Late summer eased its bountiful self upon the land, bringing harvest. For Mary and Aaron this was a healing season. The busy summer had worked to diminish the horror of Jonath- an's death. They still felt his absence, but time and activity began diminishing grief.
Jonathan had requested Mary and Aaron's first liaison, and had gone away to permit it. He was gone again, but this time his absence held them apart. The proprieties that they observed so strictly served to heighten their awareness of each other. Their relationship was all new.
Sarah's presence was an added dimension for them both. Mary became aware of Aaron's wish to play a father's part the night he asked to take Sarah to her bed. She realized the depth of feeling he had for his daughter and felt he had purposely hidden it. Propriety again!
But after that night a subtle change was effected. It began one noon when Aaron came to the house for dinner to find Mary in the midst of making currant jelly. Dinner wasn't ready. The table was lined with scalded jelly glasses waiting to be filled. A dish towel filled with boiled cur rants still hung suspended, like a punching bag, where she'd drained the juice. A large kettle of simmering juice sent fruit- scented steam billowing over the range. The baby was on the floor in the middle of the confusion.
Mary threw him a harried look, apologizing, "I'm sorry, Aaron. This took longer than I thought, and I couldn't let it overboil or it would be ruined. Your dinner's not ready."
He didn't seem to mind. He stood inside the door watch- ing the steamy confusion, smiling at the mess. Actually, he was enjoying the scene before him. Mary's hair had slipped its coil, so bits of it clung to her temples and neck in inviting tendrils. The heat from the stove had heightened her color, giving her a rosy hue. The fruity aroma filled the room like ambrosia.
Sarah wasn't pleased by it at all. She'd had enough of be- ing ignored on the floor, and squalled in protest. "Aaron, will you pick her up so she'll stop crying? My hands are full." "So I see," he chuckled and lifted the complaining Sarah saying, "C'mon, Corncob. Your mother wants me to spoil you a little bit." He rested her on his suntanned arm, where the contrast of her whiteness captivated Mary. She watched him while she stirred the jelly. He took Sarah's hand in his free one, smiling into her eyes. Sarah looked into his face in a steady, unblinking way, as if she were deciding something for herself. Then she made a spitty sound that came out, "A- bah," and smiled up at the man who was her father in an enchanting, two-toothed grin. He gently pumped the delicate hand he held and said, "Hi, Sarah." Then he realized Mary was watching him, and he turned to catch her gaze. She smiled at Aaron, and her heart seemed full enough to burst as he smiled back at her with the same wide smile Sarah had just used on him. "She's beautiful, Mary. Isn't she?" he asked. "Yes, Aaron. She is," Mary answered, and the music in her heart could be heard in her voice. Wanting to give him more of what he'd missed, she suggested, "Why don't you take her outside where it's cooler? I'll be done here in a minute, and we can have lunch out there."
When the jelly glasses were filled, Mary sliced ripe toma- toes, brought vinegared cucumbers from the buttery, added cheese, cold meat, and bread, and carried it out to the shaded yard on a wide breadboard.
Aaron was lying on his side in the cool grass while Sarah braced against his chest to stand up. She was babbling and drooling and bobbing up and down on wobbly legs. He caught her when she lost her balance, stood her upright again with a "Whoa there, Princess!" "You talk as if she were a horse," Mary teased him. "Well, I don't know much about talking to babies." "You'll have to learn," she said. His face was lit up with pleasure, and when Mary came, it made the circle complete. "Here comes your mother to take you," he said to Sarah. "She's happy where she is, if you don't mind." "I don't mind." It was the first time she'd charged Sarah to him, and there was a feeling about it of sharing her at last. They didn't talk much but watched Sarah and laughed at her cub clumsiness, growing used to the to- getherness it evoked.
After that, he held her every chance he got. She was always awake at noon, growing out of one schedule and into anoth- er, in which she napped following dinnertime. Aaron would pick her up from the floor, out of Mary's way, as soon as he came into the kitchen. Mary purposely delayed the meals, giving him time to play with Sarah while she set dinner.
