Sweet Annie Page 3

  "This was a delightful idea," Charmaine said. "Thank you for the invitation."

  "My pleasure."

  Annie made herself speak, but she kept her eyes averted. "Yes, Mr. Carpenter, thank you."

  "You're welcome, Miss Sweetwater." He paid their bill, then took charge of her chair, wheeling her out the door.

  She focused all her attention on not thinking that he'd be lifting her again—holding her close against his chest. She stood and took a step to hang on to the corner of the wagon while he helped Charmaine up to the seat.

  "You're standing!" he said, returning to her. The surprise in his voice embarrassed her.

  "I can stand," she replied.

  He remained a few feet away. "Can you walk?"

  She lifted her chin. "Yes."

  "Well, come over here to me then." He reached a hand toward her.

  His words froze her to the spot. Face burning, she shook her head. "Charmaine will help me up if you don't want to."

  "I didn't say I didn't want to." Stepping forward, he swept her up so quickly, her breath caught. "I just wanted to see you walk."

  "I'm not a side show," she said, bristling.

  He climbed into the back of the wagon and knelt to lower her to the blankets. Without standing back up, he knelt before her, reaching out to catch her chin on his thumb, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I'm a friend, remember?"

  Lord, those eyes were blue. And filled with com­passion. She hated his pity. "My friends don't ask me to humiliate myself."

  "Is that what I did?"

  She nodded best she could with him holding her chin.

  "I'm sorry then. I would never hurt you, Annie."

  He wouldn't. Of that she was certain. And he was a friend—or he had been—for a wonderful fleeting afternoon long ago. "I know."

  He released her and sat back on his haunches. "See you at the wedding."

  She lowered her gaze to her gloved hands in her lap and nodded.

  He jumped down from the tailgate, raised and latched it. "Afternoon, Miss Renlow," he called to Charmaine.

  "Bye!" she called. "Thank you for the ice cream!"

  At her urging, the horse pulled them away.

  "Why are you so prickly around him, Annie?" she called over her shoulder.

  Annie moved to sit behind her cousin. "I wasn't prickly."

  "You were almost rude."

  "I was not."

  "Were so."

  “You know how my parents feel about him.''

  "And I don't know why. He's charming."

  "I know you think so. You're going to have bruises on your cheeks from pinching them every time he looked away. And where did that dreadful accent come from? You forgot it part of the time."

  Charmaine groaned. "He probably thinks I'm an idiot."

  "He wouldn't think that."

  "No, he wouldn't, would he? We'll see him again at Lizzy's wedding—and at the reception. Maybe he'll ask me to dance!"

  Annie's heart fluttered, then sank at the thought of seeing him again—of watching him dance with Char­maine. She cast the hurt firmly aside. Annie loved her cousin. Charmaine was a lovely young girl, and she deserved someone nice—someone handsome and thoughtful. As much as it disturbed her to think it, Luke and Charmaine would make a lovely couple. Both were strikingly attractive, both graceful and en­ergetic and good with people.

  She had no right to feel possessive about Luke Car­penter. Just because he'd been kind to her on more than one occasion didn't mean anything. Quite likely, he felt sorry for her.

  And that thought broke her heart.

  "Annie," Mildred Sweetwater said in her most dis­couraging tone.

  Two weeks had passed and Annie was standing be­fore her dressing table, a dozen ribbons scattered across the top, searching for just the right shade of blue.

  "Oh, Mama! I need your help with some of these buttons." She turned and glanced over her shoulder at her lower back in the mirror.

  "Your dressing table is made so you don't have to be bothered with getting out of your chair," her mother said, gliding forward.

  "I can't do things from that chair," Annie com­plained. "And no one can see me in my own room."

  “Make certain you stay seated throughout the wed­ding and the reception," her mother admonished her.

  Annie sighed heavily at her reflection. "I always do."

  Her mother buttoned her dress and kissed her cheek. "You're my good girl."

  Annie handed her the ribbon she'd selected and seated herself in her chair.

