Christmas Roses

by Amanda Cabot

  Mark held out his arm, bending it so she could place her hand on it. It was a gesture out of a storybook, too formal for men in Easton, and that made it all the more special. Though she was nothing more than an ordinary woman, a mother trying to make a living for herself and her daughter, Mark was treating Celia as if she were a princess from a fairy tale.

  Aaron looked up from the precariously perched pile of blocks that he’d constructed. “I go?”

  “Of course.” Mark smiled at the boy, then glanced at Emma, who was watching them with apparent interest. “We’ll bring Emma too.” He wrinkled his nose as he gently disengaged Celia’s hand from his arm. “One second. Well, maybe two.” Lifting Emma from the floor, he nestled her in the corner of one arm before bending the other for Celia.

  As they approached the doorway, Mark laughed at the realization that they would not fit through it. “So much for my courtly gesture. Now I’ll have to be rude and precede you.” Though Celia knew Emma didn’t understand the words, she gurgled with apparent mirth as Mark carried her through the short hallway and opened the door to the storeroom.

  “Your surprise, madam.” He stood back to let Celia enter the room, Aaron on her heels.

  Oh, my! Celia stared in amazement at the transformation of her storage room. The sawing and hammering had told her Mark was building something, but even in her most fanciful moments, she had not expected anything of this magnitude. She had thought he might be constructing a crib for Emma, since he’d mentioned that she would soon outgrow the laundry basket, but this was much more.

  “Oh, Mark, it’s wonderful!” He had installed five shelves on the long wall. Five beautiful shelves, but that wasn’t all. He’d also taken the time to place her canned goods on them. “I can’t believe the difference. The room looks twice as big.”

  Celia had never counted the jars she placed on the floor, but now that they were on the shelves, she saw that she had enough to last the winter. That was a blessing, for it meant less money that she’d need to spend at Frank’s store. As she stepped closer, she saw that Mark had even arranged the food by type. What an incredibly thoughtful gesture!

  “I won’t mistake peaches for pears,” she said, hoping her smile told him how grateful she was. “I really don’t know how to thank you. The shelves are wonderful, and the organization . . . I can only imagine how much time that will save me.”

  Mark’s eyes darkened as he nodded. “I’m glad the shelves will save time, but the reason I built them was that I saw you were using the room as a nursery. Pretty soon Emma will start to crawl. That would have been dangerous with all those jars on the floor. She might have wanted to play with them.”

  Aaron tugged on Mark’s pant leg. “I no play with jars.”

  Celia smiled at the child as she walked closer to the shelves. Thanks to Mark, what had been a jumbled room now looked like a pantry with plenty of room for Aaron and Emma to play. With toys, not canned goods. “You know better,” she told Aaron, “because you’re a big boy. Emma’s still a baby.” Running her hand over the edge of a shelf and marveling at how smooth it was, Celia smiled again. “Thank you, Mark. This is the best surprise I’ve ever had.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “Didn’t your husband . . . ?” He stopped, as if reluctant to pry into her life.

  There was no reason to tell him what her marriage had been like, and yet she felt there was no reason not to. “Josef was a kind man, but he wasn’t one for surprises. He would have made shelves for me—not as beautiful as these but serviceable shelves—if I’d asked for them.” And that was the difference. Mark had recognized her need and done the work without being asked. It was a huge difference.

  “My arm says it’s gonna snow again.” Hiram tapped the forearm that was holding his spoon, and a dumpling fell back into his bowl.

  It was Mark’s second night in Easton, perhaps his last. He ought to be thinking about what was coming next, but instead he found himself reflecting on how much had changed in little more than twenty-four hours. Tonight Hiram greeted him like an old friend; Aaron pouted when he learned he could not sit next to Mark; even Jacob seemed almost friendly. The table was different too. The cloth looked fancier than last night, and the dishes certainly were. Instead of the sturdy white plates she had used before, Celia had set out delicate-looking dishes painted with roses. Though it didn’t seem to bother the other men, Mark hated the thought of eating off them. What if he chipped something? His ma had told him that ladies placed a lot of store on fancy dishes. That was why they used them only on special occasions. But today wasn’t special.