One day Aaron suggested, "There's a high chair up in the granary rafters. Shouldn't I bring it down for her?" "Oh, yes, it'd be a blessing. She's always underfoot now that she's outgrown her basket."
He took down the old piece of furniture and scrubbed it to get the years of dust from it, then set it in the sun to dry. The following evening after the day's work was done, he painted it on the back porch while Mary and Sarah sat on the steps and kept him company. Mary waited until Aaron was at the house before she put Sarah into it for the first time. They made a little ceremony out of it, and Aaron was alight with pleasure. He brought the baby a piece of toast to initiate her into her new spot. After that, the high chair became a permanent fixture at the table.
The day came when Mary knew she had delayed the weaning long enough. Doc Haymes's orders were long overdue, and Sarah could hold her own at the dinner table now.
She stopped nursing Sarah one morning and bound her breasts as tightly as she could. When Aaron arrived that morning, he noted her new, flat shape but said nothing. At noon Mary seemed quiet and moved more slowly than usual. By evening she was listless and said she was tired and wanted to go to bed early, so he left right after supper, worrying vaguely, unsure of what he could do for her.
The night was endless for Mary, a fitful string of hours during which she dozed and woke repeatedly to the throb- bing that increased as the hours wore on. She changed her bindings, and the new one added some comfort, but soon the aching beat through her breasts again. She felt fevered and hot and dreamed of great drafts of water. She awoke knowing she could drink nothing. She tried Lydia Pinkham's medicine, but it did no good. The hours of the night crept on to dawn as her discomfort became gnawing pain. She dozed again, but even Sarah's light stirrings awakened her. She lay listening to the sounds from the crib, thinking it was worth all this just to have Sarah, but distressed tears sneaked from behind her eyelids.
When she heard Aaron come, she rolled to the side of the bed, but found herself completely milk-soaked again. She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the heavy, wet bindings through her drenched gown, biting her lip to hold back the tears.
Aaron saw the closed back door and ran the rest of the way to the house, leaping the porch steps in one bound. When he tried the back door and found it still locked, panic gripped him. He reached above the doorsill for the key they always kept there. He dropped the key in his haste and cursed at his inept fumblings before he finally worked the key and swung the door wide.
The kitchen wore a morning chill that permeated his heart. Why wasn't a fire lit? Where was Mary? He paused only a moment to scan the quiet, empty room, and then he was bounding up the stairs, fear pushing his legs in giant strides as he hollered her name in the stillness.
Her bedroom door was open, so there was nothing to hinder his entrance, yet he stormed the doorway as if he'd smashed through a barricade to reach her.
She was sitting on the side of the bed, clutching her wet, sticky chest, and he read the misery in her eyes immediately. "Oh, Aaron, it hurts so much," she whimpered. He was at once relieved at her safety and distressed by her pain. "What can I do?" he questioned, coming to her side imme- diately.
She shook her head, still holding herself, and his heart hurt at the sight of her. "Tell me, darling." He knelt down on one knee in front of her. "Tell me what to do," he entreated. "Here, you're all wet. We have to get you a dry gown and some dry bindings. Where are they?" "I use dish towels," she confided, "but I can't get them tight enough by myself." It was so good to have Aaron here that she gave in gladly, letting him insist that she wash while he gathered fresh towels for her.
Sarah had awakened when Aaron made his noisy entrance, but she sat contentedly, watching this strange new scene in the bedroom.
Aaron helped Mary, doing as she instructed, cinching the towels until they bit into the soft flesh of her armpits. It pained him to bind her so tightly, but she insisted, saying it felt better already.
When she had her fresh gown on again, he pulled her hair from inside its neck, and as it fell free outside, he put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward the bed. "You had a wicked night, my love. Now maybe you'll sleep better."
She began to object, "But Aaron, I have to…"
He placed a finger on her lips, stilling them and ordering her, "You have to rest and let me out of here so I can take care of Sarah."
She spluttered, but he'd have it no other way. He nudged her again toward the inviting bed, and she acquiesced, sitting down. From there she looked up at him and asked, "What would I do without you?"
