Love Blooms in Winter

by Lori Copeland

  “Are you hurt?”

  He grunted. “Define hurt.”

  Kneeling beside him, she took the hem of her skirt and gently wiped his face. He much preferred the faint fragrance of jasmine lingering on the woman’s skin than the animal smells lingering on the ground.

  “My goodness. Those dogs are a pesky lot, aren’t they?”

  Pesky wasn’t exactly how he would describe the all-out assault. “Are they rabid?” He searched the retreating animals for the frothing mouths or aggressive behavior of the dreaded disease. He knew that from childhood.

  “Goodness no. They’re healthy. Just boisterous.”

  Slowly sitting up, Tom held his head in both hands. “They came out of nowhere.”

  She assisted him to his feet. “Are there any lasting effects?”

  He saw her focus on a long tear in his coat sleeve, and he checked for any open flesh wounds. “No, ma’am. My coat and shirt are torn, that’s all.” He bent to gather his personal belongings strewn over the yard, along with his extra clothes, which were now muddy as well.

  “Those are easy to fix. If you have a moment, I’ll mend the tears for you and then wash the mud off your things. I’ll hang them in front of the stove, and they will dry in no time. Have you had your dinner?”

  “I ate some jerky earlier.” He dusted mud and snow off his knees.

  “Jerky? For Sunday dinner?” Gripping his arm, she turned him toward the road. “You’re coming with me.”

  Ordinarily Tom would protest, but his clothes did need mending, and if the aroma of frying chicken came from her house he wasn’t going to argue—plus, she was pretty. Dogs howled in the background. “Does the dogcatcher live there?” he asked as they started to leave.

  “No. That is the home of a lovely woman, and she can’t turn any animal away. It started out innocently enough. Folks dump their strays here, and I’m afraid she’s now let her compassion eat her out of house and home.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Tom followed the woman across the road and then up the path leading to a small front porch. He was so busy checking to see if the dogs were at his heels again that he followed her without being aware of his surroundings. When she opened the door, he spotted a youth standing in front of the cooking stove. Tom’s gaze fixed on the table, where a heaping plate of fried chicken was surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, beets, and green beans. His empty stomach growled.

  “Please make yourself at home. I’ll get you something to wear while I mend that shirtsleeve—and your pants are all dirty. I’ll wash those also.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” His eyes roamed the cozy kitchen. He breathed in the fragrant smells mingling in the room. He unbuttoned his coat, keeping an eye on the boy. He didn’t say a word, but a friendly smile welcomed him. The woman returned with a shirt and a pair of trousers.

  “These will probably be too small. Our father was short in stature, but I’ll have your clothing mended and washed in no time. I’m the town’s postmistress, but I’m also pretty handy with a needle and thread.” She pointed to the room she’d exited. “You can change in there.”

  He knew without trying on the garments that they wouldn’t fit, but he took them from her and walked to the small room where a bed, chest of drawers, and women’s clothing were strewn about. Closing the door, he stripped out of his muddy garments and put on the clean ones. When he emerged, he felt like a fool. The shirtsleeves were three inches too short, and the pant legs only came to the top of his boots. The woman discreetly studied his attire.

  “Oh. Well, the repair will only take a minute. Sit down, please.” She stepped to the sideboard and removed a cup.

  Tom pulled out a chair and sat down. The boy remained quiet, lost in his cooking.

  “Hope you like chicken.”

  “One of my favorites.”

  She moved quickly and efficiently around the kitchen. A moment later she set eating utensils in front of him and moved to the large coffeepot shoved to the back of the stove, addressing the boy. “The dogs tore this gentleman’s coat sleeve and muddied his trousers and the extra clothing he was carrying. After dinner I’ll mend and wash the garments and hang them to dry.”

  Nodding, he laid his turning fork aside and moved to sit down at the table.

  Tom reached for the plate she offered and looked appreciatively at the delicious-looking food in front of him. This meal alone was worth the journey. Where was the husband?

  “Jake usually joins us on Sunday, but he wasn’t feeling well today.”

