Weeping Angel (22 page)

Straightening, Frank went for the front door. He
found the bell and turned the handle twice. From within the house, he heard footsteps on the bare floorboards. It took a while for her to reach the door, and when she opened it, she only did so a marginal crack. She put her face close to the thin space to see who'd come calling past nine on a Saturday evening. Even with the interior glow of a lamp behind her, he couldn't tell what she was wearing; but from the dismay in her eyes, he doubted she was dressed for callers.

Recognizing him, she went to close the door without a word, but he shoved the toe of his boot in the way.

“Amelia, let me in.”

“I will not,” she whispered, as if someone would hear her—hear them.

“I've got something to say to you.”

“I can't talk to you right now.” She put pressure on the door. Slight as she was, he hardly felt the movement, but he heard her breath go
oomph
as she tried to smash his toes. “Remove your foot immediately.”

“I could force my way in, Amelia. I don't want to, but I'm not leaving until you've heard me out.”

“I'm still too upset about my piano to hear you out. Go away.”

“Then the Applegates will have to listen in because I'll be yelling at you through the door.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “You wouldn't.”

“I would. Now let me in.”

She worried her lower lip with her teeth. The door's force on his instep didn't ease up when she said, “I'm not decent.”

“Neither am I, but I promise to behave myself.”

“I meant I'm not properly dressed.”

“And I meant I'm not proper.” He wedged his foot in farther. “If I was, I wouldn't be here at your bedtime. But for you, sweetheart, I'll remind myself
I'm in the presence of a lady and conduct myself accordingly.”

Amelia opened the door a fraction wider, enough to poke her face through and glance toward the Applegate residence. “Did anyone see you?”

“Yeah, but he won't talk.”

“Who?” she asked in a voice tight with dread.

“Hamlet.”

“You pig.”

“
A
pig.”

“No, you're the swine leading me to believe you were seen.”

“I will be if you don't let me in.”

At that moment, Titus Applegate ran the sash up the second-story window, stuck his head out, and bellowed an expletive at Hamlet.

Amelia withdrew, stood behind the door, and opened it barely enough for a cat to fit through. “Come inside. Quickly.”

Frank nudged the entrance with his shoulder. The hard edge rammed into his upper arm as Amelia practically shut the door on him as soon as he'd stepped inside.

The linen shade over the lamp on a stand in the entry didn't lend much light to the small receiving space. She'd already turned the wick low and made no move to bring it back up. She eyed him with a critical squint, but he barely noticed. All he could do was stare at the waves of burnished brown that tumbled to her hips.

Amelia Marshall had very long hair.

He must have caught her in the middle of brushing it. Her hair was parted in the center and very full on either side of her face. He couldn't imagine how she managed to pin all that volume up underneath a hat.

“Let's go into the parlor,” he suggested, not because that was the general room for conversation but because he wanted a better look at her unbound hair.
Hers was the kind he fantasized about having spread across his pillow.

“No. I'd rather stay here.”

If she'd wanted to keep the intimate details of her attire hidden from him in the half dark, she was fooling herself. Here, in the veiled light of the foyer, she looked far more provocative to him than she would have in a bright, open room.

She wore a wrapper of a light and sheer material imprinted with pale pink flowers. The collar was wide and reminded him of a sailor's, only with a point directing his gaze to her slender waist. The sleeves were large and gathered in at the wrist, with fancy trimming and wide flowing cuffs edged in lace.

“Well?” she prompted, the toe of her felt house slipper tapping an even meter like that metronome thing she had for the piano. She crossed her arms over her bosom, as if to shield them from his view. Even without a corset, she had a nice shape; her breasts didn't sag, nor did her waist seem too plump—a hand span at the least, nor were her hips too wide or too narrow. Miss Amelia Marshall was full of surprises.

“Yeah, well . . .” Frank shrugged, then crossed his own arms over his chest. So it was to be a standoff. She'd make this as difficult as she could for him. “Did you talk to Tindall and send another letter to Boston?”

“I did. But I shan't hope for a reply in anything less than two weeks.”

“If we had a telegraph, it'd be a lot quicker.”

Her ire was transferred to the lack of wire communication in town. “Weeping Angel will have telephones before we ever have a telegraph. Mayor Dodge doesn't like that kind of progress. Why, we never would have had the Short Line spur if it hadn't been for the fact he wanted a billiard table too big to disassemble for the Wells Fargo. If he wasn't the citizen to foot most of the city's bills, we'd—” She cut
herself short. “Mr. Brody, I doubt it was your intention to come here and discuss the town's lack of utilities.”

“You're right.”

“What, then, have you been trying to explain?” Her hair fell across her cheek, and she had to unfold her arms in order to tame the rich mass over her shoulder.

He darted his gaze upward to her eyes before she caught him staring at her unrestrained curves. “I know who Shelley is.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know who Mary Shelley is. She wrote
Frankenstein
. I read the book. I've also read Dickens, Cooper, Verne, Melville, Hawthorne, and Twain—just to name a few. I don't care much for Emerson or Bronte. I used to tolerate Sand's novels until I found out he was a she. Now I don't have to like reading them anymore.”

Amelia discontinued tapping her toe, and for a long moment, studied him as if deciding whether he was telling her the truth or not.

“Just because I serve liquor for a living doesn't mean I'm illiterate. You treated me as if I were, so I let you think what you wanted about Budweiser and Beam. If you recall, I never said outright they were men of the cloth who drank in my saloon. That was your idea.”

“Do you want me to feel bad because I found out your little joke?” she asked, her voice a flat tone.

