The next morning Richard Hudson came home whistling. Earlier, when Diamond and Crystal arrived, he had put them to work cleaning bathrooms. Then he drove over to Mrs. Carcano’s house, picked her up, and took her to Doolin’s for coffee and rolls. After a very pleasant hour, he was home again.
He strode into his house still whistling and went to his study. He flipped on the computer, then took off his coat and hat and hung them on the rack. He flexed his fingers while he thought about Prince Ziad. He saw the story now, saw his characters, the situation, how the action had to go, saw precisely how he could bring this tale to a smashing climax that would leave the readers gasping.
Whistling aimlessly, he dropped into his chair at the desk and started tapping the keys.
He was hard at it some time later when he realized Diamond Ice was standing behind him reading over his shoulder.
He pushed a button to save what he had written. She put her hands on his shoulders and began a slow massage.
He pushed her away. “We need to have a serious talk.”
“So talk, sweet man.”
“You, Crystal, and me. In the living room. Would you ask her to come, please?”
When they were seated in the living room facing him, he dropped the bomb. “There is another woman.”
The sisters looked at each other, then fastened their gaze upon him, dumbfounded.
His announcement was a bold stroke. Daring, even. And he had thought it up himself, a fact of which he was rather proud. He had cleared it this morning with Cecile—he called her that now, at her request. “I have a very large favor to ask of you,” he told the minister on the steps of her porch when they returned from Doolin’s. “With your permission, I want to tell the Ice sisters that I have fallen for you, so there is no hope for them.”
Surprise registered on Cecile Carcano’s face. “You understand,” she said, “that tidbit will become the talk of the county?”
“Which is precisely why I have come to you for permission before I tell them. I don’t want to compromise you in any way, nor to damage your reputation. You can always deny that you have any interest in me, truthfully deny it, so it will appear to our many curious neighbors that I am a frustrated suitor.” He smiled hopefully.
When she didn’t reply immediately, he added, “There are a lot of frustrated suitors in Eden, so I’ll be in good company. These people have raised romantic frustration to a high art. Believe me, they understand it, though they understand little else.”
Cecile Carcano seated herself on the top step as she considered his request. “The only problem I see, Richard, is that you are compromising your personal integrity.”
“I don’t think a little white lie is going to scar me,” he said lightly. “After all, I am a professional liar. I tell lies for a living.”
“A personal lie is not fiction written to entertain,” she replied. “And a lie about a matter of the heart is the worst sort of lie. Only you know what you deeply feel. A lie like that will haunt you.”
Richard Hudson didn’t want to hear this. “Let’s concentrate on the effect on you,” he said. “I have a major problem that I hope this will help solve, yet I don’t want to injure you in any way.”
She ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t suppose anyone will be shocked. We are both mature adults, both single, and neither of us has any other romantic attachments.”
“Precisely. That is why I thought of you.”
“But are you sure there is no truth in it?”
“It’s just a ploy, Cecile, although I’ll tell it in such a way that Crystal and Diamond will believe it.”
“I see,” she said, and rose from her seat.
He nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. “May I say it, then?”
“If you believe it will help you.”
“Thank you. You are a very nice lady.” He skipped back to his car and paused by the door to wave.
Now he was using his little tale. The silence grew and grew as the Ice sisters digested the first bite. Crystal was the first to speak.
“Who is it?”
“Mrs. Carcano.”
“The woman preacher?”
“Yes. I have fallen for her. I don’t think she returns my affection, but I have fallen head over heels. She is so wonderful, so decent, so pleasant, so very, very wise…All in all, she is the woman I have looked for all my life. I have finally realized that and, in all honesty, felt that you two should be the first to hear.”
“Doesn’t she know?” Diamond demanded.
“Yes, she does. I have discussed my feelings with her. But…” He let the “but” hang in the air, twisting slowly.
“You can’t control your heart,” Diamond said thoughtfully, hugging herself.
“I hoped you would understand,” Hudson told them warmly, sensing victory. “You are two wonderful human beings, caring, sensitive, with hearts full of love to give, but…” The first “but” worked so well, he decided to loft another.
“I don’t think that I am in love with you, Richard,” Crystal said. “I like you, care for you greatly, and admire you ever so much. Your stories have moved me deeply. I guess I hoped my admiration would grow into love. On my part and yours.”
The bubbling, efflorescent optimism that had fired Richard Hudson all morning vanished in a twinkling. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured. “I’ve always been afraid of that. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I don’t want anyone hurt over me.”
Diamond rose from her chair and reached for her coat. “I think you are also afraid of being hurt, Richard. You think that when a woman sees who you really are—sees the man who hides behind all the words—she will lose interest. That you will be the one in pain.”
