The Widow's Peak

Part One

        Boston, Massachusetts

February 1778

As the years went by, Widow Brasher hadn't lost any of her ardor for younger men. She wanted winks, whistles, mild flirtation, even as a gaunt, shriveled old woman with one eye— the glass one glinting sideways. Her niece Rebecca, however, steered the old woman away.

"Aunt Abigail, please cover your bubbies," she snapped, blushing as her aunt revealed narrow, sagging cleavage.

Aunt Abigail shot her a sly half-grin.

"I hardly have any, dear, but what I have is worth sharing."

"We are at church!"

"But I am being generous! Is that not what church is for?"

"In some ways, I suppose."

Aunt Abigail's one eye bulged, the ice blue almost cracking with her sudden grayish pallor.

"Church!"

She whipped her head around the room, noting the people huddled in the pews. She noted the gaping mouths and whispers of shriveled old ladies and men alike. Even the young congregants raised their eyebrows— almost hitting their hairlines.

"Oh! Right, right, right!" She giggled nervously. "Good day, Mr. Deering!"

The burly, middle-aged man tipped his hat with a smile. His wife pulled him closer, scowling at Aunt Abigail.

"You'd never believe she was Reverend Hilden's daughter," whispered an old woman, "The way that piper's wife carries herself."

"Naturally!" chuckled another woman, "Ask Deering how much he paid her for...services!"

"They say he stumbled into Nabby's house, drunk as an emperor, and didn't leave until dawn. I know it because they were being loud that night. Kept us all up, you know!"

"Really? I heard she only repairs men's clothing and invites them in for 'tea!'"

"Piper's wife, no doubt! And at her age...it's humiliating!"

Rebecca blushed, the heat of her face making it almost feel like she was also to blame. But how? She was nothing like her aunt, as far as she knew. Her hands shivered over the hymnal as she distracted herself with its pages.

"Isaac Deering is a nice young man," prattled Aunt Abigail, "Did you know I repaired his jacket last week? He's a butcher, and since there are so many stains, he leaves a lovely tip."

"He's a customer and nothing more. Besides, weren't you going to cut down on business? I do worry about you overworking yourself."

"Customers feel so friendly, though! And the sewing isn't so bad-- not even with one eye or these painful old devils."

"How much did he pay you?"

Aunt Abigail whispered an obscene amount that made Rebecca's jaw drop.

"For sewing?"

"Now, sometimes, I have to do a little extra to get by. Like polishing, dusting, and such dull nonsense."

"But, Auntie, you always said Uncle left you a lot of money."

"He did, but time has passed, and debts have to be paid."

"Please tell me you've only resorted to sewing."

"Certainly! Look how hard I've worked!"

She lifted her gaunt hands, brown-blotched skin pulled tight across the sharp little bones. Light-blue veins bulged out like the roots of an ancient, colorful tree. Rebecca's mouth twitched. She remembered those hands kneading loaves of bread, lifting her high into the air. She remembered those hands feeling whole, not like scant pieces of flesh and bone stitched together.