48. Jacob
Jacob
The collar bit at my throat—disapproving.
The fine clothes George lent me hid my humble background, but the clothes knew better.
They stayed stiff, refusing to relax around me.
George introduced me around the parlor. Between friendly greetings, I stole glances at Viola.
She leaned forward and spoke with a tiny elderly woman at the far end of the room, her back to me.
Tomorrow I would leave. Always goodbye with us.
When George and I finally approached, Viola’s companion lifted her pale blue gaze to mine and smiled. She murmured something to Viola. Still, Viola didn’t turn. A cold thread wound through my chest.
George said, “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Newman, the oldest and wisest woman in Chicago.”
“You must be Jacob. Aren’t you a handsome fellow?
Bend down now. Let me get a good look at you.
” She reached her hands toward my face, leaving me no choice but to bend forward.
Viola was watching. Mrs. Newman turned my head from side to side and inspected me as if I were a horse up for auction.
At least she didn’t check my teeth or comment on my burning ears.
Finally, she patted my cheek and nodded.
Released from her assessment, I turned to Viola.
She held my gaze, eyes sparkling, chin tucked low. I blinked at her brightness. “Lovely.” I sent the word straight to her through the hum of the crowd.
Dinner was announced. I said, “Might I have the honor of escorting the most beautiful woman here to dinner?”
Viola grinned when I offered Mrs. Newman my arm.
Conversation flowed easily during the meal. When Mrs. Newman called me ‘Viola’s poet-farmer,’ I shared an amused glance with Viola.
My last meal with Viola drew to an end. The threads holding me together frayed, unlike my stiffly composed collar.
At George’s urging, we moved to a large room where chairs were set in rows before a piano for after-dinner music.
I was surprised to learn the evening’s music would be performed by Sarah and Viola.
I was having a hard enough time putting one foot in front of the other.
Sarah stood poised before the group and sang unaccompanied in an ethereal, unwavering soprano that floated toward the high ceiling.
Poor Viola, having to follow such a performance.
My nerves hummed on her behalf, but she didn’t look anxious perched behind the imposing instrument, far grander than the upright piano I was used to seeing at church.
I leaned forward, angling my ear to catch every nuance of her playing.
She winked at me before starting her first piece, a boisterous rendition of the Toreador Song from Bizet’s opera. She had everyone tapping their toes as she pulled exaggerated faces and swayed with the beat. By the time the piece ended, my cheeks were sore from smiling.
She shifted her music and reset the mood with a serious expression.
The room stilled as she wove together a haunting melody and countermelody.
She focused on her playing, closing her eyes with the final chord that resolved the tension in those deftly woven harmonies.
Applause and calls of “well done” brought a curve to her lips.
When her lashes finally lifted, her gaze found mine.
I stood without thinking and crossed to her as the other guests moved off to the parlor. There was no other direction I wanted to go—always toward her. Viola stacked her music and stepped out from behind the keys to stand before me, lips lifting as she raised her chin.
“Your playing…” I said. What could I say to keep this woman in my life, in my arms instead of standing beside me without touching?
The only words that came to mind were ones she would not want to hear, words I wasn’t sure I’d ever say.
Something inside me broke open and my lips forgot about forming words.
We were alone, at least for the moment. I closed the distance, and she stepped forward to meet me.
My lips found hers a heartbeat later. My arms went around her, pulling her against me.
Her hands slipped inside my unbuttoned jacket and pressed into my back.
Viola’s kiss drew me in. I poured four long weeks of heartache into the movement of my mouth on hers until her answering kiss folded my despair into a new shape.
She sighed, and I answered with a deeper sound.
What did this mean? I cupped her heart-shaped face, pulled back just enough to whisper, “Viola,” and pressed a tender kiss on each of her closed lids. A moment later, loud voices and footsteps in the hall made us jump apart. I remembered where we were. Reality arrived like a freight train. Mercy.