  Hiram looked at his arm again. “I broke it ten years ago. Ever since then, it’s been better than that overpriced barometer Frank has in his store.”

  Mark looked at Frank, wondering if he’d be offended by the comment. The man hadn’t seemed as prickly tonight, but he didn’t strike Mark as being one to accept criticism easily.

  Fortunately, Frank appeared to take the comment good-naturedly. “My barometer’s a sight prettier than your arm.”

  Letting out a laugh, Hiram nodded. “Cain’t argue with that. So, young man,” he said, turning to Mark, “what would you think of being stranded here for the winter? It could happen if we have one of our bad spells.”

  Mark helped himself to another serving of chicken and dumplings as he considered the possibility. One of the reasons he’d spent the day making shelves for Celia was that it kept him from thinking about leaving. Since no one in Easton had heard of Abe Williams, there was no reason to stay, and yet the prospect of remaining was appealing. When he’d started his quest, Mark had made a rule that he wouldn’t linger anywhere, but this time there were no new leads, and that meant there was no reason to leave. He might as well stay in Easton until spring. After all, this was the best food he’d had since he left home, and Celia Anderson was by far the most intriguing landlady he’d ever had.

  “I think I’d like to stay,” Mark told Hiram, “but I need to find a way to pay for my room and board.” Though he didn’t relish the idea of working underground, if mining was the only way to earn a living in Easton, he’d do it.

  Celia looked up from the bread she was buttering, and the smile she gave him made Mark’s heart skip a beat. “You’re welcome to stay. You know I have plenty of room. As for payment, you won’t owe me anything for months after what you did today.”

  Frank sputtered as he sent Mark an angry glare.

  “That was a gift.” Even if he hadn’t known she was short on money, Mark would not have accepted payment for his work. Like the minor repairs he’d done, he had made the shelves because he wanted to.

  “What kind of gift?” Jacob demanded, his gaze moving from Mark to Celia, his tone so belligerent that Aaron, who had been eating contentedly, looked up at his father.

  “Jars,” Aaron said.

  “Not quite. Mark made the most beautiful shelves for my storeroom,” Celia explained. “They’re so nice that they deserve to be on display somewhere, not relegated to the back of the house, but I have to admit it’s nice to have all those jars off the floor.”

  Frank reached for the tureen of chicken and dumplings. “You know how to make good sturdy shelves?” His voice held a note of surprise.

  “I’m a carpenter by trade.” Mark wouldn’t mention that his real love was carving, because the men who shared Celia’s dinner table didn’t appear to care about fancy things. They probably hadn’t noticed that she had brought out her good china.

  Frank chewed thoughtfully before he spoke. “I reckon the folks in Easton could use a carpenter. Business has been so good at the mercantile that I’ve been thinking about expanding the store into my back room. I’d need counters and shelves if I did that.” He pointed his spoon at Mark. “You interested?”

  Jacob did not give Mark a chance to answer. “You think you could make a T-O-Y-B-O-X?” He glanced at his son as he spelled the word. “I could use one in oh, about nine weeks.”

  Christmas. Of course. It would be
a gift for Aaron, and if Mark finished it soon enough, others in town might order items for their families.

  “I’d be glad to help both of you,” Mark said firmly. “All I need is a place to work.” Though he’d used Celia’s storage room as a workshop, the location had been less than ideal, resulting in extra work to remove sawdust from the jars. He needed a place of his own where he didn’t have to worry about the noise and dust bothering others.

  Celia nodded slowly, her blue eyes sparkling as if the thought of Easton having a resident carpenter was somehow exciting. It was exciting, at least to Mark.

  “You can use my smokehouse if the smell won’t bother you,” she offered. “It’s just standing there vacant.”

  Ten minutes ago, Mark’s future had seemed as bleak as a cloudy November day. Now it was filled with promise.

  Hiram gave out a chuckle. “’Pears to me Easton’s got itself a carpenter.”

  And Mark had a home, at least for the winter.