He reached to push her hair behind one ear, saying, "Pray, love, that you never find out." Then, cupping the back of her head in his hand, he leaned to kiss her mouth lightly, feeling her lips quiver beneath his.
He went to the crib then and picked up Sarah, saying, "Come on, Corncob, you need drying out, too."
The day Aaron spent in the house put him a day behind in the fields. Threshing was starting earlier than last year, for the grain had filled out sooner. He not only had to make up the lost time but spent some days helping Dvorak get his crops in. The arrangement benefited both men, for Dvorak would help Aaron at threshing time.
Those following days kept Aaron too busy to idle in the house. Until Uncle Garner came with the rig, he saw Mary and Sarah only at mealtimes, and those were hurried.
Mary improved so fast it amazed her. It seemed her body was easily dissuaded and her comfort grew greater each day until, by threshing time, she wore her old shape, slightly filled out.
She'd spent many hours remembering the endearments Aaron had spoken, recalling the way he had charged into her room, the concern on his face, and his kiss. But he hadn't touched her again.
The end of threshing was approaching fast, and when she thought of Dakota, Mary got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Aaron hadn't mentioned it at all, but she knew they couldn't avoid talking about it much longer. She waited for him to bring it up, but when he didn't, she knew she'd have to.
It was a heavy, gilded morning with the sun slanting low through the east window and the kitchen door, backlighting the dust motes that ever hung now in the harvest air. Aaron had taken a kitchen knife and sliced a sliver from a piece of firewood in the woodbox to use as a toothpick. He was heading straight outside, but something made him stop and look back at her. She was standing with some things she'd gathered from the breakfast table; only she wasn't moving, just following him with her eyes.
"Is everything all right?" he questioned, stopping in front of the window. "You haven't mentioned Dakota," she said. "No, I haven't."
The sun was at his back, on her face, and she couldn't make out his expression when he spoke. His voice didn't tell her much. "Are you going this year?" "I haven't decided." "You've been thinking about it then?" "Yes. I never wrote Getchner about Jonathan. I suppose he's expecting both of us." "Oh." The things in her hands got heavy and she set them down again on the table. "Do you want me to stay?" he asked, giving her the chance to keep him here with a single word. "I…I just wanted to know, because I'll have to find someone to help around the place if you go."
His teeth were clamped tightly on the wood sliver and she could see the silhouette of his right jaw against the gold glow behind it, could see the muscles tensed, but he stood as if the rest of him were as pliable as warm butter, softened in that sunlight. "You didn't answer my question," he said quietly. "Do we have to have the money?" she asked, and he made no comment about the way she now seemed to lump the money as both of theirs. Instead, he turned his head slowly, from side to side. As he did, indicating no, it made shadow, sun, shadow, sun, play across her face. "Do you want me to go?" he repeated, and this time it was she who turned her head, silently, left and right, left and right. And as she did, the sun repeatedly glanced into her cornflower eyes, again…and again…and again.
She saw him reach up and thought he took the toothpick from between his teeth. She thought he was moving toward her, but it was just the sun in her eyes creating the illusion. "Then I'll stay. I wanted to be here to take you to the wedding anyway," he said. "Will you go with me?"
She was momentarily confused by something she'd expec- ted, some other thing she hadn't, and she questioned, "The wedding?" "Priscilla and Willy's" he reminded her. "Will you go with me?"
She wanted to say simply, yes, she'd go anywhere with him, but instead, she answered, "I don't know what I'd do with Sarah." "Bring her along," he said, and then more sternly, again, "Will you go with me?" "Yes."
And he moved away from the sun, leaving black spots before her eyes from its brightness, a heat in her heart from its fire, from him. But he never touched her, only said before leaving the house, "I like it when you tie your hair back and let it hang that way."
Mary made up the ivory faille into a slim skirt that sheathed her hips, then flared to drift and swirl above her ankles. She ordered a new pair of high-button shoes. From the white organdy that Aaron had given her last Christmas she made a blouse of full sleeves, pointed collar, and tucked bodice, trimmed with black shell buttons. A black cummerbund completed the outfit, and she eyed herself with approval as she waited for Aaron on the morning of the wedding, late in October.
