Cleav watched her go,his thoughts spinning crazily. Had she said what he thought? Of course not, he assured himself. But could his ears play such tricks on him? He clearly heard her ask him if he wanted to marry her. No, he must have misunderstood.
She stood next to the cracker barrel now, with her back to him. Her hair was wild and curly, a dark blond color that was plaited in three or four strokes at the nape of her neck, the rest hung in disarray down her back just past the rim of her shoulder blades. The ragged wool coat she wore reached just past her hips and her heavy serge skirt had seen better days. Even at a distance Cleav could see the frayed hem, which was a good two inches shorter than fashion and good taste dictated. But the shoes were the worst. The black hobnailed work boots belonged on the feet of a plowman, not a young woman.
Had she really said…? No, Cleav reassured himself. His ears were just playing tricks on him these days.
He forced his eyes to return to the bookkeeping. He'd found the three-cent error that had plagued him all morning, but he still needed to balance the books. Even as he worked, his eyes continued to stray from the neat rows of penciled figures to the female person standing warming herself at the stove and munching on crackers.
Esme was tryingto decide what to do. She'd taken one bite of the sweet-smeared cracker but found it totally tasteless. The cane-seat chairs around the stove looked comfortable, but she remained standing. All the chairs were turned to the front, and she just couldn't bear the thought of having to face Cleavis Rhy again.
She should have planned more carefully. Instead she just blurted out her offer like a madwoman. Maybe he hadn't heard her. He had to have heard her. She prayed that he hadn't.
Truth to tell, all last night she'd lain awake struggling with her decision, trying to convince herself it was for the best. After all, here she was willing to sacrifice herself, her personal happiness, on the altar of a loveless marriage for the sake of her family. It had never occurred to her that he might not be interested. But she began to fear that he might not be.
Especially now that she'd really taken a good look at him. He wasn't so old, after all, and he was fairly good looking. Not like Armon Hightower, of course, but the face of Cleavis Rhy would never curdle milk. And that smile . . . Esme was surprised to hear herself sigh. It was just dog-it unfair for a man to be rich and pretty, too!
She took another bite of her cracker and shook her head. If just one of the twins had shown the slightest interest in him, they'd already be swimming in gravy!
The curvaceous cotton-headed Crabb twins caught the eye of every man they passed, young and old, and each and every one of them would be proud to have such a beauty walking at his side.
Esme was different. She always had been. From the moment that she had been old enough to understand anything, she'd realized that the twins didn't know "come here" from "sic 'em." It was clear that God had put Esme on this earth to keep those two beautiful, feather-headed creatures safe. Neither of her older sisters could be counted on to keep from drowning in a spring shower by closing her mouth, let alone coming in out of the rain.
Esme had taken on the job immediately, gladly, lovingly. She could hardly remember her ma. And Pa, well, he was simply Pa. Her sisters were the most important thing in Esme's life, and only on rare occasions did she envy their perfect complexions and their extravagant bustlines. This was one of those rare occasions. At least a full bosom would be something to offer Cleavis Rhy. Esme's was decidedly lackluster.
Well, she was sure to graces smart as a whip! she reminded herself. But would Cleavis Rhy be impressed with a smart woman? Esme knew that he'd been all the way to Knoxville to school. In a big town like that he had probably met dozens of smart folks; some of them might have even been women.
She knew that, when his pa died, he had had to give up his education to come back and run the store. But Pearly Beachum at the church said that he'd managed to finish his high school diploma by mail. That was nothing to be sneered at.
Pearly's latest gossip was that he was paying call on Sophrona Tewksbury, the preacher's daughter. Sophrona played the piano at church. She'd always been right civil to Esme and the twins, but Esme didn't understand her much. She studied the Bible almost constantly, and just about everything she said was quoted verse. Esme thought there was just something you couldn't trust about a person who never had anything of her own to say. She wondered if that was the way to impress Cleavis Rhy. Esme'd memorized her share of Bible verses; in fact, she could recite the whole thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians. At least she thought she could, as she quietly began to murmur to herself.
"'Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass or a . . ."' Wait a minute. She stopped herself abruptly. Charity. Charity was not one of her favorite words. She'd certainly heard it more than she wanted. And it would never do to remind Cleavis Rhy that last Christmas he had forgiven $42.73 worth of credit that he had extended to Pa over the past few years.
How about Proverbs 31? Maybe that would impress him. "'Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.'" Oh, turd-buckets, Esme thought, money again. This would never work.
She'd never be as beautiful as her sisters, and it was sure to graces she wasn't Sophrona Tewksbury. She was just plain Esme Crabb, and the kind of things she knew how to do—skin one possum and feed four people with it for a week—would probably not make a fancy fella like Cleavis Rhy sit up and take notice.
How was a nothing-special woman supposed to get a man anyway? It was a question she'd never bothered to ask herself in the past. Now it was suddenly of utmost importance.
Lost in her thoughts, she felt the nagging discomfort of her stockings beginning to sag again. With an exasperated sigh, she propped her foot on the edge of the nearest chair and jerked up her skirts. As she leaned over to grasp the errant stocking, she froze in place. She felt his eyes upon her. Unwilling, yet unable to stop herself, she turned her head to look at him.
Cleavis Rhy stood stiff and silent twenty feet away, his warm blue gaze locked on Esme as if mesmerized.
Her eyes widened at his appraisal and her first instinct was to right her skirts and run from the building. But something stayed her.
As she watched him watch her, a hot honeyed glow seemed to envelop her. Her breathing became labored and her lips parted slightly. She looked away from him, looked at the leg she bared before him and suddenly wanted him to see her.
All her years she had wondered about the thing between men and women, never truly understanding it. It was all necessary, of course, to have babies. But it had always seemed a decidedly embarrassing thing to do and a deucedly stupid way to act.
Now suddenly, in the middle of a Tuesday morning in the M. Cleavis Rhy General Merchandise, she felt for the first time the sweet, dark rush of desire.
Glancing back to Cleavis, she saw that his gaze had never left her. With pleasure she watched the rise and fall of his chest as if he too found the interior of the store suddenly short of life-giving breath. His powerful-looking hands lay flat on the counter, as if bracing himself. And the pencil he had been using now stood, in silent testament, broken between his fingers.
Esme turned her attention back to her stocking, carefully, and oh, so slowly smoothing the black wool up over her thigh. She sort of accidentally pushed the skirt a little bit too high, giving a momentary glimpse of the frilled hem of the leg of her white cotton drawers. Then she gently rolled the stocking down into place, revealing her smooth white satin skin. She twisted the corner and tucked it into place casually. With unnecessary drama she slapped her skirts back down into place before removing her foot from the chair.
Esme turned to face Cleavis Rhy. With a lazy, hip-rolling swagger she approached the counter. Never in her short, busy life had Esmeralda Crabb ever had the opportunity to feel such power, such confidence. Standing before him she saw that his hands trembled slightly and that sweat had beaded on his upper lip. Desire. Ah, desire. An unexpected weapon.
With feigned wide-eyed innocence, she cocked her hand on one hip and said to him, "Let me know if you see anything you like."
His own oft-repeated phrase falling so glibly from Esme's lips shook Cleav from his trance. Quickly, he squared his shoulders. Nearly choking from the inexplicable dryness in his throat, and tortured by the very understandable discomfort elsewhere, he attempted an apology.
