by Amanda Cabot
“There’ll be dings and dents in the box before New Year’s.”
Mark gave his potential customer a conspiratorial smile. “I see your memories of childhood are similar to mine.” By the time he’d outgrown it, Mark’s toy box had had rounded corners and several large chips. He hoped this box would have a similar fate, for it would mean it was being used.
Reverend Pearson ran his hands along the side of the box again. “This will make a fine gift. Ever since Jacob told me you were making this, I’ve been thinking about gifts. I’d like to give Bertha a blanket chest. About the same size and construction. She won’t dent it, of course, but I want one that will last.” His eyes narrowed, and he paused, as if uncertain of Mark’s reaction to whatever he was going to say next. “The thing is, it seems like it ought to be fancier. A grown woman’s needs are different from a little boy’s.”
“You’re right. Ladies like folderol.” Look at Celia and her roses. They were everywhere. It wasn’t just the parlor. The cabinet in the dining room displayed her china with all its painted roses, and the curtains in the kitchen had a rose print on them. Mark had thought the storage room had escaped until he noticed that one of the blankets lining Emma’s makeshift bassinette had rosebuds embroidered around the edge. Yes, indeed. Ladies liked fancy things.
“I could do some carving on the lid—maybe put your wife’s initials there.” When the minister nodded his approval but seemed to seek something more, Mark added, “I could bead the edges too, if you like. Here’s what beading looks like.” He pulled a sample from the shelf. Though he’d carried it all the way from Ohio, this was the first time he’d had a customer who might be interested. “What do you think?”
Reverend Pearson nodded again, this time vigorously. “I like it. If you think of anything else, just add it to the box. I trust your judgment. To my way of thinking, the chest can’t be too pretty for my wife.” He touched the toy box again. “I forgot to ask. Can you have it ready for Christmas?”
“Of course. I had another thought, though. Do you want the chest lined with cedar? It’s a bit more work and expense, but my ma used to claim cedar kept the moths away. That might be handy if Mrs. Pearson is storing blankets in it.”
“Good idea. My ma used to say the same thing. Now, how much is this going to set me back?”
When Mark gave him a price, the minister stared at him for a long moment, as if he were assessing more than the price. When he spoke, his words were not what Mark expected. Instead of a protest, the parson said, “That seems fair enough. I figured I’d have to pay more.”
Mark shrugged. In another time and place, he might have asked for more. “My needs are simple enough. I don’t have to overcharge anyone.”
Reverend Pearson held out his hand to seal the deal with a shake. “You’re a man of integrity. The town can use folks like you.” He stared into the distance for a moment before turning back to Mark. “I might not have told you this three weeks ago, but I’m sorry your pa isn’t here. If you decide to give up your search, I hope you’ll stay in Easton. We can use a permanent carpentry shop, and you’d get customers from Cedarville too.”
Mark tried not to let his surprise show. This was a far cry from the suggestion that he find a room in the nearby town. Surely it wasn’t because Mark knew how to construct dovetail joints and that he didn’t gouge his customers. More likely Reverend Pearson realized that he wasn’t a threat to Celia.
“Thank you, Reverend. I appreciate your confidence. The fact is, though, I won’t rest well until I find my father, so come spring, I’ll be gone.”
“What if you don’t find him?”
It was a question Mark had asked himself on the darkest of nights. He gave the minister the same answer he gave himself. “I will. Pa has to be somewhere. After that, who knows? I might decide to settle down.”
Reverend Pearson nodded. “Easton’s a good place for that.” He paused for a second then said, “One other thing. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t tell you that I hope you’ll attend church while you’re here. You’d be welcome.”
The warmth that the minister’s approval had engendered was replaced by a chill. “You’re wrong there, Reverend. God wouldn’t welcome me in his house.” Mark knew that as surely as he knew that the sun would set in a few hours. His mother had claimed that God was loving and caring. She was wrong. If God had cared about Mark and Ma, he wouldn’t have let his father desert them.
“Crown me.” Celia looked at the checkerboard. One more play and she’d have Mark’s last checker. Although she had come close on previous evenings, this was the first time she would be the winner. She knew she ought to feel a sense of elation at the victory, for Mark was a formidable opponent, fierce in his determination to master the checkerboard, but what felt even better than besting him at a game was the camaraderie they had established over the past few weeks.
The one good thing about being a widow was that Celia had fewer restrictions than she would have as a single woman, and no one looked askance at her being unchaperoned once Hiram headed upstairs. It had become a nightly occurrence for Celia and Mark to spend the quiet time after supper together. Some evenings they would play checkers. Other nights they’d simply talk. The common element was that each evening Celia felt as if she was one step closer to understanding the man who boarded with her.
