Francesca of Lost Nation (10 page)

I quickly tiptoed upstairs and yelled from my bedroom door, “Goodnight, everybody!”

I closed my bedroom door loudly from the outside and then tiptoed back down and heard Matthew say, “I could be wrong about this, but maybe you've never given anyone the chance to understand.”

I heard a chair scrape across the kitchen floor followed by Matthew’s voice becoming softer.

“I've lived for over a year under the shadow of something so gut-wrenching, I was afraid I might never recover. Even though I look back and tell myself I did better than anyone had a right to expect, it still hurts. How long have you been carrying your burden?”

There was a silence followed by a terrible sigh. “Over forty years,” Francesca admitted. “God, I hate telling you that.”

“Why?”

“It makes me sound so old.”

I heard Francesca stand up and step across the floor. I ran up the stairs, fearing I would be caught. But Francesca did not come after me; she had gone to the stove for more coffee.

A tinge of guilt came over me for listening to such an intimate conversation. But it soon faded and was replaced with a new feeling: Jealousy.

Francesca Pittschtick Schneider was the most fascinating person I had ever encountered — novels included. She was my best friend, and I naturally assumed she told me about everything. Now, I was hearing her share private things with this strange man in our kitchen. He was starting to get in the way.  

Matthew’s voice softened.

“Fran, you’ll never be old. Of course you’ll age, but being old just isn’t in your soul. It isn’t your style. Come here. It’s all right. You know that I’m crazy about you.”

Then, there was silence. I couldn’t hear anything. No one was talking. What were they doing? I dared to sneak to where I could see inside the kitchen.

They were kissing.

I was horrified! I couldn’t bear it any longer and scuttled to my room. I was angry, but I wasn’t sure why.

I pouted as I slammed dresser doors and drawers — something most of the women in our family have always done when they’re upset.

In went the shoes. Bam!

Out came the nightgown. Bam!

I placed my dirty clothes into the hamper. Bam!

I realized that if Matthew and Francesca liked each other too much, she wouldn’t need me as her best friend any more.

Why was this happening? Francesca
was
too old, much older than Matthew. If anyone had a right to like him, it would be me. He liked me, didn’t he? He was my card partner
.

Feeling lonely and despairing, I tossed and turned in my bed until Babe scratched on my door.

“Go away!”

Babe whimpered and scratched on the door again.

“Oh hell’s bells,” I said and let her in. Babe scuttled up onto my bed, grunting a little in pain as she settled her wounded side. She looked at me with her loving eyes and licked my arm.

I couldn't share how I felt with my grandmother, because it was about her. I was thankful to have my little red dog to hug.

Chapter 13

Passion Comes Calling

M

atthew insisted Francesca start practicing for the County Fair races, which were only two weeks away. Using a tractor, he carved out an oval track in the meadow below Main House and watered the dirt down every morning to keep the dust from flying. Matthew also retrieved an old aviation watch from his gear to time Francesca’s runs.

Since Francesca hadn’t raced in years, she started out gun-shy of the Duisenberg’s big engine. But after a few practice runs, she positively relished the power of all those horses.

“We’ve got to name her,” Matthew said, pointing to the car. “Great ships, trains and aircraft always have names.”

“How about Silver Ghost?” I blurted out. And that’s how I came to name the Doozy.

Matthew and I were responsible for cleaning the Ghost after Francesca’s training sessions. As we buffed and polished, Matthew spoke a little about his life as a boy, and I began to look forward to those moments alone with him.

As we chatted, we gave the chrome such a gleam, I could see Matthew’s reflection. The curve of the metal elongated his nose and softened his sculpted cheekbones.
 

“This car is rare, isn’t it? I’ve never seen one before, except in magazines. How’d you come to own it?”

“Let’s chalk it up to a misspent youth. I was quite the gambler in my younger days,” he admitted. “I could sense what kind of poker hand my opponents had or even what they were thinking by the way they bet.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” he mused, “I could always tell if someone really needed the score, for one thing.”

“How?”

“I don't know … except there was a kind of look to the eyes. A tremor in the hand. A quick breath. Maybe I smelled fear.”

He began to polish again.

“You said 'man.' What about a woman?” I asked. “Can you read fear on a woman?”

He raised his eyebrows. “What a strange idea.”

“Not really.” I waited.

He closed his eyes for a moment, rolling the thought around in his head. Finally, he pronounced, “Because ... well ... Aren't you a little young to be asking me such tough questions?”

“Francesca says you'll never get to know things unless you ask.”

