Lucy Deveroux is the prettiest girl I ever set eyes on, and in two short weeks, she’ll be mine. My smile is wide enough to ache, but I can’t for the life of me wipe it from my face. I move through Abilene, confirming the guest count with Ma Somerset at the cafe, itching through my suit fitting—Lucy insists I buy a new one, since all I’ve got is my dead pa’s, which is too roomy in the shoulders and a quarter-century out of style besides, the whole time beaming like I swallowed the sun.
The sun has just started its descent as I return home. Uncle Bart has a stately two-story near the middle of town, and he practices medicine in the front rooms of the first floor. It’s not uncommon to see folks rocking in the chairs on the wide front porch, waiting for a relative to be patched up or catching a breath before returning to a patient’s bedside.
This evening, it’s Horace Smith sitting on the three short steps, puffing away at a stump of a cigar.
“Mary all right?” I ask by way of greeting.
“Had another one of her fainting spells, is all.” His hands are fists between his knees, giving away his concern despite his easy words. “Anyway, it’s not us you should be worryin’ about.”
My forehead wrinkles. Everything’s coming up aces for me, so I’m hard pressed to guess at whatever’s got him sounding so ominous.
Horace jerks his chin at the dusty road behind me. “Your girl passed by not too long ago in a state. Crying, or pretending not to.”
My heart’s like a lion in a traveling circus, roaring at its cage. “Did you see where she was headed?”
He just looks at me. I don’t much care for what I see in his eyes—pity mixed with a smug sort of knowing. After a long drag on his cigar, he stumps it out on the top step. Through a stream of smoke, he tells me: “Said she left you word inside.”
I’m already charging up the steps, past the surgeon’s office, taking the stairs to the second floor with leaping strides. I want to be out, scouring Abilene’s streets until I’ve got her in my arms, soothing her tears, but if there’s any clue to what happened, I’ve got to start here.
The door to my room is open, a folded slip of paper on top of my tightly-made bed. The note isn’t what catches me up short, though. It’s the tiny gold circle sitting on top of it. I pick it up with shaking fingers, close the ring in my fist. There’s a sick, expanding feeling, moving from my stomach to my chest to my throat. I force myself to lift the paper, to read the words folded inside.
My dear Jed,
I am sorry to leave you with naught but this missive. The five o’clock train is due and I will be on it, alongside Daniel. He has been accepted to the University of Michigan Medical School, and I will accompany him to Ann Arbor. I am so sorry, Jed. I cannot marry you. I find I do not have the words to express my anguish, for you are a good and kind man. My heart, I fear, no longer belongs to you, indeed, if it ever did. Please do not blame Daniel, for he has done nothing untoward to steal my affections away. If you must hate, then hate me, for I am wicked and fickle, and deserve your ill wishes. Trust, I despise myself for the pain I am surely causing you. Oh Jed, what am I to do?
A tear drop had splotched the ink, leaving a purple bruise that doesn’t quite obscure her next words:
I love Daniel, no matter how I wish it were not so. The thought of him leaving was too much to bear, and so I knew: it is he I must be with. I want to beg your forgiveness, though I know I do not deserve it. You are a good man, and I will hold you in my heart forever.
All my best,
Lucy
The note crumples between my fingers. I wish I could crumple, too. How long has my cousin—my brother in every way except blood—been carrying on with my fiancée? How did I not see their love story unfolding beneath my nose?
In the distance, a train whistles. As if I’m there on the platform, I see them climbing aboard, Lucy’s small, gloved hand resting in Daniel’s. Her soft smile for him as he helps her up the steps.
If I run, maybe I could catch them.
To what end? Demanding answers? Seeing with my eyes what my mind has already conjured?
Would she glance back, at the last moment, see me charging after her? Would it matter?
My feet shift, but I don’t move to the door. I sit instead, back to my bed, knees drawn up. Elbow propped on knee, I hold the ring up. The setting sun through the window snares and winks off the precious metal.
Precious. It’s nothing but a scrap of sentimentality and empty promises. I slide it into my pocket and cradle my face in my hands.
***
“Been seeing an awful lot of you in here lately, son.” Old Man Grover scoots his stool closer. His wooden teeth turn his “S”s into shrill “sh”s. I’ve listened to enough of his lectures over the years to find the sound comforting, whistling though it does through my whiskey-cotton ears.
“Sure you’ve already heard,” I say. The gold ring rolls between my fingers. “The news is everywhere in a town this small.”
Grover blinks his watery blue eyes at me, waiting.
Don’t make me say it, you bastard.
“Ah.” He nods. “Lucy.”
Just hearing her names makes my insides flame.
“Good riddance, I say.” Grover waves a gnarled hand, then motions to the barmaid.
“Don’t talk about her like that.” Normally I’d never talk back to my elders, especially not Grover, who’s been like a grandfather to me since Ma and I arrived in Abilene eighteen years ago. Normally, I ain’t drunk before the sun sets. Normally, I have a life with Lucy to look forward to.
“Son, there are only two places in the world you’ve got to be completely honest. One is church. The other is right here.” His knobby finger presses into the bar as Abigail sets two fresh steins of foaming ale in front of us. “Thank you, Darlin’.”
He takes a long draught then smacks his lips with appreciation.
“She was too kind to badmouth,” I mutter, cradling my beer close. God, I wish she’d been cruel.
“She ripped your heart out with her teeth!” His words are so vehement, his own teeth nearly fall out. He gums them back into place, unabashed. “Don’t matter the tears or the good intentions. You’re better off, you mark my words.”
All the alcohol in my gut is threatening a dangerous charge toward my throat. There are few things I hate more than vomiting, so I clench my teeth tight and force a swallow.
“God, but she was pretty,” I say, as if that exonerates her. Beside me, Grover nods, solemn.
“That she was. Pretty ain’t good for much though, ‘sides admiring. Paintings are pretty. So are dolls. But so is that Remington.” He points to the shiny rifle hanging over the tarnished mirror behind the bar. “Paintings and dolls are fine for looking at, but that’s it. That Remington, though? It’s sharp, loyal. It’ll keep you safe, keep you fed.”
He takes my untouched ale, drains it in several large gulps. Lets out a belch that pulls a few admiring glances from the card tables.
“Find you a weapon, son. A woman smart as a bullet, a companion and a partner. Leave the pretty for paintings.”