a sigh of defeat. The time had come. He’d known it as soon as he’d laid eyes on her that his lifetime of pretense had come to an end. He would have to face his personal demons at last, no longer let them ride him and flog him through the rest of his days. It was a blessing and a curse.
Unable to look her in the eyes, he kept his closed, but her use of his given name drove him to say hers for the first time. He went around his explanation the backwards way, to gather courage for what was to come.
“You deserve better than me, Fiona. Better than an old man, a brittle shell of what he once was. You deserve a young, strapping man, like that idiot Townsend, though not an idiot. Certainly not an old fossil playin’ Pygmalion.”
He forced himself to open his eyes now, to look into her face as he sought absolution. She may not be the one, but she definitely meant the most to him of anyone he’d ever met since her, and consequently deserved his complete honesty and attention.
She’d cocked her head at his reference to Pygmalion. Please, God, let her know to what he referred, so he wouldn’t have to explain. He didn’t think he could last that long otherwise. Her very appearance sent him see-sawing between present and past already. He forged on, holding her gaze as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did. He knew his sanity did.
“You are the spittin’ image of my Sadie, my wife, the one woman I’ve always loved. And I killed her.”
##
Fiona didn’t even blink, though his admission shocked her to the core. A killer? Cookie? Grumpy, grouchy, sweet Cookie? He’d killed his wife? Was that why he lived alone up here in the wilderness? Why wasn’t he languishing in a jail? Was this his own personal form of confinement?
She stared into his eyes as they held hers with a trace of self-mockery. Angled back as his head was, she couldn’t read his expression quite as clearly. But she knew he’d meant to shock her. Well, he had. But she wasn’t ready to give up on him yet. Oh, no. The Irish, the O’Toole’s, were made of heartier stock than that. So instead she leaned closer, tilted her head to look up at him and whispered, “That’s a barrel of malarkey you’re spewin’, Brody Westfield, an’ I’ll have none of it.”
She reached up and touched the side of his face. Watched his eyes close automatically, felt the tremor go through him.
“Now, take my hand an’ let’s sit down over yonder, an’ you can tell me why you think you killed your beloved. And don’t be thinkin’ of shockin’ me with some of your half-truths again. You’ll have to get up earlier than you do to beat an Irish woman at her own game.”
She suited actions to words and took hold of his limp hand, pulled him behind her with no reluctance on his part. He seemed to have lost the will to fight. She pulled out two chairs from a table near the kitchen, heard him drop into one on a grunt. Turning to face him she asked peremptorily, “Do you want a cup of tea? I’m feelin’ the need.”
He’d sank down into his chair like a balky student ready for a dressing down, long legs splayed before him, one hand wiping down his face, the other resting uselessly on the table top. He turned toward her when she spoke, roused enough to growl, “Don’t think you kin take over my kitchen at the first sign of weakness, li’l girl.”
She grinned, felt relief swoop through her body like a whirlwind. They weren’t where they’d been before, but she’d sassed him back from the edge of the precipice he’d been teetering on. She’d take it.
Ignoring his last words, she strode into his spotless kitchen, snagging the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the other table as she went. And upended it into the sink. After setting the teapot to boil over quickly stirred embers, she busied herself finding two cups and the tea leaves she knew he kept. As the pot began to rattle, she heard him growl from the outer room, “An’ don’t be dumpin’ my personal stock down the sink. That’s for medicinal purposes.”
Too late, she mouthed, grinning uncontrollably, feeling the pressure around her heart ease some more. She’d been so afraid a few minutes ago. Not afraid of Cookie. Never that. Afraid that their relationship would turn a corner neither one of them wanted to go around. She needed Cookie as a friend, a mentor, the father she missed. And he needed the same from her.
He didn’t want a lover, still wasn’t ready for one. She understood this, could see it better than he did himself. But what he did need she was ready to give. Understanding, compassion, and friendship. An everlasting friendship. And so she quickly poured the hot water through the leaves in his strainer, and carried the two mugs back into the dining room.
He hadn’t moved a muscle, looked almost asleep in the chair, with his head bowed till his chin touched his chest. His breathing was deeper, more relaxed, and she paused in the doorway, wondered if he’d indeed fallen asleep. But then he raised his head, speared her with his dark eyes and barked without bite, “Bring me my tea, ye red-haired harpy. You promised me some.”