Mary hurried to gather the baby's things. "Oh, Princess, aren't we gonna dance?" she asked Sarah. "Your daddy loves to waltz-you'll have to learn how, too. Here, let's get your blanket…he should be here any minute." Mary pulled it from the crib, added it to the stack on the bed. It was impossible to be patient, to keep her feet still, to keep from squeezing Sarah too hard.
Finally she heard Aaron pull into the yard and collected the stuff she'd readied, scooped the baby up in her other arm, and went down to meet him.
He had somehow acquired a new suit without telling her. It was sienna-brown serge with pale pinstriping. The smartly cut jacket lay open to reveal a waistcoat that hugged his lean torso. A golden chain spanned the open area, disappearing inside a hidden pocket. His round ivory shirt collar was the perfect contrast to his summer-tanned skin and burnished hair. He looked to Mary like some harvest god, his coloring so like the colors of the season. She swallowed hard as she took in his flawless elegance.
Aaron drank in the vision before him. In ivory and white, she could have been the bride of the morning. Her hair was lit by the morning sun, its simple, pristine lines more alluring than any elegant tresses would have been. He recognized the white organdy he had given her, felt a tingle of appreci- ation at how it looked on her narrow shoulders and rounded breasts. Through the opaque lightness of the blouse a hint of skin was discernible, and he could almost smell it, remembering lavender mixed with her own scent.
Suddenly Sarah demanded attention. Aaron swept an eleg- ant bow to break the electric silence that lay between them. "You shall be the most beautiful woman at the wedding, and I shall be the luckiest man," he bantered in a theatrical voice.
She came out of her reverie, lifting her skirts in a curtsy. "Then let us away!"
The morning was brisk but warming, an autumn stillness enhancing it, for most birds had left, save the crows and the hidden pheasants that now and then carped their barking cry. They savored the ride to church, knowing it could be one of the last pleasant jaunts before winter.
They took their accustomed pew and for a moment felt Jonathan's absence from his familiar spot. But Sarah was there now, and, like all babies in church, took some man- aging. While they waited for the ceremony to begin, Sarah was busy looking at the unfamiliar surroundings and the faces of those in the pew behind. When she made loud, babbling sounds that resounded in the quiet, Mary and Aaron glanced at each other and smiled, the newness of this exper- ience as exhilarating for them as it was for Sarah.
The organ music captivated Sarah, however, and she be- came a well-mannered lady as the service began.
When Mary saw Pris coming down the aisle, a knot came to her throat. Pris was radiant in white satin, smiling as she came forward on her father's arm. Mary's thoughts slid backward to a night long ago when she and Aaron had sat on the dark summer steps. She heard his voice again, saying it takes two to do a lot of things-to make love and to get married-and she wondered again about their intimacy, Aaron's and Pris's. Now here she was, more beautiful than Mary had ever seen her. Aaron's eyes followed Pris, too, and Mary wondered, Is he sorry after all? But as if he divined her thoughts, Aaron's russet head turned away from the aisle and his glance flickered over Mary, reassuring her somehow.
As the ceremony proceeded, Aaron thought of the myster- ious tether that held him from marriage with Pris. What had held him was that he didn't love Pris. He knew it for a fact because now he knew what it felt like to love someone fully. He was struck by the irony of his search for that love of his finding it in the place from where he started: at home. Hearing the vows, he knew he'd waited long enough, played the passive brother and acquiescent uncle long enough. Today was the perfect time to begin his suit. The public be damned. He'd wait no longer.
When the service ended and the congregation rose, Mary hitched Sarah onto her arm, but before she could struggle to her feet, she felt Sarah being lifted from her and looked up in surprise as Aaron held Sarah with one arm and reached his other to her elbow, helping her to her feet. She still worried about the delicate balance of propriety. But that balance was inexorably tipped when Aaron kept Sarah on his arm as they entered the aisle, further confused when he took Mary's elbow solicitously on their way out of church. She didn't pull away although her confused mind insisted on querying, What will people think? But Aaron's lucid mind knew they would think exactly what he wanted them to-that the period of mourning was over!
