So his farmer’s instincts weren’t wrong, Nathan thought as he returned to his room. September was hurricane season in the Gulf, sometimes sending a backlash of rain and wind as far into Texas as the Panhandle and up into the Oklahoma Territory. He remembered that Sloan Singleton had begun baling his hay last week. Nathan hoped he’d gotten it into his barns in case rain was on the way. If it held off and the cutting wasn’t finished, on Monday he’d pop over the fence from Las Tres Lomas and lend a hand to his men.
He hurried to wash and dress. He’d gotten his gym gear together last night: lightly padded gloves the old-timers still called “mufflers,” high-top lace shoes, boxer’s shorts, and the leather helmet used for sparring just introduced to the sport. His father was a stickler for safety in the ring, despite his grandmother’s expressed doubt there could be any protection “for two men bent on knocking out each other.”
“That’s not the point of what we do, Mother,” Trevor tried to assure her. “I’m not training Nathan for competition. I’m teaching him to spar.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The intent.”
His grandmother did not approve of the Saturday morning boxing sessions. They laid another bone of contention between her and her son. The tragedy of their relationship continued to sadden Nathan. His grandmother’s days were numbered. He did not want her to die without knowing of her son’s sacrifice to preserve her image of the son she’d preferred. And Nathan did not want his father to live without having known the expressed love of his mother. Nathan understood that pain. Trevor Waverling was a good man and a devoted son. A little shy of a father’s attention to his daughter, maybe, but only because he hadn’t the temperament to handle her. Did his grandmother not see that deficiency as a great burden to him? It was the saddest heartbreak of all to love deeply and not possess the right nature to express it. At times, Nathan could hardly keep quiet about the knowledge he possessed. The tragedy of his grandmother going to her grave with the suspicion that his father had killed her son burned in him like a lump of coal.
Trevor, I went along with your insane participation in that barbaric sport, but must you infect my grandson with your lust to hurt and be hurt? she’d said in outrage when she first learned her son had invited Nathan to his boxing gym. His father had argued that inflicting bodily injury was not the goal of sparring. Its object was to develop proper head movement and footwork, evasive techniques like slipping and dodging, to build skills in bobbing, countering, and angling. Sparring trained a man to improvise, to think under pressure, and to keep his emotions in check.
His grandmother had told him to quit his jargon blabber. She hadn’t the foggiest notion what he was talking about. Just tell her for what purpose was her grandson to be trained to “improvise, think under pressure, and keep his emotions in check.”
It was always good for a man to know how to deal with a fast, powerful, and determined attacker, his father had told her.
Nathan reduced her ire somewhat by explaining that sparring was really the practice of boxing and safe as long as the partners were friendly and no emotional tension was involved. He enjoyed exchanging punches, or better yet, learning the skills to avoid them, and the physical benefits of the ring were showing on him. He’d always thought himself a rather clumsy fellow, lacking grace. The training had improved his balance and coordination, strengthened and toned his muscles, slimmed his waist, and increased his energy. Nathan did not tell his grandmother that ringside observers agreed with his father’s opinion that he was made for the sport. He had the big upper-body strength and strong legs boxing called for. Powerful punches and explosive movements all came from the calves, thighs, hams, and hips, the likes of which he possessed.
His painting of the brighter side of the Saturday sessions earned only an unconvinced humph! from Mavis Waverling, but she quit her harping with a final shot. You’re the mirror image of your grandfather in every way, Nathan, and thank goodness HIS father saw no need to subject him to “footwork in the ring” to improve himself, she said.
Dressed, his bed made, Nathan grabbed his gym satchel. Maybe he and his father would get down to the breakfast table and be gone before his grandmother got up to see them off with her usual tight-lipped frown of disapproval. Lenora would let Zak in and feed him. His dog was getting old and was perfectly content to spend the morning curled up with Scat while Rebecca read poetry to them.
