Delbert was doing so well, with the increasing need for paint, nails, and ladders for a few new houses going up in town. Farmers, too, seemed to be catching a second wind after the war years. No doubt the hardware would continue to thrive, and Del could manage just fine without his help.
He scanned the heavens one more time, for more succinct instructions that might be written there. A tremor scooted through him. Still, he waited. Finally, back in the kitchen, he brewed a pot of tea, set a cup on the end table beside Dottie’s chair, and gathered his coat and hat.
Eyes fixed on him from the shadows—he felt rather than saw them. “You’re leaving?”
“Feeling better?”
Her soft voice prickled the back of his neck. “Yes, thanks to you. You’re a miracle worker, Albert Jensen.”
Suddenly shy, he heard his reply as if from someone else standing beside him. “Anything else I can do?”
“Drink some tea with me.”
He set down his wraps and returned to the kitchen for a cup. Perched on the end of the couch nearest Dottie, he relished the easy hush that settled over them. When they both finished their tea, he stood again.
“Let me help you up, Dot. You fed a multitude today, made a lot of people happy. You deserve a good night’s rest.”
She accepted his help, rose from the chair and leaned on his arm moving down the narrow hallway. At her bedroom door, Al stopped. She turned against his shoulder, her dark eyes gentle.
“My body’s wearing out. I could never have done what I did today without you.”
He wanted to pull her close. The sight of her full lips so near sent an even stronger longing through him. He searched her eyes, so deeply tired. He ought not take advantage of that to steal a kiss, no matter how long he’d waited. She tottered toward her bed and sat down.
His voice croaked. “I’ll refill your cup—you can drink tea in bed for once.”
“Thanks, Al. What would I do without you?”
He hurried to the living room for her cup and poured in steaming water from the kettle, mulling her words. Could she possibly mean that she needed him? His hand shook as he placed the cup on her nightstand.
“You’ve had one long day. How about I go over and make breakfast with George in the morning? Did you have any idea he was a cook at one time?”
“Sure didn’t. But now that he told us, I can picture him dishing up beans and steak over a North Dakota campfire. Feeding harvest workers—who would have thought it?”
“Helene’s not due back till Sunday, is she? Why don’t you let us take care of the breakfasts till then?”
Something in Dottie’s face shifted. She rolled her lips in. “All right, I will, but only because it’s you. Only because I’d trust you with my life.”
Now, he was the one to swallow. Emotion drained his face, like hands wringing out a mop. His knees went weak. Such warmth filled the space between the two of them, it almost became a separate presence.
“All right. Don’t you worry about a thing. Sleep as long as you can. We’ll clean up the kitchen and cook leftovers for dinner. You never know, if you stay away long enough, maybe Bonnie Mae will take the opportunity to show what you’ve taught her.”
He backed away, step by step. Dottie gave him a bleary smile and a feeble wave. “Thank you. Lock the doors, will you please?”
He could barely breathe. “I will.”
****
Happiness followed him home. He was weary, too—exhausted, actually, but the tiredness intertwined with a deep fulfillment he couldn’t deny. Dottie had actually breathed those magic words I’d trust you with my life. With every pace across the back yard, he clung to them. If the grass weren’t so frosty slick, he might even turn a cartwheel.
When his hand touched the doorknob and he let himself into the kitchen, a dreamy aura accompanied him. Suddenly, his kitchen seemed even more small and lonely. His impulse, to race back over to Dottie’s and declare himself gave him pause. No, that would be foolhardy. She would never go for such an impulsive action.
She needed her rest. She’d been working so hard these past two days, and she bore worry for Cora, expecting another baby with those two sweet little urchins already. But the other night, Dottie made it clear she couldn’t face that long trip clear across the country alone.
He could understand how the vast expanse between here and California loomed too large for her to conquer. To him, it spoke of adventure, but he’d crossed the Atlantic and traipsed around another continent, albeit thirty years ago. Taking a trip to the West Coast piqued only anticipation in him.