In the buggy she affected a light tone, though her heart was unnecessarily jumpy. "You mustn't be so…so polite and helpful, Aaron. People will talk."
He just tossed his head up and laughed, undismayed. "Didn't I tell you, you do that to a man, Mary girl?" he teased.
She didn't know what to make of it, after all the careful months of avoiding the slightest scandal. He suddenly seems to be laughing at the wind, she thought. If she didn't know better, she'd swear he'd been tippling.
He kept it up all through the day. Her heart did crazy things, and she knew she should still it, but couldn't.
Aunt Mabel commented on how good Mary looked. Seeing the girl's eyes seek out Aaron in the crowd, she realized why. At dinnertime he brought her a plate of food and took Sarah so Mary could enjoy her meal. In the afternoon he paid a young girl a half dollar to take Sarah off Mary's hands for a while so she could further enjoy her day. When the line formed for the men to kiss the bride, he was in it. But when he had kissed and paid the bride her dollar, he scanned the crowd for Mary and found her watching him. He winked at her, and she dropped her head to attend to something Aunt Mabel was saying.
They both danced with many people. Sarah was asleep by then, and Mary was free to join in the revelry. Aaron asked her to dance and kept up the gaiety, teasing her about the others she'd danced with. The quarter moon was high before the festivities ended. A heavy chill crisped the air. As the rigs left, the voices that called goodnights carried across the autumn air, ebbing away as the night ushered them home.
In Mary and Aaron's rig, it was quiet. Sarah slept on Mary's lap. She was grateful to have the baby there asleep. It seemed a plausible reason for their sudden silence with each other. There was little time for thought. The ride home was too short.
Aaron took Sarah from Mary before she could protest, and carried her upstairs to her bed. When he'd laid her in the crib he stood a moment, thinking of Mary downstairs, a pounding in his veins. He took off his jacket and hooked it with two fingers, slinging it over his shoulder. Drawing a ragged breath, he went downstairs.
Mary had lit the kitchen lamp, but she was in the pantry. He saw the hem of her skirt as he stood just inside the kitchen doorway. She moved then, knowing he stood there, and gazed at him from across the room. He still held the jacket slung over his shoulder, making no move to leave.
She became self-conscious under his steady eyes and dropped her gaze to the floor. "I would like one more waltz with you," he said in a dis- turbingly quiet tone. "I…" But she couldn't finish, seemed not to know what to say.
He crossed the room slowly and reached for her hand, led her across the kitchen and into the shadowed living room. He threw his jacket across the rocker, then re- leased her hand and went to wind the graphophone. The hushed strains of the Strauss waltz glimmered in the room. She saw Aaron against the light from the doorway, saw his hand reach for her again.
She felt the silken back of his waistcoat as she placed a hand on his shoulder, then the rough texture of serge as he pulled her into his arms. They moved a few steps to the music, but it went on as they stilled.
She felt his hands at her hair, pulling the pins from it, but she stayed where she was, her temple against his chin. She heard the pins drop onto the floor behind her. Then his hands turned her face and he lowered his mouth to hers. Her arms came around him of their own volition, and her mouth slackened under his.
The kiss was as familiar to Mary as if she'd shared his kisses every day. But the surge of emotion pounding through her seemed as new as if she'd never been kissed before. Its warmth became heat. His tongue became a coal inside her, setting her afire with its insistence. He twisted his mouth over hers and clamped her body against the hard length of his own. His arm lowered from the small of her back to her hips, and he pressed his own hips against hers, lifting her to her toes.
He tore his mouth away then, and his shaking voice was at her ear. "I meant to go slow, darling, but I've waited so long, loved you so long."
She grasped him against her, protesting in spite of her demanding body, "Aaron, we can't do this again." "Don't say it, Mary." And he stopped her words with his mouth.
When he freed her lips again, she said unsteadily, "I've felt so guilty about what we did to Jonathan." "I have, too," he said. "But Jonathan is dead, and we can't keep him between us forever. We're alive, Mary. You and I are alive, and it's wrong to deny it any longer." There was pain in his voice, and hunger, and longing. And as always, he made her do what he wanted because it was what she wanted, too.