Along with the enjoyment of the sport, Nathan looked forward to these Saturday mornings spent with his father. They took the coach because Benjy liked to have breakfast in a little Irish café down from the boxing gym where they sparred. The waitress was sweet on him, he declared, and she’d add an extra potato pancake to his stack and slip him more applesauce without charge when his bowl was empty. Best boxty this side of Cork County, he would say, his brogue thick from the anticipated pleasure to his palate. The time alone with his father in the coach had become special to Nathan, because it gave him an opportunity to learn more about Trevor Waverling. On one ride, the thought occurred to Nathan that perhaps his father enjoyed their Saturday trips together because they gave him the chance to learn more about his son.
When they were underway, Trevor asked suddenly, “Are you happy with us, Nathan?”
Surprised by the question, Nathan could not immediately answer. A mood had come over his father. He’d seemed thoughtful and distracted at breakfast. How did Nathan reply to his question? Happiness was something he’d never thought too much about. Contentment, yes. He knew what it was to be contented.
“I would have to say I am,” Nathan said.
“Do you miss your half brother and sister?”
“I don’t know that I miss them,” Nathan said, puzzled by the question. “I think about them often, wonder how they’re getting along without me. I was always there to look out for them.”
“Do you suppose they miss you?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. That is, until somebody else comes along and gives them a shoulder to lean on.” Nathan smiled to say that he did not hold their fickleness against them.
“It takes a special man to always be a brother, Nathan. For most men, other loves and responsibilities come along to take the space siblings fill when they are growing up. Wives, children, jobs, interests, not to mention the separation of distance, can make strangers of brothers and sisters. But with a man like you, I sense that once a brother, always a brother, and that’s a comfort to me.”
“Oh, I’ll always be around for Rebecca, Dad. Have no fear of that.”
“I have no fear of that. It’s simply that I wish—”
His father bit off whatever he had meant to say and turned his head to stare out the window. What was going on with him this morning? Nathan wondered. He’d been in a mild blue funk since their inspection visit to Las Tres Lomas. “Wish what, Dad?”
His father shook his head. “Nothing, son. Just an old father’s wish that things could have been different, that’s all.”
He’s referring to Rebecca, Nathan thought, feeling sympathy for him. He must wonder what would happen to Rebecca once her grandmother and father were gone. Who would take care of her? Was it fair to impose her on Nathan, burden the son he never knew until six months ago and his eventual wife with a retarded half sister? Nathan leaned forward and tapped his father on the knee. “You’re worrying about Rebecca’s future welfare for nothing, Dad. I give you my word that no matter what, I’ll see after Rebecca as long as she lives.”
Trevor stared at him, and Nathan, shocked, glimpsed a shimmer of tears in his father’s eyes, quickly blinked away. “Thank you for that assurance, Nathan,” he said. “I’ve come to believe I can expect no less from my son.”
Rain began falling Sunday morning as the Waverling family was seated in their pews at church services. A strong wind latched on to the ringer of the church bell just as the choir was finishing “Fairest Lord Jesus,” ruining the ancient anthem’s blissful conclusion and the results of a week’s rehearsals.
The bell continued its erratic clanging during the distribution of the offering plates, and murmurs of dismay rose from those who had walked to services and those whose carriages leaked. The citizens of Dallas had not been warned of a rainstorm coming. The Waverlings’ Concord was weatherproof, but Mavis and Trevor and Nathan cast worried eyes on Rebecca and hoped someone was sent to silence the bell’s crazed tongue before it jangled her from her absorption in a new book of poetry Charlotte had sent over with a note to Nathan that had thrilled his heart: Looking forward to seeing you tonight. Rebecca could not abide certain kinds of storms. Easy, gentle rainfall did not disturb her, but those that shook the heavens sent her into a state of great agitation. Her adored uncle had died during a day of frenzied wind and rain.
Whispered concerns strengthened when a deacon quietly slipped from a side door to the altar and spoke into the ear of the minister who had been about to rise to take the pulpit. The reverend nodded grimly in apparent understanding and approached the lectern.
“My dear friends,” he said, “word has just now reached us that a huge hurricane struck Galveston yesterday, causing enormous damage and loss of life. Telegraph and telephone lines are down, and train service no longer exists in that area. The storm’s aftermath has arrived here. I propose we immediately conclude with the benediction and adjourn to secure our homes and the safety of our animals. As we pray, let us remember the devastated city of Galveston and its citizens.”