  Nodding, Tom opened his napkin.

  She sat down and smiled. “It’s a joy to feed a hungry man.”

  “Oh?” After spearing a couple of drumsticks he picked up the bowl of cream gravy. “Your husband has a hearty appetite?”

  Shaking her head, she laughed. A clear, pleasant sound. “I don’t have a husband.” Her gaze tenderly focused on the young boy. “It’s just me and Jeremy.”

  Nodding to him, Tom ladled beans on his plate. So far the lad still hadn’t said a word. He just kept smiling at him. “You look to be a mighty fine cook, ma’am.”

  Color crept up her neck. “Actually, Jeremy does most of the cooking around here.” Grinning at the boy, she admitted, “Sometimes he’ll let me bake a chocolate cake, but not often.”

  Lifting his gaze, Tom focused on the young male, aware of the deep affection in her eyes. “Well, Jeremy, this is by far the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.” The boy beamed, a blush infusing his youthful cheeks. Tom ate in silence as he tried to guess his age. Early teens? Mute perhaps? The woman’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in the General Store. Are you new to the area?”

  “Arrived on the morning train.” He disposed of the two legs quickly and reached for a chicken breast. “You?”

  “Born and raised right here in Dwadlo. Jeremy is my brother.”

  Brother and sister. It made sense. “You said you’re Dwadlo’s postmistress?”

  She smiled. “Afraid so. Not very exciting, is it?”

  “No. It’s a fine job. Could you pass the beets?”

  She picked up a bowl and handed it to him. “What brings you to these parts in the dead of winter?”

  “Pauline Wilson. Do you know her?”

  Her cup slipped to the table. He reached to sop up the coffee when her hand grabbed his. “Are you Tom Curtis?”

  When he tried to pull away, her grip tightened.

  “Are you?” she demanded.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Tom Curtis.” His eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. If she recognized his name, then she must be the one who’d written the letter. “Are you Mae Wilkey?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Thank goodness you’ve come.”

  Mentally shaking his head, he took a bite of potatoes. This was Mae Wilkey? She wasn’t the woman he’d imagined. This woman spoke in soft tones, seemed eager to help, and if her brother’s facial expressions meant anything, the young man loved his sister deeply.

  Springing from her chair, she moved around the table and began heaping more chicken and beets on his plate. “I was about to despair of my letters ever reaching you.”

  He should have known by the way she was wielding food like a weapon that he was in for it. His hand blocked a third hot biscuit. “Please, ma’am. I’ve about had my fill.”

  Sinking back to her chair, she drew a long breath and expelled the words. “Thank you, God, for answered prayer.”

  “So this…Pauline you wrote about. You said she’s getting up in years?”

  “She’s in her nineties, and until a year ago she was doing quite well, but lately she’s become very feeble. She falls often, she forgets to eat, and she roams the house at night and sleeps all day—not to mention that her mind isn’t quite right anymore.”

  Tom had seen the likes and it wasn’t pretty. “Ma’am, what makes you believe I’m Pauline’s kin?”

  “Yours was the only name and address I found in her desk. I
’ve never heard her speak of family. She never married that I know of, and she mostly keeps to herself these days, but she’s always been a good neighbor. I stop by every morning and evening to check on her, but she needs more.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “She needs hot meals and more frequent baths. I feel certain she hasn’t long on this earth, and having family to make personal decisions would mean the world to her.”

  “What kind of decisions?”

  “Legal ones. Someone to care for her.”

  Shoving back from the table, he said, “Ma’am, I’ve racked my brain, but I can’t remember a Pauline in the family—there may be, but I’m not recalling her.” He shook his head. “However, if my name and address were in the drawer, it seems likely I had some connection to her.”

  “I wish I could help, but Pauline’s mind—” Mae abruptly stopped speaking and shrugged.

  Wiping his mouth on his napkin, he said, “If Pauline is kin, then you can rest assured I’ll see to her care.” How? He still didn’t know. He supposed he could hire someone to stay with her and look after her needs, especially if she didn’t have long on this earth.