  It was time to wash dishes. Frank had left; Hiram was upstairs; Mark had taken the lantern out to inspect the smokehouse. Only Jacob seemed reluctant to go home, and that was unusual, for Aaron had fallen asleep on the floor.

  When Celia started to rise, Jacob spoke quickly. “Let me help you with the dishes. I know it’s time for you to do them.”

  Celia blinked. Today, it appeared, was a day for surprises. Never before had Jacob volunteered to help her. The reason both he and Frank paid her for meals was so they could avoid everything connected with supper other than eating it. No shopping, no cooking, no dishes. It seemed wrong to have someone who paid for a meal help with the cleanup.

  “There’s no need. I’m used to doing dishes alone. Besides . . .” She stopped, not wanting to offend Jacob with her concerns. Tonight’s dishes weren’t ordinary dishes. They were her wedding china. She had decided to use them as a way of making what might have been Mark’s last supper here a bit more special.

  Jacob’s smile said he understood her unspoken fear. “I won’t break any, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve learned to do a lot of things in the months since Rachel died.”

  And so Celia found Jacob standing next to her in her kitchen. She washed and rinsed the dishes she treasured, trying not to scrutinize him as he dried them. Surely it would not be a tragedy if he broke one, and he did seem to be careful. Still, Celia could not relax. As a child, she and her mother had performed the same tasks, talking and laughing as they washed and dried the pots and pans. Tonight, however, sharing the kitchen seemed awkward. Try though she might, Celia could not always avoid touching Jacob’s hands when she passed a dish to him. There was nothing remotely romantic about the touches, and yet they disturbed her. Perhaps it was simply that this was the first time a man had helped her with dishes. Or perhaps it was because the man was Jacob. Celia hadn’t felt this way when Mark had been in the kitchen with her.

  “We work well together.” Jacob’s words almost made Celia drop a plate back into the soapy water. Either he was simply being polite, or he didn’t feel the same awkwardness she did.

  “We’re a good team,” he continued. “It’s like horses: you need to be a matched pair.”

  Team. Horses. Matched. Celia tried not to sigh as she looked at the dishes still to be washed. How much longer would she be stuck here, doing what used to be a pleasant task with a man who was speaking nonsense?

  Jacob rubbed the towel over the plate, then set it carefully on the counter. “I’m not one for fancy speeches. Never needed them with Rachel. She understood me.”

  Celia wondered where this discussion was heading. One thing was certain: she was not like Rachel, for she did not understand Jacob.

  She handed him a bowl, but for once he did not begin to dry it. Instead, he looked at her, his expression sober. “What I’m trying to say is, your mourning period’s over, and so is mine. Aaron needs a mother. Emma needs a father. I need a wife, and you need a husband. Will you marry me?”

  Celia bit back a nervous laugh. This wasn’t the way it happened in storybooks. In novels, there was moonlight and roses. The woman was dressed in a beautiful gown, and the man bent one knee. Here she was, wearing an apron over her weekday dress, her hands stuck in a bucket of soapy water while a man who still held one of her china bowls in his hands proposed marriage. You’d never find this scene in a fairy tale. No reader would believe it.

  Celia reached for a towel and dried her hands. Somehow she had to get out of this predicament without hurting a good man. Turning to Jacob, she took the bowl from his hand and placed it on the counter. At least her china was safe, and if she was careful, she would not bruise Jacob’s pride. “I don’t know what to say.” Bertha had been right when she’d claimed that Jacob was courting Celia. If she’d listened to her friend, Celia would have been more prepared. Now all she could think of saying was a blunt “No, never,” but that would be cruel, and Jacob didn’t deserve that.

  Why had he chosen tonight? Other than his occasional comments about Emma needing a father, he had never hinted that he considered Celia anything other than a source of supper and care for his son. Was he concerned by Mark’s staying for the winter? Whatever the reason, Jacob was standing less than a yard away from her, waiting for her answer.

  Celia took a deep breath as she tried to remember the words the heroines of her favorite novels had used to refuse unwanted suitors. “I’m honored by your proposal,” she said, “but I’m not yet ready to marry again.” That was the truth, albeit only part of the truth.