  Her mother wound the length of satin through the curls Annie had artfully arranged. She found a lap robe that matched Annie's periwinkle blue dress and draped it over her knees.

  Annie looked at the Persian blanket with disappoint­ment. "It hides half of my dress."

  "It keeps you warm as well as covers the outline of your limbs. Don't be obtuse, Annie."

  "It's May, Mama."

  "May evenings are cool."

  "Then let's take it along and save it for evening." Annie folded the robe and handed it to her mother, then readjusted her skirts.

  With a sound of exasperation, her mother tucked the blanket under her arm and pushed Annie's chair from the room.

  "You look lovely, my dear," Eldon Sweetwater said to his wife as she pushed Annie's chair down the ramp beside the front steps. Dressed in a dark-brown serge suit and a starched white shirt, he came forward to assist. “And Annie, you're the prettiest little girl a father could ever have."

  "Thank you, Daddy."

  He lifted her from her chair to the rear seat of their carriage, where she caught her weight with her hands and arms and swung herself onto the upholstery. It was a well-rehearsed routine, one with which they were all accustomed. Her chair took up space beside her, and her mother sat on the front seat with her father.

  Side curtains enclosed the vehicle and blocked much of the view, but if she complained, she would be told that they prevented the wind and weather from making her ill, so she peered out the flaps at the scen­ery and appreciated the much-awaited outing.

  The church had been decorated with pink azaleas and delicate baby's breath. Wide bows of gauzy white tulle draped the altar and the end of each wooden pew, and Annie smiled with satisfaction over the hours of preparation in which she'd taken part.

  Charmaine located her and bent to give her a hug. "Isn't everything beautiful?" Her pretty face flushed with excitement and yearning. “Come this way, Uncle Eldon, Mama and Papa are already seated and we saved room for you. Annie, your chair can go on the end by the wall."

  Which would place her out of view of the proceed­ings, but she could hardly sit in the middle aisle as the bride came past, so Annie nodded and accepted her cousin's placement.

  Sometime later, after the wedding march, after the prayers, while the couple was exchanging vows, An­nie's curiosity got the best of her and she glanced across the room. Luke Carpenter, dressed in a smart black suit, his ebony hair combed and glistening, nod­ded her way.

  She smiled a shy greeting and turned back to the ceremony. But her gaze was drawn to him again. He was watching the proceedings, but glanced her way and their eyes met. He smiled this time, a slow, heart-touching expression of recognition and favor that made her stomach flutter.

  Seated between Annie and Luke, amidst a sea of onlookers and a row or two back, Burdell caught the direction of Luke's focus and speared Annie with a glare. Annie took her attention from Luke and offered her brother a benign smile. His gaze shot back to Luke, who had looked away and was seemingly en­gaged with the service. Burdy frowned at Annie.

  Beside Burdell, his dark-haired wife, Diana, touched her husband's hand and drew his concentration back to the proceedings. Annie believed that Diana was the best thing that could have happened to Burdy. She was a kind and loving young woman, but she held a will and a mind of her own. She possessed more energy than any three women Annie knew, and was always involved in either a benevolence project or a political cam
paign. If she believed in a local candidate, she hopped on his bandwagon, distributing flyers and host­ing fund-raising teas.

  Burdy quite obviously adored Diana, along with everyone who knew her. Her very zest for life and liberty drew people and made her a prominent com­munity figure. She and Burdy had a child now, and with Will's birth, Burdy had pampered and catered to his wife even more.

  Annie loved Diana, too.

  The ceremony ended and, to the strains of the organ music, the newlyweds linked arms and strolled from the church.

  All around, guests stood and spoke in excited voices, milling toward the door, ready for the rest of the festivities to begin.

  Annie sat, waiting for one of her family members to come for her. Occasionally wedding guests greeted her on their way past. Times like these, she wished she could fade into the background, where she and her cumbersome chair weren't an eyesore.

