After All This Time Read online

  After

  all this

  Time

  A Historical Romance

  c.l.mANNARINO

  Copyright © 2016 by C.L. Mannarino

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First Printing: 2016

  ISBN: 978-0-9968759-8-1

  Cover Image: Bigstockphoto.com

  Mannarino Publishing

  www.clmannarino.com

  1

  July 1910

  The view from the oak in our yard is outstanding. I can see for miles in all directions: our farm, hugging the horizon. Papa’s carriage house, beside the barn, twenty paces from the oak I’m standing in, for the winter strolls through town when we need extra dollars. And the house, behind me, where I can almost feel Mama staring at me from the parlor window. If I know her well, she’s polishing the silver again, probably to spite Papa for their most recent argument:

  We aren’t rich. The silver can wait until after Christmas to be polished.

  It’s nearly August now. Papa’s the color of toned leather. Mama scolded me the other night for looking almost as dark as him. She said it’s not becoming of a young woman, to be so tan.

  I climb higher.

  I’m nearly to the top now. The sun blinds me, burns my face, but there’s a wind in the east. It shifts the leaves, providing me with small comforts. I can barely feel the callouses on my hands anymore—the bark of the tree, and all my barnyard labor, have toughened them from their winter-softened state.

  “Farmer’s hands,” Mama says every time she sees them, crinkling her nose with disgust.

  “Are we not farmers?” Papa says right back, gesturing to our meal of chicken and garden vegetables. “Do we think ourselves too good for God’s honest work?” He picks up my hand, kisses my callouses, and then lays my hand on the table. It’s always at the table where they get into these arguments. There’s no other time to talk on the farm.

  Even in the tree, I can still feel his kiss on my hand when I think of their conversations. The kiss is a promise: you belong out here. This is who we are.

  I pull myself farther up the tree. The limbs are thinning out under my hands, but I still reach. One hand after another, always climbing, always going higher than before. Higher still, towards blue sky, and endless freedom. Higher yet—

  The limb under me cracks. I feel the snap in the arch of my booted foot. It tingles up my leg, sending spasms of fear and urgency into my arms.

  Bu my hand isn’t fast enough. I can’t grab hold of the next limb in time. My mind blanks in the rush of breaking limbs. My hands grasp at air.

  And then I fall.

  I hit just about every one of my beloved branches on the way down. A few of them catch me. Most just let me go.

  All too fast, the tree is far above me again. I can feel the time it takes for me to fall. It’s the longest of my life.

  And it happens fast, in flashes I can’t hang onto. Blurs of brown and green rush past, my fingers blind and scraping as they grasp for a hold, any hold—anything that’ll stop my falling. My chest tightens with panic. I can barely breathe.

  I hit the ground wrong. The snap in my leg confirms it. And let me tell you, if I’m going to die right now, I say it feels something like a broken limb.

  I scream. It doesn’t sound like my voice, not until the bed from my vision clears, and I see the sky, the farm, everything at a tilt. Dots hurry in the distance—my parents getting closer, not moving fast enough. The sun to too hot on my face, hot as the break in my bones, somewhere below my knee, I think. But who could know? I can’t move to look, can’t look to think, can’t think past the pain of it.

  The pain goes everywhere. As soon as my parents try to pick me up, I go with it, and the world goes dark.

  2

  I wake up to the smell of alcohol, and a smiling face, the sight of which makes me gasp. The young man hovering over me leans back, pushing a strand of dirty blonde hair off his forehead. His hands drop to his lap as he settles down in a chair. He can’t be much older than twenty-four, but I can feel his age difference to my eighteen like a living thing, ready to pounce when I’m not ready.

  Young, but not immature. Young, and smiling at me. It makes me more aware of our surroundings: my childish bedroom, with its cloth dolls in one corner, and a stack of old books on the dressing table. And even more, I realize how undressed I am. I pull my bedclothes higher, hoping he hasn’t been offended by the dirty ruffles of my skirts, and their refusal to be clean despite my and Mama’s best efforts.

  And then I wonder how long we’ve been alone in the room together. The idea that I may never have had one else with me makes me blush.

  “I’m glad to see you’re awake,” the young man says, his voice a low baritone, and then leans forward a touch. His eyes shine like his smile. “I’m doctor Clarence Baker. I’m the one who operated on your leg.” He inclines his head. “Do you remember that?”

  I shake my head at first, and then pause. I recall my papa standing over me, beside my mama, and across from my bed. They had spoken with someone on the periphery of my vision, someone with fast hands, and a deep voice.

  Clarence Baker deep, I want to say. I nod in three fast jerks.

  The apples of the doctor’s cheeks grow pink with his smile. “Good. Very good.” He sits back, reaches for something on the bedside table—a pencil. He holds it to his face. “Follow with your eyes, please. Can you tell me your name?”

