Ice Cream Social

Today's post is a long one, so perhaps bookmark it for when you have time to enjoy your favorite drink and put your feet up.

In honor of Independence Day, tomorrow, I'm sharing an excerpt from "Before The Blood: Bryony Simons," which includes an Independence Day celebration.

The main character, Bryony Marseilles, is being raised in a fictional fishing village in Northern Michigan (Munsonville), by her stern, bitter, and strict widower father, pastor of a rather generic little church.

Her father runs a Thursday night "humanities" society at the parsonage, which is where Bryony, at seventeen and extremely sheltered, meets her future husband, who's more than a decade older than she (as you can imagine, that marriage doesn't go well).

John Simons is an internationally renowned pianist and composer, who wound up visiting Munsonville for reasons too convulated to mention here.

This excerpt opens with an ice cream social in honor of Munsonville's founder Owen Munson and object of Bryony's childhood infatuation (her teen infatuation was with Henry Matthews, whom her father had hired to paint her portrait for not the most honorable reasons).

Owen had died unexpectedly five years prior to the event, which is where Bryony runs into John (literally runs into him) for the second time.

This excerpt also introduces a slew of other characters who are attending both events.

BEFORE THE BLOOD, BRYONY SIMONS, CHAPTER 2: ICE CREAM SOCIAL

 

Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. (Song of Solomon, Canticle 4:9)

            On Tuesday June 28, the villagers held an ice cream social in honor of the fifth annual Munson Day.

            "Ice cream social" was a misnomer, for in addition to the sweet treat served up at Munsonville Inn for five cents a half-cup serving, the Ladies Aid held a picnic on the church lawn and charged a quarter.

            Some men grilled fish on metal grates; some drank Grandpa Clyde’s cold brew from oak barrels banded in nickel brass; and some did both. The smoky air promised a succulent feast. For Bryony, even though she still ate meat, a stewed rib had nothing on a charred walleye.

            Women spread out their garden bounties, as well as boiled beans, potato salad, bread, and short cake with berries with help from the angelic, and very Irish, "ministering spirits."

            All seven girls had a rose tint to their flaxen hair; all seven had rounded limbs and cherubic faces; all seven were nimble with a needle. Only their personalities differed.

            Alannah, sixteen, was calm and sensible. Briana, fourteen, was impulsive and energetic. Caitlin, eleven, was sunny and pleasant. Dana, ten, was smart in a bookish sort of way. Erin, nine, was outspoken and self-assured. Fiona, eight, could not speak; indeed, she had never spoken, although she had the most expressive blue eyes. Isleen, seven, made up for her sister's silence. She was the family chatterbox.

            Under the wing of, and along with, their mother Kate Miller, these girls of willing hands and hearts served wherever needed: young mothers with husbands on extended fishing or lumbering trips; single men who had no one to cook, clean, and mend for them; and invalids whose families required respite with the feeding, bathing, and changing of bed linens.

            But today, even the youngest of the village's children helped by dutifully rolling pewter flatware into squares of clean cloth and setting them into a tub for serving.

            The resulting funds would help purchase "morally sound books" for the Munsonville Library, to help offset the "flabby minds" novel-reading was producing,

Or so Mrs. Parks spouted one afternoon while she and Bryony snapped green beans for dinner.

            "So you're cancelling your subscription to the Times?"

            "Don't get fresh with me. It's a modern woman's duty to be aware of the world."

            "As in serials and the society page."

            Mrs. Parks smacked Bryony's cheek. "Impudence! Your father might tolerate your back talk, but don't try it with me!"

            Subdued, Bryony kept snapping. Mrs. Parks hadn't struck her for years, not since Bryony had grown tall enough to scream in her face. What had gotten into her?

            Now, on Munson Day, Bryony watched the crowds as she and Susan helped make lemonade. A couple hundred now dwelled in Munsonville, Reverend had said last week in a disgusted tone, and these included the visitors staying at the inn, who'd heard Lake Munson was an excellent location for walleye fishing.

            "Fuck dem outsiders," Gus Griffith said loud enough for Bryony and Susan to hear. The old lumberjack’s face and hands were as rugged and brown as the bark of a sugar maple, but with all its vitality. "We left the world for a reason."

            The girls glanced at each other as they stirred lemon syrup into pitchers of water.

            "Why would he say that?" Bryony wondered aloud. "More people means more ideas. It's like a giant meeting of Father's Society for the Humanities.

            "More people means more trouble. Nosy people. Sticking their noses in our business. Wish they'd go home."

            "You're just afraid someone will lure Erland away," Bryony teased her and then stopped at the panic in Susan's cornflower eyes as they roamed to the crude table where the tall, blond,  muscular Scandinavian twins quickly filleted one fish after another.

            "Girls! A little less talking and a little more mixing, please."

            "Yes, Mrs. Bass," they said in unison.

            Now that Mrs. Sally Bass had grown stout; her blonde curls were graying; and the mole by her mouth was fleshy and sprouted hair, she'd swapped flirting for bossing, although she was still, arguably, the best cook in the village.

            "I am not afraid," Susan whispered once Mrs. Bass started cutting bread and gossiping with an even larger Mrs. Maybelle Fisher, the mother of the deceased Fisher girls, whose abundant brown hair was just showing streaks of gray. "If the twins were 'lurable,' Millicent Gothart would have already done it. Bryony, I truly believe she has an evil eye."

