Free Little Sacrifices by Jamie Scott Page A

time on York Street gawking at the old place. Most of the windows were busted and there were patches on the roof. No one who loved the place had lived there in a long time. In Mirabelle’s day it must have been something to see. That night I tucked into her story with visions of her house to stoke my imagination.
     
     

Chapter 11
     
    1917 Savannah
     
    Mirabelle was head over heels in love, as anyone could see. She fretted over the miles separating Savannah and Atlanta and would have given her eye teeth for the chance to pull the two together like chairs on a sun porch. Henry was a good egg and came as often as convention allowed, but short of moving in next door, nothing satisfied Mirabelle’s appetite for him.
    She was twenty–eight when she met the love of her life, barreling headlong towards spinster–hood if you asked her father, which she never did. Though she was certainly old enough to look after herself, her parents were raised under the strict tenets of the Victorian era. No good family would think to let their single daughter spend time alone with a man. Mirabelle knew it was all hooey. Even good girls found ways to sneak off with their beaus. She was no exception. But she and Henry spent most of their days together with Mister and Missus Reynolds, picnicking, riding in the countryside or pursuing other chaste endeavors, like meandering around Savannah’s final resting places. Nothing quashed lusty thoughts like ancestors.
    They strolled among the gravestones in Colonial Cemetery one glorious summer afternoon. Sidewalks crisscrossed the grass and great oaks shaded the city’s dead. The cemetery was a little dilapidated except where conscientious families went to the trouble of weeding their relatives, but it was better maintained than the squares around it, so Mirabelle always enjoyed being there. In the distance, she spied her mother shaking out the picnic blanket.
    ‘Henry, look here. Do you know the story of Button Gwinnett?’
    ‘I don’t, but I know you’re going to tell me.’ He gave her a sly squeeze.
    ‘Yes, I am. This is his grave marker, and right over there lay his mortal enemy. Mister Gwinnett signed the Declaration of Independence incidentally. After the Revolution the two men had a duel and Gwinnett lost. Then, to add insult to injury, when his killer died his family buried him right there next door. Isn’t that poetic justice? I suppose it isn’t any different from spouses who can’t abide each other in life and then have to spend the forever after buried together. Though I certainly won’t have to worry about that. I’m going to spend this life, and the next, with the person I love.’ She paused. ‘What about you?’ She murmured, tipping her head to look at him, coquettishly she hoped, from under her hat.
    ‘Oh, I expect so. So long as she keeps her passion for me.’ He glanced to where her parents were spreading their lunch, then kissed her quick. ‘This sure is a pretty place, don’t you think? Our cemeteries aren’t as nice, that’s for certain.’
    ‘Henry?’
    ‘Hmm?’
    ‘Nothing. I guess Mama must have lunch almost ready by now. We’d best get back.’
    Henry took Mirabelle’s hand. ‘Belle, just a minute.’
    She stopped, her heart fluttering.
    ‘You look awfully pretty.’
    She blushed. He was right of course, at least when it came to her ensemble. Those were heady days in the fashion world, despite wartime shortages. For the first time in history, ladies dared to show some leg, all the way up to their shins. Her dress was layered in filmy silk the color of whipped egg yolk, her arms daringly evident through transparent sleeves. She’d designed the frock herself. Her mother thought it too bold for her daughter, but Mirabelle didn’t give a hoot. Just wearing it put a bounce in her step. She made a show of inspecting the skirt’s fine silk until Henry started to look a little sorry he brought it up. 
    ‘Em, I have something for you.’ From his coat