  “Are there any widows or single women in town who could assume her care? I would handsomely compensate them.” Money wasn’t an issue. He never had time to spend what he earned, so his savings had grown, and with the new promotion and benefits he’d be set for life.

  Her features sobered. “I’m afraid there isn’t. The town is very small, Mr. Curtis.”

  “I can see that. Unfortunately, Miss Wilkey, I put in sixty to seventy hours a week at work. I’m not in a position to care for a ninety-year-old woman. Few people live to be that old.”

  “Ninety-two, actually,” she murmured, “and most of the time they don’t. I don’t understand why Pauline has lasted this long, and I’m sure this has come as quite a surprise to you.”

  “Quite,” he said. He couldn’t have been more surprised if a cannonball had landed on his desk rather than her letter.

  “Would your wife—”

  “I’m not married.”

  “I see.” She pursued her lips. “This is a quandary.”

  “If I offered to compensate you well, could you do it?”

  She shook her head. “I love Pauline, but with the post office and…” Her eyes discreetly indicated the young boy absorbed in his food. “Family responsibilities devour my time.”

  “What if I placed an ad in newspapers in surrounding areas?”

  “You could, but would that be the best choice? Who knows what manner of person would answer? Some folks would do anything for money. Pauline won’t be able to tell us if she is mistreated in any way.” She met his eyes. “I couldn’t sleep nights thinking she might be neglected by a stranger.”

  Pushing away from the table, she said, “Why don’t we pay her a visit? Perhaps when you meet her something will click. A family feature? Perhaps a turn of phrase?” She glanced at the boy. “Jeremy, I’m going to quickly mend Mr. Curtis’ coat and shirt and wash the mud off his clothing. While the garments dry, Mr. Curtis and I will pay Pauline a short visit. Dinner was delicious.” She leaned down to kiss his cheek.

  Nodding, he continued to eat. She left to do her work and Tom finished his meal. When the boy offered a slice of piping hot apple pie swimming in hot cinnamon butter, he couldn’t resist. If he’d ever been fuller, he couldn’t recall the time. Mae would have to let out the waist on his pants if he stayed around these parts for very long.

  While Jeremy cleared the table, Tom moved to the chair in front of the fire. The house, like the others he’d seen, was small, but not a speck of dust was visible. There was a large knitted red throw on the back of the chair he occupied. Next to it sat a rocking chair with a wicker basket filled with yarn. His gaze shifted to the knitting needles stuck in a ball of earth-colored thread. An end table separated the two chairs. A round braided rug was in front of the fireplace. Other than a small couch, the room couldn’t hold more furniture.

  The setting was relaxing. His room in the boardinghouse didn’t have a homey feel. It contained a bed and a washstand. Mrs. Fletcher’s downstairs sitting room had more warmth, but he never spent any time there. When he was in town he ate his meal and then excused himself to head for his room. His gaze shifted back to the two men’s magazines sitting on the end table. Remains of her father, or was there a man in Mae Wilkey’s life? Tom closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth and comfort of the quiet house after his long journey.

  He was almost dozing by the time Mae return to the main room. Smiling at him, she reached for her cloak. “All finished. Jeremy, would you please hang the garments in front of the fire while Mr. Curtis and I visit?” She glanced at Tom. “Pauline lives across the street.”

  He stood and then paused as the words sank in. “Across the street?”

  Taking his arm, she squeezed. “The dogs are just pets. I’m sure we can eventually talk her into relinquishing a few.”

  Dogs. Cats. Family connections he couldn’t remember. Tom could always contend that he wasn’t kin, but something inside him made him question that. He had no idea how his name and address landed in a crazy woman’s desk drawer. He realized he could step away right now and return to his nice, sane boardinghouse that also served good fried chicken, claim his new job, and let Pauline become someone else’s problem. However, his conscience would never rest until he had the answers he had come seeking.

  “Ready?” Mae asked. “Here, since we don’t have a coat to fit you, wrap this quilt around you. It will keep you warm until we get there.”

  He mustered an obliging smile as he took the makeshift wrap. He was as ready as a blindfolded man standing before a firing squad.

