"Save to graces," Esme said abruptly, hoping to sidetrack her wayward thoughts with an attempt at lively conversation. "That Grandma Hightower was sure a spectacle tonight, wasn't she?"
Cleav looked up from the wire screen he was inspecting and smiled. "I swear, I don't think I'll ever feel more sorry for Armon Hightower than I did this evening."
They laughed together in remembrance, and their humor bridged the uneasy distance between them.
"He did look a guilty sight, didn't he?"
Cleav agreed.
"Wonder why she did it?" Esme asked more seriously. "Surely she knew it would embarrass the daylights out of him."
Cleav shook his head. "She thought she'd give a little push. People do that sometimes."
Esme nodded thoughtfully. "I'm even guilty of that myself," she admitted, thinking of all the deliberate glimpses of her legs that she'd given Cleav. If she'd waited for the spirit to move Cleavis Rhy, she'd have died an old maid, living in a cave with Pa.
"We all are," Cleav answered, squeezing her hand gently in reassurance before releasing it to wrap his arm familiarly around her waist.
"You can want something so much," he said, his eyes caressing the curve of her jaw, "that you forget that it's what you want, maybe not what's meant to be."
Uncomfortable with her own thoughts, and not wanting to pursue this line of conversation, Esme rushed to return to the original discussion.
"You'd think Miz Hightower'd know better," Esme insisted.
"She does," Cleav replied. "But she also knows that sometimes it works. Sometimes it's part of the plan after all."
Esme turned to face him. The silvery moonlight lit his face in handsome heights and hollows. In the distance the rumble of thunder was premonitory.
"Do you think we are part of the plan?" she asked, a tremor of concern in her voice. "Do you think our marriage was meant to be?"
Cleav gazed down at her, the eyes so wide in worried question, the cheeks so hollow without hint of smile, and the lips, so sweet in his remembrance that he didn't even try to hesitate as he brought down his own for a gentle kiss.
"Our marriage is, Esme," he whispered softly.
Esme wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his throat. He'd spoken so sweetly she'd felt overwhelmed, though she wasn't sure if he was happy or sad.
The two embraced tightly, so tightly, as if each could enfold the other to his heart. Both thought the limbs they felt trembling were their own.
With a determined sigh, Cleav released her and attempted to steer the conversation to a lighter vein.
"Well," he began, his face sober, "at least I know that something good will come from Granny Hightower's words."
Esme swallowed, bringing her thoughts back to the present. "You think what happened tonight will lead Armon to salvation?" she asked him, slightly startled.
"No," he answered, the hint of laughter in his eyes. "I think it will lead him to let the twins escort themselves to the rest of the revival meetings."
Esme stared dumbly at him for a moment, and then they both broke into laughter. They began walking again, hand in hand, this time with a livelier step.
When they reached the path that led to the house, Cleav hesitated.
"Are you ready to go in?" His question revealed his own reluctance.
Esme shook her head. "There's no hurry. Though we may end up a little wet."
Cleav glanced into the darkness at the ominous cloud bank coming on them from the west.
"We've got a few minutes," he said.
Walking to the smooth, dry grass near the water's edge, Cleav seated himself cross-legged on the ground and held his hand out for Esme to join him.
