With This Kiss, page 269
"You'll break it!" he would always shout angrily, usually startling Jesse into doing just that. He hated for folks to raise their voices at him. He might not be smart, but he could hear real well.
He would just have to remember to do what he was told and stay out of trouble. That way there would be no cause for anyone to holler.
Jesse let his eyes roam among the enameled buckets and the scythe blades. He examined the lady's picture on the front of the bluing bottle. And pressed his nose against the glass to look at the pocket watches and fancy buttons in the display case.
It was a fact that the Phillips General Store was as close to paradise as Jesse Best had ever been. He had seen, admired, and awed over every whatnot, thingamajig, and gewgaw in the place. Still, for Jesse, it was all perpetually new and absorbing.
The city man held the storekeeper's attention as Jesse wandered through the last array of goods for sale. He paid no heed to their talk, but noted that the drummer was talking louder and louder and that Mr. Phillips said little or nothing, but continued to shake his head.
Jesse moved closer to the two as he admired the selection of pipes on the shelf with the tobacco. His pa had a pipe and Jesse could smoke it when he wanted. That is, if he smoked it outside. His sister Meggie didn't tolerate any manly vices inside her home. But Pa's pipe was simply a reed stem set into a hollowed corncob. These pipes were applewood and brier root, fancy carved. Some had real Chinese amber at the mouthpiece. Others were tipped with India rubber. So entranced was Jesse that he moved up closer. Completely forgetting the no-touch rule, he reached out his hand toward a particularly handsome bulldog bent brier with a covered nickel top.
His hand never touched the pipe, however. The sound of excited footsteps on the porch drew his attention.
"Good momin', Mr. Bwoody!" Jesse heard a small voice call out.
"Hey there, youngun," was the answer returned.
"Good morning, Mr. Broody."
The voice was feminine and familiar.
Jesse heard the scrape of the chair against the porch boards as gray haired Pigg rose gallantly to his feet in greeting to the young woman.
"And a beautiful morning it is, Miz Winsloe," he said.
Jesse moved away from the shelf and nearer to the doorway of the store. His curiosity of a few moments earlier slipped his mind as easily as a hog on ice. A woman was coming into the store. Jesse Best liked women.
"Can I have a candy, Mama? Can I? Can I?" the young boy was asking excitedly as he came through the door.
"We'll see," was his mother's answer.
By the delighted grin that swept the child's face, it was clear that "we'll see" was an answer in the affirmative.
The boy skipped delightedly two paces and then stopped dead still in front of Jesse.
"Hello," Jesse said warmly, smiling down at the small fellow at his feet.
"Gar," the little boy said as he swallowed nervously.
He gazed up in wonder and fright at the huge man. The child was only knee high to Jesse. But there was more than a difference in size that caused the youngster to back up a pace and edge around Jesse with a wide berth. His big eyes were wide with fear as if he expected any moment for the man to grab him and eat him alive.
"Good morning, Simple Jess," Althea Winsloe said as she followed her son into the store. Clearly she had seen the strange manner in which her son greeted their neighbor. "How are you?" she asked. Her smile was exceptionally bright as if she hoped to lighten the sting of her son's rudeness.
Her effort worked quite well as Jesse gazed back at her, his expression near worshipful.
”Tolerable, ma'am," Jesse answered. "Right tolerable."
He bowed slightly as he made room for her to step by. Jesse closed his eyes as she passed beside him and inhaled deeply, a dreamy smile upon his face.
Jesse loved the smell of women. Old women, young women, women who'd spent the morning laboring over a tub of laundry, or women who were dressed up for Sunday with dabs of rose water behind their ears, Jesse relished the sweet redolence of them. And Althea Winsloe had an aroma that Jesse much admired. It was a mixture, of course. Not that he couldn't sort them out perfectly. And he didn't consciously even try. But he did take another deep breath, merely to enjoy it. There was the clean fragrance of yellow soap, the smooth sweetness of fresh-churned butter, wood-smoke and sage, yarrow and hobblebush. All smells that were very familiar to him. And there was something more, some underlying scent that was almost beyond his detection. He couldn't describe it as sweet or spicy. It wasn't balmy or savorous, perfumy or yarbish. But it was there. It was always there. And no other woman on the mountain smelled that way.
