Aunt
Hen would be happy to see him, no matter what. And she would
know how his father was doing. She would know whether he
wanted Gidry to come home and do his duty or stay in exile
forevermore. Hopeful, Gidry made his way to the front of
the Pauling house and through the narrow, blooming, trellis
gateway. The garden was much improved since last he'd walked
here. Aunt Hen loved growing things, but he had not recalled
such glorious roses. The thorny bushes grew in great variety
with large blooms all along the narrow garden paths. He
made his way with some stealth remembering how he used to
sneak up on her and startle her as a child.
He
was already grinning broadly as he slipped up behind her.
"Well
if it isn't the crankiest old maid in Chavis County,"
he said.
She
turned in a flash to stare up at him in surprise.
Gidry's
smile froze as the face of the wide-eyed woman who gazed
up at him from the depths of a gingham slat bonnet was not
familiarly lined with ancient mirth and motherly goodwill,
but one many years younger and equally familiar. A face
he had hoped to avoid entirely for the next thousand years.
"Prudence?"
"Gid!
. . . ah . . . ah . . . Mr. Chavis."
He
was stunned into clumsy speechlessness.
Hastily
she rose to her feet. The threadbare Mother Hubbard gown
she wore looked at least twice her own age and bore two
dirty prints at the level of her knees. A pair of seemingly
giant men's plow boots peeked out from beneath her skirts.
Altogether it was an incongruous and unattractive costume.
"Prudence,
what are you doing here?" he asked stupidly.
Her
expression was momentarily puzzled. "I live here,"
she answered.
"Here
with Aunt Hen? You mean you never married."
Her
cheeks blazed vivid red. "I certainly had offers!"
Her tone was strident, defensive.
"Of
course, of course," Gidry insisted quickly, wishing
both to bite his own tongue and to have lightning strike
him dead on the spot. There was a smudge of dirt upon her
nose and one tendril of sweat dampened brown hair stuck
to the side of her cheek. Gidry turned slightly sideways,
making it less necessary to meet her eyes. Good Lord! What
a disaster! Of all the people in Chavistown, Prudence Belmont
was the one particular woman he decidedly wished to avoid.
They had once been close, perhaps too close. For years they
were devoted playmates, partners in mischief, and complete
confidants. Pru was his friend, the favorite part of his
day, his perfect pal.
For
that crime he had rather publicly jilted her.
"I
. . . I was looking for Aunt Hen," he said. "That's
why I'm here.
That's
why I said . . . well, where is Aunt Hen anyway?"
"She's
with your father," Pru answered, brushing ineffectively
at her mud-stained dress.
"Has
he worsened?" Gidry asked, glancing toward the big
house.
"No,
no," she assured him. "Aunt Hen likes to spell
the nurse. I think she doesn't quite trust her with his
care."
Gidry
nodded.
"Yes,
she has always been so good to him."
"She
still is."
The
silence between them lingered. Gidry wanted to take his
leave.
He
didn't want to have to look at her. Like most men, he would
have preferred facing a whole pack of rabid coyotes than
the one true friend whom he had wronged.
"We
did not know you were returning home."
Gidry
patted the pocket of his coat. "I received a telegram
from the Commercial Club. I. . . thought perhaps that I
was needed. I hoped Aunt Hen would be able to tell me if
my father might want me to step in."
"Well
she is there, with your father," Pru said, indicating
the house. "You can talk to both of them at once."
Gidry
hesitated, glancing toward his home briefly before turning
once again to Prudence.
"Could
you simply tell her when you see her that I am in town,"
he said. "I will go get myself a room and try to catch
up with her later."
"You
are not staying at your house?" Pru sounded completely
dumbfounded.
"Probably
not," he admitted evenly. "I . . . I'm not sure
that I am welcome."
Her
cheeks visibly reddened. "It was all such a long time
ago," she said a little breathlessly. "Surely,
all is forgiven."
"Is
it?" he asked, looking her straight in the eye for
the first time. His direct look apparently clearly caught
her off guard.
But
she raised her chin higher, as if refusing to see more in
his words than what was on the surface. "I'll go get
her for you."
"Thank
you. Thank you, Pru. I . . ."
"Don't
mention it," she said quickly as she hurried away.
He
was quite certain that she was not referring to this moment,
this small favor. Don't mention it, she had said. His father
had wanted him to marry Prudence Belmont. Prudence had wanted
it also. He had formally asked her. He had given her a ring.
And he had run off and left her. It was a long time ago.
And h yes, it was by far best not to mention it.
SEALED
WITH A KISS