In Every Heartbeat (9 page)

Her story would be printed in the December edition—only two months away! They had enclosed a check as compensation at the rate of one-fifth cent per word. Libby jolted. A check? She peeked in the envelope—where was it? Then she remembered the discarded slip of paper on the floor. With a little cry, she grabbed it up, turned it over, and read the amount. Five dollars! Why, that would keep her in spending money for a month! Another gleeful laugh poured from her lips. But then the laughter abruptly stopped, her spine straightening with a sudden thought.

“Oh, but . . .” For a moment, she chewed her lower lip, silently berating herself. She hadn’t bothered to count the words before submitting the story. She would have to trust their count this time, but she’d be certain to do a count before sending in her second story. “Lesson learned,” she told herself and slid the check into her desk drawer, where Alice-Marie wouldn’t see it. Then she read the final paragraph in the letter:

In what manner should the story be credited? Do you prefer “By Elisabet Conley”?

Libby clapped a hand to her cheek and sank down on the cot. A part of her wanted to use her given name—to have others know it was her story. But what would be best? A war took place in her mind, two conflicting opinions sparring like contenders in a tennis match.

Use your name—don’t you want the recognition?

But do you want to be recognized for story writing or news articles?

But recognition is recognition! And think how wonderful it would be to have people stop you and tell you they read your work and enjoyed it. That can’t happen if you use a made-up name.

But if you use your name for fictional works, will it carry credibility when you begin reporting real-life happenings?

After a few minutes of reflection, she decided the purpose in writing the stories was to prove she could meet deadlines, not to see her name in bold print on a magazine page. “I won’t use Elisabet Conley,” she whispered, tapping her pointer finger on her chin. “Instead I’ll use . . .” Imaginary names—literary in tone—paraded through her mind: Lavinia Courtland, Cordelia Tremaine, Rosalie Hart . . . She hurried to her desk and wrote them on a piece of paper. Then, tracing little curlicues beneath each, she contemplated which one she liked best.

Suddenly, other names—not imaginary, but real—reared from the past: Leonard and Bette Conley.
Papa and Mama
. Libby gasped. Should she? With her neatest script, Libby combined her parents’ first names.
Bette Leonard
. While not as flowery as those from her imagination, she liked the way the name looked on paper. And using her parents’ names would be a way of immortalizing them.

With a giggle that sounded frighteningly girlish, Libby tore a clean sheet of paper from the pad and dug in the drawer for an ink pen. Looking at the letter of acceptance from the magazine, she copied the name from the signature and began a reply.

Dear Mr. Price,

It is with appreciation I write to thank you for purchasing my story. Please use the pseudonym Bette Leonard as the author’s name for “Unlikely Lovers” and for any other stories you may purchase from me in the future.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

P
ete set aside the latest letter from Aaron and Isabelle Rowley. Every other day since his arrival at the University of Southern Missouri, he’d received a short note from Aaron or a long letter from Isabelle. He had bound all of the envelopes with a piece of string and displayed them on his bureau top, where he could see them or place his hand over them when he started feeling lonely for his surrogate parents.

This last one was the longest yet—a joint letter, with both Aaron and Isabelle contributing by turn, and they’d included train tickets for him, Libby, and Bennett to journey back to Shay’s Ford in two more weeks. He glanced at the neatly written pages again before folding them and returning them to the envelope. Warmth flooded his frame when he glimpsed the warning penned in Isabelle’s precise hand:
Be careful you don’t lose the tickets. Put them in a safe place.

It was the kind of admonition a parent would give. He supposed some young men would resent such a statement, but he welcomed it. The motherly reminder was proof that Aaron and Isabelle looked at him as theirs.

At least someone wants me
. . . .

He pushed the disparaging thought aside as he added the most recent letter to the stack on the bureau, then tucked the tickets into the corner of his desk drawer for safekeeping. He needed to tell both Libby and Bennett that he had their tickets when he saw them next.

His stomach clenched at the thought of seeing Libby. Had it really been more than three weeks since he’d left the dining hall, heartsore and offended? Not since he was ten years old had he gone an entire day without talking to Libby. He missed listening to her describe everything she saw in her unique, eloquent way. He missed seeing the fire spark in her eyes when someone got her dander up. He even missed the way she wrinkled her nose when she was thinking. He missed
her
, and he wasn’t sure how he’d make it the rest of the year on this campus, knowing she was there but out of his reach.

Voices, loud and masculine, carried through the window, which he’d opened a crack to let in the crisp evening air. He hobbled to the window and peered out. Several students were playing baseball in the side yard, and it appeared the older ones had swiped hats from first-year students to use as bases. Apparently Bennett’s was being used for home plate, because he was engaged in a lively argument with the catcher, his red hair glowing in the fading sunlight.