            "I don't believe in such things," Bryony said too quickly.

            She would never forget the pregnant Mrs. Fisher sprawled on the ground,  scratched and bleeding, clutching loyal Blue as he writhed, snarled, and tore up the ground.

      The smile on Millicent's face as it happened...chilling.

            And then, because Susan looked so miserable, Bryony added, "But if evil eyes did exist, Millicent would own two."

            A squeal and then "Mama! Mama!" as five-year-old Jasmine Fisher grabbed Mrs. Fisher's skirts with her chubby fists as eight-year-old-Matilda Drake tapped her, screaming, "You're it!"

            Two-year-old Violet Fisher, napping on a blanket near Mrs. Fisher's feet while Mrs. Fisher talked to Mrs. Drake, woke up and wailed, adding to the chorus. She, along with Jasmine and Marigold, also eight, had the dark ringlets of their older sisters, and it hurt Bryony to look at them, for it made her remember serene summer evenings, when she and Rose gossiped and brushed each other's hair.

            "Remember when we played 'hide and seek,' Bryony?"

            "Yes. In the cemetery."

            Bryony didn't add "with Freddie" but Susan remembered anyway and brushed her sleeve across her eyes.

            "And now he's dead. And so's Robbie and Mama. And most of our Fisher sisters. Bryony, why do things change?"

            Susan naturally didn't mention the death of her oldest brother Denny. Because Denny had hurt Susan. And then Susan hurt him back. It was the first secret she and Susan shared, and they never shared it again.

            "I'm not 'it!' I'm not! I'm not!"

            Mrs. Fisher wrapped an arm around Jasmine as she bent over her thick waist to soothe a cranky Violet. "It' all right, honey, it's all right. Shhh, Violet, Mama's here."

            In vain, Matilda brushed away the wispy hair clinging to her pink cheeks while squatting down to pat the plump little girl, too.

            "I don't want to be it!" Jasmine pouted.

            "If you don't want to be 'it,' honey, you have to catch someone."

            "Catch me, Jasmine!" called Matilda's eleven-year-old brother Norton who had the same flaxen hair as his little sister, just neatly combed. "Catch me!"

            "Go on, honey." Mrs. Fisher gave her a little nudge. "Go play the game. You'll have ever so much fun. Chase him and see if I'm not right."

            Jasmine scrunched her fists and charged in Norton's direction as fast as her fat little legs allowed. But somehow Norton couldn't run very quickly, and he tripped over a stick on the ground, even though Bryony couldn't see one.

            "It!" Jasmine triumphantly yelled as she slapped his shoulder and tumbled over him.

            "Ow!" Norton shouted. "You got me!"

            Marigold screamed and good-naturedly pushed five-year-old Abe Betts, Susan's nephew, who watched the fun with wide eyes and fingers hanging from his mouth.

            "Run, run!" Marigold yelled.

            Abe's four-year-old brother Ned, as slender and sandy-haired as Abe, tripped after them whooping like an Indian, not understanding the commotion, but happy to add to it.

            "Ladies and gentlemen!" Mayor James Fisher bellowed into a megaphone. "Pastor Demars will now say grace!"

            Mayor Fisher passed the megaphone to Prince Charming. Rounder than ever, Mayor Fisher still wore a full beard, although his face had lost its "baby" look, and he no longer needed the camouflage. The recent deaths of his oldest daughters had left deep furrows in his brow and a sad dullness in his eyes.

            "Bow your heads," Pastor Demars boomed.

            A hush fell over the crowd as the revelers complied, broken only by an infant's cry and Mr. Parks' oblivious, "And that durned fish, Teddy..."

            "Shhhh!"

            Mr. Parks reddened at this chastisement from mousey Ida Betts, scarcely older than Bryony and swollen in the middle with her third child, as she held onto her wriggling sons by their shirt sleeves.

            "For what we are about to receive," Pastor Demars shouted, "May the Lord make us truly grateful."

            Resounding "Amens!" and the chatter began anew as the celebration swarmed to the food tables.

            "Double lines!" Mr. Teddy Bass, Sally's husband, shouted as he jumped on a chair and cupped his hands on either side of his smooth-shaven pockmarked face. "Form! Double! Lines!"

            Ida let go of Abe and Ned, and they sped off, unaware  the game had dissipated. Paulie Betts, their father and one of Susan's skinny brothers, walked up with a plate of food, took Ida by the hand, and led her to a tree.

            Bryony glanced at Luther and quickly glanced away. Luther would offer no such gallantry today. He and his brother Leo, and even their parents Dick and Lula Hassett, were meandering the grounds, writing descriptions and jotting comments.

            How funny to see lean Mr. Hasset in his red-spotted bowtie and handlebar mustache, and elegant Mrs. Hasset in her slate gown with the high lace color and tiny pearl buttons, helping with the interviews.

            "The Times needs more staff," Susan said aloud. "I told you. Too many people."

            "Then it shouldn't be hard to find more reporters." Bryony picked up a plate. "C'mom. Let's get some food and sit near the twins."

            "Oh, I couldn't!" Susan stopped short at Bryony's grin. "You! Besides, they're preoccupied. Look."

            Erland and Erasmus Borgstrum, each with a shock of blond hair that flopped onto their foreheads at identical angles, sat Indian-style across the yard beneath an old oak, devouring fish sandwiches and conversing with Millicent Gothart, who had positioned herself on a chair in front of them, plate on her lap, like an redheaded queen holding court.

