Miracle in a Dry Season (30 page)

Perla tucked Sadie in that night, then slipped outside to enjoy the October bite in the air. What had she seen in Casewell’s eyes? It had been . . . breathtaking. She thought she might have gasped when he looked at her and smiled. The light, the
depth. It had been like looking into a murky pool of water that suddenly cleared so that she could see the shape and size of every stone on the bottom. She’d noticed his honey eyes the first time she saw him, but this time the color was, well, liquid and sweet. She wanted to gather more of that honey.

Perla squeezed her arms harder. What was happening to her? She felt . . . beloved. But how could that be? She had been beloved only once before, and it had been a mistake. A sweet, tender mistake that had brought her the greatest sorrow and the greatest joy of her life. She shivered.

She could not hope. She dared not hope. Her plans to return home were final. Her mother was expecting her, though she hadn’t sounded happy about it. Perla supposed she would need to find another place to disappear. This time she’d look for somewhere no one knew her. Maybe this time she could escape the gossip.
And live a lie.

Why would it be so hard to lie? Why did that thought make her feel shriveled and small inside? Surely it would be a relief to live in a place where people respected her, maybe even pitied her a little, if they believed she was a young widow trying to get by. And she would cook only for Sadie and herself. No one ever again need know what she could do with a handful of beans.

Perla realized that tears coursed down her cheeks. She tasted the salt and wondered that she could have so thoroughly wet her cheeks without realizing it. She inhaled deeply, letting the air out quietly so as not to disturb the night. She loved Casewell Phillips with all her heart. For just a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of believing that he loved her and somehow it would all work out. Then she went inside to lie down beside her slumbering child and cried herself to sleep.

22

C
ASEWELL
KNEW
WHAT
TO
DO
. It was up to him to court and win Perla Long. He had been tentative to this point, waiting for a sign that she would welcome his advances. No longer. God had filled his heart with love for a woman with a child, and he would move forward in the knowledge that God had already blessed them.

He walked into the living room and picked up his Bible from the coffee table. He flipped to the first chapter of Matthew and read the account of the angel visiting Joseph. Casewell felt for the first time that he could begin to understand how Joseph felt. The woman he loved was pregnant and would give birth to a child not his own. Casewell smiled. Perla was no Mary, but he supposed that she, like everyone else, was ultimately from God. And whether God had blessed Perla with a child or simply took her sin and used it for good, Sadie was clearly a gift. A gift he would be only too glad to claim as his own, just as Joseph had claimed Jesus. The only question now was how to go about it.

Casewell drove down to the Thorntons’ store. He knew Perla
had been spending less time there now that her cooking was no longer in demand, and he hoped to find Delilah alone. Robert was behind the counter, and Delilah was reading at the end of the row that now served as a lending library. Casewell nodded to Robert and began thumbing through the books as though looking for something of interest.

“Can I help you, Casewell?” Delilah asked.

“Oh, just browsing. Though if you had a book about how to court a woman, I guess I’d take it.” He snuck a look at Delilah out of the corner of his eye. She closed her book and moved toward him.

“Really? Well, I’m pretty sure Frank never did collect anything like that, but there’s better ways to find out than books.”

Casewell turned toward her with raised eyebrows, hoping he wouldn’t need to say anything else.

“As a matter of fact, depending on the woman, I might be able to help.”

“Now, that would be fine. Books probably wouldn’t apply to our country ways, anyhow. What would you suggest for courting a woman who is, well, reluctant to be courted?”

“Do you know why she’s reluctant?” Delilah stuck the book in her hand onto the shelf at random and turned her full attention on Casewell.

“I think it might have to do with the fact that she’s . . .” Casewell looked up and scratched his chin. “Well, this might not be her first go-round.”

“A widow?”

Casewell suspected Delilah was playing with him, but he could play, too. “Not exactly, but let’s make that assumption for the sake of discussion.”

Delilah beamed and then recovered herself and looked seri
ous again. “Well, then, she’s no blushing maiden to be tiptoed around. I reckon you can go straight to the heart of the matter.” Delilah held up a finger. “Though every woman, no matter how experienced, likes a little romance. I’d venture you could tell her straight out how you’re feeling, but just the same she might appreciate some flowers or candy along with sweet words. Even us old married ladies like sweet talk.” Delilah showed dimples that Casewell had never seen before. “And if, say, there were a child in the mix, a gift for the little one would go a long way toward winning the mama, I suspect.”

“So bring her some flowers and candy, a gift for her child—if she has one—and just tell her straight out?”

“I think that will get you pretty far along, Casewell. Women are less complicated than you think.” Delilah dimpled at him again and pulled a book off the shelf—not the one she’d been reading before—and headed back to her chair, where she buried her nose between the pages.

Casewell strongly suspected that Delilah wasn’t very interested in
South Sea
Tales
by Jack London, but he’d been wrong before. He laughed. He’d been very wrong before. But Delilah had given him an idea, and he was looking forward to carrying it out.