"Good morning, Mr. Phillips," she said, greeting the storekeeper. She nodded politely to the stranger.
"Ah . . . dear Mrs. Winsloe," Buell Phillips said effusively. "You are a pretty sight as always. Oather will be so sorry that he missed you."
Jesse's brow furrowed slightly with curiosity. Why his cousin Oather would be sorry to miss Althea Winsloe, he didn't know. But there were lots of things that he didn't understand.
Miss Althea was speaking very firmly about being a grown woman and the owner of her farm. Jesse was a little surprised that Mr. Phillips didn't know that. He seemed to know pretty much everything.
Mr. Phillips ignored what Miss Althea was saying and began talking about his son, Oather. Jesse figured he must be talking to the drummer, because Miss Althea already knew everything there was to know about Oather, everybody on the mountain did.
His mind wandering due to the foolish nature of the conversation, Jesse's attention was captured by Baby-Paisley. The little boy was wistfully eyeing the licorice sticks in the big jar on the counter.
"Can I have my candy now, Mama?" he pleaded, pulling on his mother's skirt. "Pleese, Mama, can I have my candy?"
Miss Althea, whose voice, to Jesse's surprise, was a little bit shrill as she talked to Mr. Phillips, didn't answer him. She was very caught up in the conversation about her farm and Oather and didn't pay the little boy any attention.
The little fellow persisted more loudly and eventually had the storekeeper himself staring down at him.
Mr. Phillips, somehow seemingly unaware of Miss Althea's raised voice and ill humor, smiled broadly at the little boy and to Jesse's near complete dumbfoundment opened the jar and handed the child a fistful of the fancy candy.
At two for a penny, licorice was dear. That last time Jesse had worked for Mr. Phillips, unloading a mule train carrying hundred pound sacks of flour from the mill, the storekeeper had paid him only five pieces of licorice.
Of course, his brother-in-law had come back down the mountain with him the next day and insisted that Jesse get paid a man's wage.
But the storekeeper had hoped to get a day's work from him for five pieces of candy. He'd just handed Baby-Paisley twice that much, and a little fellow like him couldn't do no work much at all.
The little boy was eagerly stuffing several pieces of licorice into his mouth.
His mother, who continued speaking sharply to Mr. Phillips, didn't even notice.
Jesse's mouth watered. The smell of licorice was strong, almost like actually tasting it himself. It was Jesse's favorite candy, but candy wasn't like wages. Men don't get paid with candy.
Baby-Paisley turned slightly, glancing in his direction. The little boy's eyes widened and he clutched his licorice more tightly as if he feared Jesse might steal it.
Smiling, Jesse wanted to reassure him. But the child was not comforted. It seemed that he was genuinely afraid of Jesse. Because he was so big, and because he was different, boys and girls were often afraid of him. The older ones sometimes made up stories to scare the youngers. They made Jesse out to be the bogeyman of the mountain. That was sad. Jesse liked children a lot. He had a niece about the same age as the little boy. But his niece loved him. Baby-Paisley clearly did not.
The word dogs captured Jesse's attention and he glanced up to Miss Althea and Mr. Phillips. The storekeeper's expression was preachy and self-righteous. From his position, Jesse couldn't see Miss Althea's face, but the stiffness in her shoulders was evident. When she spoke, her words were crisp and cold.
"There does seem to be a great deal of interest in my late husband's dogs," she said. "Why don't you, Mr. Phillips, be so good as to get the word out to the men on the mountain that as of today, that pack of dogs is for sale to the highest bidder."
"You're selling Paisley's dogs?" Phillips sounded horrified. "You cain't do that."
"They are mine to sell, sir," she snapped. "I most certainly can."
"But your new husband—"
"I do not intend to remarry," she interrupted. "I have said that several times, but no one seems to listen. Just so that there is no misunderstanding, please let everyone know that I am selling those dogs."
She turned then, her eyes blazing with anger and her head held high.
"Come along, Baby-Paisley," she said. "I don't believe that there is a thing we want to buy in the store today."
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About the Author
National bestseller and two-time RITA Award winner, Pamela Morsi was duly warned. “Lots of people mistakenly think they are writers,” her mother told her. She’d be smart to give it up before she embarrassed herself. Fortunately, she rarely took her mother’s advice. With 30 published titles and millions of copies in print, she loves to hear from readers.
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