Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas

  Peter shook his head. “I see a potential problem here, George. You’re missing the most critical part of the equation.”

  “O–oh?”

  “Yes. The feelings. It is impossible to write a poem without feelings. They are the driving force, in fact.”

  George groaned. “I guess you’re right. But what can I do about it? You’re good with words, Peter. Surely you can come up with something flattering.”

  “Flattering, yes, but if the feelings aren’t there, the poem will sound stilted. There’s nothing I can do to fix a love poem that was never meant to be.” Peter sat and folded the paper, passing it back to George. “I’m sorry.”

  “So what do you suggest? A poem from a book? Would that do the trick?”

  “George, let me ask you a question.” Peter stared at him intently. “Do you love Adeline?”

  “Well, I’m only just getting to know her. I don’t suppose I...” He sighed. “I don’t suppose I do, to be completely honest, though the idea of having a woman like that holds some appeal.”

  “You know, of course, what the great Henry David Thoreau had to say on the subject, do you not?” Peter crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing.

  George could feel the sweat on his brow as he responded. “Um, no, actually.”

  “He said, ‘How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.’ ” I do not believe anyone could have said it better. You have not lived what you hope to write. Therefore, you should not write it. You don’t even know your own feelings. Or the lack thereof.” Peter shook his head, clearly frustrated.

  “But how do I know what I’m feeling, anyway?” George asked with a sigh. “I’ve never been very good with words on paper.”

  “ ‘Put the argument into a concrete shape, into an image, some hard phrase, round and solid as a ball, which they can see and handle and carry home with them, and the cause is half won.’ ”

  “I beg your pardon?” George looked at him, confused.

  “Those were the words of the great Ralph Waldo Emerson. Writing a poem is the equivalent of putting your argument—what you’re trying to say—into concrete form. That way, people—in this case, Adeline—can see it, taste it, feel it. Does that make sense?”

  “Oh, sure. Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

  After a brief pause, Peter gave him a pensive look. “As long as we’re being completely honest, let’s steer this ship in a different direction. Let’s use Belinda Bauer as an example.”

  “Belinda?” Her name caught in George’s throat.

  “Yes.” A hint of a smile crossed Peter’s face. He took out a clean sheet of paper and reached for a pen. “Now, tell me what you think when you see Belinda coming into the mercantile each morning.”

  “Well, if I must.”

  “Just as a demonstration, you understand.” Peter stared at him intently.

  “Fine.” George raked his fingers through his hair. “Well, my heart doesn’t seem to beat right until I see her. I find myself standing out on the front porch, scrubbing bugs off the window, just so I can catch a glimpse of her. Does that sound crazy?”

  “Maybe. But crazy isn’t necessarily a bad thing where poets are concerned.” Peter scribbled a few words. “And then? What about when she walks into the room? When you see her for the first time face-to-face?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” George nodded. “The rhythm of my heart comes back into alignment. I can breathe again. It’s almost like she brings order to my life.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  George closed his eyes and tried to picture it. “I think it’s her smile. Her smile lights up the place and strengthens me, especially on days when I’m down. And there’s something about the sound of her voice that puts one in mind of angels singing. There’s really no way to describe it accurately without sounding ridiculous.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” Peter scribbled a few more words. “Now, tell me about her hair.”

  “Her hair?” George grinned, leaning back in his chair. “To be honest, it has plagued me since she was a girl. Those long pigtails were always such a temptation. I can’t tell you how many times they tormented me.”

  “Oh?” Peter wrote something down then looked over at him. “How so?”

  “When I sat behind her in class, I wanted to dip them in the inkwell.” George laughed. “I reached for them at least a hundred times but never could go through with it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I knew it would hurt her feelings, and I could never do that.” Why, just the thought of hurting her brought pain.

  “Mm-hmm.” Peter scribbled something else. “And why is that?”

  “Well, because she was my friend. Is my friend.” George shook his head, now overcome with emotions. “That’s not completely true. We’re not friends these days, and frankly, I don’t know what to do about it. I think maybe I’ve lost her friendship.”

  “How does the idea of losing it affect you?” Peter asked.

  “It’s killing me, if you want the truth of it. Every day I go without speaking to her, I feel like I’m losing air. If I go any length of time like this, I’m going to shrivel up and...”

  “And die?” Peter gazed into his eyes.

  “Sounds overly dramatic, but yes.” George rose and began to pace. “Can we go back to her hair for a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  “When I see those loose wisps around her face, I see a woman who is so concerned about the needs of others that personal vanity is swept aside. She cares more about others than fussing. Not that her hair doesn’t look nice. On the contrary, there are times when the sun picks up three different colors in the strands of her hair.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’ve never seen such a beautiful contrast of colors. If you look closely, you’ll find strands of deep gold and soft yellow. There are even tiny slivers of brown running throughout. In the summertime, the lighter colors are even more pronounced. They remind me of the wheat in Samuel Bromstead’s fields. All of this is more pronounced when she’s wearing that soft pink dress? Have you taken notice of it? There are ruffles across the top. They come down to a V and accent her waistline. Not that I’m looking at her waistline. That would be wrong. Right?” He raked his fingers through his hair.