For a moment Pete considered going out and joining the game. He’d done nothing but study since his first day on campus when he and Libby had taken a short walk. If he went down, would they put him on a team? At the orphans’ school it hadn’t mattered that he had a peg leg. Everyone was used to it, so he felt comfortable romping and climbing and playing just like all the other boys.

But here the wooden appendage set him apart. Girls sidestepped him; guys never asked if he wanted to play catch or go hiking around the lake at the edge of the campus. In the classroom he could keep up, pace for pace, with the others. But only in the classroom. Maybe if he gave the ball a whack and made it around the bases, the students would look beyond his peg leg to Pete, the person.

He turned toward the door, but a stack of books on the corner of his desk seemed to cry out for attention. He didn’t have time to play. With a grunt, he pushed the window casing down until it met the sill, sealing out the sounds of the game. Then he limped to his desk and sat, determined to begin the latest assignment from Pastor Hines.

Pete greatly admired the man. His wealth of biblical knowledge and studious manner set him apart from the other instructors. Pete aspired to be just as wise and stately as Pastor Hines when he graduated from the Bible school. He wanted to please the man, and so far he believed he’d succeeded. All of his essays had been returned with high marks. His professor had even stopped him twice in the hallway to discuss Scripture.

This most recent assignment, however, was more challenging than any of the others thus far. It required a great deal of thought, so he hunched over the assignment sheet and read the directions again, underlining the words with his index finger to help himself focus.

As a minister of the gospel, there will be times you must stand firm against forces that would pull your flock from a life of holiness. Look at the world around you. What forces are currently at work to bring about a moral or spiritual decline? You will choose a known force and go to battle, just as the men of Israel fought against the Philistines. However, you will not fight with sword or sling, but with the Word of God.

Pete kneaded his forehead. His professor had lectured for nearly an hour today on being holy—set apart. He’d banged his fist on his desk, expounding on the importance of righteous living. “Temptation will plague you,” Pastor Hines had warned, his green eyes narrowed to slits and his gray brows knit in concern, “so you must resist temptation. One slip, just one time of allowing immoral thoughts or actions to seize you, and you can fall into a pit of ruin.”

Replaying the professor’s words, Pete wondered what he could choose to fight that would best garner the man’s approval and do the most good. He sat, thinking, for several minutes, but nothing came to mind. Frustrated, he rose and tugged on his suit jacket. Maybe a walk in the evening air would awaken ideas.

He headed across the campus, past the makeshift baseball diamond. Bennett spotted him and waved, and Pete slowed his steps. Maybe his friend would ask him to join the game. Bennett knew Pete was a decent baseball player in spite of his peg leg. But after Pete lifted his hand in reply, Bennett turned his back and returned to cheering for his teammates. Head low, Pete continued on. He reached the tree-lined path that led to the open field and angled his steps to walk beneath the tree-branch canopy, smiling as he remembered Libby calling it a fairy path.

He stopped. Loneliness created an ache in the middle of his chest. Bennett didn’t have time for him right now, but what about Libby? He gnawed his lower lip, gathering the courage to face her after their lengthy separation. Libby had said
anything more
than friendship with him would be ludicrous, but did that mean they couldn’t still be friends? How he longed to restore his friendship with Libby.

At the very least, he needed to tell her he had the train tickets. Maybe he should go to the women’s dormitory and ask the house matron for permission to speak to Libby. If she wasn’t too busy, maybe after he told her about the ticket, they could sit for a while. Talk. Or just sit and not talk. The way they used to. If she had time.

Please let her have time . . .

The decision made, he headed for the women’s dormitory. If the house matron told him Libby was too busy to talk, he’d just go back to his own room and, as he’d been doing for the past weeks, lose himself in his studies. At least his bum leg didn’t interfere with his ability to think.

“Elisabet?” One of the girls from Libby’s floor stuck her head in the room. “Miss Banks sent me up for you—you have a visitor downstairs.”

Libby pushed off her bed, where she’d been sitting cross-legged while editing an article for the college newspaper. She wouldn’t mind a break—the person who wrote the article possessed a dismal grasp of proper grammar. And the spelling errors . . .
erroneus
, indeed! “Who is it?” She hoped it wasn’t Roy. For some reason, he’d requested a visit with her twice in the past week, but she’d refused to meet him.

The girl shrugged. “I don’t know his name. The new student with the wooden foot.”