  Growing impatient, she rolled herself to the back of the building, and as the crowd thinned, toward the door to the small foyer and the three stairs. She knew there were three because her father always found someone to assist him in lifting her and her chair up and down those stairs.

  Today it was Ike McPhillips, but his help came too late for her to see the newlyweds depart.

  Father pushed her to the social hall building which sat beside the church. The doorways and tables were festooned with swags of white tulle and pink paper flowers. The smooth wooden floor provided space for Annie to push herself independently, and she did so, wheeling away from her parents toward the gathering of young ladies near the refreshment tables.

  "May I help?"

  Mary Chancelor and Doneta Parker glanced at each other and at the tables. “You can sit right here at the end of this table and pour punch," Doneta told her.

  "Okay." Annie accepted the assignment gratefully and took her position.

  Though the other girls carried glass bowls and sil­verware and dashed about arranging things just so, An­nie was content to sit at her station and wait for the opportunity to serve someone. She had time to watch the musicians set up and to see people arrive and greet each other. Her mother checked on her, found her oc­cupied, and moved on into the growing throng.

  Eventually the food and cake were ready, and guests were encouraged to move through the line. Annie poured punch, while on her left, Charmaine had as­sumed the coffee duty.

  Annie noticed Luke in the line moving toward her, and her heart beat double-time. Handing Mrs. Whit-more a cup, her sudden trembling caused punch to spill over the side.

  "I'm so sorry," she said, quickly handing the woman a napkin and wiping her own fingers.

  "That's quite all right, dear," she said, in a kind, yet condescending tone. "Accidents happen to all of us, don't they?"

  She hadn't meant it unkindly, but she'd meant that even regular people—people who could walk—spilled things, and the meaning sliced Annie's pride. She blinked back the sting of tears, folded the napkin and poured punch for the next person.

  When Luke reached her, she had composed her hands and her feelings.

  "That's a pretty color on you, Miss Annie," he said in his soul-pleasing voice. "It does something that brings out the fire in your hair."

  Annie looked up, wishing she didn't have to, wish­ing she could look him in the eye without craning her neck. Her mother had taught her that when approached with flattery, a young woman should never encourage painted words with a smile or a blush. Annie didn't encourage the flattery or blush, but she responded im­mediately with, "I didn't know I had fire in my hair."

  "Oh, yes," he said, extending an empty cup.

  She reached to take it, but he held on, their knuckles grazing.

  "Sometimes I see a little in your eyes, too," he said. "Before you have a chance to look away or hide it."

  His words were disturbing, and she started to tear her gaze away, then caught herself, challenged in some way she couldn't have explained. Was this the flattery she was expected to discourage? She held his stare, his fingers touching hers until she thought she felt the same fire he claimed was in her hair.

  He smiled, two rakish slashes forming in his cheeks. "I'll take some punch now."

  He released the cup into her hand, and she glanced behind him to see if the next person in line had noticed anything unusual, but Guy Halverson's father spoke to the man behind him conversationally.

  Annie dipped liquid and handed Luke his drink.

  "Thank you." With a grin, he moved on.

  After an hour or so, the line ran out; people finished eating and began to dance. Annie remained at her post. Even though folks could get their own refills, the duty made her feel useful and not quite so out of place.

  Finally, Mrs. Jamison shooed her away, telling her to go eat and visit with the young people. She fixed a plate and rolled herself to a secluded spot where she watched the dancing. Trying not to look for him was like trying not to worry a sore tooth with a tongue. She scanned the crowd again and again, occasionally spotting his black hair and then looking quickly away.

  She picked at the food without much interest, but holding the plate made her look as though she were doing something.

  "Hi, Annie," Burdell said sometime later, coming to take a seat on a wooden chair beside her. He had his little boy, Will, in tow, and pulled him onto his knee.

  "Hi, Burdy. Hi, Will."

  The two-year-old yawned, then grinned at her. “Hi, Nannie."

  "You having a good time?" Burdell asked.

  "It's a nice party. Want to sit on my lap, Will?"