His next stop was the Talbot sisters’. Angie was famous for her divinity. Around the holidays the crunchy, meringue-like candies were a staple in the community. Maybe he could sweet-talk her into making him a batch.

When he pulled his old truck into their yard, Liza was sitting in a swing hanging from the huge old oak tree in the side yard. Frank was leaning against the trunk. He waved at Casewell.

“I’ve been trying to get Liza here to let me give her a push, but she seems to think I might get carried away.”

Liza laughed. “Isn’t it marvelous? We haven’t had a swing in this tree since I was a girl. It was Frank’s idea to hang one. I don’t think Angie likes it too much, but she didn’t put up a fuss. I swan, I feel like I’m twelve years old.” She pushed herself back and kicked her heels up into the air. Her skirts fluttered, and she squealed as the swing began its gentle back and forth arc. Frank grinned, as did Casewell. They could see the child Liza had been and, somewhere deep down, still was.

“I bet if we could get Angie in this swing, she’d let me push,” Frank said.

“
Pshaw
. You won’t get her in the swing. She’s too proper a lady,” Liza scoffed.

“Who says?” Angie stood, arms akimbo, on the edge of the porch. “Just because I don’t have a penchant for foolishness doesn’t mean I’m not willing to kick my heels up now and again.”

“Come on, then.” Liza stood and made a sweeping gesture toward the empty swing. “Show us.”

Casewell realized he was not only seeing the fun-loving child Liza had once been, but he was also seeing the way the sisters had likely baited each other as children. He wished his mother could be here for this.

Liza marched over and gingerly settled herself in the swing, grasping the ropes firmly and pushing off with one foot. She swung like the pendulum on a grandfather clock, slow and steady. Chin high, she shot a defiant look at her sister.

“But will you let Frank push you?” There was a teasing note in Liza’s voice.

“Certainly.” Angie bit the word off and raised her chin a notch higher. “Frank, if you would be so kind.”

Frank grinned and waggled his eyebrows at Casewell. He stepped behind Angie and held his hands near her bottom. Then he hesitated and moved them up a bit. Grasping her waist like he might handle a newborn pup, he eased her forward. Once she was moving a bit, he gave her several gentle pushes.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I won’t break.” Angie began pumping her legs back and forth. She was surprisingly limber for a woman her age. Soon she had the swing going, if not high, then higher than Casewell would have expected. She closed her eyes as her hair worked its way loose from its bun and fluttered over her cheeks. Then Casewell saw her smile. Not a half smile or a pleased look, but an expression that curled her lips, plumped her cheeks, and crinkled her eyes. It was a look of utter delight, and Casewell felt oddly humbled seeing it. Angie laughed long and loud, then let the swing coast to a stop.

“Oh my. That was wonderful. Frank, you are an old fool, but even old fools have good ideas now and again. Thank you for our swing.” She stood and brushed her hands against her skirt, then smoothed wisps of gray hair back into place. “Well, now, Casewell. You will have something to talk about come Sunday.”

But Casewell didn’t think he would talk about it. Seeing the twins here in the yard with the man they both had loved, getting on with life and enjoying it—well, it was too tender a thing to share. He might tell Perla one day. She would see the beauty. She wouldn’t think it was a great joke, two old women finding joy in being childish. He reckoned they all could do with being a little more childlike.

Angie started toward the porch, but turned back. “Casewell, I’m thinking you didn’t come here to watch us act the fool. Did you need something?”

“Yes, ma’am. I need a batch of divinity.”

“Oh, well, I’ve got everything but the pecans. Problem is, divinity never does right when it’s humid, and with all the rain lately I doubt I can get it to turn out. Now, if you’d come to me during the drought, I could have made the perfect batch.”

Casewell must have looked crestfallen. “But if you can get me enough cream and butter, we can make caramels—they’re supposed to be a mite sticky.”

“Ma makes those sometimes.” He perked up. “As a matter of fact, if you’re willing to part with your recipe, I can probably get Ma to help me out.”

“Come on in and I’ll write it out for you.” Angie beckoned him inside. “We’ll leave the young’uns to their play.”

Liza giggled from where she had resumed her seat on the swing. “Push me, Frank,” she said.

Recipe in hand, Casewell headed back to the Thorntons’ store. The ingredient list and directions were less complicated than anticipated. He could do this by himself. He had cream, butter, and sugar already, so all he needed was some corn syrup and vanilla.

Robert raised an eyebrow when Casewell told him what he needed.

“Shopping for your ma?”

“Oh, just stocking up now that your shelves are full again.” Casewell didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want to explain.

Delilah swooped in with a small bottle of vanilla in hand. “Leave him alone. If all the men around here would get a little more familiar with supplies beyond coffee and cornmeal, the world would be a better place.” She plunked the bottle down next to the corn syrup Casewell had found on his own.