"You do know another young woman with red hair!" Esme told him.
"Nope," Armon replied obstinately. "Can't think of nary a one."
Esme gritted her teeth with frustration. "All right," she said between clenched jaws. "One more hint If you can't get it this time, I'm giving up."
Armon shrugged.
"She's the daughter of a preacher."
Armon stared dumbly at her for a moment, then his eyes widened in shock. "Tits Tewksbury?" he whispered, the tone of his question incredulous.
Esme frowned at the vulgar nickname.
Glancing down the hill toward the women's foot washing, Armon's expression was one of disbelief.
"I cain't believe it. Miss Esme," he said sincerely. "That gal ain't never give me so much as the time of day."
"I'm not saying a word," Esme told him, reeking of guile. "A lady's heart is involved, and I wouldn't want to in any way cause it to be broken."
Shaking his head in disbelief, Armon was clearly pole-axed. "Miss, uh, I mean Miz Rhy," he said, "I'll never breathe a word of what you tole me. But I do thank you for letting me know." His smile was joyous.
"Them ladies, they ain't like gals," he said. "You cain't even get an inkling of what they's a-thinking."
The crowds were breaking up, and Esme took her leave quickly.
If Armon couldn't get an inkling of what a lady was thinking, that must mean she was a lady, Esme thought to herself. Because Armon surely wouldn't have been smiling if he could have read her mind.
Esme hummed a cheery tune as she hurried to join her husband. If Sophrona had slapped Cleav for a gentle kiss, she'd probably break Armon Hightower's jaw.
The idea appealed to her.
The Reverend Wilbur Boatwright was a short, balding man with a florid complexion and a pure white handlebar moustache. What the middle-aged evangelist lacked in pulpit presence, he managed to make up for with a booming set of vocal cords.
Cleav and Esme found seats near the middle of the third row. Yohan deserted them for the male camaraderie of the hastily constructed "amen corner."
Only a couple of dozen benches were available, and with everybody within ten miles showing up, the place was crowded. Esme was jostled more than once as worshipers shoved into the row and she found herself plastered right up against her husband.
"Do you mind?" Cleav asked as he slipped his arm around her to give her more room.
"It's fine," Esme whispered, and they both heard an utter from behind them.
The twins sat on either side of Armon, and he was holding both snugly at the waist.
"You don't have to ask permission, no more," Armon told Cleav. "You're a husband now, and husbands do what they want."
The twins sighed adoringly and leaned even closer against him. It was all Esme could do not to pull away from Cleav's light embrace.
"Pay him no mind, Hillbaby," Cleav whispered.
The sweet endearment brought a bright blaze of color to Esme's cheek.
Cleav grinned.
The teasing lightened the tension between them, and Esme found herself leaning against him even more closely than necessary.
There was no piano in the brush arbor, so Miss Sophrona was not in sight. There were no songbooks to follow, but when Brother Oswald led the singing, Esme felt the warm spirit of shared harmony enfold her.
Cleavis, his arm still encircling his new wife, felt peaceful for the first time in days.
