92. Sarah
Sarah
We stepped into the crush of the train station as the clock struck four.
The air pressed in on me, heavy with coal smoke and too many bodies.
Screeching metal, hissing steam, shrill whistles—too loud to think.
But not too loud to panic. Thirty minutes later, I was sealed into a train car with George. How many ways could this go wrong?
Greta supervised as the porters deposited our trunks in the appropriate rooms. I’d expected an interior of cold metal, but the car was finished with dark wood paneling, thick draperies, and plush carpets.
Cozy and intimate and dangerous. The dining area and parlor stood at opposite ends.
The central portion of the car contained six doors off a narrow hall so tight our shoulders skimmed the walls.
Viola pushed past George and into one of the rooms. The door swung closed behind her. George propped his shoulder against one wall and casually reached his arm to the other side—a lazy, effortless motion that turned the hallway into a gate. “Here we are, Goldie.”
The car shifted. His hand spread wide on my lower back, as if we were dancing. “Need to get your sea legs.”
Great. We’d barely boarded the train, and I was already a trembling bit of jelly because George was standing in a hall with me. “Not much of a pirate, I’m afraid,” I said.
The train lurched. Only his hand at my back kept me from stumbling. His lips curved into an impish grin. Oh, no.
George pulled me close and spun me so we reversed positions in the hall. “If you insist on falling, Goldie,” he said, tickling my ear with his words, “it’s better if you fall into me. Then I can be sure to catch you. I know you have a fear of falling.”
My hands rested on his familiar chest, and I leaned into him, caught again in his gravity. That was the problem. Physics had turned against me.
“Come on, Sarah,” Viola called as her door swung wide.
I pushed away from George and stepped inside.
During dinner, every inch of air between George and me was taut and trembling—aching for… something.
Mr. VanMartin said, “By this time next year, George’s syndicated page will appear in more than a hundred papers. Mark my words.” George beamed at the praise, and my chest swelled with proud affection.
We moved to the parlor for tea and sweets.
Viola linked her arm with mine, and we sashayed around the room, stretching our legs after so much sitting.
I welcomed the motion, too flustered to stay still.
Outside, a crescent moon hung low on the horizon in the deepening darkness.
At Viola’s urging, we put out some of the inside lights to admire the stars.
Mr. VanMartin cupped his hands to the window and then enthusiastically doused the last lights. “Everyone. A real treat. The northern lights. I haven’t seen them in years.” To the north, wavy streaks of luminous green shimmered and danced in the sky.
We pulled seats to the windows and stared, spellbound. George moved his chair close and his hand found mine in the dark. It wasn’t the wild, breathless fire of his hand pressing to my lower back in the hall. This was steadier, deeper—a glow like the aurora rather than a hungry flame.
He said, “I’ve never seen it before now, the aurora borealis. Thought it was an exaggeration. I almost don’t believe my eyes.”
“Look,” Viola said. “Over at that edge. There is the faintest hint of purple among the green.”
I laced my fingers through George’s. “It’s breathtaking.”
“An omen of good luck, I think.”
Viola laughed from my other side. “Since when do you believe in omens, brother?”
“It’s more…” he paused, “that I believe in good luck.”
“Like four-leafed clovers?” she asked.
He curved his hand more tightly around mine. “Shooting stars and lucky numbers.”
“And lucky pennies,” I said, running my fingertips over the pennies in my pocket.
George bounced in his chair. “Lucky pennies?”
Maybe it was the darkness, or the twisting magical lights in the northern sky, or my relief at feeling mildly at ease beside George. But instead of simply nodding, I pulled my pennies from my pocket and pressed them into his hand.
He counted softly. “Seven. How, Sarah?” His lips touched my ear as he spoke.
“It’s not possible.” He returned my pennies to my hand, and I replaced them in my pocket.
His shoulders shook. Was he laughing? He turned slightly away and drew a small bundle from his pocket.
He carefully poured the contents onto my open palm.
Pennies. I dropped them from one hand to the other. Seven.