In spite of her fear, Dottie couldn’t hide her longing to go. Her expression after Cora’s phone call, alight with anxiety and desire, came back afresh and tore at his heart. It simply wasn’t right. A woman like Dot ought to be able to see her grandchildren.
He dropped his coat on a chair and sank at his kitchen table, reaching for a pencil and notepad. Then he raced to the bookshelf for his old United States atlas. All the desires that burgeoned in him since that first fishing excursion with Dottie came to the fore. If he was honest, he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with Dottie Kyle. Dottie Jensen—yes, that’s what he wanted, for her to share his name ’til death do they part.
Everything coalesced as he spread the map out on the kitchen table. How much time and money would it take to get a marriage license, buy Dottie a wedding ring, and get train tickets to San Diego?
Something else careened through his mind—he could sell this house, and…His imagination whirled. He felt like a young man again, challenged, hopeful, energetic, and positive. Even the pink teapot wallpaper backing the stove seemed to cheer him.
His breath came in spurts, but logic calmed him down. The one thing he had no power to do was sway Dottie’s feelings. No use trying. Either she loved him or she didn’t. Tonight, he thought he’d seen something more in her eyes—something lasting. And she trusted him. Wasn’t love another word for trust in action?
Yet he wouldn’t know for sure until he launched the all-important question. He jumped up and paced the house. A question like that for a woman like Dottie—he must tread ever so carefully and bide his time. No hurrying such a thing.
Owen’s face entered his mind. How many times had they fished down at the pond together, taken all the kids sledding, made cider from the apple trees in their back yards? Would Owen mind if he pursued marriage with Dot?
He circled through the archway connecting the kitchen with the dining room for the fourth time. If the tables were turned, would he mind if Owen wanted to marry Nan?
He paused to stretch his neck. His quandary ricocheted the dark walls, and perspiration crept down his temples, in spite of the cold draft through the old rooms. Across the way, Dottie’s bedroom light went out.
No. He didn’t think he would mind, if he were dead and gone. He would only want his Nan to be cared for and loved. No, he would far rather have her settled with Owen than live out her days alone. Finally, he set his little alarm clock for six o’clock and went to bed.
After a few topsy-turvy hours, Al raced to the boarding house. George was already up and had coffee boiling. Al cracked a dozen eggs into a bowl. The back door slammed, and he peeked into the porch.
Bonnie Mae, eyes flashing like lightning bugs in a summer cornfield, loped up the steps. She flung her coat onto a hook and took the next set of steps to the kitchen in one bound. Snowflakes still peppered her wild curls. “Where’s Dottie?”
“I told her to take the morning off. If I know her, she’ll be in pretty soon, but her feet hurt so bad last night, I told her George and I could handle breakfast.”
Bonnie Mae ripped off a strip of George’s first pancake. “Yummm…looks like you did. Glad Dottie agreed to stay home. That woman works harder than anybody I’ve ever known.”
She mumbled something about “Helene…that old battle-axe” under her breath and started down the basement stairs. Al scraped one of those new-fangled little wiry
sponge things over a frying pan and rinsed off the area—shiny as new. Amazing what you could find in a hardware store these days.
“That girl could run the whole show here, if Helene would let her.”
“You think so?”
“Well, maybe not the kitchen, but she don’t let any ants or dust make a home upstairs, that’s for sure. When I hear her clatter up the stairs with her dust mop and pail, I clear out quick.”
Bonnie Mae brought up a gigantic load of clothes to fold. Al and George kept talking as she matched sheet corners together and smoothed out wrinkles.
“You hang all those downstairs to dry?”
“Yup, until it warms up. The lines strung down there could kill an unsuspecting person. Lop off their heads.”
An uncomfortable squiggle ran down Al’s spine, as always happened at the mention of gore. Ever since he’d left those horrible trenches, although thirty years had passed, he couldn’t manage phrases like “lop off their heads” very well.
“Tom Mosely’s children were so well behaved yesterday. It was fun having some younger folk around.”