  Burdy took her plate and handed it to one of the ladies passing by. The child scooted from his dad's knee and used Annie's foot as a step in his eagerness to sit with her.

  "Whoa there, William, you'll hurt your aunt."

  "No, he won't hurt me," she denied, and brushed his concern aside like swatting at an irritating fly. "We're buddies, aren't we?"

  Will nodded. Annie inhaled the sweet fragrance of his baby-fine dark hair and kissed the downy soft skin of his cheek. The twill trousers he wore were minia­ture replicas of his father's, with suspenders crossing his narrow back.

  He said a few words she wished she understood, and pointed to the crowd. Annie nodded and listened. He gave her a comical look with his brown eyes open wide and one corner of his mouth turned up. She laughed aloud. "You're just precious, Will, do you know that?"

  "Yup," he said seriously

  She kissed his head and hugged him, enjoying the feel of his sturdy little body in her arms. The evening was full upon them, and Will was probably used to being in bed by now. He snuggled and relaxed con­tentedly.

  Burdy visited for a few minutes, but when he was ready to move on, Annie raised a hand to stop him from taking his son. "Can't he stay with me a while longer? He might fall asleep."

  "He'll hurt your legs, Annie."

  "He doesn't hurt my legs. I love to hold him."

  "He'll tire you out." Burdy picked up the boy, and Will waved to Annie with a disappointed frown and a puckered lip.

  She managed a smile for his sake and watched her brother carry him into the crowd.

  Annie looked at her empty lap, looked at the danc­ers smiling and laughing. Then she turned her chair and propelled it toward the back room. She had to pass through a kitchen area to get to the door.

  One of the young women standing close by asked, "Need any help using the facility?"

  Annie gave her a weak smile. "No, thank you, I can make it on my own."

  Darlene held the door open and Annie wheeled past her, out the door and into the dark. The ground near the building was hard packed, easy to roll across, but the farther she got from the social hall, the more grass and stubble covered the earth, and the more difficulty she had pushing the wheels of the chair.

  Driven, she struggled until she was hot and frus­trated, and made a few more yards. Glancing behind her, she realized she'd come quite a way, almost to the area where the horses were penned and the wagons parked. S
he had halted between two ancient gnarled trees, and saw now that their roots had finally arrested her progress.

  She leaned back, let her aching arms droop, and stared through the branches to the twinkling stars over­head.

  "Hell and damnation," she said aloud to the night, the worst words she could think of to express her fury at herself for her self-pity. What was worse, being treated like an invalid, or hating herself for her woeful feelings?

  She released a shaky breath, refusing to give way to tears.

  "Somethin' bothering you, Annie?"

  His voice, coming from the quiet darkness, startled her. She turned to see the blue-black sheen of Luke Carpenter's hair in the moonlight.

  Chapter Three

  Annie gathered her composure. "No, no, I'm fine. I just came out for a little air."

  “Seems to me there was air back by the social hall. I think what you wanted was distance so you could curse a blue streak."

  Oh, Lord, he'd heard her! Her cheeks scorched with embarrassment.

  He chuckled. "I'm impressed, actually. And glad to know I wasn't wrong about that fire."

  "I—I didn't know anyone was out here. I—I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry on my account. Sometimes a body's gotta let off a little steam. Can't be healthy holding all that in."

  Assured that she hadn't alienated or offended him with her outburst, Annie relaxed. That was exactly how she felt much of the time: ready to explode. Sometimes screaming out her frustration was all that kept her sane.

  “Feel better now?'' he asked.

  She thought about it and slanted her head. "Some."

  "Not all better?"

  No, she would never feel all better. She would al­ways be trapped and stifled and... She shook her head. "What's wrong, Annie?"

  His use of her name was disturbing in more ways than one. The familiarity was improper—even her mother called her father Mr. Sweetwater in public— but Annie loved the sound of her name from his lips. She could form no reply and shook her head again.

  "Bet I can guess."

  She looked up at his silhouette against the dark sky.

  "They treat you like a child," he said.