The Caged Graves by Dianne K. Salerni Page A

eyes to hers. “I could take it to a jeweler next time I go to Philadelphia. They could make it smaller.”
    Verity hesitated at the thought of this family heirloom being altered for her. “Won’t there be time to do it later?” If she married him, there would be a whole lifetime to get it fixed. And then she wondered why she persisted in adding the conditional
if.
    â€œIndeed there will be,” he agreed.
    While she was contemplating the ring and what it meant, a high-pitched squeak caused Verity to withdraw her hand from Nate’s. “What was that?” she asked, looking around in alarm. Last night after the party, an opossum had boldly crossed her path between the house and the barn, startling the wits out of her. Who knew what brazen creature might come up on the porch and make itself at home?
    â€œOh! I almost forgot.” Nate stuck one hand into the pocket of his work coat. “I brought you something. You don’t have to take him if you don’t want to—but I thought of you when I found him.” Verity stepped back as he pulled something bedraggled and furry from his pocket. Then she realized what it was and held out her hands with a cry of delight.
    Nate handed over a scrawny gray kitten. “You mentioned in your letters that you had a cat back in Worcester, and I thought maybe you were missing him. This one needs a home. I found him half drowned in a ditch this morning.”
    Verity tucked the kitten under her chin. “It was Polly’s cat, but I do miss him. Thank you, Nate.”
    He looked pleased. “If I came back tomorrow morning, would you accompany me to church?”
    â€œYes, I’d like that.” She smiled up at him. This gift—this little purring handful of fur—was from Nate, not his sisters. It might take patience, but she
would
get to know him before anybody affixed this ring to her finger forever. “Afterward,” she said, “if you have the time, maybe you could show me around your orchards.”
    He ducked his head as if to hide the grin that spread across his face. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that.”

Twelve
    IT POURED rain on Sunday, so there was no chance of visiting the orchards. Nevertheless, Nate did escort Verity to the Mount Zion Methodist Church. They sat together in the McClure pew, slipping in after the rest of the family was already seated. In sequence, like gears in a clock, Hattie, Carrie, and Annie all leaned forward to peer at the two of them. Simultaneously, their husbands elbowed the three of them back into their seats. Verity smiled and removed her gloves so that all interested parties could see the ring.
    After the service people lingered inside, reluctant to go out in the rain. Some offered their well wishes to the engaged couple; others ignored Verity pointedly or whispered among themselves. Reverend White avoided her, probably afraid she would broach the subject of the cemetery wall.
    But she seized the opportunity to mention it to her aunt. “A fine idea, Verity,” Clara Thomas responded in her calm, unemotional way. “I noticed the flowers at the graves as well. They make a nice touch.”
    â€œThank you for the cuttings, Aunt Clara. I hope they don’t get washed away in all this rain.”
    â€œThe rain will be good for them. Have you finished the wreaths?”
    Verity hesitated. Aunt Clara might offer Liza’s assistance again. Her cousin was standing in the doorway, staring out at the rain and occasionally sneaking shy glances at Nate from under her bonnet. “I’m finding them more difficult than I anticipated,” she admitted at last and explained the problem.
    Aunt Clara pulled on her gloves. “You need something more substantial than the branches you’re using. Vines would do—thick ones, mature enough to be brown but supple enough to bend. If you follow the cemetery road past the place where we turned right to