Her grin broadened, and she sashayed forward, put the two mugs onto the table and sat at right angles to him. Put one hand around her cup, and rest the other on top of his as it lay on the table top. “That I did, boy-o. Now drink up.” She curled her fingers around his, hoped to give him strength for what would obviously be a hard tale to repeat.
He took a sip of the tea, probably burned his tongue for he set it down with a sharp plunk, and tightened his grip on her hand as it rest in his. And then he cleared his throat and began to speak, staring at their clasped hands.
“I met Sadie when I was still in medical school down in Richmond. Fell in love with her before I even knew who she was, before she even knew who I was. One look was all it took for me to know she’d be the mother of my children, my partner in life. I was older than most of those wet-behind-the-ears schoolboys, had taken a little while to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. But it didn’t take me no time to figure out she would be mine.”
He continued to stare at their clasped hands, letting the silence wrap around them like a familiar cloak. Fiona waited patiently.
“Our courtship was fast. She was on the same page as me, wanted me as much as I wanted her. Didn’t matter to her that I came from up north, though her daddy made some squawking noises. But Sadie knew what she wanted, and thank God it was me.” He paused, took another, slower taste of his tea. Fiona did also, found herself mesmerized by his simple way of story-telling. Found it easy to imagine a young Cookie, a Cookie in love. Knew she would have fallen for him, too. Hadn’t she really now, except for the ghost of his wife between them?
He continued.
“Seeing the way it was between us, her father relented. Gave us his blessing. We were married soon after. Couldn’t wait to get our hands on each other.” Here he abruptly stopped, realized who he was talking to. Shot her an apologetic look that she took in her stride, though she felt herself blush. He looked away, into the past once more.
“Pardon me, Miss O’Toole. I’ll just say we were compatible in every way an’ leave it at that.” He sat up, slid his hand from hers to cup his mug with both hands. Stared into its murky depths.
“We lived on her daddy’s plantation till I got my diploma. An’ then I was invited to take a position at a New York hospital. I accepted immediately, without discussing it with Sadie first. Lord, she was mad.” He looked up at Fiona, held her gaze, though his softened as he looked upon her.
“She looked just like you, girl, right down to the red hair, an’ had a temper to match, which I’m bettin’ yore no stranger to, either, eh?”
Fiona couldn’t help but grin, even as she understood the answer to one question. Her appearance reminded him of his late wife. Meeting his gaze, she shrugged, took a sip of her cooling brew. “Guilty as charged, guv’nor,” she drawled, bringing an answering smile to his face.
“O’ course I cajoled her out of her snit. I was a persuasive cuss back then, I’ll have you know, and soon we was packin’ up and movin’ north. She cried off an’ on for six months, lonely as all get out because I was too busy makin’ a name for myself, workin’ round the clock. I’m surprised she stayed with me.” He settled into another silence, so long Fiona thought she might have to shake him, but then he heaved a breath and continued, with less confidence now.
He told how Sadie had slowly made friends with the other doctors’ wives, how she’d become just as popular in New York as she’d been in Richmond. How, even with his crazy hours, she’d gotten pregnant. He managed to convey just how in love they still were.
Fiona found herself captivated by this tale of a younger Cookie, a man so in love with his wife, even though he’d often acted selfish. She wished she could have met Sadie, the woman who loved and accepted him, faults and all. Wished she could meet her now, tell her what a wonderful man her husband had become. Could only show him in the way she treated him.
And then he reached the War years, and his voice hitched. He sat up in his chair, moved restlessly until Fiona grasped one of his hands and held it, tight. He returned her gesture, clung to her grip like a drowning man. But still he talked.
“I joined the war effort even though I was in my forties. Was sure all my experience would help stop the carnage we were hearing about back in the city. Ignored Sadie’s tears once again. Didn’t even consider the fact that she was all alone. Our sons had enlisted, and now, bein’ the stupid, arrogant asshole that I was, I joined up, too. Left her with a kiss and a promise to return. I kept that promise. But she was gone.”
Once more he dropped silent, staring at the tabletop where their hands remained tightly entwined, blinking rapidly. Fiona tightened her grip on his fingers.
“She contracted scarlet fever while I was off saving the Union. And died. Died alone and broken-hearted, her entire family gone to fight the Rebels, while she fought for her life by herself. She lost. She lost that personal war, and her husband was a damn doctor, no less! I could have saved her life if I’d been there. Instead I was sawin’ off legs and stitchin’ up stomachs of boys that went right back out onto the battlefield and got killed anyway.”
