The Fragrance of Her Name by Marcia Lynn McClure

disturbed when she approached Brant to see him lying on his back, hands tucked beneath his head and quilts pushed down nearly to his waist. She wondered for a moment, Was she disturbed because Brant might be chilled with a lack of quilts covering his torso or was she disturbed because the sight of him bare from the waist up was very…disturbing?
    For Pete’s sake , she thought. His shoulders were nearly as broad as the small bed was wide. His upper arms were as thick as some of the tree limbs on the old maple and, even relaxed and sleeping, the muscles of his chest were solid and perfectly sculpted. Realizing she was far too intrigued with studying him thus, Lauryn knew it would definitely be the wise thing to adjust his quilts…to keep him warm, of course. So carefully, as not to wake him, Lauryn began to pull his coverings up over his stomach.
    She was startled when his hand rose suddenly and caught her wrist. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. His hand slid from her wrist to clasp her hand loosely.
    “ Laura?” he whispered. For a moment, Lauryn’s mind considered remaining silent, in order to see what else he would say if he, indeed, assumed she was Lauralynn. Quickly she reconsidered, however, realizing she might not want to know for some reason.
    “ No. It’s me,” she whispered in response.
    “ Oh,” he grumbled, immediately releasing her hand and tugging the covers up himself. He tucked the hems of his sheet and quilt over his chest, folding his arms across its broad expanse. Lauryn felt awkward. It was obvious he was self-conscious, uncomfortable with her being there.
    “ Do you have everythin’ you need?” she ventured. How she hoped, prayed that he wouldn’t inquire as to what she was doing sneaking into his room at such a late hour.
    “ You mean, in this room…to help me to sleep comfortably?” he asked. Lauryn understood all too well his implication. There was an undertone of bitterness in his voice, and she was certain he was thinking of his loss of sight. Had he been lying awake as she had? Had he, however, been lamenting his condition? His dependent situation?
    “ Are you warm enough?” she stammered.
    “ Yeah,” he mumbled.
    “ Well, then,” she said quietly, turning to leave. “I’ll just…”
    “ How old were you?” he asked, unexpectedly.
    “ How old was I?” Lauryn wasn’t sure what he meant.
    “ When you first saw him…your Captain? How old were you? I can’t remember what age you told me you were.” Brant sat up in his bed, tucking the covers around his waist and folding his arms across his chest again. He looked expectant. As if he were ready for a lengthy conversation. And suddenly, Lauryn was exhilarated by the prospect of spending time alone with him, in the dead of night, in intimate, verbal correspondence.
    “ I was eight,” she answered. “It was my eighth birthday…the day I first met him.”
    “ That’s right,” he mumbled. He seemed pensive about her answer. “I was about four maybe and in the attic playing with my wooden soldiers. A breeze blew through and…and there was this…this fragrance…heavy, sweet, intoxicating. I turned and there she stood.”
    “ I was in the attic, too!” Lauryn exclaimed in a hushed voice. For her mother and Nana slept in rooms just across the hall. “I was looking through Lauralynn’s trunk and…”
    “ Her trunk? You’ve seen her things?” Brant interrupted. “Touched them?” He was alert, wildly interested. Lauryn’s excitement was growing as well. Brant had been on that train for a reason. Call it fate or divine intervention, but she knew it to be true. And now, after such a long day, after such a long journey…they were beginning. Beginning to share information about the greatest mystery to ever evade solving in both of their families.
    “ Her weddin’ dress is in there. And a tintype of her and the Captain,” Lauryn offered.
    Brant smiled and repeated, “Her weddin’ dress?” He had