Now my shoulders shook along with his as we both struggled to contain a fit of giggles. For a moment, the rest of the world turned fuzzy. “I hope you two are laughing and not crying,” Viola said. “I can’t tell in this blasted dark.” Her comment let loose our hysterical laughter.
Mr. VanMartin stood. “Don’t let me ruin your fun. I’m off to bed. Good night.” Five minutes later, Viola yawned loudly and said good night.
George shifted his arm around the back of my chair. When I relaxed onto his shoulder, he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close. So comfortable—a trap I longed to fall into. He spoke into my hair. “Lucky pennies. Seven lucky pennies.”
“I know. In both our pockets.” I sighed. “What are the chances?”
“Like one in a million. No. One in a billion.”
I said, “That is a lot of luck.”
He rested his cheek on my hair. “I do feel lucky.”
“Me, too, George. Me, too.” The gentle clacking and rocking of the train weighed down my lids. Earlier, I’d longed for his touch, his kiss. Here, beneath a shimmering sky, his gentle affection surrounded me, and as much as I wanted his kiss, what I wanted most was deeper.
I wanted his heart.
The aurora’s green and violet fire lit up the sky while a matching ripple of impossible hope danced through me, swelling in the quiet until I began to nod off, though I didn’t want the moment to end.
“Time to get you to bed.” George led me down the narrow hall by the hand. This would not be good night called between our windows. There would be no distance between us. Everything narrowed toward the moment he stopped outside my door.
I sank into the wall as he tilted toward me, unhurried. He pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead—tender and soft, as illuminating as the aurora. “Night, Goldie.”
My breath caught. “Night, George.”
He opened my door and stepped back too quickly. I steadied myself in the doorway as he walked away, muttering something under his breath—something that sounded absurdly like sardines.
Viola paced in the railcar’s parlor, pausing every few steps to peer out the window.
George lounged beside me on the settee and observed Viola with a fond smile. “Which do you think she is more excited to see? Jacob or her farm?”
“She will be seeing both of them together,” I said. “I fear it may be too much.” I tried to lounge as casually as George and failed.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s a talented doctor in town who has some experience treating her swoons.”
“I don’t swoon.” Viola put a hand on her hip.
“Right,” George whispered loudly. “I have witnessed it myself. All the excitement must be making her delusional.”
Viola pressed her face to the window. “There it is. The lake and Jensen’s hill. Come look!” We rushed to peer out the window. “My house is on the other side of that tall hill with the tree.” The whole world sparkled under a blanket of white snow, so bright I had to squint.
George put a hand on my back as the train slowed and then helped me into my heavy coat. I almost managed to breathe.
Jacob waited on the platform. Viola flushed until she glowed when he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her cheek. Her happiness plucked a thin thread of longing that tightened inside me.
I held fast to George’s arm as we tromped through the snow toward Jacob’s wagon, which had been fitted with runners.
Jacob took the reins. “Let’s get you home to your new house.”
Once inside, Viola raced about inspecting every corner, and Jacob trailed behind her.
They filled the house with laughter and happiness.
The scent from the kitchen made my stomach growl.
A special welcome dinner with Jacob’s entire family was planned for tonight, but a light lunch would be laid out in the parlor once we freshened up.
Upstairs, Viola showed us to our rooms. George and I were directly across the hall. Two perilous steps separated our doors. I splashed water on my face, repinned my hair, and returned downstairs.
George stood by a table in Viola’s parlor, filling a plate with food. “Can I make you a plate?”
“I think I’d better do it myself, or nothing will be left for the others.”
He handed me an empty plate and indicated the room. “What do you think?”
“It feels strange to be standing in the rooms I studied in architectural drawings, and touching the furniture I helped her pick out.”
George glanced around. “It is cozy and comfortable but still elegant. Nicely done.”
I pointed to two tall chairs by the fire. “Viola spent thirty minutes picking out the upholstery for those chairs.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Wanted to be sure it would match Jacob’s eyes exactly.”
“She didn’t?”
