Yo Crabb played a lively tune that caused more than one foot to tap with an unspoken wish that dancing was not one of Reverend Tewksbury's most oft-preached-upon sins.
It was just bad luck, Cleav decided later, that the lull in the music coincided with the late, unexpected arrival of Esme Crabb. It was not so much that Esme rarely showed up for social occasions, since up to now she'd shown a patent disinterest in gentlemen callers. The problem was her altered appearance captured every eye in the place.
Armon Hightower blurted out what everyone else was thinking. "Don't you look pretty as spring!"
The made-over dress was attractive, and Esme's long ringlets were now tossed casually by her run through the meadow. She glowed with pretty disarray in the light of the Chinese lanterns. But what set off the young woman's beauty most effectively was the wild garland of clover and phlox that was draped around her.
"Oh, doesn't she look lovely?" Sophrona asked Cleav in a delighted whisper. "And in my old dress, too. I'm so pleased."
Cleav found himself unable to reply. She was pretty, but he was determined to keep his eyes on Sophrona Tewksbury. She was the woman in whom he was interested.
The music started up again, and a place was made for Esme in the circle. More than one of the young swains gave Esme a long, thoughtful look.
"That's a pretty wildflower chain," Elmer Crossbridge, a blond and buck-toothed young farmer, observed, giving himself an excuse to scrutinize Esme's bosom. "Must have taken you a goodly amount of time to make it." Esme glanced proudly down at the artistic creation. She thought it was pretty, too. The prettiest thing she had ever seen. And the prettiest part of it was the wild phlox that was woven in.
"Cleavis helped me," she blurted out with pleasure.
"Cleavis?" Crossbridge raised a speculative eyebrow at the unwarranted familiarity.
"Mr. Rhy, that is," Esme hastily corrected, her face flaming at her indiscreet blunder. But the damage was already done.
Cleav's face was as white as Esme's was red, and Sophrona was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before.
Now, after a week of trying to explain away the incident to Sophrona's father, Cleav found himself at last welcome in her presence.
"So what is your opinion, Mr. Rhy?" Sophrona was asking. "Do you think that the serpent in the garden walked on legs, or was he just the kind of snake we see today?"
Cleav hated thorny, Biblical catechism. Miss Sophrona, however, seemed to thrive on such. So, he forced his brain to participate. "Well, the Bible does state that he was condemned to slither across the ground. That infers that it was not the serpent's original state," he said.
"Then you think the serpent in the garden was just another type of lizard?" she asked.
Cleav hesitated, hating to be pinned down.
"No," he hedged. "The serpent didn't have to be a lizard. It could have been any kind of creature prior to being used by the devil."
"What an interesting idea!" Sophrona exclaimed. As she postulated on the possibilities, Cleav's attention wandered.
Not five feet away from them an incongruous sight captured Cleav's attention. At the foot of the maple tree, propped neatly against the rough, dark bark, was a pair of very worn men's work shoes. Peeking out the tops were some nearly threadbare black wool stockings.
His first thought was how strange it was to find such an item in the Tewksburys' very neatly kept yard. Then he was struck by how oddly familiar the shoes and stockings happened to be. With a sinking feeling of dread, Cleav slowly, casually, without drawing attention to himself, leaned backward and allowed his gaze to drift upward.
Dangling from a sturdy limb almost directly above them was a pair of long, shapely, bare legs that Cleav definitely should not have recognized as easily as he did.
"I suppose it would have to be some animal that no longer exists," Sophrona was saying. "Do you think it would have been in the reptile family?" she asked.
Cleav jerked his eyes and his thoughts back to the woman at his side. Struggling for an answer to her question, all he could think about was how shocked she would be to know Esme Crabb was spying on them. How could he explain it? And God only knew what Esme herself might say. The woman had about as much tact and social sense as one of his fishes.
"Miss Sophrona," he blurted out finally. "I believe I will have another glass of your lemonade."
Since he'd interrupted her musings, Sophrona cocked her head quizzically at him but recovered quickly and reached for the glass he offered.
"'If he thirst, give him drink,'" she quoted with a cheery giggle as she rose to get Cleav another glass of refreshment.
Watching her retreat, Cleav never allowed his eyes to stray to the intruder in the tree above him. In his mind, however, the slim bare calves and ankles waved before him like a red cape before a bull.
Only when he saw Sophrona step into the house and close the door behind her did he look up into the tree.
"What do you think you're doing?"