At last he looked up into Fiona’s face, tears shimmering in his eyes, tears he’d fought off for nearly twenty years, she imagined. Felt her own water in response to the desolation she spied in their depths.
“I killed her. I killed my Sadie with my neglect, with my ignorance, and with the supreme conceit that I was the best doctor the Union army would ever have.” He swallowed loudly in the silence of the dark restaurant.
“Those were the words her father said to me when I returned, anyways, months after her death. He’d had to bury his daughter alone. Took her body back to Richmond and laid her to rest there. None of her family, her sons or her husband, had been present. We’d all been busy getting killed or making names for ourselves.”
He paused, and this time the tears overflowed, rolled down his lined face unchecked. Fiona wept as well, holding his hand so tight, unable to stem the sorrow she felt for this man, this loving, sensitive man who had carried a cross of guilt for twenty years.
“I’d returned with the news that our boys had been blown to kingdom come at Gettysburg. I’d come home to comfort her. Fancy that. I was still in shock from the news of our sons’ deaths when I found our house boarded up. Our neighbors told me what had happened, where Sadie had been taken. And when I got to Richmond, no mean feat during the War, proof of my dedication, you’d think, I was met with blame and stony silence. I was asked to leave and never return. I did. I haven’t. And I went around the bend. Think I’ve been crazy ever since.”
He at last fell silent, the pent-up tears from his past running down his face, sprinkling the rough tabletop and their entwined fingers like a cleansing spring shower. Fiona found herself wiping her own face with her free hand, but more tears joined the first, as she saw Cookie as he had been, not too unlike her own ex-fiancé, Edward Townsend. Full of himself and his accomplishments. Unable to see beyond his own importance. And it gave her insight into her own personality as well. How a simple decision of stay or go could change your entire life, your entire existence as you knew it. It was frightening. Frightening and heart-breaking.
As the silent night stretched on, as Cookie bowed his head to the painful memories and the tears of poor choices and self-recriminations, Fiona slowly rose and moved toward him, wrapped her arms around him. Pulled his head against her chest and kissed the top of his head.
“No one knows the future, Brody,” she whispered, holding him tight. “Everyone can second-guess themselves and wish they’d done something different. That’s human nature. Who knows? If you had stayed, maybe you would have gotten scarlet fever first and died before her anyway. No one knows the future. You did what you thought you had to do at the time. So did your sons. So have I. What we’ve done in our lives has made us what we are now. The most we can do is ask forgiveness for our poor choices. And then forgive ourselves. I think you’ve blamed yourself long enough.”
They remained thus for a long time, Fiona content to hold the man who’d lived with the belief he’d killed his family, when all he’d ever planned to do was save lives. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, rained gentle kisses atop his head, until he eventually made some movement against her to let her know he’d recovered his composure. She stepped back, kept one hand upon his shoulder tentatively. Watched as he scrubbed at his eyes and cleared his throat. Avoided looking at her in the dimness.
Fiona moved around to her own chair, sank into it and knocked back her cold cup of tea. Met his eyes and willed him to maintain their contact. His gaze skittered away a few times, but finally held hers. Some of his signature bravado seeped back into his eyes, even as they also gentled while they roved over her face.
“I’m in danger of fallin’ in love with you, lassie. Y’know that, don’t you?” He said matter-of-factly into her face, leaning back in his chair and looking more relaxed than he had all night. She smiled slightly with a nod.
“As I am for you, Dr. Westfield. But we both know t’would be for the wrong reasons. No matter how much I look like her, I’m not Sadie, and you’d eventually grow disappointed with me because of that.”
“Not a chance,” he demurred, but without conviction. She continued.
“And me? I’m still cursedly infatuated with that peacock who sent for me, me darlin’. I’m afraid we’re both afflicted with no common sense at all. T’would make a wretched match, to be sure.” She held his gaze for long seconds while her words sank in, and then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed. She joined him, the tightness in her stomach dissipating somewhat with their mirth.
At last he straightened in his chair, leaned forward slightly as he studied her in the light from the kitchen doorway. Cocked his head in his perusal. She waited, knew he had something else to say.