“I'll just bet she does.”

We worked in silence for a while, buffing in unison. “Sarah, you don’t have to rub down to the metal.”

I stopped and looked at Matt.

“How come you don’t like tough questions?”

He shook his head. “Tough questions demand tough answers.” With that, he turned on his heel and stepped back from the car. Just like that the conversation was over — which irritated me some, so I picked up the bucket of water and doused him.

“Hey!” Matt called out as he picked up the hose and sprayed me. Babe began barking, and suddenly, the three of us were chasing each other with sponges, soap and water, Matt and Babe hobbling along.

Then, Francesca yelled, “Come on in, you hooligans, and get dried off. I have some gingerbread and cherry coke ready.”

Gingerbread and cherry coke! The perfect after-polishing snack!

For the next few days, we spent hours readying Francesca for the race. The evenings were reserved for light summer meals, conversation and games. And of course, we always made time for swimming at the pond.

I continued to live in confusion. Sometimes, I loved the way Matt made Francesca feel. At other times, I wished he would move far, far away. Sometimes, I could barely abide speaking with my grandmother; at other moments, I couldn’t wait for her embrace.

Of an evening, the crickets were scraping gleefully, working their legs together. Their chirping echoed throughout the property. The three of us took to sitting on the porch to listen to the riotous concerto. Francesca and Matthew would look at each other and smile. Sometimes, they would hold hands but only momentarily. I would steal glances at them both, often feeling content, wishing this summer would go on forever.

To this day, I sometimes still wish that with all my heart.

The Fourth of July was a big day in Lost Nation. Most everyone in town came out to celebrate. The parade would be starting at 11:30 a.m., followed by lunch and the three-legged race. A slew of games, including the watermelon-eating contest, fleshed out the afternoon. The evening would end with a picnic and a gorgeous array of fireworks.

We got an early start for the festivities. It was an important day, what with the wounds and sacrifices of
World War II still too fresh in everyone’s minds. Francesca and many of her friends would be marching to help encourage support for their ongoing Red Cross and USO fund-raising drives.

“Just because the war’s over doesn’t mean there aren’t still plenty of service men and women in real need,” she often observed.

The local school band and local musicians provided the Sousa tunes; car enthusiasts showcased their vehicles; and the farming community lined up their John Deere tractors.

Matthew, Babe and I watched from the sidelines, hollering and waving at Francesca when she and her female community activists passed.

“That was the best parade ever,” said Hunny Clack, briskly brushing her long hair from one side of her body to the other.

“You always say that,” Greely said.

“Well, that’s because each year, it’s better than the last.” Hunny looked at me and winked.

The townsfolk began making their way to the park to stake a prime location in the shade of the elms. The men were busy sipping on iced cold beer and pitching pennies while the women unpacked lunch delicacies. Homemade biscuits, warm fried chicken and award-winning pies were positioned cheek-by-jowl along trestle tables set up end to end.

“Seems like I could be of some help here,” offered Matthew with a courtly bow. “You ladies shouldn’t have all the fun.”

Hunny guffawed. “Why, Matthew, go on with you. No man ever helped at a picnic since I can remember.”

“And we don’t want any do-good S.O.B. making the rest of us look bad,” Greely noted.

Matthew’s sister-in-law wasn’t all that impressed.

“You can never tell with this man,” Starr said. “He’s friendly one day and the next … Well,
Frances, you ought to know.”

But Francesca was conveniently busy searching for the mayonnaise jar.

“It’s over here, Franny,” Matt said as he reached for it.

Now, he was calling her
Franny? That was even worse than Fran. I looked around, wondering if anyone else had noticed. If they did, no one said anything, although Sheriff Mosley took an extra-long swig of his beer with his bushy eyebrows raised.

“Get your fingers out of that pie,” warned Hunny, slapping Doc Gearneart’s hand away. In response, he took a well-used deck of cards from a vest pocket and began laying out solitaire.

“Everyone knows you make the second-best boysenberry pie in the county,” he said, with a strong emphasis on the word second
.

“What do you mean second-best?” Hunny shrieked in mock dismay.

Conversation continued lively as we ate, and Hunny ensured everyone participated in the gab fest, even me.

“Sarah, honey, what do you hear from your folks?”

I told them about the Queen Mary and how Daddyboys said it was as big as a city. “It has dress shops, a beauty salon and a gymnasium.”

“What would anyone want with a gymnasium?” Greely said with a yawn as he reached for another piece of pie.