            "I'm sure it's innocent," Bryony said with a reassuring pat to Susan's thin shoulder. "Though they seem less shy now that their English has improved."

            "I'm glad Mr. Borgstrom is gone. He skeered me."

            "Me, too."

            "And it's good for the Basses, the twins livin' with them. They ain't fightin' as much. I don' remember the last time either one got a black eye."

            While a black eye on Sally Bass spoilt her complexion, a black eye on Teddy Bass accentuated his "Man in the Moon" appearance, especially when he grinned.

            Bryony laughed aloud. "They also don't have Mr. Munson to break up their fights anymore." Something hurt inside at the mention of her cowboy's name, so she handed Susan a plate and diverted the subject. "When is Lillian and Milty's wedding?"

            Lillian was the Hasset's only daughter, now working as a copy editor at the Jenson Reporter. Milty was Susan's other living brother, slender but not lanky, blond like the rest of the Betts offspring, and the most book-smart of them all, which is why Munsonville's former mayor Boswell Pike, chair of the philosophy department at Jenson College of Liberal Arts, selected Milty to personally assist him.

            "They're discussing June of next year, but they haven't set a date."

            And that's when Bryony saw him, sitting at the head of a faraway table, eating and addressing a gathering of rapt listeners. Susan saw him, too.

            "You know why he's still here, Bryony."

            "Yes. Father said he needs time to relax. His performance schedule is busy and full."

            Susan smiled archly at her. "Then that makes two reasons."

            Neither spoke as they ate. Susan was too busy watching Erland watch Millicent; Bryony was too busy watching the stranger. She never saw anyone command this type of attention, not even Father during his Sunday morning sermons.

            "The program will begin soon," Bryony finally said. "We'd better get our ice cream."

            They stacked their plates in one of the hampers and cut across the grass to Main Street and then to the inn, each making a side trip to one of the public outhouses behind the shop buildings.

            Bryony still wasn't used to seeing the three-story building that comprised the inn, especially a building with a turret. Naturally Father didn't like it, but Bryony found it exciting and supposed he'd better get used it. With the school's growth and subsequent additions, the village was discussing the possibility of building a new school building, one with three stories.

            Cyrus Newton, a skinny little braggart with crooked teeth and thick eyebrows, manned the front desk of his own inn. In the lobby, three women were scooping up ice cream out of the round wooden freezers and serving them into pretty fluted saucers.

            These were Mrs. Bass and the Irish sisters who'd married fishermen: Mrs. Kate Miller, a tall broad-shouldered woman with thick russet hair and a warm smile; and Mrs. Mary Cooper, who looked like Kate except her dull locks were brown; her face was drawn; and she was missing a few teeth.

            "Vanilla or berry?" Mrs. Bass asked.

            "Berry, please," Bryony said.

            "Vanilla, please," Susan said.

            In silence they sucked the frozen treat from their spoons as they wandered back to the celebration. They could hear Mayor Fisher's voice through the megaphone, extolling the benefits of living in Munsonville and posthumously lauding Mr. Owen Munson for founding it.

            They reached the grounds just as the musical program began. The stranger had vanished.

            "He's gone," Susan whispered.

            "I know," Bryony whispered back.

            The twins were now sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Bass, their guardians ever since their father's hanging. Mr. and Mrs. Parks were sitting there, too. The other seats at that table were empty.

            "This way, Susan."

            Bryony took Susan's sweaty hand and led her past the table where the Fishers gathered with the Drakes and Mr. Griffin and past the tree where Paulie had his arm around Ida as she rested her head on his shoulder.

            "Teddy, you shoulda seen it," Mr. Parks punctuated his words with a sweep of his beer mug; the buttons on his homespun shirt strained with pride and extra helpings; his furry brown mustache glistened with Grandpa Clyde's brew. "Three feet long from nose to tail."

            "Huh. And where is he now?"

            "You ate 'im for dinner."

            "Yeah, sure."

            Bryony nudged Susan to the empty chair near Erland, which left Bryony sitting next to Mrs. Parks, and then turned her attention to the program, so she could not see Erasmus watching Susan watch Erland while Erland watched everyone but Susan.

            Hulky brothers-in-law Mr. Mitch Cooper (head and face full of dark wiry curls) and Mr. Eugene Miller (whiskerless, receding blond hair), husbands of Mary and Kate, proved they could sing as well as fish.

            They presented a duet of six of Mr. Munson's favorite cowboy songs, starting with the fun ones:

 

I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill

And over the moor that's sedgy

Such lonely thoughts my heart do fill

Since parting with my Betsey

I seek for one as fair and gay

But find none to remind me

How sweet the hours I passed away

With the girl I left behind me

 

            Bryony's throat stung and she closed her eyes, the better to see a stocky man of average height, cowboy hat topping his bushy black hair, strutted across Main Street beaming and singing his heart out.

            By the end of the first song, many were tapping their feet and clapping their hands, even Bryony, although ever so lightly. Their response fueled the vocal fire in these thick-set men as they projected their rich voices across the yard without a megaphone.

            

            I've been where the lightning, the lightning, tangled in my eyes;

The cattle I could scarcely hold.

I think I heard my boss man say,

"I want all brave-hearted men who ain't afraid to die

To whoop up the cattle from morning till night

'Way up on the Kansas line."

