77. Sarah
Sarah
“Ilike this one,” I said, handing Viola a sample of light green linen as she studied her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Her seamstress stood nearby, pencil scratching quietly as she noted which fabrics paired with which patterns. Greta bustled in and out with cups of steaming tea.
I turned back to the pile of samples and slid my finger over a piece of olive-green satin—apparently George’s new favorite color.
Men talk about color. Constantly. Means nothing.
In the three days since his odd display in my dining room, I had seen him only in passing.
Once. We’d smiled. That was all… except for that moment when his hand skimmed my sleeve and I forgot about breathing. Stop overthinking.
Viola met my gaze in the mirror and I forced my face to calmness. She asked, “Did your mother say anything about the invitation I sent over? Will she let you spend Christmas with us in Minnesota?”
“She said no.” I sighed. Probably for the best.
I rifled through the pages of patterns Viola had selected.
The thought of Christmas with George tightened my stomach—a dangerous, tempting fantasy.
My stubborn feelings refused to behave, no matter how I tried to corral them.
Two weeks in an isolated farmhouse? Disaster.
I’d probably come home friendless. Though in my fantasies…
well, it wasn’t my fingertips brushing his lips. Best not to dwell on those.
I smoothed a dress pattern under my palm. “Are you expecting many formal events in Harmony Lake?”
Viola glanced at the pattern before me. “I have a secret plan for that dress. I can’t say more. It would be bad luck.”
When she selected a smooth ivory satin for the dress, I laughed. “Yes, very mysterious. Nothing to do with a certain handsome farmer…”
We laughed together, but change lurked on the horizon. She was moving forward with her life. But I would visit. Surely she had a room large enough for me to pace in peace.
Viola sighed. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”
“Never thought I’d see the day.” I laughed, though the sound prickled under my skin.
The seamstress packed her bag and extended her hand to open the door when?—
Boom. The seamstress’s hand hovered above the door handle, frozen in place. Boom. Boom. It rattled the picture frame.
“Viola, it’s me.” A muffled voice carried through the door.
George.
My pulse spiked. Did he know I was here? Was he… looking for me?
At Viola’s nod, the startled seamstress opened the door and zipped past George into the hall. He stood framed in the opening, hair askew, breathing hard as if he’d run up the street.
Viola dropped the fabric in her hand and stepped to my side.
George strode into the room and stopped. The angle of his shoulders was wrong. Tight. My stomach lurched. His color was off, his face drawn, and his eyes—oh, the trouble in those eyes when they found mine.
Viola froze beside me, all color draining from her cheeks.
He said, “We don’t know anything, not really, not even if he was involved.”
My thoughts flew to Jacob.
“Who?” Viola croaked out the word.
“His train… it derailed.”
The room tilted. Sound slowed.
“There were survivors. But we don’t know.”
“No.” Viola fisted her hands in her skirts.
Please, no.
“He had just checked in. Said he would take that train.”
Viola’s voice broke with panic. “George!” Then she crumpled, and I went with her. I wrapped her shaking body in my arms. George blurred through my tears.
His tortured voice rose above my pounding heart. “I’m trying to find him.” He sucked in a loud breath, puffed out his cheeks, and exhaled. “Viola, I’m so sorry.” His voice dropped, steadier now.
I nodded, silently urging him on.
He steadied himself. “Jacob’s train derailed yesterday between Guthrie and Kansas City. We’re trying to find him or get word.”
George closed the distance to kneel at Viola’s other side. He added the strength of his arms to the embrace and looked over the top of her head. Eyes of a green so dark they approached black stared only inches from mine, desperate, unblinking. So close.
“He’s strong and smart,” I said. “He’s a survivor.”
George’s lips silently formed my name, and his hand clasped my forearm as we held Viola between us. Heat flared through me at his touch. I wasn’t alone—we were a team.
Greta turned back the blankets on the bed and beckoned.
Viola didn’t move.
I nodded to George and gently took Viola’s arm. Together we lifted her from the floor and supported her as she shuffled toward the bed.
Greta shooed us out with her hands. “She needs quiet. I will sit with her.”
I stumbled through the door beside George. Greta closed it behind us. We stood stunned, shoulder to shoulder, staring at nothing.
His hand found mine. I squeezed. Clung. Grasped. The ache in my chest made it hard to breathe. Moments ago, Viola had been choosing fabric for her wedding gown, and now Jacob might be injured or dead.
George tugged me along behind him, but not toward the stairs. We moved to a couch under the window at the far end of the hall. He plopped down and pulled me beside him, not releasing my hand. But I wanted to be close… needed to be close.
His voice was rough and raw. “This is my fault.” His chin tucked low to his chest, shaggy hair hanging over his brow.
“No, it’s not.”
He slouched farther into the couch. “It was my idea. I hired him to write for the paper. I put him on the train. It’s on me.”
Stupid, stubborn man—if guilt were a competition, he’d win first prize.
“Really? This is your fault?” Irritation unfroze my tongue.
“Why not blame Viola? Jacob wouldn’t have been there if she hadn’t fallen off the train.
” With my free hand, I brushed his hair back from his forehead.
At my light touch, he peeked up at me with stormy eyes.
“Or me? If only I had stopped Viola from running away. It’s my fault. ”
He straightened enough to lean his head on the back of the couch. Held my hand.
“Come on, George. Did you go to Kansas and derail the train?”
“Then it’s my punishment.”
“What?”
“Because I’ve been shirking my responsibilities. Been selfish… getting ideas… ideas about my own happiness. And what I want.”
What does he want? “I don’t understand.”
“I made a vow to watch over her.”
“I think you’re looking for a reason to suffer.”
“If he’s gone, she’ll fade away again… and he won’t be here to bring her back. I have no concern for my suffering.”
“Well, maybe I do. Maybe I don’t want you to suffer.”
His huffed out a breath, slung an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me close to his side. Sandalwood. I shamelessly fell into his gravity.
“I don’t want you to suffer,” I repeated, whispering the words against his neck. “And I’m not alone. Lots of people would hate for you to suffer. Even Mipsy.”
He gave a small huff.
The tightness in my chest eased. I tucked my head into the space between his shoulder and neck and rested my hand on his chest, where his heart pounded beneath my fingers. “We don’t know anything. That’s what you said. We need information. It’s too soon to despair.”
George’s breath was warm in my hair when he spoke. “Father won’t let me go to investigate. He’s sending Mr. Muntz.”
“Then do something here. Coordinate or inspire or comfort or… something.”
George pressed my hand firmly against his chest, as he had held it to his cheek in my dining room. Ink stains marked the tips of two fingers. “You’re right.” His soft words curved my lips.
“Of course I am, lunkhead.”
His snort of unexpected laughter sent a wave of relief through me, and I slumped into him as the last bit of tension left my body. His slowly blown-out breath tickled my forehead, and his arm tightened around me.
So good to be held. I was safe in George’s warm embrace. But Viola… she had just recovered from Mrs. Newman. Just welcomed love. And now… My breath shuddered.
He whispered, “Almonds.”
“Hmm?”
“I was just… just noticing how you smell like almonds.”
“My soap.”
“I like almonds.”
I am never getting new soap.