Ruth Morren - Lilac Spring

At the noonday dinner Tom Winslow turned to Phoebe when she sat down across the table from him. “Where is Cherish?”

“Out on a picnic with Silas,” she answered him, reaching for a dish of potatoes and taking a helping.

“Out on a picnic?”

“That’s what I said. They went for a sail and a picnic. Now, would you care to serve yourself a slice or two of the corned beef and pass me the platter?”

“What? Oh, yes.” He stabbed the red slices and put them on his plate, then passed the dish to his sister. They finished serving their plates and bowed their heads to say grace. After taking his first bite, Tom chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I like her hanging around with Silas so much. First down at the boat shop and now picnicking together.”

“Silas is a good boy.”

“She’s tagged after him since she was a little girl, always defending him whenever she’s so much as thought I wasn’t treating him right. Now—” here he gave a grunt of incredulous laughter “—she wants me to think of Silas as my successor.”

“You could do a lot worse,” she answered shortly.

Their cutlery clattered against the china as they ate in silence for a while.

“Still, now that Cherish is home, I want her to start meeting some of the men of her own class. Take that young Townsend. I like that fellow. A real gentleman.”

“The question is, does she like him?” Phoebe asked pointedly, prying open her biscuit with the tip of her knife, the steam escaping in a sheer vapor.

That night Cherish knelt by her bed and prayed. Lord, You know how much I’ve always loved Silas. Only You know. Only You know how long I’ve waited for him. I’ve done everything that was expected of me.

Oh, please, Father, make Silas love me back. Let him love me as I love him. I want him so badly. I feel I shall burst with love for him.

After the Sunday-morning church service, the congregation filed through the entryway, greeting the minister.

“Well, if it isn’t little Cherish Winslow!” Pastor McDuffie took her hand in a hearty handshake. “What a fashionable lady she has become. What do you say, Carrie?” He turned to his wife.

Mrs. McDuffie turned to Cherish with a warm smile. “Welcome back, Cherish. Please forgive us for missing your homecoming. We had to be away that day. We are so happy to have you back in our midst.”

“Thank you. No one is gladder than I am,” she answered.

“Now that you’re back, can we look forward to seeing you with us on Tuesday nights for choir practice? Carrie can certainly use another good singing voice.”

“I would love to come.” She turned to Silas. “You’ll join me, won’t you? We could walk over and back together.”

He fingered his tie. “I’m not much of a singer.”

“Nonsense,” McDuffie contradicted. “You have a fine baritone. I could hear you from the pulpit.”

Cherish smiled at the color creeping up his cheeks. “I hope it didn’t hurt your ears,” he said.

McDuffie laughed. “Au contraire. I was heartened to hear such a good, strong male voice. Just what we need in our choir.” He leaned over to whisper conspiratorially, “We have a surplus of little old ladies, dear souls, whose voices are becoming a mite quavery. We need some new blood.” He gave them both a last firm handshake. “It’s settled, then, come out Tuesday evenings at seven. Good to have you back, Cherish.”

Silas walked home from church with the Winslows as usual for Sunday dinner. Though he had deliberately slowed his steps to avoid walking with Cherish, he found her at his side.

She was a vision of loveliness. In fact, she had been every day he’d seen her since her return. He was beginning to realize he was looking forward to her appearance each day. Today she wore a yellow dress, with flounces and ruches up and down its skirts. A wide yellow sash, tied low on her hips, swayed in the breeze. The tight sleeves of the gown came down to her elbows and her hands were covered with dainty white gloves.

Silas wondered whether it was perhaps because he’d been around men too long, down on the shipyard, that one prettily dressed girl could stir his senses so.

Cherish was chatting away merrily with old Jacob, the Winslows’ handyman and gardener. “I look forward to hearing you fiddling away at the party.”

Silas realized none of the girls of Haven’s End could hold a candle to Cherish. Was it the city polish? Was it that every detail in her appearance was pleasing to the eye? Did women achieve that deliberately, or did it come about naturally?

Cherish’s deep brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in ringlets beneath a little straw bonnet trimmed in yellow ribbons and bows. He remembered her hair caught up in a simple wide ribbon the day they had danced in the meadow, how it had swung around as they’d played at waltzing in a ballroom. She’d been just as beautiful then in her simple frock and hairstyle.

He smiled inwardly at the image. Cherish pretending he and she had been in some elegant Viennese ballroom. Nothing could be sillier. He glanced down at his hands. They were marred by scars of cuts old and new from carpenter’s tools and burns from hot tar, and they felt as rough as the sandpaper he used to make the boats he worked on as smooth as silk.

How did they compare to Prince Leopold’s? Like sandpaper to silk beat a refrain in his mind.

They reached the Winslow house and turned up the drive. Aside from the hotel down by the harbor and the few summer residences, this was the grandest house in Haven’s End.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Cherish told him, her blue eyes laughing up at him. “I was in the kitchen since dawn with Aunt Phoebe until it was time to get ready for church.”

“That right, Miss Cherish?” Jacob piped up. “What goodies you ladies been preparing for us starvin’ menfolk?”

She turned to him. “Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, pickled beets and biscuits.”

“Well, bring it on and we’ll do it proud,” he exclaimed.

After a delicious dinner, in which they all complimented Cherish on her cooking skills, Cherish made Silas promise that he would meet her out on the veranda later.

He usually walked back down to the shipyard after Sunday dinner, but he sat a while making desultory conversation with Mr. Winslow. When the older man took up the paper to read, Silas made his way out to the front porch.

He glanced around and decided to lounge on the two-person swing set at one end of the porch. He swung lazily on the seat, pushing back and forth with the heel of his boot, unaccustomed to idleness. In his free time he was usually whittling away on a ship model or cleaning out his boat.

Just as he felt himself dozing, he heard the front door swing open and footsteps walking toward him. He shook aside the drowsiness and stood to help Cherish with the tray she carried.

“I brought us some lemonade, in case we get thirsty.” She indicated where he should set the small tray down.

“Everything done?”

“All shipshape to Aunt Phoebe’s satisfaction,” she answered, settling herself beside him on the swing with a small leather-bound book beside her. A barn cat, which had come onto the veranda from around the house, jumped onto her lap.

“Hello, puss, where’ve you been all morning? Out hunting mice?” The cat purred smoothly as Cherish stroked its gray fur.

To hide the feelings Cherish’s proximity was creating in him, Silas pushed his feet against the wooden floor, bringing the swing back into motion. They rocked in silence for a few moments, listening to the creak of the swing.

He was just managing to ignore her nearness, his eyes closed, his back resting against the seat, when Cherish asked him, “Do you have a sweetheart these days?”