 

            A lull settled over the expanse when Mr. Cooper and Mr. Miller each raised a burly hand palm-up in the air, hands that had prevailed over the strongest fish and choppiest waters and now carried the weight of their song, as they quieted their voices, and harmonized the haunting:

 

Aura Lea, Aura Lea,

Maid with golden hair;

Sunshine came along with thee,

And swallows in the air.

           

            "Why, little Miss Bryony," Mr. Munson brandished his handkerchief and dried her eyes. "Why so blue today?

            Because you are gone, Bryony thought as she watched the two fishermen sing her cowboy's songs. Because you are never coming back.

 

O when I die

Take my saddle from the wall

Put it on my pony

Lead him out of his stall

Tie my bones to his back

Turn our faces to the west

And  we'll ride the prairies

That we love the best

  

            "The whole of it." Mr. Munson stretched  his arms as wide as they would go. "The woods, the water, the hills, the land: it's all mine. 

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear
Long, long ago, long, long ago
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear
Long, long ago, long long ago 

            "Look, little miss, I'm the richest man alive, for the angels tuck me in at night, and I have a little girl to love." He tapped her cheek twice.

 

So come sit by my side if you love me.

Do not hasten to bid me adieu.

Just remember the Red River Valley,

And the cowboy that has loved you so true.

            "Now run along and play with the others. And no more feelin' sorry for me. It's a wasted feelin' if I'm not feelin' it. Capisci?"

            Capisci, Bryony lied in her heart as the last song ended.

            The schoolchildren's program began. One child after another read brief original compositions on various aspects of Owen Munson's life, starting with the three youngest Cooper children (because their oldest sister Mona Griffith taught at the school), who presented on the topic of codfish.

             "To understand why Mr. Munson favored gill nets for cod, one must understand why..." fourteen-year-old Matt Cooper slowly read, drawing out each word.

            An accomplished fisherman like his father with the light brown hair of his mother Mary (on his head and above his upper lip) Matt's baby fat was melting now that he was growing taller.

            "The best way to debone a cod is to..." chubby ten-year-old Miles read with a lilt in his voice.

            Miles preferred mending nets to casting them, and fabricating fish to catching them, whistling all the while, although he could cast and catch with the best when necessary.

            "Mash codfish and potatoes together for..." nine-year-old Maudie Cooper read breathlessly, the way she performed most activities, as if she'd just run a race, which this time  she just had, with eight-year-old Marigold Fisher.

            Maudie blew her disheveled hair off face before she continued with, "the bestest breakfast..."

            "Let this," Mr. Munson said as he buried the last evidence with his toe, "be our secret. I don't want to alarm the rest."

            She'd let envy rule her heart instead of good sense. And now her cowboy was never coming back. Father was right. Envy really was a deadly sin.

            The Harper children read next. Topic: codfish.

            "When salting codfish, remember to completely cover..." fifteen-year-old Maggie, a confident plump brunette, read in a loud strong voice, holding the paper in her pudgy right hand while demonstrating the action with her left.

            Maggie would know. The Harpers came from restaurant stock, or so Mrs. Parks had said, and salted codfish twice as fast as anyone else, which helped expand the industry into Jenson. When she wasn't in school, Maggie even helped her mother Linda, also brunette and also plump, cook at Munsonville Inn.

            "Pack codfish carefully in a box before...," thirteen-year-old Percy droned, scrunching his thin face, trying not to yawn.

            Trim and muscular, an outdoor boy through and through, Percy would rather pack codfish than read about packing codfish. And it showed in his lackluster delivery.

            "Latht year, Jenthon ordered more thalted codfith than even..."

            Despite his lisp, twelve-year-old Jasper enjoyed reading his work aloud, especially when the topic was fishing. Jasper dearly loved to fish, but he was lame and walked with a crutch, and the damp air often induced a fit of coughing.

            Many times Bryony had watched Jasper bravely wave at his father and Percy as they headed out onto the lake while he cheerfully contented himself with dropping a line off the dock.

            But, despite his frequent absences, Jasper was one of the school's top students due to never neglecting his studies, even when confined to bed with a poultice on his chest.

            "Maple syruping actually begins in the summer," read twelve-year-old Lila Brown, an aspiring schoolteacher and a blonde, despite her surname. "According to Mr. Munson, you must identify which maple trees should..."

            If Bryony listened to anymore, she'd surely cry. She leaned into Mrs. Parks and whispered, "I'm visiting Mrs. Murphy."

            Engrossed, Mrs. Parks nodded and waved her off. Forcing back hot tears, Bryony blindly trudged in the direction of the outhouses behind the church, and then skirted around the other side toward the road. A sob broke out, and she bumped into a man.

            Startled and embarrassed, she stepped back and looked up. The stranger!

            "Oh! I'm so sorry! Please forgi..."

            "Who are you?"

            So he had forgotten her!

            She ducked around a tree to wipe her eyes, and the stranger popped out on the other end.

            "Mr. Simons, please!"

            She  turned to leave, but he took a step,  bent near, and seized her wet cheeks. That alone alarmed her, but it was the intense gleam in his blue eyes that...

            "Who are you?" the stranger repeated. "You are not Munsonville."

            "Wha...I..."

            "Where can we talk?"

            "Talk? But we are tal..."

            "Privately."

            She glanced back at Mrs. Parks intently nodding her head as fourteen-year-old Addison Drake shared Mr. Munson's establishment of the lumber trade. No one would miss her. The stranger's request was most inappropriate, this Bryony knew from all of Mrs. Parks' lectures, but...well...how dangerous could a world-famous musician be, especially in a crowd?