“Yore wise beyond yore years, missy. The wisdom of Solomon blended with the beauty of Cleopatra? That’s an irresistible combination. Townsend’s definitely an idiot.” His eyes followed her as she stood and nodded in agreement. He rose also, pushed his chair in as she formulated her response.
“Aye, that he is, Brody. But me heart hasn’t recognized that fact yet.” She watched as he moved around the table to stand before her, saw his eyes rove her face tenderly. Waited while he smoothed back the hair he’d pulled from her chignon, traced her cheek softly with his forefinger. Finally he met her gaze, gave a lop-sided grin.
“Take it from me, li’l girl. The heart is an over-rated organ. It’s best to leave it simply as the body’s engine, and not give it more power than it deserves.”
They looked into each other’s eyes with matching smiles, and at last Fiona reached out and grasped his shoulders, stood on tip-toe and lightly kissed him on the cheek. Then turned to the connecting door between their two establishments. Stopped on its threshold and looked over her shoulder at him.
He stood watching her, once more in his familiar, straight-shouldered stance, a tender smile on his face. She smiled back and whispered, “Good night, Brody.”
“G’night, missy. An’ it’s Cookie. Brody’s from another time, another place.”
She shook her head. “You can’t be one without the other, darlin’. But your secret’s safe with me.” She moved on into her dark shop, closed the door soundlessly on a smile of satisfaction. They’d come to an understanding, a turning point in their relationship. She’d helped him meet his ghosts head-on, and in doing so had strengthened their bond. She was in no danger of losing his friendship now. She couldn’t have born it.
Just as she reached her front door to go out and around to the back stairs to her apartment, she heard him bellow exasperatedly, “Dammit girl, I told you not to pour it down the sink!”
She laughed gaily into the night.
##
“I’m glad you were able to come with me today, Eddie,” Emmaline said as they shuffled along the back row of Farley’s Mercantile Saturday morning. When Noah had asked Edward yesterday if he would accompany Emmie on her weekly shopping trip since he would be off training two recalcitrant plow mules, Edward had jumped at the chance. He hated shopping for himself, by himself. It took away time he’d rather spend on other things, like fishing or reading.
But going with his niece and sister was more fun. Emmaline managed to talk to people, weasel out information from town folk about what was going on in town, and Becky was a constant source of amusement. Once in a while he came close to starting a life of crime, though, when he’d find little Becky clutching some toy or knick-knack that she’d managed to spirit out of the store without purchasing. More than once Edward had to run back inside to sheepishly pay Mr. Farley for a purloined object, facing that man’s puckered countenance with grinning guilt.
Today he carried his niece while his sister plopped necessary items into the large basket she toted. Edward had worn his bowler hat, and Becky was having fun twisting it around on his head till he wasn’t sure he would know if he was coming or going. He loved every minute of her attention.
“I’m glad, too,” he said. “Having you do my shopping is a real boon.”
“I bet. You never did like wasting time doing ‘women’s work.’” Emmie stopped at the rolls of ribbon, began fingering them immediately.
“Apparently Noah doesn’t like to, either,” Edward observed slyly, unable to see momentarily because Becky had shoved his hat over his eyes sloppily. “Hey, who put out the lights?” He interrupted himself, swiveling his head back and forth and receiving delighted giggles from his niece.
Emmie pushed his hat back off his forehead on a fake growl of annoyance. “You and Noah really should stop spoiling her, Eddie. She’s going to be incorrigible when she gets older.”
Edward looked up at his grinning niece as she perched in his arms, grabbed one of her tiny hands in his mouth and sucked her fingers till she squealed, turning heads sharply in the store.
“Incorrigible? Too big of a word for us, isn’t it, Becky-Lou?” Her high-pitched giggle brought an answering smile to his face.
“This ribbon is beautiful. If I bought it, I wonder if Fiona could add it to one of my old hats?” Emmie mused, dropping the subject as she admired the lovely grosgrain strip. Edward’s eyes flew to his sister’s face at the mention of his ex-fiancé, wondered if she was goading him, but her gaze was busy calculating the length of ribbon and how much she should buy.
Tossing a look over the trimming in question, he said off-handedly, “That should be easy enough for you to do yourself.” Why give Fiona O’Toole extra money?