She pulled on her coat, then knelt in front of him and placed her hands on his knees. “I don’t think you’ve ever been in love before, Richard Hudson. Love is an opening of the heart, and when the heart is open, it can be hurt. That is the way of it. Nothing can change that reality. Finally, you have opened your heart to Mrs. Carcano, which is good, but you must be brave. Be brave, Richard! Have faith in this fellow human being.”
They left him then.
He wandered around the house feeling so very alone, so guilty. They were two good people and he had hurt them.
He was standing looking out the window when he realized that Cecile Carcano had been correct: He had compromised his integrity. How blithely he had told her that the lie wouldn’t scar him! He recalled those words with bitterness now. Three people had been hurt because he had been willing—eager—to tell a lie: the Ice sisters and Richard Hudson.
He stood staring at the clouds building over the mountains on the horizon thinking about these things.
The ringing telephone brought Sheriff Arleigh Tate out of his doze. He reached for it, but he still had his feet on the desk, and with his ample tummy, there was no way. He got his feet onto the floor, then went for the instrument.
“Sheriff Tate.”
“Sheriff, this is Rose Westfall in the circuit clerk’s office. That civil matter you were waiting for has been filed. It needs to be served.”
“Which lawyer filed it?”
“Hayden Elkins.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” He sighed. “I’ll be right up.”
He checked to ensure his shirttail was tucked in and his trousers were down over his boots, then opened his office door. Delmar Clay was behind his desk, sitting on two pillows, piddling over a report.
“How are those hemorrhoids today, Delmar?”
“Awful sore, Sheriff. Glad I got them doctored, though.”
“Those things can fret a fellow for years if he doesn’t bite the bullet and get them worked on,” the sheriff said politely.
If Delmar attached any significance to the sheriff’s macabre choice of words, he pretended not to. “Be back on patrol in just a few days, so I will.”
Tate leaned forward so he could see Delmar’s face better. “That looks like a nasty bruise on your chin, all purple and yellow. How did you get that?”
“Ran into a door.”
“Oooh, I hope your luck changes soon,” the sheriff rumbled. “It’s good to have you back.” And he strolled out of the office.
The circuit clerk’s office was next to the courtroom, two floors above the sheriff’s office. Tate went in, circled the counter and took the seat beside Rose Westfall’s desk.
“Here it is,” she said, and handed him a complaint and summons.
The sheriff scanned the style of the case. “Lucinda Beach Clay versus Delmar Eugene Clay, an action for the dissolution of marriage.”
“There’s a photo on the back of the complaint,” Rose said. “First one like that that I’ve ever seen.” A nervous giggle escaped her. “The clerk told us not to tell anyone about it.”
Tate flipped to the back page, which was a black-and-white photocopy of a photograph of Delmar watching a woman with her face blacked out climb into the backseat of a sheriff’s cruiser. Neither of them was wearing a stitch. The photocopy was marked EXHIBIT A.
“You know what they say about idle tittle-tattle,” the sheriff cautioned Rose, who he knew to a certainty could be relied upon to broadcast the delicious news of Delmar’s transgression to the farthest reaches of the county before dark this evening. “Still, it does look like Delmar has been sowing some very wild oats. And doing it in a county car, darn it. Guess I’ll have to look into that.”
He scrutinized the photocopy for a long moment, made a tsk-tsk noise with his tongue, and murmured for public consumption, “Poor Mrs. Clay.”
“It’s just amazing,” Rose Westfall said with conviction, “the things that go on around here that a person never suspects!”
“Indeed.”
“And this a Christian community!”
“Boggles the mind.”
The sheriff got out his pen and went to work on the summons. Let’s see, I’ll serve it in three minutes. So put that time in, the date, place will be the sheriff’s office, person serving the summons will be Arleigh Tate, sheriff of Indian River County. He scrawled his signature at the bottom and handed the summons to Rose, who witnessed his signature.
“Thanks.”
“How did you know this complaint was going to be filed, Sheriff?” she asked as he rose from the chair.
The county’s chief law enforcement officer held a finger in front of his lips and shook his head firmly from side to side.
He trooped down the two flights of stairs to the sheriff’s department office. Delmar was still behind his desk sitting on his pillows.
Tate tossed a copy of the complaint and its lurid exhibit in front of the deputy. “You’ve been served,” he said.
Delmar picked up the document and read the caption. His eyes widened. “What the—?”
“Looks like your wife wants a divorce, Delmar. Sorry to see it. These things happen in the best of families, I guess.”