There was no denying the shivering weakness that pos- sessed her starved body as his hand slid to her breast and she leaned into his palm, groaning as he caressed her. She could no more stop what was happening than she could stop the turning of the earth. She felt him release her and begin to open the buttons of her blouse, up the back. With her lips still on his, she undid the buttons of her cuffs, behind his neck.
They parted long enough for him to pull the blouse from her shoulders. It was tucked into the waist of her skirt, but he let it drop over her hips, remain tucked in. He pulled the straps of the chemise over her shoulders and pushed the garment to her waist, his hands gliding down her warm sides.
Then he circled her waist with one arm, forcing her to kneel on the floor with him. She felt his mouth hot and wet on her breasts, and pulled his head harder against them, feeling his soft hair against her skin as he moved from one to the other. Her fingers were in his hair, and he felt them clutch and pull it as he licked a line down the center of her chest to her lowered chemise.
When he reached for the hem of her skirt, he touched her high-button shoes. Gripping her bare arms again, he pulled her to her feet, begging, "Take your shoes off, Mary, please." He turned her toward the kitchen, and she clutched her chemise as she went away toward the lantern light.
He heard her searching for the button hook. After a length of silence she returned barefooted and stood silhouetted in the doorway, her hair forming an aureole around her. He had taken off his vest and shirt and stood barefooted. He raised his arms to her, and she padded noiselessly across to him, making a soft, pained sound as they touched. "I love you so much, Mary," he whispered. "I've loved you so long." "I've known it, and I'm so sorry I had to fight it," she said softly, "but I promise I won't fight it anymore. Aaron, oh Aaron, I love you."
It was a kiss of rejoicing when their lips met again, magni- fied by the long wait they had both endured.
This time she tugged at him, pulling him down onto the hooked rug, taking his hands and placing them on her breasts as she knelt before him. But his hands lingered there only a short moment, then lowered to the buttons at her waist.
A pandemonium of pounding blood clamored through Mary's head and pulsed through his body. When her skirt fell and he pulled her hard against him, she could feel him, hardened with desire. "Touch me, Mary, love me, too," he begged in a strained, throaty whisper, and her hands made their way to the band at his waist. She felt the buttons where they strained against his lean, hard body, and they opened beneath her fingers. The muscles of his buttocks contracted as she ran her hands over their firmness, pulling his trousers away as she smoothed his skin. Then she recognized the familiar heat against her belly as he clasped her to his manhood, her hand there between them. Still holding her so, he fell, pulling her down with him onto the rug. She could feel cold hairpins touch her warm side as he rolled her over, searching with his hand along the soft, warm skin of her inner thigh.
She uttered his name in faint, muffled tones against his neck as he explored and awakened her, finding that she had come to him in a heightened state, as ready for this as he was. He murmured to her, nuzzling her bare shoulders, his joy and passion mounting with hers.
She whimpered as he worked his loving magic on her, a magic remembered from so long ago. When her body trembled and arched, he rolled over her and entered her in silken strokes, grunting as the force built, answering her in sounds only she could understand. At last, fulfillment over- took them and he collapsed onto her, arms outstretched over hers.
In those first intimate afterminutes, with his body still warm in hers, she lay thinking that this was the highest ac- colade a man and woman could give each other and that words were insignificant in its wake. She felt rich with his gift, as if nothing greater could be afforded her.
But she was wrong. For the next thing Aaron said erupted inside her, lavishing her with an unbelievable plenitude.
He rolled her with him onto their sides, rubbed his knuckles lightly along her jaw, and said softly, "Mary, girl, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
He felt the muscles of her cheek shift as she swallowed. His heart hammered painfully when she remained silent, but Aaron heard her swallow a second time. As if his proposal lacked full import, he added, "And will you bring our daughter along and let me be her father?"
Her arms suddenly clung to him and his face was lost in her hair as she choked, "Aaron, oh Aaron, I thought you might not ask." She felt like singing and crying at the same time.