“Of course you’d say that,” Em snorted. “You don’t want her to succeed.--”
“That’s not true,” he lied strenuously. Of course a part of him wanted her to fail. The little, selfish, nasty part of him that wanted to prove himself right in Fiona’s eyes. But the larger part of him just wished he could forget about her, period. And that was growing harder to accomplish.
“And you may get your wish,” his sister continued. His eyes roved her face. He felt his stomach clench at her news, so casually imparted. Wondered why one moment he was hoping he’d be proven right, and the next he hated the idea of her dream being squashed. What the hell was wrong with him?
“How so?” He asked cautiously, handing a spool of thread up to Becky absently.
“I visited her in the shop the other day and she told me so. Said she was doing more mending than hat-making, and she was kinda sad about that. Said she missed creating.”
Emmie had narrowed her eyes accusingly on Edward at this point, and he snapped defensively, “What? Why are you looking at me like that? I didn’t send all that mending to her.” A tangled of unrolled thread suddenly dropped into his face, and he blew it out of the way distractedly.
“No, you didn’t. But because you cancelled the wedding, now she has to rely on herself for money, and has to make ends meet any way she can.” Her disapproving tone rankled.
With the thread dangling in his eyes, he snapped, “That’s what she wanted, Em. She wanted a store and a business first. Me and a home second. Wasn’t it always you who said to be careful what you wish for?”
“That was you, you idiot,” she growled, her attention finally snagged by the mess her daughter was making of the thread spool. Reaching up, she snatched the glob out of her daughter’s hands, setting that girl to crying. Loudly. Immediately.
“Hush, Rebecca,” she admonished, sharply rolling the thread back around the spool while Edward hastily nuzzled his beleaguered niece with his nose, trying to cajole her out of her snit.
“Well, whoever said it, it’s true,” he concluded. “Fiona wanted to be a businesswoman. That’s what she is. With the ups and downs of the trade market that go with it.” As his niece arched her back and succumbed to one of her mini-tirades at full volume, Edward lowered her and thrust her at her mother. He was learning patience, but still could take only so much screeching.
“Becky-love,” he raised his voice to be heard over her indignant squalling, “go with your mama. Sis, I’ll buy this stuff, even the ribbon. Just take her outside.” Good grief, everyone in the store was looking at them, he was sure of it. As Emmie shot him a fulminating look and stomped out of the mercantile with her red-faced and screaming child, Edward subsided against the bolts of fabric and wiped his face.
Phew, how one child could cause such an uproar he didn’t understand. She’d been positively ferocious. Maybe there was something to Emmaline’s request not to spoil her daughter. And maybe he was too old to have children, because he was sure his would do the same thing at some point. But then, that’s why he hadn’t wanted a working wife. So she could deal with the tantrums and child-rearing. Weren’t women more used to it than men, anyway? Wasn’t it, sort of, ingrained in them?
Whether that was true or not, he realized he’d been ready to buy Rebecca the entire display, hell, the whole store, just to shut her up. And even he, confirmed bachelor that he was, knew that would not solve the tantrum problem.
Picking up the roll of ribbon Emmie had been admiring, Edward tossed around in his head the information that Fiona’s business was floundering. How did he feel about that? Certainly relieved, vindicated, even, that he’d been right all along about a single woman running a store. But added to that relief was disappointment, and Edward wondered at that sentiment, poked at it while he smoothed his hair beneath his bowler.
Why should he be disappointed that Fiona was not making a go of her establishment? Why did his stomach clench with the growing desire to march over to her store and apologize for the people that weren’t buying her wares? Why did he want to find some sort of hat, any hat, and just buy it from her? Hadn’t he wanted her to fall on her face in her gutsy endeavor? Hadn’t he wanted to say “I told you so”?
The funny thing was, he hadn’t felt that way since he’d cooled down directly after their initial blow-out. He’d simply closed his mind to her shenanigans, except for their few subsequent volatile run-ins. But even then he hadn’t wished her harm. He’d just wished she’d go away, to stop being a reminder, a reminder of—
“That was certainly close, wasn’t it, Mr. Townsend?”
Edward nearly jumped out of his clothes at the quivery voice by his side. Turning swiftly, he found two elderly women standing near him. He’d forgotten their names, had only seen them upside down on their withdrawal slips at the bank. If he had a minute, he could place them, but they were barreling on with their discussion, not giving him time to respond.