            "There's a place. Near the lake. Private because of the oaks, but in the open."

            "I'll follow you."

            Bewildered, Bryony lifted her skirts and traipsed in the direction of her cowboy's cabin, now one of the storehouses for fishing gear.

            She didn't look back, proof she had listened to Mrs. Parks' teachings, but gazed only ahead as she left the churchyard as if she didn't care if he followed or not. He mustn't think she was a fast girl.

            Not a person walked the side road, and she saw only a few on Main Street, stragglers with their ice cream heading back to the entertainment. Had they noticed the stranger trailing her, if he indeed he still was? Or did he prudently keep to the shadows until they passed?

            She crossed Main Street where the fishing cabins lined up and straight for her favorite tree, an ancient sturdy oak near Mr. Munson's old cabin, where she often liked to sit, think, smell the fishy spray of the rolling lake, and hum his old songs.

            With so many homes on the hill now, hardly anyone actually lived in the fishing cabins, except for single men like Mr. Alex Fate, even though he drove a hack and didn't fish.

            Instead most of the cabins served as storage space, a meeting place, or an out-of-the-elements sleeping place for a displaced husband following a marital spat.

            Only after Bryony settled on the ground and smoothed her skirts did she turn to look at the stranger, who'd stayed behind the entire time. This man, who walked in worlds she'd never seen and played before audiences larger than Munsonville's population, settled on the grassy mound beside her as easily as he might a silk cushion.

            "I want to know everything about you." He was smiling, not Mr. Munson's broad smile, Mr. Matthews' taunting smile, or Luther's caring smile, but a trace of a smile, one Bryony couldn't decipher. "Start at the beginning; don't skip a detail."

            Having never been formally courted, not even by Luther, Bryony didn't know if the stranger's question was proper, improper, or part of normal courting behavior.

            No one ever wanted to know anything about her, but why would they? She knew them, and they knew her.

            With a heavy sigh, she faced the sloshing waters.

            "We'll start slowly. When did you come to Munsonville?"

             She was the lake...

            Bryony looked at him. His face was impassive, his eyes penetrating. She looked away. "I was born here."

            "Here? In this spot? Or in this village?"

            "Well, almost both. I was born in a cabin, three doors down.

            She pointed to the one. He strained to look.

            "How long did you live there?"

            "I don't know. I was too little."

            "Then how do you know?"

            "Mr. Munson told me."

            "Who's Mr. Munson?"

            "Our leader. He...he died." Her throat caught. Five years, and it still hurt to say it. "He's the reason for today's celebration."

            "Where is your mother?"

            "There." Bryony pointed back to the hill.

            He turned around. "Where?"

            "The cemetery. She died, too. When I was three."

            He turned back. "Of what?"

            "Pneumonia."

            "What was she like?"

            "I don't remember her."

            "But photographs: you have seen those?"

            "No, sir."

            "Your father, perhaps, has described her?"

            "No, sir. He rarely mentions her."

            "But he loved her?"

            "I believe so."

            "He told you she died from pneumonia?"

            "No. Aunt Bertha told me."

            "Who is Aunt Bertha?"

            "Our housekeeper."

            "The witch with the gray beehive and bossy airs?"

            A laugh rang out before she could stop it."The very one."

            His intensity paled to blue crystal. Sharp eyes but full of light. She relaxed, slightly.

            "What of your other relations?"

            "Relations?"

            "Brothers, sisters, grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunties?"

            "I've only Uncle Orville and Aunt Bertha. And Father, of course."

            "They were born here, too?"

            "No."

            "Then where?"

            "I don't know."

            "And you're not curious?"

            Curious? Bryony never thought to be curious. But the question from this stranger aroused her curiosity.

            "I don't know...Mr. Simons."

            How daring to speak such a famous name aloud to the man who owned it!

            "Even if I was curious, I wouldn't comprehend the answer. I only know other places from books."

            She noted a tinge of incredulity on his face. This change in emotion strangely emboldened her.

            "How old are you?"

            "Seventeen, Mr. Simons."

            "In all your seventeen years, you've never left this village?"

            "Of course I have left this village. I've been in a boat on the lake. I've been berry picking in the woods. I've spent summers on Fisher Farm."

            "Where is Fisher Farm?"

            "Around here." Bryony pointed beyond John to the northwest.

            "Unbelievable," he murmured. "So sheltered, so innocent..."

            She sat up straight. "You act as if I'm ignorant. I may not be a world traveler, but I know two people you know."

            He chuckled softly and leaned against the trunk. "Indeed? Tell me."

            "Well, I don't exactly know the first one. But I know of him."

            "And who might that be?"

            "Seymour Cassidy."

            The man's smile faded, and so did his color. He moved forward until his nose almost touched hers. "How?"

            Intimidated, Bryony drew back. "Mrs. Parks said my parents heard him play piano in Chicago before he moved here. That's why Father wanted to meet you. Because you're his apprentice."

            "And who might the second person be?"

            "Mr. Henry Matthews."

            "Now how would you know Henry?"

            "Father hired him five years ago to paint my portrait."

            "How does your father know him?"

            "A society man introduced him. You met him at the meeting. Professor Clarke."

            He looked long and hard at her. "Henry is my good friend. He brought me here, I believe now, to meet you."