He clutched her against his chest, rocking in a timeless motion of relief as his voice cracked. "And I thought you might say no." "You should know by now I can never say no to you."
There was a pause. Then Aaron said, "I thought you might have changed your mind about me…with Jonathan gone." "I was afraid of what people would say, Aaron. I tried not to love you because it seemed we could never be allowed to without scandal." "I could see that happen to you, and it put me through hell, girl. Seeing you every day in my house with my daughter and not being able to claim you both. Oh, God, Mary, it was hell leaving you two at night." "I did so well until I saw you hold Sarah that first day by the wagon. Remember?"
He chuckled ruefully. "I remember every day of these last six months. I remember choking to keep from asking to hold Sarah. I remember the pain in my gut from wanting to hold you." He was running his hand again and again over her hair, as if stroking away the memory. "And when I'd come in the morning and see you waving from the porch, it was you I was coming to, not the work or the house or the farm. Just you-and Sarah." He felt it was a miracle, their being together at last.
She turned her face to kiss the palm of his hand and con- fided, "Right after she was born, I thought you were sorry about her. I tried to tell myself it didn't matter, but you wouldn't even look at her. But even then I could never think of her as Jonathan's baby, like we agreed. I looked at her and saw you." "The only way I could get through all the pain was to stay away and not touch."
Mary knew what he said was true, that of all of them he had borne the most pain, and she wished she could change what he'd been put through. "Darling, I'm sorry for-" "There'll be no more regrets from now on, right?"
She shook her head, not trusting her voice at that moment.
He chose his words carefully, knowing they must be said to free them of Jonathan's ghost.
"Mary…I'm not saying Jonathan willed us together that first time. We had minds of our own. We made choices. But we can't go on feeling guilty about Jonathan. If he could, I think he'd give us his blessing."
In Aaron's voice she caught a fleeting intonation reminiscent of his brother's. And it seemed almost as though Jonathan had spoken. "I think so, too," she said.
Sometime later, they became aware of the October chill around them. Aaron made a fire in the heater stove, and they opened its front grate so the flames licked lights across their faces where they huddled before it.
Their muted voices came and went, and the quiet periods lengthened as fewer words were required. Then Aaron and Mary let their bodies do the speaking, and they celebrated each other once again. "Let's go to bed, love," Aaron murmured. "You can't stay, Aaron." Mary's sleepy voice came from some buried spot in his shoulder. "Oh, Jesus, don't turn me away again," he begged. "I have to if you want our neighbors to respect our marriage. There'll be enough raised eyebrows as it is." She couldn't resist a chuckle. "If only they knew." "Who's to say I didn't bunk in the loft over at Volences' with the overnighters after the wedding?"
She shook her head slowly, pivoting it on a spot just under his chin where her hair was warm on his chest. Then she turned in his arms. "No, my love, you'll not have your way with me again until the deed is done. I want to have a wedding night to cherish."
He held her from behind, an arm around her middle, an- other over her shoulder. "You told me a little while ago that you could never say no to me."
She moved his hand beneath her own, feeling its warmth and protection on her breast. "I've not said no, my love…only prolonged saying yes."
In the end, she had her way.
But he was back in the morning, and he caught her sleep- ing, long after the sun had risen. Sarah slept soundly, too, after the tiring day before.
Aaron watched them for a long time before his gaze awakened Mary. She opened her eyes to him, and a thrill of remembrance whipped through her, arousing her body with sudden intensity.
He came to sit beside her on the bed and leaned above her, an elbow on each side. "I came for my breakfast," he whispered, smiling and nuzzling. She could smell the fresh air in his hair as he bent to kiss her throat. He pulled at the covers, pushing them down, away from her. He lay his face in the softness of her breasts, and Mary felt his warm breath through her nightgown.
Not wanting to wake Sarah, she whispered, pushing at his shoulders, "Aaron, I told you last night, no more till we're married. Now behave yourself." But there was such a natural goodness about his coming to her like this, finding him here in the sun. "We seem to work so well together without even trying. What if I get pregnant as easily as the first time? What will the good people of Moran say then?" And it worked. He backed away from her a bit.