“Children take a firm hand, and I’m glad to see your sister can administer the proper punishment,” the first old biddy said, sniffing. She wore a cute little hat that Edward suspected was one of Fiona’s creations. It was too smart for this old bat’s graying head, anyway, covered with netting and sparkly dots all around the brim as it was.
“My, but you are right, Clarice. And you, sir, are one lucky gentleman to have escaped the noose of a poor union,” the other gray-head observed, slapping him in the chest with her folded spectacles. He roused himself enough to respond, feeling more like a caught animal backed into this corner of the store, surrounded by two blood-thirsty cats.
“Oh? How so?” He asked weakly.
“Why, that O’Toole woman. Sweet enough, and quite a good craftswoman. But much too loose in the morals department. Would have made a terrible wife, I do declare.”
“Oh, my, yes, Edith. I’ve seen her stepping out with at least four different men, last week alone! Not to mention hanging about Cookie’s restaurant at all hours of the day and night.” Clarice, Edward thought her name was, sniffed judgmentally.
The words she uttered surprised him for two reasons. One, that Fiona found the time to go out with that many men in one week, running a business and all, and two, that she had moved on before he had. He’d been the one to cancel their engagement, after all. Shouldn’t she still be pining for him?
And then he looked into the pouched and gimlet eyes of the speakers, and a queasy, nasty feeling began to grow in the pit of his stomach. They were hinting at improprieties that he knew without a doubt Fiona O’Toole would not partake in. Had she not stopped him in his advances, and they’d been betrothed?
These two slanderers were ready to spread malicious gossip, and thought he would be the proper vessel in which to spew their vitriol. The curious spear of jealousy he experienced at the thought of Fiona in the arms of another notwithstanding, he couldn’t stand here and listen to their malicious blather. He made to move, but one of the old ladies planted herself before him and gazed directly into his face.
“You’re one lucky young man, Edward Townsend. That Miss O’Toole is going to find herself in quite a pickle one day, flaunting herself around town on the arm of a different man every day of the week. Why, men don’t take kindly to sharing, do they, Clarice?” She glanced at her witchy partner. That old bat nodded sagely. Edward slid along the wall, intent on escape.
“She’s liable to find herself fending off unwelcome advances, if she doesn’t change her behavior,” Clarice agreed. “But then, that’s foreigners for you. They don’t have the same moral values as the rest of us. You need to court your own kind, Mr. Townsend,” she finished self-importantly, while the angry buzzing in Edward’s head rose to deafening proportions. He could barely see the two women through the haze of anger cloaking his vision. Harsh words bubbled up out from the vicinity of his heart, churned past his throat, the vision of innocent, wide-mouthed, green-eyed Fiona O’Toole floating before his eyes. It was just ludicrous what these two women were implying!
He turned to say just that to these two vindictive bitches, when, out of the corner of his eye he spied a flurry of movement, felt a disturbance in the air. Realized with a plummeting feeling in his stomach that he had not imagined the sight of Miss Fiona O’Toole staring at him through his haze of anger. She had been present just on the other side of the bolts of cloth, had heard every word this dried up duo had said. And now she’d taken flight.
Rounding on his uninvited companions he spat furiously, “Stop spreading hateful lies, you foul-mouthed, shriveled old hags! You know nothing of Miss O’Toole’s background. You have no right to sit in judgment of her, to ruin her good name with your narrow-minded, pig-headed opinions. Swallow your poison and ride out of here on your broomsticks. I won’t be a party to your slander,” and then he shoved them both aside, dropped the basket he’d taken from Emmaline earlier, and chased after his ex-fiancé.
He barreled out the mercantile’s front door bare seconds after Fiona, yet she was nowhere in sight. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the steps, coat belling out around him as he looked up and down the street. No one. No one except his sister, sitting on the bench with a red-faced Becky in her lap, both of them looking toward the river. Emmie turned at his noisy appearance, stared up into his face questioningly.
“Did she go to the river?” He demanded, breathing harshly from the fury still coursing through him.
“Yes, but--”
“Not now, Em. Sorry,” and he took off in the direction she indicated, determined to catch up with Fiona, his polished boots pounding in the dirt street. No way was he going to allow her to think he’d been a party to that octogenarian ambush. No way in hell.
A/N: Another dreaded cliffie, but Edward deserves time to set things straight. Hope you enjoy the music and picture. As always, vote, comment and follow. I love to hear from all of you!