  His gray eyes hold mine, kind and curious. I follow the pencil, studying him the way I imagine he might be studying my brown eyes. At least, I hope he is. It’s rare for us to have such a good looking stranger in town, much less one of courtship age. I hope my face reflects the same curiosity about him. “I’m Helen Star. My parents are George and Laura. We’re from Lilaville, Massachusetts, born and raised near Springfield.”

  He lowers the pencil. His smile widens in a knowing way. “You’ve done this procedure before.”

  I shrug, but my chest flutters with the observation. I try to hold back a smile.

  “Do you make a habit of falling out of trees, then?” He’s starting to laugh at me.

  I raise my chin. “This is only my second time,” I say, hoping he hears the injury I force into my voice. I want him to feel for me, or at least play along. “Doctor Ronald could tell you that. Where is he?”

  Clarence’s face falls a bit. “He moved, but I trained under him. I’ve taken up the practice in his stead, though I wish I hadn’t had to. I miss him. He was a good man, and a good teacher. I could still use his advice, though I’m afraid getting it by post will have to do.”

  I nod, regarding him more warmly. “You knew him well, then.”

  His eyes brighten, and he smiles at me from the corner of his mouth. “As I’d like to know you.�
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  My mouth drops, but he pats my foot from on top of the blanket before I can say anything. “You’ll want to keep off this leg,” he says as he gets to his feet. “I’ll come in daily to check on you, if I can. But Helen?” He gives me a boyish, teasing smile. “No recklessness.”

  “I can’t promise anything,” I say before I can stop myself. It makes him laugh, like we’re sharing a private joke. I can’t help hoping tomorrow will come faster.

  It’s a thought that sustains me as Mama brings me embroidery to work on while I’m “in my ill state.” The moment she announces she’ll be preparing dinner, I imagine she’ll be having me shuck corn for her, come nightfall. She’s of the kind who would make the distance from the kitchen to my bedroom, just to ensure that I have work to do.

  3

  Doctor Clarence does return the next day, as promised. And the day after that. And the day after that.

  At first, we just talk for a while. He examines my leg from outside its casing, and then asks about the books on my table. After seven days of visits, we talk even more about the dolls in the corner, his favorite topic because I have so many stories for them.

  But by day ten, he doesn’t visit as much anymore. The gap in visits bothers me, until I notice the pompous set of my mama’s shoulders whenever he doesn’t arrive as promised. Over dinner, she reminds me that he is a doctor, I am his patient, and he must be learning real decorum if he’s going to court me the right way in our small town.

  “Perhaps he is learning to pay more attention to his profession than to those he is called to aid,” she says, taking a dainty bite of bread.

  It makes me wonder if she’s expressed her disapproval to him. Then I get a letter from Clarence on the eleventh day of my broken leg, and the purse of her lips erases all thought of her involvement in my possible love life. If she’s said anything, I wonder if perhaps he’s ignored it.

  “It’s not proper,” she says at last, making me jump as I slit the envelope open with a letter opener. The tone of her voice stops me, and I look up at her. She regards the letter like it’s a snake. Still, she makes no move to take it from me. “He cannot court you this way, here one moment and gone the next. He must make his intentions precise, and clear, or abandon any thought of courtship at all.”

  I nearly drop the letter. “Mama, he’s a doctor checking on a patient. I’m probably the first broken bone he’s had to mend alone. That’s all.” I say the words, but my chest warms with the idea that Mama might be right. Maybe Clarence’s house calls are to court me, to express interest I hadn’t received from a man before. Maybe he can see me as a future wife, as I see in him the possibility of a future husband. Who else would he spend so much time with?

  Mama shakes her head. “I’ve seen him around town before. You’re not the first broken bones he’s mended, just the first we’ve seen him pay attention to. It’s not proper,” she says, but walks away.

  I tear open the letter. In a swooping hand, it reads:

  “Dear Helen,

  I can’t come to the house with such frequency anymore. I’ve been warned it’s dangerous to be seen so closely with you, given our relationship as doctor and patient. As such, we’ll keep our correspondence more private. Letters, if you’re able. And meetings once a week. I look forward to seeing you.

  —Clarence”

  My heart flutters at the word “relationship.” How dazzling, to share such an intimate bond with him. And how devastating, for that to be all it is now: doctor and patient. For all the new restrictions on our ties, though, I’m delighted. Once a week, visiting with the doctor? I couldn’t have asked for better myself.

  4

  In his next letter, he writes to me that our first meeting will be in my garden. Mama helps bring me outside, and together, we sit under the maple tree, far from the oak where I’d fallen. The day is perfect, not too hot, and with just a hint of sun. He touches the collar of his shirt under his three-piece suit, but doesn’t loosen it.

  My hand aches to brush the place where his tie sits below his throat. I clench my hands in my lap to resist. If Mama catches me, she’ll have words.