But there was something she'd never told Aaron that she thought he ought to know now. "Aaron, I said we work to- gether without even trying, but that's not exactly true." She hesitated uncertainly, then went on, "Doc Haymes told me a woman has a right time that comes every so often, and she can plan it by the days of the calendar."
He gazed steadily at her but didn't reply. "When Jonathan went on his trip, I knew my time was right, Aaron." Still, he hadn't said anything. "I mean, I thought I could conceive then, and I did." "And you came to me, anyway?" he asked, and she feared he might be angry.
She said, "Yes. Are you angry?" "Angry?" But there was jubilation in his word. "Don't you see it makes Sarah all the more precious to me? She was what you wanted, and I could give her to you, and I never knew till now anything about what you and Doc Haymes talked about." "I thought if you knew, you might think I just used you, but I didn't, Aaron. Honest." "I know," he said, kissing her neck again. "We really do work well together, don't we, Aaron?" she asked.
He raised his head and looked into her girl's face, loving every plane and curve of it, not wanting to stop. "Yes, we work well together," he agreed, charmed by her simple way of saying it, "so well that I'll be wanting you morning, noon, and night for the rest of our days. And what will you think of that?" "I think I will love it," said Mary.
He felt smothered in happiness and closed his eyes, loving the graze of her touch on his face. His eyes remained closed as he kissed a finger that slid past his lips. "My God, girl," he whispered hoarsely, "how I love you."
She leaned to his bronzed face and laid her mouth lightly on his, knowing at last the fullness of their mutual harvest as she whispered with tears in her eyes, "We love you, too."
The days that followed were a heady beginning, harbingers of joys to come. For Aaron there was the pleasure of Sarah as well as Mary. He indulged in all the foolish, fatherly things he'd thought of, giving free rein to the love he felt for her.
For Mary there was an awakening of pride such as she'd never known before. He was so natural with Sarah and with her, although she held him at bay, his hands, arms, and mouth constantly wanting her.
He bought a tractor with the money he got from selling Vinnie. Aloysius Duzak bought the bull, and the sale was recorded under the animal's registered name, Vindicator. Duzak admitted he'd probably call the animal by his old nickname, then became self-conscious after he'd said it, remembering that the bull had killed Jonathan.
There was money left over after buying the tractor, and Mary used it for new curtains and wallpaper for Aaron's bedroom, informing him with an innocent look that Sarah would sleep better if she had the old front bedroom to herself.
Aaron couldn't resist teasing, "It'll be quieter there for her, too," loving the blush that came to Mary's cheeks.
As Mabel Garner so often said, weddings come in threes. This one was the third, and the most unexpected.
They were married in November. It was a small ceremony, but all the Garners were there to admire Mary in ivory satin, trimmed in seed pearls.
Mabel Garner told everyone later, "Damned if she wasn't the prettiest bride I ever seen!" Rumor had it that Mary had worn a lovely ivory gown of quaint design, but nobody knew where it had come from. Surely if it were an heirloom, she'd have worn it at her first wedding.
It gave the women of Moran Township food for a whole winter's gossip. They recalled Mabel Garner's telling them how she and Garner had found Aaron wandering the roads in shock after his brother's death. They recalled how he'd given up his home to Mary and Jonathan more than once, how he'd worked the land after Jonathan died, asking nothing in return. Long before spring, their husbands had tired of hearing the merits of "that boy" and how he'd married the girl, providing for her-with that young baby and all. They never failed to say, "What would Mary have done without Aaron?"
On their wedding night, after putting Sarah to bed, they tiptoed down the hall by lantern light. At the doorway Aaron picked up his bride and kissed her before carrying her into his old room, which wore a new look. When he saw the room, colorful and clean, he thought how Mary loved this house, how she felt so right in it and in his arms, and how neither of them would ever have to leave it again.
Setting her on her feet, he asked, "My darling, what would I do without you?" "You'll never have to ask again," she replied, pulling him toward the bed.
And their lantern burned brightly, long into the night.