“Well, I’ll be—”
“It’s a shame. Really is. People change as time passes, and we must accept that reality. Probably the best thing for both of you, however. Little hard to see right now, I know, yet I think that you’ll come to that conclusion later. Life marches on.”
Delmar had been scanning the document, and now he arrived at the final page, the photo. His mouth fell open as he stared at it.
“One more thing, Delmar,” the sheriff continued. “It’s obvious from Exhibit A that you’ve been misusing a county car. You’re fired. Give the secretary your badge and gun and be out of here in five minutes. Don’t forget to take the pillows—you’ll probably need them.”
On that happy note Sheriff Arleigh Tate treated himself to a cigar and went home for the day. Although it was only three in the afternoon, he felt he deserved some time off.
“You were right,” Hudson told Cecile Carcano. “I feel guilty.”
The minister didn’t reply. She was sitting at her desk in her tiny office, which had been tacked on to the back of the Eden Chapel several decades ago. In one corner a woodstove leaking smoke fought the chill.
Hudson warmed his hands over the stove as he told Mrs. Carcano about the confrontation with the Ice sisters. “They would probably have given up on me in a few more days. I should have waited.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t take your advice.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to the Ice sisters.”
That option hadn’t occurred to Hudson. “What in the world would I say to them?”
“The truth is usually best.”
“You’re a hard woman, Cecile.”
“Sit a moment, Richard.”
He took the only other chair in the small room, which was arranged beside the desk facing her. Her eyes were right there, looking straight into his soul.
“The other thing you can do is stop in the chapel and pray. I highly recommend that.”
“I’m not very religious.”
It was as if his face were clear window glass; she could see everything that went on in his mind with a pellucid clarity.
“God was here before you arrived, Richard, and He will be here after you are gone. He can give you the strength to bear any burden. He can certainly help you with your teaspoonful of guilt. Talk to Him. That is my recommendation, as a minister and friend.”
He had to get away from those eyes. He stood. He found the paper bag he had brought with him and took out two books. “One’s for you and one’s for your daughter.” He laid them on the desk and made his escape.
The little chapel was chilly and quiet. His breath made tiny clouds that hung in the air. The only light came from clear glass windows. His footsteps reverberated on the wooden floor as he walked the center aisle. When he reached for the knob on the double front door, Richard Hudson paused. He turned and slid into the first pew.
He sat listening to the silence, staring at the simple white cross behind the altar.
Anne and Matilda parked in front of Jirl Ice’s house and climbed out of the car in high spirits. They had been out for a drive this afternoon and on a lark decided to see the horse that was being raffled off Friday evening at the Eden Chapel. Doolin’s had been selling copious amounts of raffle tickets, as had several of the businesses in Indian River. Both of the women had purchased a pocketful.
The horse wasn’t in the barn, and no one was in sight, so they went into the pasture and closed the gate behind them. The cattle looked at them suspiciously as they strolled along, then apparently decided the women were harmless and went back to the serious business of grazing.
Anne felt almost euphoric, filled with vigorous life. Her recent visit with Granny Sarah and her deepening friendship with Matilda were two of the key ingredients of her excellent mood, she thought. Another was Cecile Carcano. Strange, but after a few minutes of conversation with the minister—conversation on quite mundane subjects—Anne felt as if she were getting reacquainted with an old, treasured friend, one from the half-forgotten past. She never met Cecile before, and yet… There was something about her, something that implied shared experiences, shared emotions, shared dreams. She was a friend.
Anne paused and picked a dried wildflower, examined it closely, then sniffed it. The aroma was faint but delicious. She handed it to Matilda with a smile. “For the very good friend you turned out to be, Matty.”
“We didn’t really know each other, did we?”
As they crested the low hill, they saw something brown lying in the dried leaves near the fence, under a huge oak.
“That must be the horse, lying down.”
They walked in that direction, savoring the tang of the autumn breeze.
“Oh, my heavens! How terrible!” Matilda exclaimed as they neared the horse, which was obviously dead.
They heard an engine noise coming toward them. Jirl Ice drove up in his pickup and parked.
“Your horse appears to be ill, Mr. Ice,” Anne remarked.
Jirl jumped from the truck and strode over to the decomposing carcass.
“The poor creature,” Matilda muttered.
“He’s dead,” Jirl said sadly, and turned to face the women.
Matilda turned her back on the animal. “It appears to have been dead for a day or two,” she stated firmly.
Jirl tried to bluff his way through. “I’m as surprised as you ladies are. Indeed, I am. Why, he was fit as a fiddle this morning, scampering around and kicking his heels like a colt full of milk. Darn if this isn’t nasty.”