  “I am sorry for this,” he says, and the apology shines in his eyes, in the nervous tremor of his hands. “I’ve been wanting to see you sooner, but I’ve never lived in towns as small as this one. The gossip seemed unrelenting when it reaches the right people. I haven’t heard any about us,” he adds before I can speculate, leaning forward as if to allay my worry. He smiles a little. “But if it had begun, I didn’t want it to hurt you in any way.”

  I want to brush this off, but I can see what it means to him. If he’s like Mama, then I can’t be so cavalier. I take some of his courage, and lean in, too. “Thank you for thinking of me,” I say.

  He brightens, and we share tea. I learn that he’s just twenty-two, and has a great deal of shoes to fill with Ronald being gone. He rides a horse to work on good days, and he loves his family, but they live in Boston.

  “I miss them a great deal,” he adds, wiping the corner of his eye with the tip of his finger. An ache to touch his arm, his shoulder, to bring some kind of comfort to him. I can’t imagine being so far from home, no matter what my mama’s old-fashioned peculiarities might be.

  “I hope you can see them again,” I say, intoning my voice with all the emotion I feel on the topic. He raises his glass in a salute.

  The next week, he brings me to the other side of town in a borrowed buggy. The ride is bumpy, and the way is long, but it lets me sit close to him, and we have blankets to guard us against the wagon’s rough sides. When we arrive, fields of wildflowers surround us, reaching for the sun with their tiny and brilliant blooms. Every so often, a couple strolls by beneath a parasol.

  Clarence picks me a small bouquet. I hide it in my skirt when I get home, in case it garners Mama’s disapproval. As I put it away, the crushed petals sadden me, but their fragrance lingers on my hands. I press them in the topmost book on my table: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. It’s Clarence’s favorite.

  Before his next visit, my friend Emma calls on me. She bounces on my bed as she asks about the doctor. Part of me wants to tell her, has wanted to tell her for a while, and hates that I won’t admit even that much to myself. Tho other part of me knows what might happen if I do. Clarence and I hadn’t been wholly discreet about our time together, but admitting to anything feels like a dangerous prospect.

  And I’d promised not to.

  “He’s my friend, and he’s been good to me, and to my parents,” I tell her. And it’s true.

  But that’s not all there is, and she knows it. It’s in her face when its joyful, sly-fox expression falls. It’s in the limpness of her hat’s pink ribbons when she stops bouncing. It’s in the odd demureness she takes on under the weight of my refusal to share, or provide any fodder for gossip.

  To make any of that gossip ring true.

  My heart breaks to see her like this, but I think of Clarence’s worries about the talking. I think of my parents. Even for my lack of discretion, I still have to give some thought to them. They do not gossip, and there may be questions they don’t know how to answer, especially because I don’t.

  They deserve my silence.

  So I say nothing of that. I only say, “I’ll tell you if something happens. For today, and everyday hereafter, unless otherwise expressed by him or me, he is just my friend. And my doctor.”

  She nods, sits back. Picks up one of my books. Asks about Mama, Papa, my leg. Teases me for breaking it again, asks if once will ever be enough. Tells me of a man she’s met, who runs a small store in town, and is making excellent business. I’m glad for her.

  I’m even gladder that the conversation is over.

  5

  That week, he doesn’t show up. Instead, he writes me a letter—a long one, with bits of poetry and notes about his life. His horse is fine, his work is tiring, but fulfills him. And then he makes a note about my friend Emma being in town—she is courting someone, he notes, and
talks of me almost endlessly whenever the doctor makes his way around, either for food, supplies, or calling on people. Clarence states that she loudly hopes I find a suitor. She states that it would be a shame for no one to recognize me, when I have so much to offer, and a wild spirit.

  He states in the letter that he agrees with these sentiments, but I can taste the fear of gossip in his tone, so clear it’s like he’s sitting in the room with me. He asks me to be more careful, until we have announced our courtship. I write that he has nothing to worry about.

  I invite him to my home again. I want him to come for dinner.

  He accepts after nearly another week, and I feel my heart will explode when he does. When he arrives, he’s sun-weathered, and harried by the journey, but beams at the sight of me. He even kisses the tops of my hands.

  I think I’m about ready to faint as we sit down to dinner.

  The meal is a solemn affair to start. Mama talks little, as always, and purses her lips whenever she isn’t eating. I hope Clarence can’t feel what I can only assume is her disapproval.

  Papa, on the other hand, goes on for hours about the farm. After a minute of chatter, Clarence joins in with gusto. His family, he says, came from the countryside, but moved east for work. His grandparents still live in the countryside, and he would’ve taken up farming the way his grandfather had, if the medical practice hadn’t called so heartily to him. By the time dinner is through, both men are laughing, toasting the earth and God, and I feel as if half the night has gone by.

  To all our surprises, Mama appears with a cake at the end of the meal. It’s his favorite: butter cake with strawberries. I’m not sure how she knew to bake this, as I never told her. But she sets it in front of him, as if it was planned all along.

  “Thank you for the kindness you’ve shown our daughter,” she says, remaining as tight-lipped as before.