  Though she had feared Jacob might be dismayed, he nodded, as if he’d expected her refusal. “I can wait. Fact is, I’ve been thinking about a mail-order bride, but I’d rather marry you. Like I said, we’re a matched pair.”

  Of horses! Celia bit back the words that wanted to spill from her mouth. “I’m sorry, Jacob. I’m not ready, and I don’t know when I will be.” Or if.

  Her reluctance didn’t seem to bother him. “I’ll wait until the first of the year before I advertise for a bride. You can give me your answer on New Year’s Day.”

  That answer would be the same as today’s. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—marry Jacob. But then he walked into the parlor and picked up Aaron. As he smiled at his drowsy son, Celia’s heart began to melt. There might not be a romantic bone in Jacob’s body, but he was a good father. Even if he was wrong about her needing a husband, Jacob was right when he said that Aaron needed a mother and Emma needed a father. Oh, why was this so complicated?

  4

  November had never been his favorite month. In most of the places he’d spent it, everything was gray and bleak, the trees bare, the grass brittle and turning brown. It was, to Mark’s way of thinking, a peculiar time to consider giving thanks, and yet President Lincoln had chosen this month for national thanksgiving. Mark had joined in the celebrations wherever he had happened to be, but always in the past, he had felt as if he were an outsider. This year was different. This year he was looking forward to the holiday, and—to his surprise—he was filled with gratitude.

  Perhaps it was because Easton was prettier than most towns, even now. Since the majority of its trees were conifers, there were few bare branches to remind him that summer had passed, and the sky—far from being leaden gray—was a deep blue that provided a striking contrast to the dark green trees. Even the grass, now dormant and golden, seemed part of a vibrant landscape when it was not covered with snow.

  But the natural beauty was only part of the reason for Mark’s uncharacteristic cheerfulness. He was enjoying both his new workshop and his first two carpentry jobs. Though the converted smokehouse would probably always smell of smoke and curing meat, the odor was no longer overwhelming, and the tight construction made it ideal for his purposes. He’d hung lanterns from the rafters and along the walls, giving him the light he needed, and had installed a low shelf to hold his tools. It was a simple shop, far different from the one he’d had in Ohio, and yet it met his needs. For the first time in more than two years, h
is tools were readily accessible, his clamps and saws cleaned and ready for use. It had not been a hardship, working out of a bag, but this was better. Much better.

  The work itself was more challenging than the simple repairs that had paid for his food and lodging while he searched for his father. Mark had started on the addition to Frank’s store and had new shelves in place. Now, while he waited for the delivery of the hardwood he’d ordered for the cabinets, he had begun Aaron’s Christmas gift.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Williams.” Mark turned at the sound of the man’s voice. “Is your shop open for customers?”

  Mark nodded. He wasn’t surprised to see Reverend Pearson, for the minister was probably checking on Celia, assuring himself that Mark was not threatening her happiness in any way, but he was surprised by the man’s use of the word customers. He hadn’t expected any additional business until he’d finished either the toy box or the work for Frank.

  “The shop sure is open for customers. I can’t have too many of them.”

  The parson took a few steps inside, looking at the changes Mark had made to the humble structure, eventually stopping next to the worktable. A smile crossed his face at the sight of the nearly finished toy box. “Is this the box you’re making for Jacob? Mind if I take a closer look?” The tall thin man bent down and touched the joint that Mark had just finished. “That’s mighty fine construction.”

  There was no doubting the man’s sincerity, and the simple praise warmed Mark’s heart. He wasn’t certain whether Jacob would recognize the effort he’d put into the box, but it was gratifying to have someone appreciate his craftsmanship.

  “Thank you. You probably know those are dovetail joints. They’re more work than simple butted ends, but they’re sturdier—what a boy needs.” Jacob hadn’t specified anything more than a medium-sized wooden box with a lid.

  “You know little boys.” A hint of humor colored the minister’s words.

  “I was one myself. I remember there’s a lot of rough and tumble in boys’ play.”