            "Mr. Matthews did? But why? Did he...mention me?"

            "No."

            Her hopes crashed. So stupid to have wished...

            "As to the 'why,' I can't say until I know for certain."

            "But you will tell me? When you discover the reason?"

            "Yes."

            The swoosh of gray-blue waves in the approaching twilight rippled into words she never meant to say aloud: "I wish he hadn't left so soon."

            "Oh?"

            She pulled her attention away from the waves and back to the stranger, his countenance once again impermeable and incognizant to anything but her.

            "Because he missed the meeting."

            "He did."

            "It's sad about his uncle."

            "Very."

            "And about...Agnes King."

            "Bryony!"

            She jerked at the sound and then giggled at the sight of Mrs. Parks trying to run with her skirt held high, which made her look like a galloping centaur. Bryony jumped to her feet, brushed away twigs with a hasty, "I must go," and hurried in the direction of the scandalized housekeeper.

            Mrs. Parks upbraided Bryony for her imprudence all the way to the parsonage and berated Reverend for his careless neglect of his fatherly duties far into the night.

            The following morning, John left Reverend his card and a note: "May I escort Bryony to the Independence Day celebration?"

            Bryony silently cheered from the top of the stairs as Mrs. Parks screeched out the message and screamed for Reverend to come out of his office "this very instant!"

            "I cannot tolerate his brashness any longer!"

            "Mrs. Parks..."

            "First, he ogles her, then he whisks her away, and now this!"

            "Mrs. Parks, steady yourself. You'll have a fit of apoplexy."

            "Reverend, with all respect due you, I fear your plan will fail."

            "My plan, Mrs. Parks?"

            "Yes. I know full well Luther Hasset wants to court Bryony. And you think by giving her a taste of hoity-toity, the child herself will want no part of him."

            "Mrs. Parks, this conversation is finished."

            "She's growing up!" Mrs. Parks stormed down the hall after him as he stormed to his office. "As much as you hate to admit it and can't stand to see it, she's growing up! And unless you want her to be an old maid who keeps house for you when daisies are planted over me, you need to..."

            Slam!

            And a click.

            "You're making a molehill out of a mountain!"

            No reply from behind the closed door.

            "And you'll rue the day you did!"

            She glared at Bryony and then stomped to the kitchen.

            Mr. Simons arrived promptly at seven Thursday night for the society meeting. For the first time ever, Reverend banished Bryony from the discussion. But instead of remaining in her room, Bryony huddled on the stairs and listened for sounds of the stranger's voice.

            He stayed a long time after the meeting talking with Reverend, the conversation too muffled to discern through her cracked-open bedroom door.

            Neither Reverend nor Mrs. Parks mentioned Independence Day again.

            But Mr. Simons was still in town. On Saturday, Bryony and Susan stood outside the inn debating which room held him.

            "The turret," Susan suggested. "Because he's an artist."

            Suddenly uncomfortable with the topic and afraid the stranger would appear and see them gawking with their necks craned for a better view, Bryony abruptly took off towards Mr. Drake's store with Susan at her heels.

            "So are you going to the celebration with him?" Susan asked when she caught up.

            "I don't know. No one's talking at home. Are you going with Erland?"

            Susan's face darkened. "He never asked."

            "Maybe he will."

            Susan didn't reply. Bryony squeezed her hand. "We don't need escorts to have a good time."

            The villagers would pack picnic lunches and gather on the grass for games during the day; a brass band from Jenson College of Liberal Arts would play at twilight after the reading of the Declaration; and artillery officers from Thornton would light fireworks when it was dark.

            For the first time, Munsonville's Independence Day celebration would feature people from outside Munsonville, due to the public relations efforts of Misters Betts and Ashmore.

            Munsonville Inn would also sell a frosted loaf, popular in Thornton, known as Independence Cake, and Bryony longed to try this food from a land so far away.

            More than once, she and Susan read the advertisement in the window, boasting it was "flavored with wine and brandy," as well as "rich with nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, mace, and citron," and "heavily speckled with currants and raisins."

            "I can't wait to wear my new dress," Susan said.

            "Me neither."

            At least Susan was happy about something.

 

            Some of the women, Mrs. Parks, Bryony, and Susan included, had sewn Stars and Stripes dresses for the grand event, which added to Reverend's disgust even as it made Mrs. Parks feel "as one" with Betsy Ross.

            "The entire business is flippant and sacrilegious," Reverend said as he reached for the fish cakes, "and a disgrace to the sobriety of our Founding Fathers."

            "Father, there's nothing wrong with showing our gratitude for freedom on the outside as well as the inside. The dresses are modest and pretty."

            "If Sebastian and Blair wanted to live in a city, they should have stayed in one. This conversation is done."

            Whereupon Reverend opened A discourse Concerning God's Judgements; Resolving many weighty questions and cases Relating to them and began reading. Mrs. Parks sighed loudly and poured the coffee.

            Bryony sipped tea, worked her way clockwise around the breakfast plate (fish cakes, fried potatoes, biscuits, and berries), and gazed past the fluttering curtains to the old oaks, their leaves bright green in the morning sunshine. Like Susan, she couldn't wait.

            Mr. Simons called for her the next afternoon promptly at two o'clock. In one hand, he carried a large picnic basket; in the other, a folded blanket from the inn, which surely might have caused Mrs. Parks to faint if she'd hadn't been at home, packing a basket for her and Mr. Parks.

