Free Vows by Lavyrle Spencer Page A

a field of thick bluegrass that gave way to tufts of feathery sheep fescue nearer the water. In certain places the creek was outlined by balsam poplars, their new olive-yellow leaves filling the air with a sweet resinous scent. Huddling beneath them were thickets of wild gooseberry and hawthorn blooming in clusters of pink. In the distance a dense patch of golden banner spread across the meadow in a mass of yellow, following summer up to the tree line.
      "Oh, look." Emily pointed. "Yellow peas." She called the wildflowers by their common name. "After we've eaten we must walk out and pick some. They're Mother's favorites."
      Charles dropped off the wagon into grass a foot high, and Emily followed. From the storage box beneath the seat he drew a hamper and blanket, which, when spread, remained aloft on the sturdy green stems of grass. On hands and knees they flattened it, laughing, then settled cross-legged in their warm nest. Charles opened the hamper, displaying each item with a flourish. "Smoked sausage! Cheese! Rye bread! Pickled beets! Tinned peaches! And iced tea!" He set the fruit jar down and admitted, "It's not fried chicken and apple pie, but we bachelors eat pretty simple."
      "It's a feast when you don't have to cook it."
      They ate the plain food while a tattler called in tinkling notes from its hidden spot at the stream's edge, and overhead a sparrow hawk hunted, drifting on an updraft, cocking his head at them. Nearby an electric-blue butterfly buzzed. The sun was beatific, captured in their bowl like warm yellow tea in a cup.
      Their stomachs filled, Emily and Charles grew heavy with thought.
      "Charles?"
      There were things Emily needed to talk about, painful things that somehow seemed approachable out here where the sun and grass and flowers and birdsong made the formidable seem less dire.
      "Hmm?"
      For moments she was silent, toying with two breadcrumbs caught in a fold of her skirt. She lifted her eyes to the distant yellow flowers and told him quietly. "My mother is going to die."
      Charles changed his mind about the bite of bread he'd been about to take and laid it aside. "I guessed as much."
      "Nobody's ever said it in so many words, but we all know. She's already begun coughing blood."
      He reached across the picnic hamper and took her hand. "I'm sorry, Emily."
      "It … it felt good to say it at last." To no one but Charles would she have been able. With no one but Charles would she have allowed her tears to show.
      "Yes, I know."
      "Poor Papa." She turned her hand over and twined her fingers with Charles's because he understood her devastation as no one else. Again she lifted her eyes to his. "I think it's hardest on Papa. I've seen him crying on the porch at night when he thinks everybody else is asleep."
      "Oh, Emily." Charles squeezed her hand tighter.
      Suddenly she forced a bright expression. "But guess what?"
      "What?"
      "We're going to have a houseguest."
      "Who?" Charles released her hand and laid his plate in the hamper.
      "Mother's cousin Fannie, whom she hasn't seen since the year she and Papa got married. She was due in today. Papa is probably picking her up at the stage depot right now."
      "Fannie of the outrageous letters?"
    Emily laughed. "The same. I'm curious to meet her. She's always seemed so worldly, so … so unfettered by convention. Papa says she certainly is—he knows her, too, of course, since they all grew up in Massachusetts. After all these years of outlandish letters I'm not sure what to expect. But she's coming to take care of Mother."
      "Good. That'll take the pressure off you."
      "Charles, can I tell you something?"
      "Anything."
      She pleated and repleated the fabric of her skirt as if reluctant to divulge her thought. "Sometimes I feel guilty because I tried very hard to take over Mother's chores, but I … well, I don't care much for cooking and cleaning. I'd much rather be with the horses." She abandoned the