Color rose in Bonnie Mae’s cheeks until they almost matched her hair. She grabbed another sheet and hid her face in it. Dottie was right—wedding bells would be ringing for her sooner rather than later.
Dottie had told him a few details about the tension between Helene and Bonnie Mae, but he couldn’t understand it. Why would an older woman like Helene turn against her one remaining relative?
He remembered how he loved to jiggle his own babies on his knee. Even under the worst of circumstances, when a baby came into Helene’s childhood home, how could she not love the tiny thing? Something was just plain missing from that woman. He tried to recall if she’d always been this way—age was a funny thing. It could turn people sour or sweet, the way he saw it.
Dottie was a case in point—Bill’s death could have made her bitter, but it didn’t. He couldn’t say that for some other people in the community. He shied away every time he happened to see Madge Lenard on the street because the loss of her nephew had become her focal point. The same was true with Orville Blake, whose younger brother died in the Pacific.
He couldn’t blame them and was more than grateful Charlie managed to come home in one piece. If he hadn’t, he’d likely be every bit as befuddled as old Mrs. Maloney.
In the dining room, the men gathered at their places when Al carried in scrambled eggs and a platter of pancakes and bacon heaped on a platter. George brought a heaping bowl of oatmeal, and Al fetched the coffee.
He sat down with the men and turned his attention back to George. “So you cooked for threshers? How many at a time?”
“Sure did. Threshed some days and cooked some days—twenty-five to thirty-five hearty men, I’d say. Whatever the boss needed, I did. Ever been out west?”
“Not much. Always wanted to travel, especially beyond the Missouri, but the hardware store held me here. Nan and I planned some trips once our son took over, but the war started, and then she got so sick…”
The back door creaked open, and Al recognized Dottie’s footfall. His heartbeat quickened as she entered the room, flushed but looking refreshed.
“Good morning. Looks like you’re doing just fine.”
“Fair to middlin’, Missus. Nobody’s complaining, but then, there’s not much a cook can do to destroy flapjacks n’ bacon, long as they’re flooded with butter n’ syrup.” George gave her a grin and rose to carry the dishes to the kitchen.
“Well, you’re a professional at dishwashing. I may never let you out of that job.”
“Okay by me. I kinda like it. Gets the grime out from under a fella’s fingernails.”
Dottie’s lips contorted. She glanced Al’s way, and for a moment, he expected her to say something, but she went into the kitchen for her apron instead. He took a pile of plates to the dishpan.
Bonnie Mae appeared from the basement and patted Dottie’s shoulder. “You have a good sleep, Dottie?”
“I did. I have a neighbor who ought to be a doctor. He helped me relax like I never have before.”
The same warmth that wafted over Al last night flooded his chest. At the same time, shyness struck him, and heat poured into his face. This remarkable woman certainly expressed a lot—or hinted a lot—with her big, beautiful brown eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
“I say we make chocolate chip cookies.”
“You can’t be serious. Helene would never allow me to buy one of those expensive bags of chips.” Dottie couldn’t believe Bonnie Mae’s audacity. She scrubbed harder on a pile of dirty potatoes.
“Morsels, you mean? I’ll chip in half.” Bonnie Mae giggled at her pun.
“Out of your wages? Now, that would be a waste of hard-earned cash, and you know it.”
“All right then. I’ll get George and the others to each donate a nickel, and bake them all by myself. After all, it’s Saturday.”
Dottie turned her head. “So?”
“Well, it’s the start of the Christmas season. We should make merry.”
Dottie shrugged. The idea itself wasn’t half bad, but making those cookies would be such an unsanctioned luxury.
“I picked up the lard free this morning at the rendering works. Elmer sent Helene a message that he feels like Christmas today. What’s the difference between making those cookies, if I can round up the cash, and baking gingerbread—same amount of ingredients, right?”
Dottie calculated. “Just about, except for the morsels.”
“Well, then.” Bonnie Mae headed into the dining room tournament, an all-out war of Five Hundred. Through the open door, bids drifted into the kitchen.
“Two hearts—good ones.”