“Hell, no. You had good reason to be mad at me. I can see now that I made light of something at your expense. But it's like I said, you were treating me as if I were stupid.”

A few seconds passed, then she raised her gaze to his. “I apologize if I made you feel inferior. It's just that I've been under a great deal of stress lately.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, relieved they'd at least straightened something out. But there
was one problem still standing between them. “I'm sorry the piano was wrecked, Amelia. You're more than welcome to use the one at the Moon Rock again until another one arrives.”

“I'd rather not.”

“I wish you would.”

“I wish you'd give me the one you have,” she said softly.

Frank shook his head, glanced at the floor, then back at Amelia's face cast in shadows. “Sweetheart, you make twenty-five cents a lesson for thirty minutes' effort. Right now, I'm making that in five minutes. It's not as if you need the money. You have a fine house here.”

Even in the gloomy entry, he could see her expression change to resentment. She wanted to pop him. Why, if she was only teaching the piano as an accent to her socializing?

He decided to do something that could change their situation by way of flipping a coin to fate. “You tell me why you won't pay a kid to mow your lawn anymore and that upright is yours.” He tipped his head meaningfully. “Right now, Amelia. One answer. That's all it takes. I'll have Pap and the boys bring it to you tonight. Just tell me why. Do you need money?”

The muscles in her neck seemed to tense along with her jaw. Her nostrils widened a bit, and her breathing grew unsteady. For a minute, he thought she might just wallop him.

“My aunt left me financially sound, Mr. Brody, so I most certainly do not need any charity from you.” She brought her arms down, her delicate hands clenched by her sides. She took a step toward him to reach for the doorknob, and he could smell the faint scent of some kind of floral perfume on her skin. “Now, if you're finished—”

“No, I'm not.”

He slipped his arm around her waist and gathered
her into his embrace. Holding her snugly, the diaphanous fabric of her wrapper felt like polished stone under his fingertips. The curtain of her hair teased the skin below his shirt cuffs; he entangled his fingers through the silkiness, rubbing the texture between his thumb and fingers. Before she could protest, he kissed her on the lips. Nothing lingering; nothing deep. Just long enough to taste the flavor of teaberry tooth powder on her startled mouth. Just long enough to make him realize a quick kiss wasn't going to satisfy him. Just long enough for him to change his mind and give her something lingering and deep.

When she didn't make a move to hit him, he slanted his mouth over hers. She did taste good, and he was suddenly starved for her. He held the back of her head with his hand, feeling that hair of hers. It was as soft as her lips, and so thick, he was stunned. He loved a woman's hair, but he'd never seen or felt anything like Amelia's. The texture of it was erotic, making him kiss her harder. Making him want to . . . damn.

He backed away before he'd do something he'd regret—like tug on the half belt keeping her wrapper together in the front so he could see what she had on underneath. So he could back her onto the stairs and lean over her and . . .

“Christ,” he muttered, and shook his head, needing to clear his thoughts.

He didn't need a glaring lamp to tell him her face was flushed. He heard her breathing as if she'd run up and down the steps a hundred times. She'd raised her hands and put her palms on her cheeks. “Mr. Brody,” she gasped, her bosom rising and falling. “Mr. Brody . . . Well . . . I . . . I like that.”

“I was hoping you would.” He turned and opened the door to let himself out. “I was hoping I wouldn't.”

Once on the porch, he bent to lift the box he'd carried over. Amelia stood in the doorway, one hand
on the jamb, the other still covering the curve of her cheek.

“Here.” He gave her the present. “I got these for you.”

Amelia stared at the box he'd pressed into her grasp. Without a word, she lifted the lid. “Why . . . they're cattails.” She put her fingers on the fuzzy brown tops, then suddenly pulled back as if she'd been bitten. “Wh-What's this?”

“What?” he asked, leaning forward for a look.

“Th-There's a . . . a frog in here.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Frank swore. He was going to kill Jakey and Daniel.

“You got me a frog?”

Frank grappled for an appropriate response. There was none. If he told her he hadn't thoughtfully picked each cattail himself and admitted to paying two kids, she'd be more insulted than she would be if he said he'd intentionally gotten her a frog.

“Ah, yeah.” Frank tapped the side of the box. “It's a leopard frog. I figured you might like a pet.”

“A pet frog?”

“Yeah, well, you won't have to housebreak it or anything.” Frank shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing there was a hole he could drop into.

“Mr. Brody,” she moaned, “whatever possessed you to give me a frog?”

He kept his face toward her, but backed down one of the porch steps. “At this moment, I really couldn't say.” Then he swung around, jumped over the last two steps, and was gone before he could make more of an ass of himself.

T
he congregation of the Christ Redeemer church rejoiced in the news of Narcissa Dodge's blessed condition. After the mayor was allowed to make the announcement, everyone broke into the next hymn with extra glee while singing “Bringing in the Sheaves.”

Amelia only pretended to sing. She had other matters on her mind. She tried to ease open the spring clasp on her chatelaine bag without being noticed by Narcissa, who sat next to her. Amelia's fingers slipped on the catch, not because of the gloves she wore, rather the dampness her palms seemed to give the thin fabric encasing her fingers. She never perspired in church, even though the house of the Lord was often as hot as His adversary's during the months of June, July, and August.

Elroy Parks and Daniel Beamguard pulled the ropes that operated the palm leaf paddle fans above the parishioners' heads. A gust of warm air traveled over Amelia as she was able to undo the clasp; but the bag
still remained anchored to her belt by a short length of decorative chain.