  “Wrong to notice a woman’s waistline? Surely not.” Peter continued to scribble. “And if you had to describe her personality, what would you say?”

  George paused and smiled. “That she could win over a total stranger with her enthusiasm for life and for people. That her outgoing nature is like a church bell on Sunday morning, calling people to service. That, at times, her heart is an open book begging to be read, and at other times, she is a mystery novel pleading to be solved. And that I could go on reading that book for years and probably still not scratch the surface of who she is, because there is such depth to her.”

  Peter scribbled a few more words then looked over at George, his eyes narrowing into slits. “You’ve given me the foundation for a beautiful poem, George.” He folded the piece of paper and put it into his coat pocket. “I will work on it over the next few days.” He paused then looked into George’s eyes. “Just one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Promise me you will give it to the right person when the time comes. This is a piece of your heart, after all. You don’t want to be dishonest.”

  George managed a nod but couldn’t speak a word. He couldn’t get past the images of Belinda he’d just painted with his words. Her face. Her smile. Her hair. Her personality. Coming up with fodder for a love poem came easily as long as he focused on her. Perhaps that was because having Belinda in his life kept everything in a steady flow, in perfect rhyme.

  Without her...well, without her, everything was off-kilter.

  George rose and shook Peter’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough. I daresay this poetry lesson was as enlightening as a sermon. Maybe more so. You’ve helped
me put things into perspective.”

  “That’s what poets do, George,” Peter said as he gripped his hand. “That’s what poets do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Belinda and Greta closed up shop later than usual that day. After all of the chaotic events that had taken place, it took a bit longer to get back into the swing of things. And with more folks in town these days, the shop stayed filled with customers until the Closed sign went up.

  Afterward, Belinda got busy sweeping up and organizing the back room. She owed Greta and Aunt Hilde that much, considering her disappearing act earlier in the day. As she gave the store one last glance, something caught her eye. Or rather, someone caught her eye: John Ogilvie, on the other side of the glass, peering through.

  She opened the door and called out to him. “Something I can do for you, John?”

  “Oh, no.” He shrugged then took a few steps in her direction. “Just killing time.”

  “I see.” She paused, wondering if, perhaps, he was lonely. “I did a bit of looking for another bride for you, John. Haven’t found anyone just yet. I do hope you will forgive me for the mess I’ve made of things. I certainly never meant to hurt you in any way. I hope you know that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He gave her a funny look, one she could not interpret. “In fact, it’s very likely I won’t need you to search for anyone at all.” Now a smile curled up the edges of his lips, and he gave her a wink. “I do believe the Lord has other ideas. I’m beginning to think I have been searching far and wide when I should have looked a bit closer.”

  “O–oh?” She drew in a deep breath, unsure of what to do next. Was John Ogilvie making advances? If so, what could she do to dissuade him?

  He walked to the window and peered inside, smiling as he saw Greta working. “She’s a fine girl, isn’t she, Belinda?”

  Ah. “Indeed. The finest.”

  “A man would be someone mighty special to win a girl like that.”

  “True.” Belinda stifled a giggle. “Though I daresay, a fair maiden such as Greta could be won if the right man came along.”

  “You think?” He grinned.

  “Perhaps. And I have it on good authority that she loves yellow roses, especially the ones Ella Bromstead is growing in her front garden.”

  Belinda gave him a nod and then stepped back inside, clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from chuckling. Another peek out the window revealed John sprinting down Main Street. Belinda laughed for a moment and then quickly stifled it, not wanting to draw attention.

  Greta gave her a curious look from across the room. “What’s happened, Belinda? Something has you tickled. Is Sarah Jo up to her tricks again?”

  “No, it’s not that. And I’m not really tickled so much. Just have a lot on my mind.” Belinda cleared her throat and tried to remain calm. “Greta, something rather odd has been happening of late. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it or not.”

  “What’s that?” Greta looked up from her work with a wrinkled brow. “Something I need to be concerned about?”

  “Perhaps.” Belinda grinned. “It’s John Ogilvie. He’s been hanging around the mercantile a suspicious amount of time. Have you not noticed?”

  “What? Hmm? Noticed John who?” Greta looked down, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”

  “Mm-hmm. Sure, you’re not.” Belinda grinned. “Why, Greta! I can’t believe you kept this from me. Are you—”

  “I’m nothing,” Greta responded, turning back to her work. “Nothing whatsoever. Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Let’s just stop this before it gets out of hand.”

  “Methinks she doth protest too much.” Belinda fought back a grin.

  Greta shrugged. “I cannot control what you are thinking. I can merely say that the man is coming around because he’s lonely. He doesn’t know what else to do with his time, so he spends it here.” She paused and then looked up with tears in her eyes. “Look at me, Belinda. I’m not a pretty girl, and I’m as round as a butterball. What man is going to want me, especially a fellow like John Ogilvie? He’s nice-looking. And trim. I’m anything but.”

