Coldwater Revival: A Novel by Nancy Jo Jenkins

Gavin’s face gave me pause. I felt my cheeks burn beneath his keen glare. I stammered out an explanation. “Well, of course it’s mine. I just meant that Mama hemmed Holly’s dress to fit me. It was perfect for Molly and Polly, but I’m a lot shorter, and—”
    “And ’tis nicely packaged ye are, little one.” His lips met mine in another firm joining, his body sheathing me like an overgrown vine. “Emma Grace … Emma Grace. Do ye feel how me heart’s near to bursting from wanting ye? I’m needing yer love, sweet girl. The love a woman has for her man. ’Tis all I can think about. Are ye feeling it too?”
    Though my head bobbed “yes” against Gavin’s broad chest, my heart shook its head “no.” A cloud of foreboding rolled over my soul. I had almost convinced myself that failure to face my past was the reason for my apprehension. Now, as I swayed in Gavin’s embrace, I wondered if it were true. I loved him as I had never hoped to love a man. But was I deeply in love with Gavin, or with the thought of being married? When he and my cousin Robert Falin first arrived from Ireland, I believed God had sent Gavin to be my husband. Now I wasn’t sure. A wave of heartsickness pressed my ribs, lolling my uncertainty first one way, then the other.

    “Jesus, bless this food we’re about to eat. Amen.”
    The brevity of Papa’s prayer spoke more of the lateness of the hour than his relationship to the Almighty.
    Sunday lunches at our house were habitually tardy, due to Pastor Emery’s long-windedness and the extra care Mama took in preparing the Sabbath feast. Today the plank-board table groaned beneath the plates of twelve hungry adults who packed its borders. At a smaller table, situated behind Mama’s chair, were Holly’s three-year-old son, Kade, his sister, eighteen-month-old Karen, and Josey, Molly’s two-year-old daughter. They squirmed, giggled, and banged the midget-size table with pewter spoons that had been pocked and dented by past generations of Falins. With all Mama had to do, she still insisted on having her grandbabies within arm’s reach. Her selfless attention to the children provided Holly and Polly the rare blessing of an uninterrupted meal.
    My motive was not so selfless. As I sat at the table, dwarfed by Elo on my left and Gavin on my right, I luxuriated in maternal fulfillment. Baby Abigail, Molly’s seven-week-old daughter, lay stomach-down across my knees. Her diminutive body and light brown curls quickened my pulse, for they called to memory a picture I held dear: Micah and Caleb when they were tiny babes.
    Elo seemed unusually quiet today, but the same could not be said for our cousin Robert or my fiancé, Gavin O’Donnell. I only half-listened to Robert’s tale concerning Gavin’s decision to cross the sea.
    “… And the young ladies, though ye’d never guess they were twins, followed this poor fellow aroun’ like himself was the Pied Piper. Everywhere Gavin turned, one or the other would be tossin’ her pretty head, or lifting her skirt a wee bit so’s he could take a peek.”
    The conversation had a familiar ring. Strange. Hadn’t I been speaking to Gavin about his beguiling charm, just three days prior? The magnetism with which he had snagged the female population of Coldwater and held it spellbound? My hand stilled on Abby’s back as I glanced up at Gavin’s face. Is the whole world crammed full of lasses just pining to be in your arms? Gavin’s face held no answer to my silent question; just the Devil’s own roguish smile. No doubt, the same smile that had enticed the girls from Ireland in the first place. I made one of Elo’s snorting sounds, which drew a puckered squint to Gavin’s face. Then his grin broadened. Evidently, it pleasured him to be the center of attention, for he turned a slow gaze on his audience of eleven, one eye twitching into a mischievous wink as it paused on Mama and The Ollys. What a flirt!
    “Well, anyways, he must’ve feared the