The benediction was brief. When eyes opened, the congregation hurriedly stood to depart, all but Rebecca. Her family stared at her. The book of poetry lay open in her lap and she had covered her ears against the bell’s clangor and the sound of the slashing wind and rain. “Lord of the winds!”she chanted, rocking back and forth. “I feel thee nigh / I know thy breath in the burning sky! / And I wait, with a thrill in every vein / For the coming of the hurricane!”
“Good God!” Trevor muttered.
“I didn’t think she was listening,” Mavis said, quickly folding Rebecca’s cape around her granddaughter’s shoulders.
“She was,” Nathan said. “Let’s get her home to Zak.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
For the occupants of the Concord, the ride to the town house in Turtle Creek was tense. All had gotten soaked in their dash to the carriage—Nathan and Trevor especially, since they had to help Benjy quiet the horses—and Rebecca would not be shushed. The brim of her sailor hat dripped water as she rocked back and forth reciting the opening lines of John Masefield’s poem interminably until Nathan could hardly resist the urge to put his hands over his ears. At one point, Trevor could stand no more and snapped at Rebecca to stop her infernal chanting. Mavis scolded him, demanding why he thought it necessary to prevent the child from quoting poetry that had been dear to her uncle. “Days like this remind her of him,” she said.
“They do me, too, Mother. That’s why those particular lines are unbearable to hear,” Trevor had said, silencing his mother.
Once home, the men went to their rooms to change out of their tailored suits and handmade shoes, while Mavis and Lenora tried to divest Rebecca of her wet clothing and wrap a blanket around her. Wild-eyed, she fought their efforts, continuing her chant until her father appeared in the kitchen with Nathan to hang their sodden clothes in the mud room. “Rebecca! Stop that this instant!” Trevor commanded. “You’re driving everybody mad with that jingle.”
Rebecca, stripped down to her chemise and bloomers, halted midline and blinked at her father as if having to think who he was. Suddenly she sprang toward him crying, “Daddy, Daddy, save him!” and seized Trevor around his waist.
Stricken silence gripped the kitchen. All were aware of whom she spoke. Nathan dropped his eyes, and Lenora and Mavis exchanged helpless glances. Even Zak, sitting on his haunches, sank to the floor with a soulful whine. After a minute’s surprise, Trevor wrapped his arms protectively around his daughter’s delicate shoulders. “I wish I could have, kitten,” he said softly. Mavis turned abruptly to shake out Rebecca’s suit jacket with great force over the sink, but Nathan couldn’t tell if the loud snap was from contempt or to free the garment of water.
Lenora bent to Rebecca’s ear. “Poor little baby,” she crooned. “Come, let’s have a cup of hot chocolate Lenora made for her angel.”
But Rebecca would not be enticed from her father’s waist. She had buried her head into his midriff and begun to cry, sobbing into his freshly donned shirt. “There now, it’s all right,” Trevor said, extricating himself from Rebecca’s vise to scoop her up in his arms. “Let’s go to your room and see your dolls.”
“I’ll be right there soon as I change clothes,” Mavis called, as Trevor carried his daughter from the kitchen, Zak trotting after them.
Nathan touched her arm. “Maybe they need to be alone for a while, just the two of them,” he said, a little aggravated with his grandmother for wishing to butt in on this private time between his father and Rebecca when she complained often enough that he made no room for her in his daily life. “Rebecca seemed to want only her father just now.”
Mavis turned to him with surprise in her gaze. Nathan expected to be put soundly in his place. It was not his business to suggest when or if his grandmother should look in on her granddaughter, but Mavis with a softly breaking smile reached up and patted his cheek. “You dear boy,” she said. “So very wise beyond your years. It must have been growing up in the country that made you a sage before your time. Yes, they should be alone. Trevor loves Rebecca… in his own way. I forget that sometimes. Lenora, I’m going up to change, then Nathan and I could use a cup of chocolate in the parlor.”
Nathan had a fire going in the grate when she returned. The rain had brought a drop in temperature, and his grandmother drew her shawl around her and sighed deeply as she took her seat in her designated chair. “That heat feels good to these old bones,” she said. “Thank you, Nathan. Thank you for everything, as a matter of fact. You’ve brought so much warmth into our lives in ways you’re too modest to realize.”