  “Greta!” Belinda gasped. “Don’t you ever let me hear you say that again! You are the prettiest girl I know, and your heart is prettier still. If you don’t believe that, just ask the Lord. He will convince you that you are created in His image. He doesn’t make anything less than perfect.”

  Greta giggled and dabbed at her eyes. “All right, all right. I’m just saying that I don’t usually turn men’s heads. So, if John Ogilvie has his head turned, or if he’s spending an exorbitant amount of time at the mercantile, he’s probably interested in someone else, not me.” She gave Belinda a knowing look.

  “Are you saying he’s interested in me?”

  “Well, yes,” Greta rolled her eyes. “Obviously. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it before now. John isn’t the first man to look your way, and he certainly won’t be the last.” She went off on a tangent, talking about Belinda’s assets—her beautiful hair, her contagious smile, her curvy physique. After several moments, Belinda interrupted.

  “Greta, have you ever heard the term ‘poetic justice’?”

  “I believe so.” Her cousin shrugged. “Why?”

  “In every great, classic story—the really good ones, anyway—good is ultimately rewarded and vice is punished.”

  “Right.” Greta nodded. “What does this have to do with anything? I’m not following you.”

  “You are the finest person I know, and you will be rewarded in the greatest of ways. That is how poetic justice works, both in literature and in real life.”

  “I cannot deny that I am ready for something wonderful to happen,” Greta said with a smile. “Though I would hardly call it poetic justice. If anyone deserves her happily-ever-after, it’s you.”

  “Thank you.” Belinda smiled. “I hope you’re right, though I’m not sure I need to be rewarded for anything.”

  “Well, of course you do. Look at all the happy couples who have benefitted from your services.”

  Belinda chuckled. “All right, all right. I am happy they are all so happy.” She sighed. And I suppose, for the first time in my life, I’m ready to admit that I would like to be married, too. I do not claim to know how the Lord will accomplish this, only that He will...in His time and His way.”

  In that moment, something served to distract them both. Belinda looked up and smiled, noticing John Ogilvie, who stood several feet in front of them with a fistful of yellow roses in his hand.

  “This is not about me, Greta,” Belinda whispered. “I daresay, a certain man is not headed my way with those flowers; he’s coming straight to you.”

  “Oh my goodness.” Greta fussed with her hair then turned to Belinda with a frantic look in her eye. “He really is, isn’t he?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “What do I say to him?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Just speak your heart.”

  Belinda headed to the other side of the store to give John and Greta some privacy but kept a watchful eye on them, all the same. Her heart was so broken after her cousin’s emotional outburst that she hardly knew how to respond. Did Greta really see herself as unlovable? Did she think there were no men out there for her? And why would she compare herself to Belinda? Had she fretted over these comparisons for long?

  For whatever reason, thinking about Greta’s love life reminded her of George. Thinking about George caused tears to rise in her eyes. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for George to come marching through the door of Poetic Notions with flowers in his hand...for her. She would dab on a whole bottle of lemon verbena to draw him in, if that’s what it took.

  No, she wouldn’t, either. She would sit back and wait. And wait. And pray. And do absolutely nothing unless the Lord instructed. If she’d learned anything at all over the past few months, it was this: Walk at least one pace be
hind the Almighty, never in front. With that formula firmly in place, all would be well. Where He led, she would go.

  And if He didn’t...well, she didn’t want to think about that.

  ***

  George’s heart grew heavier with each step away from Rhyme and Reason. I can put this off no longer. I know what I have to do. The Lord had spoken very clearly through Peter, though in a roundabout sort of way. George now had his answer. He did not love Adeline. Never had and never would. And he could not marry her. To do so would be deceptive. Perhaps Belinda would never care for him the way he cared for her, but marrying the wrong woman would not make that situation any better. And it would not honor God. No, there was only one thing to do now. He had to let Adeline know—and the sooner, the better.

  He thought about what his father had said that night in the barn, about how it would be better to walk through a bad courtship than a bad marriage. How many people married only to discover they did not love the person after the fact? Well, he was not going to be one of them. George could not marry a woman he didn’t love, and he could not be convinced to love Adeline when he did not. And no matter how hard he prayed, the Lord would not deliberately send him into the arms of the wrong woman.

  True, from all external appearances, they were perfect for one another. And they even shared a like faith, something critical to a couple’s survival. Still, when he gazed into her eyes, he didn’t get that gripping feeling in his heart that he expected to have. He didn’t wake every morning thinking only of her. He didn’t fall asleep every night with her name on his lips.

  In short, he didn’t love her. Oh, maybe he could learn to, in time. He was certainly attracted to her, after all. But love? No, love was something so much deeper. Love was what he felt for Belinda Bauer, and it couldn’t be traded for anything in the world. In fact, he wanted to share his heart with anyone and everyone who would listen. He wanted to stop the stranger passing by and tell him about Belinda’s blue eyes. He wanted to climb to the rooftop at Stanzas and holler his feelings to the masses. In short, he wanted to make his feelings known, regardless the cost. For only in making them known would he be completely honest with himself and with Belinda.