Petey!
Libby’s heart turned over with joy. “Tell Miss Banks to tell him I’ll be right down.” The girl left, and Libby quickly pulled on her shoes and buttoned them. She would run downstairs in her stocking feet were it not for the strict house matron. Miss Banks didn’t approve of bare feet or of running, as Libby had quickly learned. Miss Banks and Mrs. Rowley would no doubt be good friends.

Her feet covered, Libby hurried down the stairs. Her gaze swept the cozy common room, which bustled with activity this evening. Four girls were sitting in a row on a settee in front of the window, their focus on a magazine held by one of the center girls. As if choreographed, the quartet shot Libby a quick look over the top of the magazine when she entered the room, then returned their attention to whatever they were reading.

A little buzz of awareness wiggled down Libby’s spine. Might these same girls read her words in the magazine in another two months?

She turned toward Miss Banks’s desk near the front doors and spotted Petey. His gaze met hers, but he didn’t move a muscle. The house matron’s stern glare had apparently pinned him in place. But how wonderful to see him!

Swallowing a delighted laugh, she forgot the rule to move sedately. She skipped to the desk, linked her hands behind her back, and smiled up into Petey’s dear, familiar face. “Good evening, Mr. Leidig. So good of you to come calling.” She glanced at the house matron. The woman’s sour expression didn’t soften one whit.

“Yes.” Petey cleared his throat. “I had a letter from Aaron and Isabelle today, and . . .” His brows high, he shifted his eyes briefly to indicate Miss Banks, then he tipped his head toward the door. “Could we go outside? It’s a pleasant evening with a nice breeze.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Libby caught his arm and aimed him toward the doors. “And maybe we could take a short stroll around the grounds?” Her heart felt lighter than it had for weeks, just walking by his side. “We can take the path past the old stone foundation at the far edge of campus—it always makes me feel a little glum, but I love to stand beside it and try to imagine the grand building it supported before fire brought it down.”

As soon as they stepped off the porch, Petey jiggled his elbow. Libby released him and stepped aside, looking at him in confusion. “Was I holding too tight?”

“No.” His focus darted to her left. “But you’re being watched by the house matron and several girls who are at the common room windows. I didn’t think you’d want to give them the idea that you and I are . . .”

Heat attacked Libby’s face. Why hadn’t she ever composed that letter? But at least now she had the chance to apologize. “Petey, about what I said—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself.” His gentle voice increased the ache in her heart. She could bear his anger; his kindness nearly killed her. “I understand.”

“Then you know it isn’t you who’s at fault? You know it . . . it’s me?” She held her breath. If he truly understood that she wasn’t the right match for him because of her inadequacies, then their friendship could resume unchanged.

“Yes.” He lowered his head and tapped the tip of the peg leg against the walkway, a habit left over from his childhood. “I understand completely.”

“Oh, Petey.” Libby nearly collapsed, the relief was so great. “Then we can still be friends? Just as we’ve always been?”

A lopsided, somehow sad smile creased his face. “Yes, Libby. As we’ve always been. Now—” He drew in a breath. “I came to tell you I have our train tickets to go home on the sixteenth. Bennett and I will come by for you in the morning. We’ll walk to town and hire a cab to take us to the station. Be sure you talk to all of your instructors so they know you’ll be gone that Friday.”

“I already have. I’m so eager to see Maelle and the Rowleys.”

“Me too.”

“And I can’t believe Matt’s getting married! He and Lorna are such a sweet couple.” The children at the orphans’ school had witnessed friendship blooming to love between the cook’s daughter and Mrs. Rowley and Maelle’s brother, Matt, who served as a part-time groundskeeper at the school. Although Libby held the impression Mrs. Rowley didn’t approve of the match, she thought Matt Tucker and Lorna Jensen were perfectly suited to one another.

She lightly swatted Petey’s arm, her lips twitching with a teasing grin. “And lucky you—getting to stand up with Matt. You’ll be very handsome in your suit, with a rosebud tucked in your lapel.”

Petey chuckled and scratched his head. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

They stood in silence for several seconds. A comfortable, settling-in kind of silence that brought a hint of healing to Libby’s aching soul. In the distance, a firm clack indicated someone’s bat connected with a baseball, and cheers erupted. In response, a bird scolded from a nearby tree. Libby lifted her chin to seek out the bird, and she smiled as two dry leaves broke free of their branch and swirled to the ground. The leaves’ graceful descent through the air reminded her of the dance scene she’d written in her latest story. Eagerly, she turned to Petey.

“Petey, I—” she started.

“Libby, I—” he said at the same time.

She flapped her hands at him, laughing. “Go ahead.”

“I have an assignment I need to finish tonight, so I’m going to head back to Landry Hall.”

Her shoulders sagged. “So soon? But we’ve hardly had any time to talk.”