The tiny bell over the door tinkled loudly in the quiet of the store when she stepped inside. He was standing behind the north counter, papers and ledgers strewn before him. He raised his head and glanced politely at her.
"Good morning, miss. Have yourself a look around. Let me know if you see anything you like."
His attention immediately went back to his papers, and Esme began to wander as casually as possible around the store. Two long narrow counters ran the length of both sides. On the walls behind them were shelves of tobacco jars, kitchen wares, and canned goods. Near the front there were cupboards full of cloth and ready-mades and drawers with lotions and hair tonic, suspenders and fishhooks. Above her, dangling from rafter hooks, were harnesses and baskets, washtubs and chamber pots. In the far corner was a latticework of cubbyholes and a counter with different plates of ink and rows of carved wooden stamps that represented the official U.S. Post Office of Vader, Tennessee.
Usually Esme considered a trip to the store an adventure, but today Esme's mission precluded any careless frivolity.
She looked back toward the man behind the counter. He was tall and lean looking. It was obvious that he didn't spend his life pushing a plow and looking at the back end of a mule. His shoulders were, however, nicely squared in his crisp white shirt and bisected neatly by gray suspenders. His long arms, now resting elbows against the counter, were not heavily muscled, but were thick enough, Esme thought, for him to defend himself in a row. His hair was dark, but not black. A rich brown color, it was parted in the middle with distinctly pomaded curls facing each other across his forehead. As she moved closer, she saw that his pencil was held by long graceful fingers crowned by the cleanest fingernails she'd ever seen.
"There!" she heard him whisper under his breath as he marked one of the numbers in the long column of figures he was working on. As he made his correction, he smiled, and the sight of his warm smile made something inside Esme go real still.
"Cleavis Rhy! Are you crazy?" She could still hear her sisters laughing at the suggestion.
The discussion last night had begun, as had all discussions for the last several weeks, with the name Armon Hightower.
"The man is strictly up to no good," Esme told the twins sternly. "He's not at all the kind of man I want for either of you."
"Armon Hightower is the finest-looking man in these mountains," Adelaide protested.
"Every dang girl in this part of Tennessee is after him. Why shouldn't we be?" asked Agrippa.
Esme put her hands on her hips and sighed loudly. "Because after all these years of living with Pa, you ought to know that sweet talk and a comely visage don't put beans on the table."
The two quieted at that. Food was always in short supply this late in the winter, and hunger was not to be taken lightly. Since Esme was the undisputed breadwinner of the family, as well as the brains, what she had to say on any subject, especially about eating regularly, always bore listening to.
"Well, what kind of man were you thinking of?" the pretty blond sisters finally asked her in unison.
Esme's brow furrowed in thought for a moment. "Well, I was kind of hoping for Milt Newsome, before he up and married that Maud Turhell."
The twins gave each other a wild-eyed glance that Esme didn't catch. Gratefully they both raised their eyes in thanks to heaven on Milt Newsome’s fortunate marriage.
"Milt's farm was the best run in shouting distance, and I was real hopeful about that." Esme shook her head sadly.
"Also, it's got to be someone that's got a big house. I ain't willing to live in this hole forever." Esme gave a pointed look around at their less than ideal surroundings. "We'll need room for all of us to come live with the bride." Beginning to slowly walk back and forth across the room, Esme was thoughtful. "It would be best if the man had some money stuck back for hard times. The way our luck seems to go, hard times are always cropping up."
Stopping her meditative pace, Esme stared sightlessly into the distance, mentally examining each man in the community and subsequently discarding him. Her sisters were very special to her, but the welfare of the whole family counted on one of them marrying well.
Her eyes suddenly lit with excitement. "Of course! I should have thought of him first!"
"Who?" the twins asked in unison.
"The storekeep, Cleavis Rhy!"
"Cleavis Rhy!" Their reaction was immediate. "Are you crazy?"
"He's perfect," Esme declared. "He's not nearly so old as Milt Newsome, and think of that house! There must be a half dozen rooms in there. And getting down off the mountain might be good for Pa's health."
"There is nothing wrong with Pa's health," Adelaide said.
"You can't really expect us to marry up with someone like that?" said Agrippa.
"And why not?" Esme demanded.
"He's not like us, Esme," Adelaide wailed. "He don't even talk like us. I wouldn't even know what to say to him."
"You don't have to say nothing to him, you just have to look pretty. That's all men want anyway."
The two pretty sisters refused to listen. "You don't know a blooming thing about what men want," one declared honestly. "You ain't never let one get within a stone's throw of you."