“Good ones, eh? Well, I’ve got good spades, and since you’ve forced me, I’ll bid three.”
“Three spades? I’ll raise that heart bid to three.”
The bidding stopped at Al. During a long pause, his tension floated all the way to Dottie. If he didn’t raise the spade bid, he would disappoint his partner, but she could tell from his hesitation that he didn’t have the card power to do it. Playing Five Hundred revealed a lot about a person—Owen, for instance, would never let a bid go by, even if he and his partner went in the hole over it.
“Sorry, Bert. I don’t have the cards to bid four—I’ll have to pass.” Bert groaned, but Dottie could imagine George, who’d bid three hearts, grinning wildly as he gathered in the five-card blind. A sudden recollection overwhelmed her—something Owen remarked years ago one morning after they’d played Five Hundred with Nan and Al.
“Al doesn’t have that killer instinct, you know? If he did, we would have won over you women hands down last night.”
At the time, Owen’s perspective seemingly rendered Al less manly, but now Dottie knew differently. Owen’s analysis was true—the tenderness in Al Jensen ran way down. She couldn’t imagine him “doing whatever it took” to win a hand of cards, as Owen would. But that tendency didn’t make Al less of a man. It only meant that he understood some things were more important than winning.
The men concentrated on this life-and-death round. Dottie bet they didn’t even notice Bonnie Mae approach the card table.
“You men hungry for chocolate chip cookies?”
“Never had ’em, but they sure do sound good.” George was the first to answer.
“They melt in your mouth. If everybody contributes a nickel or a dime, Dottie says I can buy the chips.”
Dottie crossed the kitchen, held the door open a smidgen and peeked through. Al’s head jerked in her direction. “So Helene would be against this? While the cat’s away, the mice will play, eh?” He dug into his pocket. “I’ll put in a dime. How many cookies do I get for that?”
Bonnie Mae held out her hungry palm. “A batch makes about sixty. Divide that by six—you’ll have enough for a stomach ache.”
“Sounds good by me.” George’s pocket change jingled into Bonnie Mae’s hand, and the other men doled coins
out, too.
She dashed back to the kitchen in victory. “See? It’s worth it to them.”
“All right then, go on down to the store. Do you have the recipe in your head?”
“It’s on the package.”
“Um. I’ll keep working at supper.”
A frivolous air filled the kitchen when Bonnie Mae raced in ten minutes later. For a girl who hung her head when she started working here, she certainly held it high since the day before Thanksgiving.
She got out a big mixing bowl and set to work. But a minute later, she brought the chip package over to Dottie. “What does it mean to cream the butter and sugar?”
“Put the sugar in the bowl and then the butter. Mix them until they’re smooth—creamy, I guess.”
A few questions later, Bonnie Mae slid a pan of cookies into the oven, and in fifteen minutes, pulled out some rich-smelling treats. She transferred them to a big platter and headed into the living room. Oohs and ahhs caressed the air.
Up to her elbows in soapy scrub water, Dottie wrung out her rag and attacked the baseboard of the kitchen. She had to smile at Bonnie Mae’s success. What harm did a little luxury do once in a while? After all, the war ended more than a year ago, even though Helene still lived as if they were under enforced rationing. Except, of course, for her beauty parlor splurges and now, her trip all the way to Minneapolis.
During the war, she couldn’t have driven up there. Getting enough sugar and flour to feed these men posed a challenge in itself. Dottie gave thanks she hadn’t worked here the whole time—making do for boarders would have been tougher than scrimping at home.
Bonnie Mae danced back in with the platter. “Go ahead. You’re gonna love these.”
“Give me a minute. I still have work to do around here, you know.”
Bonnie Mae grinned, and a silent communication passed between them. She’d realized Dottie was joking. A month ago, she would have taken that comment personally.
She was right about loving the cookies. Eating one of the soft circles was like biting into a rich, chocolate and caramel candy bar, only better. The hot chocolate melted on Dottie’s teeth. Dottie filled a couple of teacups and motioned Bonnie Mae to the table. She picked up another cookie.
In This Together Page 13