Anne Harris laughed. She had a cold, hard laugh that she usually used on people who were trying to induce her to accept stupidity, incompetence or bumbling error as inevitable, but that wasn’t the laugh she used this time. She felt too good to be irritated this afternoon. Her laugh rang forth as a merry peal.
Matilda took a good look at Jirl’s reddening face and laughed, too. Together the two women walked back toward the barn, leaving Jirl with his dead horse.
Jirl watched them go with a sinking feeling. There went his five hundred dollars!
He threw up his hands in disgust and resignation, then said to the horse, “Poor ol’ fellow, I know exactly how you feel.”
Billy Joe and Melanie picked up the printed invitations, which came in a box that also contained envelopes. The Indian River library was the only place for a task this big, so they went there and spread the pile on a large table in the reading room. The local telephone book provided the addresses.
After they had the envelopes addressed, Melanie said, “Do you really think we should do this?”
“I called Ruth Harris last night, talked to her about it,” Billy Joe told Melanie. “She said that her parents and mine are going to have to grow up sooner or later. Maybe this will speed the process along.”
“I don’t know her very well,” Melanie said. “She’s three years older than I am, I think.”
“She’s a kill-or-cure kind of gal. You’d like her a lot.”
When they were finished stuffing the invitations into the envelopes and sealing each one, they put the envelopes back in the box. They bought stamps at the post office and sat in the front seat of Billy Joe’s Jeep licking them and sticking them on.
“My tongue tastes terrible,” Melanie giggled.
“A soda pop afterward,” Billy Joe promised.
They dumped all the envelopes in the big blue mailbox outside the post office, then went off to find a soft drink.
Jirl Ice entered the social hall beside the Eden Chapel that Friday evening with a heavy, reluctant tread. He expected the crowd, which was substantial, to be buzzing with pointed comments about the health of the raffle horse. Yet as he moved along shaking hands and muttering greetings, not a word was said on that subject.
Yes, Anne Harris and Matilda Elkins were there, chattering with the minister.
Jirl wished the subject would come up soon. He had spent a miserable twenty-four hours dreading the inevitable crunch; the sooner it was over, the better. What greedy impulse induced him to volunteer a sick old horse for Mrs. Carcano to raffle off? Temporary insanity, he decided. Forlorn, awaiting the public humiliation that even now was being gleefully prepared by the ruler of the universe, the doomed man found a seat in a corner and tried to become invisible.
As was the custom at Eden Chapel socials, most folks had brought a covered dish of prepared food. They visited, spooned food from every dish on the table onto their paper plates, and ate noisily, all the while circulating and gossiping with neighbors.
All this was new to Richard Hudson, who hadn’t known that he should bring a covered dish. Still, someone thrust a paper plate and plastic fork at him, and he joined the grub line with everyone else. He paid little attention to the culinary triumphs of his neighbors, however. Cecile Carcano was very much on his mind. He maneuvered so that he could hear her voice, watch her gestures, catch a smile occasionally.
She was becoming an obsession. Just being around her made him tingle all over, as if he were being kissed by a thousand butterflies. A sensation of warmth and well-being suffused him and made all his other concerns fade to insignificance.
It seemed to Hudson, as he sat tonight with his plate on his lap half-listening to the conversation and watching Cecile go through the line, that he had lived his whole life to get to this moment. To see this woman. To hear her. To speak to her. To be on the receiving end of her smile.
He was losing his grip on his old life, his old existence. His future contained extraordinarily large unknowns. Amid the gloom of this misty future, strobed randomly by flickering lights, a myriad of strange, wondrous things could occasionally be glimpsed. He wanted to go deeper into this exotic, mysterious place. Indeed, he couldn’t help himself. He was being drawn in.
The whole scene was a real mind bender.
He had just inserted a bite of potato salad into his mouth when he realized that he was probably falling in love.
Could it be?
If this fantastic glow he felt was love, it would be his very first voyage into the poet’s realm. Love? At his age? Or a mutant virus?
And here she came toward him, carrying a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other. He watched her come, mesmerized, unable to believe his good fortune.
“May I join you, Richard?”
When he started to reply, he found he still had the potato salad in his mouth. He chewed furiously, made noises, and gestured toward the empty chair.
She seated herself, greeted the couple nearby, then remarked, “Isn’t this a nice turnout?”
Hudson could only nod.
“I believe we have sold almost seven hundred tickets already. Thank you for buying a hundred.”
He sat frozen, unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare at the goddess beside him.
