heart.
“I don’t want to make you unhappy,” she got out. “You deserve so much happiness. Please. I can’t marry you.”
His hand quickly covered hers over his heart. He squeezed tight. “I can wait,” he said urgently.
She couldn’t let him do this. He’d waited so long already on the thin hope that she’d come around and marry him after all. Settle down on his dairy farm. He’d told her he liked the bachelor life, had lots of dreams of his own to live out, too. But she knew he was lying. That he’d walk down the aisle in a minute if only she’d walk it with him.
Esther raised her head to his. His eyes were open, pure. If only there was something mean in him, it would make the telling easier. It was hard to be strong for both of them.
“Face-to-face then,” she said. “Don’t wait.”
She saw him pale. “I tell you of my dreams,” she continued steadily, “but you don’t want to see them. I speak my mind but you won’t listen. John Henry, I can’t marry you.”
He dropped her hand and sat back on his haunches. His face was stricken. “Is it someone else? That C.W. fella maybe?”
“No, no, course not. There’s no one else. More like some thing else.”
John Henry rubbed his hands on his thighs and stared at them. So did Esther. He had long, callused hands with short, chipped nails, scrapes and fine crisscrossed cuts. A man’s hands—a farmer’s hands. Esther felt small inside, remembering those hands when they were short, pudgy, and soft.Remembering how, as children, he’d always let her win at jacks.
“It’s this art thing, right?” he said, tapping those man fingers now. John Henry stood up abruptly. His face had never seemed so hard. He waved his arm like a scythe cutting wheat.
“All right. Have it your way. I’m through with waiting.”
He paced three steps, then angrily jutted his finger her way, his face scowling above it. “But you listen to me, Esther Johnston! While I’m off marrying some other girl, mark my words—you’ll still be waiting. Waiting till they tell you they’ve got more than enough artists in New York already. Waiting for me to come ’round again. Waiting till you realize that all you dreamed of was sitting right here in front of you all the time.”
Esther’s heart was near to breaking when she heard John Henry’s voice crack and watched him draw back, slam his hands on his hips and sharply lower his head. “John Henry…don’t.”
He swung around to grab her arm and hoist her up before him. Holding on to her shoulders, his face reddened and his breathing came fast. Esther wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss her or hit her.
“Do you love me?” he whispered, tortured.
“Yes.”
“Marry me,” he said, his eyes pleading.
“No.”
That one word almost killed them both.
He pressed his forehead against hers and they both closed their eyes tight against the pain. Then he quickly released her, almost pushing her away. He turned away with a choked gulp and took several wild, rounding steps across the hay-littered floor, his hand rubbing his forehead.
“John Henry, I’m sorry,” she said, despairing.
He stopped short and his head pulled up. “Don’t you be sorry for me, Esther Johnston! You just be sorry for yourself.”
John Henry turned heel and stomped angrily from the barn.
Esther leaned back against the wall, blood drained and bone weary. From the dark corner, she stared out the empty barn entrance, wishing he’d walk through it. The straw grass waved in the light outside. A few tires tilted beside a pile of scrap wood.
John Henry wouldn’t walk back through that door. Not this time. Esther closed her eyes, forcing back the tears. She’d known this day had to come, but she’d never known how much it would hurt. The pain radiated from some core inside and wouldn’t let up. Esther slumped against the barn wall and brought her knees up to her chest. John Henry’s bitter warnings repeated in her mind. She was terrified
“I don’t want to make you unhappy,” she got out. “You deserve so much happiness. Please. I can’t marry you.”
His hand quickly covered hers over his heart. He squeezed tight. “I can wait,” he said urgently.
She couldn’t let him do this. He’d waited so long already on the thin hope that she’d come around and marry him after all. Settle down on his dairy farm. He’d told her he liked the bachelor life, had lots of dreams of his own to live out, too. But she knew he was lying. That he’d walk down the aisle in a minute if only she’d walk it with him.
Esther raised her head to his. His eyes were open, pure. If only there was something mean in him, it would make the telling easier. It was hard to be strong for both of them.
“Face-to-face then,” she said. “Don’t wait.”
She saw him pale. “I tell you of my dreams,” she continued steadily, “but you don’t want to see them. I speak my mind but you won’t listen. John Henry, I can’t marry you.”
He dropped her hand and sat back on his haunches. His face was stricken. “Is it someone else? That C.W. fella maybe?”
“No, no, course not. There’s no one else. More like some thing else.”
John Henry rubbed his hands on his thighs and stared at them. So did Esther. He had long, callused hands with short, chipped nails, scrapes and fine crisscrossed cuts. A man’s hands—a farmer’s hands. Esther felt small inside, remembering those hands when they were short, pudgy, and soft.Remembering how, as children, he’d always let her win at jacks.
“It’s this art thing, right?” he said, tapping those man fingers now. John Henry stood up abruptly. His face had never seemed so hard. He waved his arm like a scythe cutting wheat.
“All right. Have it your way. I’m through with waiting.”
He paced three steps, then angrily jutted his finger her way, his face scowling above it. “But you listen to me, Esther Johnston! While I’m off marrying some other girl, mark my words—you’ll still be waiting. Waiting till they tell you they’ve got more than enough artists in New York already. Waiting for me to come ’round again. Waiting till you realize that all you dreamed of was sitting right here in front of you all the time.”
Esther’s heart was near to breaking when she heard John Henry’s voice crack and watched him draw back, slam his hands on his hips and sharply lower his head. “John Henry…don’t.”
He swung around to grab her arm and hoist her up before him. Holding on to her shoulders, his face reddened and his breathing came fast. Esther wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss her or hit her.
“Do you love me?” he whispered, tortured.
“Yes.”
“Marry me,” he said, his eyes pleading.
“No.”
That one word almost killed them both.
He pressed his forehead against hers and they both closed their eyes tight against the pain. Then he quickly released her, almost pushing her away. He turned away with a choked gulp and took several wild, rounding steps across the hay-littered floor, his hand rubbing his forehead.
“John Henry, I’m sorry,” she said, despairing.
He stopped short and his head pulled up. “Don’t you be sorry for me, Esther Johnston! You just be sorry for yourself.”
John Henry turned heel and stomped angrily from the barn.
Esther leaned back against the wall, blood drained and bone weary. From the dark corner, she stared out the empty barn entrance, wishing he’d walk through it. The straw grass waved in the light outside. A few tires tilted beside a pile of scrap wood.
John Henry wouldn’t walk back through that door. Not this time. Esther closed her eyes, forcing back the tears. She’d known this day had to come, but she’d never known how much it would hurt. The pain radiated from some core inside and wouldn’t let up. Esther slumped against the barn wall and brought her knees up to her chest. John Henry’s bitter warnings repeated in her mind. She was terrified
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