            Reverend was out of sight. His office door was shut. He never attended village festivities.

            "Miss Marseilles, thank you for the honor."

            "You're welcome."

            They took their time down the dusty road,  where revelers strolled in both directions. The air smelled of sulfur and reverberated with intermittent booms, which she felt beneath her feet and in her breast, where her heart beat excitedly at spending an afternoon alone with the stranger.

            They passed the church yard. Horseshoes, graces, and bowls were already in progress. Lasses in long skirts and lads in breeches chased hoops while their parents reclined on blankets amid the feast of their own picnic baskets.

            One little boy repeatedly whacked the trunk of a thick oak with a stick, and Bryony wondered if John realized that little towhead Benjy Brown, just six, couldn't wait to be a lumberjack like his father Ben. One never saw Benjy without also seeing his "ax," which he faithfully used to "fell" the village's trees.

            But then Bryony saw Luther and his family moving among the picnickers, asking questions, scribbling responses. Bryony felt a twinge and ducked her head, glad Luther hadn't seen her.

            On Main Street, men lit firecrackers in the middle of the road while women stood on the plank walks, watched with covered ears, and admired each other's patriotic dresses above the din. Bryony glanced at her cotton gown: red and white striped with white stars printed on the blue cuffs and sash. Addison had special-ordered the bolts of cloth.

            "Shall we sit at 'our place?'" Mr. Simons asked.

            Bryony blushed. She couldn't help it. How lovely his words sounded! But she couldn't say that to him. She only said, "Yes, Mr. Simons."

            They headed to Mr. Munson's old cabin, in view of the fun and in sight of the others. Misters Miller and Cooper sat on a nearby dock with their fishing poles; wide-brimmed hats shaded their eyes from the water's glare. All in the open and proper. Mrs. Parks would have no reason to fuss.

            Mr. Simons unfolded the blanket and spread it on the ground, gesturing her to sit. She sat at one edge, he on the opposite side. Then he opened the basket and laid out its contents: cold baked fish between buttered buns, an entire meat and rice pie, sliced cucumbers and tomatoes, watermelon from Fisher Farm, cold lemonade, and two generous slices of the coveted Independence Cake.

          It was a lot of food, and they took their time eating it, silently, while Bryony watched the sun glisten on the lake, and Mr. Simons watched her.

            "Your dress is pretty," was all he said.

            "Thank you, Mr. Simons."

            When the afternoon grew late, Mayor Fisher donned a megaphone in the middle of Main Street, called for attention, and began reading the words that separated America from every country under the sun.

            When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have...

            America is just like Munsonville, Bryony thought. Nearly everyone here is from somewhere else and came here by choice, to "dissolve the bonds" of other ways of life to create a perfect one here.

            Could anyplace in the world be as wonderful as Munsonville?

            She might never had thought these thoughts were it not for the stranger sitting across from her, a stranger who only last week questioned her about things she'd accepted all her life without question. She sat straighter and prouder in her patriotic dress, feeling like a Founding Father.

            We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights...

            She looked at the villagers gathered in the street and standing in solidarity. She looked at John looking at her with acute concentration.

            ...with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.

            A roaring of cheers that faded into lively exuberance as the various horns of Jenson College's brass band struck up its first piece.

            "Shall we visit the inn?" Mr. Simons asked. "To return the picnic basket?"

            "Yes, thank you."

            He led the way through the crowds to the inn, where he deposited the picnic basket in the lobby, and then out the back door, where he turned left, and she turned right.

            Neither mentioned the side trip to the outhouses. They simply met back in the lobby and proceeded back to the concert. It was Bryony's first experience with horns of any kind, brilliant and vigorous, but still...

            "And?"

            "And, what, Mr. Simons?"

            "Explain the pensive look on your face."

            "I wasn't thinking. I was wishing."

            "Wishing?"

            Applause from the crowds as the piece ended.

            "That I could hear you play. Piano. Even just once."

            "Have you no piano?"

            "Yes, inside the church. But only Mrs. Parks is allowed to play it. And it doesn't sound...right...when she does it."

            "Do you have a key?"

            "No."

            "Don't tell me. Only 'Father.'"

            "And Pastor Demars.

            "Pastor Demars?"

            "Yes. From the society meeting. He and his wife run the school. Father gave him a key in case of emergencies."

            "Would Pastor Demars lend it to you?"

            Puzzled, she looked up at him and beheld a strange glimmer in his eyes. "Why would he lend it to me?"

            "So I could play the piano for you."

            Bryony gasped. "Would you? Truly?"

            "If you get the key."

            "I'll ask now."

            "I'll wait near the church. We should not go together."

            Bryony stood on tiptoe, searching this way and that. She did not see him. So she  wove her way through the swaying and the clapping, dodging the occasional barrel and staggering man.

            Finally she spied Gretchen Demars talking with Neta Ashmore in front of Village Hall and set off in their direction.

            Gretchen, her round cheeks extra rosy in the heat, and the blonde frizz on her forehead even frizzier, saw her coming and frowned.

            "Why, Bryony, you're alone? What happened to..."

            "Where is Pastor Demars? I must speak to him right away."

            Alarm leaped into Gretchen's eyes. She quickly glanced at Neta, who also appeared distressed,  and then grasped Bryony's arm. "Child! Are you all..."

            "Yes, of course, I'm fine. I just need Pastor Demars."