“I teased her about it mercilessly.”
He chuckled as we sat side by side on a small couch, balancing the plates on our laps.
Between bites, George said, “I would have to pick out at least seven different fabrics if I were to match your eyes… Lucky seven. Bright gold, amber, chocolate brown, olive green, a shy blue which I only find occasionally, a ring of dark gray at the edge, and of course the black of your pupil.” He’d recited them from memory. He wasn’t even looking at me.
“Emerald green,” I said. “Simple.”
Jacob sauntered in looking slightly flushed and sat on one of the tall armchairs near the fire. Viola entered a moment later. She grinned when she saw Jacob, and moved to the matching chair opposite him.
“How do you like my chairs?”
Jacob rubbed his hands up and down the caramel velvet arms. “I like your chairs.”
George said, “He likes a lot more than her chairs, I think.”
I darted my eyes over to where Jacob and Viola sat by the fire. George followed my gaze, and we watched as Jacob rose to leave, planted a kiss on the back of Viola’s hand, then turned it over to press a second lingering kiss to her palm, all the while keeping his gaze locked with hers.
George gave an exaggerated sigh. “After witnessing that bit of romance, I fear I might swoon.” He fanned himself with his hand. “You might have to catch me.”
I huffed out a laugh. “I’d like to see that.”
“What would my friends at the club think? Reading Jane Austen and?—”
“Well, I for one find it endearing.” Our legs pressed together.
“Father, can I make you a plate?” Viola asked. “How do you like your room?”
Mr. VanMartin strode across the parlor. “It is snug and comfortable, my dear.” He glanced at George. “We are all snug and comfortable, I think.”
George fidgeted beside me. “Ah, yes. Snug. Exactly. Almost too cozy, though.” He stood and crossed to the front door. “Off to get some fresh air. Maybe stick my head into a snowbank.”
After lunch, Viola drew me upstairs to the private sitting area in her bedroom, where a crackling fire waited. She crossed her arms. “You are my prisoner, and I won’t set you free until you tell me what is going on.”
I covered my face with a pillow. The chair beside me creaked as she flopped down. The words clawed at my throat.
“I love him.”
“Mmm. Hmm.”
“Not the silly infatuation I’ve felt since childhood. That was pretend. This is… it spins me around so much I don’t trust my own sense.” I let the pillow fall away.
Her eyes brightened with purpose. “You, my dear friend, need a plan.”
“I suppose acting like a lovesick loon is not really a plan.”
She squeezed my arm. “The way I see it, your first option is to commit to being only friends. But if that’s what you wanted, you wouldn’t sit so close to him on the couch.”
“It was a tiny couch. That doesn’t mean?—”
“Or make cow eyes at him in the middle of my parlor.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“Oh, you two could teach the cows a thing or two.” Her voice softened. “But it’s not about your eyes. It’s about your heart.”
I sighed. “My heart is a foolish, Jane-Austen-obsessed organ.”
“And?”
“And… it wants George.”
“At least your heart isn’t confused.”
“But I am. I flip between hope and fear so fast it makes me dizzy.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Everything. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never… never let anything be real.”
She touched my shoulder. “Fear is loud, but it isn’t wise.”
“I don’t want to give up.”
“That’s why you need a plan.”
A log shifted on the fire with a little shower of sparks, reminding me of moonlight glinting on the snow. Memories buzzed through me of his velvet-soft lips, breathless closeness, his hand at my jaw. “Is… kissing a plan?”
“Kissing?” Viola giggled and I joined in.
“All right,” Viola said, fighting back a grin. “Your kissing plan could go one of two ways. Slow-burn almost-kiss torture or kiss-him-senseless boldness. Either way, he won’t be able to think about anything but you.”
“And that’s good?”
“He needs to realize what we all see.”
“What?”
“You two are perfect for each other.”
My heart soared—so high, so far to fall. “Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely.”
Could I really kiss him first? I gripped the chair. “Love and friendship and music and kissing,” I said. “I know what Mrs. Newman would say.”