“And they sat at the Captain’s table, and Mommy is looking more sophisticated every day,” I finished.

Emily Porter, in her birdlike manner, wanted details about Paris, and even Mary Purdy, who normally kept to herself, asked to hear more about their escapades.

“Daddyboys says
Paris smells of rain and chestnut trees. The hotel is plush, with marble floors all over the place, and the windows have velvet curtains. Hardly anyone speaks English, but Mommy is doing her best with the French she learned in high school.”

Emily tipped her head back to take in the sun.

“Imagine Clay Morgan winning a writing contest,” she said, shaking her head.

Doc Gearneart looked up from his card game.

“Clay Morgan is a deeper man than you may think.”

Hunny clucked her tongue. “Don’t let me forget to give you the package from
Paris,” she said, looking at me. This set me off again, bragging about everything I’d read in Daddyboys’ wonderful letters.

After a while, the discussion took a more serious tone.

“Daniel, have you heard anything about the arsonist?” Doc asked.

Suddenly, everyone got quiet.

“Yes, Daniel,” said Mary, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “Did they ever arrest anyone?” She turned to look at the rest of the group. “Don’t you just hate the idea of someone starting a fire? What a horrible way to die. I can’t imagine dying by fire,” she said and shivered.

“Well, now, that’s a happy thought,” said Greely.

The sheriff admitted another suspicious blaze had been reported in nearby Landers.

“If I ever catch up to that son of …”

“Greely!” admonished Hunny.

He looked at his wife sheepishly for a moment. “Well, I’d take him with my bare hands.”

Starr changed the subject, turning to Francesca and Matthew.

“You two and Sarah must come out for dinner some night soon. We’ve got some lovely quail in the deep freeze with your name on it.”

“We’d love to,” answered Matt, placing his arm around Francesca’s shoulders and giving her a hug.

Several surprised looks were followed by a murmur here and a remark there.

Francesca and I didn’t win any ribbons in the three-legged race, but we sure had fun. We busted a gut with laughter as we kept falling and tripping over each other. During the watermelon-eating contest, I ate until my stomach hurt. At least I didn’t upchuck like Stevie Enoch!

That evening, as we cleaned up the leavings of our second picnic of the day with family and friends, Matthew dropped the bombshell.

“Franny here is driving my Silver Ghost in the races at the county fair in Clinton. I’ve got some money that says she’ll beat the pants off of everyone else.”

Who needed fireworks?

This tidbit of information drew more gasps than the idea of Francesca dating a man fifteen years her junior who also happened to be living in the same house with her and her grandchild.

When Hunny Clack slapped her thigh and said “Good for you, Francesca,” I don’t think she was referring to the races.

But before anyone else could offer an opinion, Matthew piled us into the car and with a jaunty salute to his audience, we drove off.

When we’d settled on the porch, Francesca set about opening the large box that had come clear across the ocean. Matthew used a pocket knife to cut through the twine.

“Quel Elegance, 23 Rue des Fraises, Passy,
Paris, France,” read the address on the outside of the box.

It wasn’t heavy enough for books. Daddyboys thought books were one of the greatest treasures of the modern world.

There were two smaller boxes inside the larger box. Both were wrapped in gold paper. The legend on one of the items read, “Quel Elegance.”

“Ah, the aroma,” Francesca said, putting her nose up to the package. “Jasmine, not too strong.

Both of the boxes had white embossed name cards on them, with the recipient’s name inscribed inside in hand-printed script.

I opened the one addressed to me.

“Look, a velvet dress. I love it,” I said excitedly. “Feel how soft! This is a dress for a princess.”

Matt picked up a card that had fallen out of our packages.

“It says to ‘the two prettiest women in Lost Nation,’” he read then added, “Now isn’t that the truth.”

Francesca was holding up what I thought was a nightgown. It was the fanciest one I had ever seen: silvery and sheer, like running creek water. There wasn’t much to it, and it was see-through, which I thought was odd.

The gown also had a robe with it that looked like butterfly wings glistening in the light.

Francesca stroked the delicate fabric. She held it up to the light then snuck a look at Matt. He almost whistled but then seemed to think better of it.

“Francesca, you can’t sleep in that; you’ll wreck it,” I said.

Matt burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I wondered.

“Not a blasted thing, child,” Francesca said. “You have to admit, it’s the perfect costume for a boudoir.”

Francesca carefully folded the nightgown and robe and placed them back inside their box. She asked me to take them upstairs and get ready for bed. I knew that meant she wanted to be alone with Matt.