            Still apprehensive, Gretchen motioned to the grassy field at the west end of Main Street. "He's consulting with the artillery officers from Thornton."

            "Thank you, Mrs. Demars."

            Bryony lifted her skirts and hurried to the open field, averting her eyes away from the indecent Mr. Fate and his even more indecent eel, who obviously preferred grass to outhouses. She spied the pastor among the officers.

            "Pastor Demars," Bryony panted when she reached him, heedless of manners, launch tubes, and recently dug holes, "May I please borrow the church key?"

            "Church key?" His breath smelled like beer. "Whatever for?"

            One of the officers looked up. "Pastor, if we start with a..."

            Absently, Pastor Demars reached into his pocket, pulled out a string of keys, and handed them to Bryony. She swiftly removed the church key and handed the jumbled mess back to the pastor, who just as absently stuffed them in his trouser pocket.

            With a quick glimpse at the crowds, Bryony crossed the road and hastened to the church by way of the remote end of town, lest she encounter Mrs. Demars and her questions again, or worse: Mrs. Parks.

            A pinch of trepidation and a stitch in her side as she passed Pike Street forced Bryony to slacken her pace and rub the cramp, but she daren't dwell on her destination. Many a girl had come to ruin on actions less brash than hers this evening, or so Mrs. Parks had always cautioned, but Bryony either couldn't help it...or didn't want to help it. An unseen force she could not identify spurred her on.

            Blue Gill Road came and went.

            The church yard was empty now that dusk was settling and the band was playing, just a couple of balls and a hoop forgotten in the excitement. Bryony didn't see Mr. Simons out front but surmised he might be waiting at the rear door. She rounded the corner and there he was, hands behind his back and gazing at the sky.

            He didn't notice her approach until she reached him. She held up the key. He took it without a word, unlocked the door, and held out his hand. Gingerly, Bryony accepted it. His fingers, warm and strong, closed over hers. She had never touched a man's bare hand, not even her father's. A tremor ran through her as he led her inside the coal-black and airless sanctuary.

            "Wait here," he said.

            She heard him fumble, a scritch, and then a flame flickered on a long taper. Holding his beacon high, Mr. Simons lit the way to the old piano and then set the candle into a nearby holder.

            He ran his fingertips over the lid before lifting it. Without looking at Bryony, he sat on the bench and patted the place beside him. Marveling at her own daring, Bryony obeyed, but on the edge, avoiding contact. Not even her dress sleeve touched his coat sleeve.

            "Ready?"

            "Yes, sir."

            With cool decisiveness, he pressed his choice of keys, and magic tinkled out, high light notes Bryony would later describe as fairy bells, and they bore her on gossamer wings to an exquisite place of indefinable enchantment.

            The tinkles rose to tingling chimes, encircling her with the floaty serenity of drowsy waves, the type one felt before succumbing to sleep. And yet, Bryony never felt more electrified and alive.

            Higher and higher the music swelled, dark and distended, thundering notes that plunged her heart and bound her tightly to the stranger, who pounded them out with closed eyes and contorted features.

             Beyond him, the candle spat and reeled to his refrains.

            He plundered shades; he scaled heaven and shot past comets; he spun her around and around a downward spiral and landed with an abrupt hard chord, damp locks, and a glistening forehead.

            The ensuing silence in the oppression was loud, intrusive, and long.

            Then, before she quite realized it, Bryony found herself saying. "I want to know everything about you. Start at the beginning; don't skip a detail."

            Her words echoed in the empty church, a million repetitions. A confirmation or a mockery?

            The stranger snickered and pulled out his handkerchief. "What would you like to know?"

            "Where do you live?"

            He dabbed his face; the candle burned low. "All over the world. But I'm from New York."

            "Relations?"

            A shadow. He looked aside and absently played a brisk trill. He left off in the middle and fixed his gaze on her.

            “My mother is encased in her sad little world,” the stranger said quietly. "And my father is dead.”

             “How can you be so calm when you say such things?”

            “Because they happened long ago. I have moved on and away.”

       BOOM!

            The candle went out.

            BOOM! BOOM! BOOM-BOOM!

            Bryony jumped and clutched her throat. "Oh, the fireworks! We're missing them!"

            "No, we shan't. Follow me."

            Once again the stranger, this famous Mr. Simons and master pianist, took her hesitant hand into his sure one, and guided the course of their movements as easily as he'd navigated Mrs. Parks' temperamental instrument.

            She could not see her way, but she knew the direction their footsteps took them, to the belfry stairs while explosions rained around them.

            Up and up they climbed, a turn left and up some more. She met a dim light at the top, moonlight and streaks of gunpowder shaking the night with bold flashes of color.

            "Oh!" she breathed. "It's beautiful."

            "No."

            His voice was so hushed and gruff, Bryony daren't look at him. But he slid his hands in her hair and pulled her face up to his, piercing blue eyes that...

            "You're beautiful."

            All at once, Bryony remembered the fortune strip from Iris Pike's birthday party, the one hidden away in Grimm's Fairy Tales: True love will make music in thy heart.

            The belfry was sweltering and not only because it was July.

            Impressions...Reverend's dominance, Mrs. Parks' fussiness, Luther's devotion, her infatuation with dashing Mr. Matthews...faded to gray... slipped awa...

            A towering stranger inching close, a firm hand grasping her hot cheeks, her racing heart, a brush of warm lips, a devouring, a...

            While outside, iridescent combustions heralded an independence that finally arrived.