She spoke in a low voice, just loud enough for him to hear. “We really need new hymnals, and I think Mr. Ice needs the money for the horse. It died, you see. Don’t mention it—we might embarrass him.”
Richard Hudson managed to whisper, “The horse is dead?”
“I’m afraid so. You didn’t want a horse, did you?”
He shook his head no.
“I don’t think anyone else did, either. People who want a horse already have one, and those who don’t have one really don’t want one, even if they think they might. A dead horse may be the perfect raffle prize.”
The writer’s eyebrows knitted as he tried to follow her logic. Seeing his expression, she continued between bites, “By buying tickets you contribute to a good cause—two good causes, actually—dream about being the lucky winner, and fantasize about riding a horse into an endless meadow under a golden sun. All that for just a dollar. And if by chance you do win, the fantasy will never be tarnished by reality.”
Richard Hudson smiled. He knew a great deal about fantasies. A lot less about reality, he admitted candidly to himself. Still… “Reality doesn’t always fall short of our expectations, Cecile. Sometimes it exceeds them.”
“On rare occasions,” she agreed. She finished her dinner in four or five bites.
He sighed deeply.
She glanced his way, and her gaze stayed on him. The faintest trace of a smile crossed her lips. “Have a good evening,” she said, and rose from her chair.
Her daughter was on the other side of the room watching her, so she walked over. “Did you get enough to eat?”
“Yes, I did. Who is that man, Mother?”
“Richard Hudson.”
“I think he’s in love with you.”
“He thinks so, too,” Cecile Carcano said.
Moses Grimes got everyone’s attention. “Folks, it’s about time for the raffle. We have sold about seven hundred fifty tickets, so let’s take a few minutes here and see if we can’t sell the rest of them. Junior will circulate through the crowd with the tickets. Dig deep, everyone. Take a chance on a horse and help a worthy cause.”
Junior walked around with a paper bag full of stubs and a roll of tickets. People bought a few more.
When Junior got to miser Hardy, the old man stared dubiously at the bag. “Come on, Mr. Hardy,” Junior said. “You like to sing hymns, don’t you?”
“I don’t need a horse,” Hardy declared. “A horse eats too much and I don’t have a shed to keep him in.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t win.”
“Well, I might.”
“If you win, we’ll give you your dollar back,” Junior told him.
“A very worthy cause,” Cecile Carcano said. She was at Junior’s elbow. Miser Hardy got out his purse and counted out four quarters, which he placed in Junior’s hand. Junior scribbled Hardy’s name on a ticket stub and dropped it into the bag. He handed the ticket to Hardy.
Jirl Ice watched this little procession coming his way and briefly thought of trying to escape. Mrs. Carcano had her eye on him, though. “I don’t believe you have yet bought a ticket, Mr. Ice.”
“That’s true,” he admitted, and dug into his pocket for a dollar. “But there’s something I need to tell you, Mrs. Carcano. About the horse—”
She smiled gently. “You must have faith, Mr. Ice. I think the situation will work out nicely.”
“Don’t sweat it, Jirl,” Junior added. He snagged the dollar and pressed the ticket into the reluctant purchaser’s hand. Then, as Jirl and the minister watched, he wrote Jirl’s name on the stub and dropped it into the bag.
When Junior and the minister had accepted all the money offered, the bag containing the stubs was handed to Moses Grimes. “Reverend Carcano, would you care to do the honors?”
She declined with a laugh. “No, Mr. Grimes, not tonight. Since you are chairman of our board of trustees, I think you should pick our winner.”
With that Moses reached into the bag. He swirled his hand, dug deep, finally drew out two stubs. Without looking, he dropped one back into the bag and flourished the other. “Here it is, our lucky winner.” He looked at the name on the ticket, then his eyes went around the room. “Jirl Ice!” he announced. He handed the stub to Mrs. Carcano.
Everyone applauded and several people slapped Jirl on the back. He didn’t know what to say. He smiled as tears ran down his cheeks.
Later, as Jirl was leaving, Cecile Carcano caught up with him at the door. “Here is your money, Mr. Ice. We collected almost three hundred dollars more than we need for hymnals.”
“Mrs. Carcano, I can’t accept that.”
“I don’t see why not, Mr. Ice. A deal is a deal. You certainly didn’t know that you were going to win the raffle.”
“Amazing how that worked out,” he replied. “But no. I think the good Lord smiled on me tonight, so I’d like to donate that money to the church. Something will come along that the chapel needs.”
Cecile Carcano nodded and pocketed the money. “Thank you, Mr. Ice. We’ll see you in church on Sunday. Please bring your family.”
“I will,” he said, and stepped out into the cool of the evening.