Nathan sat down opposite her, feeling inadequate to comment. It looked as if this stormy day had unearthed sad memories. “It all has to do with Jordan, you know,” Mavis said. “It’s been three years, but Rebecca never has gotten over her uncle’s death. He was her best friend. They were two of a kind, I’m sad to say, and she misses him so. Rain like this”—she motioned toward the streaming parlor windows—“brings back the day he died.” Her lips tightened from the memory. Firelight caught in her bluish-green irises, faded by time, and Nathan saw the bitterness in them that the years had not faded in kind. Sadness filled him for the facts she did not know, information that might relieve the pain of her memories if only his father would trust her with the truth. She might surprise him. It might be that rather than tarnish his grandmother’s memory of her first son, the truth would revive her love for her last. But Nathan had given his word, and he would stick to it.
Lenora brought in the hot chocolate and Nathan gratefully accepted a cup, glad of the heat to soothe his tight larynx. Mavis fixed him with her piercing gaze. “You’re choking on your thoughts over there, Nathan. I can tell. Your grandfather had the same faculty of saying absolutely nothing when he had too much to say. So spit it out. What’s stuck in your gullet?”
Nathan set his cup in its saucer. There was no getting around that sharp, intuitive beam once it lit. A fellow would have a better chance diverting a shooting comet. He cleared his throat and avoided the thrust of her stare by gazing into the fire. Actually, it was Leon who had taught him the wisdom of saying absolutely nothing when he had too much to say. “I prefer to keep private what’s not my place to mention, Grandmother,” Nathan said.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” Mavis tapped the floor with her cane. “This is your home. You are family. In this house, nobody has ‘a place’ the way you mean it. There should be no secrets of true feelings. You don’t want to be like your father.”
Nathan glanced at her sharply. “I don’t know why not. I
see nothing about him that would put me off.”
Surprise, close to shock, struck her porcelain face, translucent and finely lined as ancient china. “Ah, I see he’s won you to him. That’s good. You and Trevor have created a father-and-son bond. It’s what I hoped would happen. Trevor will not be left without family when I die.”
Which implied that Rebecca was not family to her son, not by his definition, and Nathan had to yield to his grandmother’s point. Nathan didn’t doubt his father loved his daughter, but Rebecca could no more fill that role to a man like Trevor Waverling, a worshipper of health and fitness and wholeness, than could a family pet.
“I meant only that your father keeps his feelings under lock and key,” Mavis explained. “Always has, ever since he was a little boy. I wish he hadn’t. I could have known him better. Jordan, now, he opened up about everything.”
“No, he didn’t,” Nathan disputed, the contradiction out before he thought. He felt his face glow red. “I mean—” He bit his lip.
Mavis’s little laugh made light of his embarrassment. “I know what you mean, dear. My elder son couldn’t have told his mother everything. Jordan was a male, after all.”
They heard Trevor come down the stairs and say to Lenora that Rebecca would take that cup of cocoa now. “She’s settled down with Zak,” he reported to his mother and Nathan. “I gave her a small dose of laudanum, and in a little while, she’ll be asleep. When she wakes up, the storm may have passed, and she’ll have forgotten all about the scene in the kitchen. Nathan, come join me in the study. I have a couple of business items I want to discuss with you before lunch.”
Nathan rose with relief at the interruption but felt his grandmother’s forlorn disappointment to be left alone in the parlor with only the sound of the storm and the fire to keep her company on a day like the kind in which her son had died.
The telephone rang on and off the rest of the day with callers sharing trickles of information from friends and relatives of the devastation in Galveston. There would be no full reports of the damage until communication lines were reestablished. Trevor was sure that Beaumont, forty miles up the coast from Galveston, had been hit and thanked fate that the cargo of steel casings, boxed and supposed to have been already shipped by rail to Spindletop, had been delayed by a lack of boxcar space. The salt dome lay virtually in the lap of the Gulf of Mexico. With every ring of the telephone, Nathan expected to hear that Charlotte had canceled her party.