  If he hadn’t already looked like an imbecile wearing small cloths, he surely did now.

  “Ready.”

  Seven

  Tom couldn’t help staring at the pack of mongrels prowling Pauline’s yard. This time, with Mae at his side, the animals didn’t trounce on him. Perhaps it was the clothing he was wearing or the quilt around his shoulders that stopped them in their tracks. He looked like a plain fool in a shirt and pair of pants three sizes too small. His gaze roamed the cats next and he shook his head. There wasn’t a Curtis or Holland born who would live here.

  “Pauline does seem to go overboard with animals.” Mae worked her way up the three porch steps. “Git! When she started accepting every stray that wandered this way, things sort of got out of hand. Git down!” When she reached the top of the porch, she turned to urge him to the front. “Come on. Most don’t bite.”

  “That’s encouraging.” He’d bite anything dressed in this shirt. He climbed the steps and paused as Mae knocked and then pounded on the door. Eventually it creaked open a notch and one faded blue eye peered out.

  “Pauline, it’s me, Mae!”

  “Eh?” Pauline held her hand to her ear.

  “It’s Mae!”

  “May is months away. It’s January, I think.”

  “No.” Mae wedged her foot between the door and the frame and stood firm. “Open the door, Pauline. It’s your neighbor.” She turned to whisper. “I’m sorry, Mr. Curtis. This doesn’t appear to be one of her better days.”

  Nodding, Tom pulled the quilt tighter around his shoulders. He hoped no one in town saw him like this. A moment later the door flew open, and he dodged a couple of cats that sprang out. A bent woman stood in the doorway, her right jaw bulging with snuff.

  “Oh, Pauline.” Mae sighed. “You promised me you’d given up chewing.”

  “I did?”

  She raised an empty can and spat into it.

  Mae gently nudged the woman back from the door to allow entry. “You have company!”

  Pauline stood back, eyes fixed on Mae. “Honey, you’re not company. You’re family.”

  Mae turned and offered Tom a silent apology for the condition of the house. Today it appeared ransacked. Clothing was strewn over furniture and the floors. Pots and pans lined the baseboard in a train fashion.
Feathers tied to strings hung over everything. Sighing again, Mae asked, “Have you been cooking today?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are your pots and pans on the floor?”

  Pauline turned to access the situation. “Are those pots and pans? I thought I was straightening my shoes in the closet.”

  Reaching for Tom’s hand, Mae said, “I have a wonderful surprise for you.”

  “You do?” The old woman’s eyes lit up.

  “I might have found your kin! Tom Curtis, this is Pauline Wilson.”

  Grinning, Pauline clapped her hands with delight. “My kin! Why, that’s just wonderful! Step closer, sonny. My eyesight ain’t what it used to be.”

  Tom reached for the woman’s hand. Her clasp had surprising strength. “Miss Pauline.” His eyes scanned her features as he searched for any sign of recognition. She had his mother’s nose—maybe—and the shape of her eyes favored the Holland side. Somewhat.

  Her faded eyes traced him, and he could see she was having a hard time making the connection too.

  “Goodness.” She pumped his hand. “My own kin. I thought I had lost everyone. You’ve outgrown your clothes, son!”

  “I believe you’re right, Miss Pauline. Miss Mae’s letter came as a real surprise.” His eyes traced again her face, powerless to completely recognize one familiar feature. Most Curtises had brown eyes—and the Hollands had blue or hazel eyes. Pauline’s faded eyes were blue, but not the deep hue his mother had.

  “Well, honey.” She drew him to the table, which was cluttered with dirty crockery and utensils. A cat was licking one dish clean. “Sit down and let me fix you something to eat.”

  Tom smiled. “That’s not necessary. Miss Mae just fed me a huge meal.”

  “You been eating Jeremy’s Sunday fried chicken?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s a fine cook.” He sneezed.

  “Oh, now. Call me Auntie.”

  He nodded. She apparently recognized something he didn’t. “You are my aunt?”

  “You said I was.”