He was more complex than anyone she’d ever met. On the surface, he appeared to be a talented carpenter with a smile for everyone, a savvy businessman who knew how to make each customer feel as if his order was the most important one he had ever received, but despite the outward bonhomie, Celia sensed hidden depths to Mark. At unguarded moments, she would see a sadness in his eyes, and she wondered if it was related to his father. Other times she was certain he was battling anger, and she questioned its cause.
She looked at the man who occupied so many of her thoughts. After he crowned her checker, he studied the board, furrows forming between his eyes. At last he looked up and raised his hands in surrender.
“I give up,” he said with a grin. “You told me tonight was going to be your night, and you were right. You beat me fair and square.” He lowered his arms and leaned back in his chair, the picture of a man at ease. “You’re a remarkable woman, Celia Anderson, and you learn quicker than anyone I’ve met. Is there anything you can’t do?”
Celia felt a flush rise to her cheeks. She wasn’t accustomed to praise, especially not from a man. “There are lots of things I can’t do. I can’t build shelves like yours.”
Mark shook his head as he gathered the checkers and poured them into the drawstring bag. “I’ll bet you could if you had a little training. It seems to me you can do just about anything. Take dinner as an example. My ma was a good cook, but that beef stew tonight was the best I’ve ever tasted.”
Celia tried to suppress a smile as she wondered whether or not to tell him the truth. “I’m not surprised it didn’t taste like your mother’s stew. It was venison.”
Mark started to chuckle. “That’s it. That’s the proof I needed. Now you’ll never convince me there’s something you can’t do. The last time I ate venison, I almost spit it out, but this was delicious.”
Celia’s flush deepened. Mark acted as if preparing a simple stew was a heroic feat. “The venison you ate might have been old, or maybe it wasn’t seasoned properly.”
“Once again you’re proving my point. You know which herbs to use. So, tell me, Celia, is there anything you can’t do?”
“Well, there is one very important thing. It seems as if everyone in town has made it their mission to remind me that I can’t be a father to Emma.” Jacob hadn’t said anything more since the night he’d proposed marriage, but Frank had begun talking about how difficult it must be to raise a child alone and how lonely the life of a bachelor was. Though he hadn’t voiced the words, the looks he’d given her had made Celia suspect he thought the solution to both of those problems was marriage.
Mark nodded slowly, and the sadne
ss that she’d seen before shone from his eyes. “They’re not wrong,” he told her. “Growing up, I always felt there was a huge void in my life because I didn’t have a father. I don’t tell most folks the story, but I guess there’s no harm in your knowing.” Mark clenched his fists, releasing them slowly as he said, “Ma told me my father died when I was a baby. I didn’t know the truth—that he had left us but was still alive—until her death. That’s when I discovered the letters he’d sent. It seems he sent money too. Ma wouldn’t say much about him. Then when I found the letters, I realized that what she did say was mostly lies.” Mark stared at the far wall for a moment. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Whether he was dead or alive, he wasn’t there while I was growing up.”
Celia gripped her chair arms as she tried to imagine the pain Mark had endured. It was no wonder she had seen both sorrow and anger in his expression. Mark had lost more than his father; he’d lost his faith in his mother, for it was obvious he had felt betrayed by both his father’s abandonment and his mother’s lies.
“I’m so sorry.” The words weren’t enough, but she wanted him to know that her heart ached for him.
“It’s over now.” Mark shrugged as if he believed that. Celia did not.
“I was more fortunate than you. I had two loving parents and a very happy childhood.”
“Will you tell me about it?” The expression in Mark’s eyes told Celia he wanted to shift the attention from himself.
Celia shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. We lived in Sweden until twelve years ago. Then some men in our town convinced Papa that there were fortunes to be made in America.” Celia shook her head, remembering how strange Wyoming Territory had seemed after the lush farmlands of her first home. “Papa never made a fortune, but even when times were hard, I didn’t feel poor, because I knew he and Mama loved me.”
Mark nodded as if he understood. She wondered if he did, if his mother had lavished love on him. “Everything changed when my parents died and left me a small inheritance. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want the money. I wanted them.”
Once again Mark nodded, and this time Celia knew he understood. He would have given anything to have his father with him as he was growing up. “Did you use your inheritance?” he asked.
It was Celia’s turn to nod. “Josef didn’t want to spend it, but after he was gone, I used it to buy this house. It may sound silly, but I feel closer to my parents here than I did in the little house where we used to live.”
Celia dropped her gaze to her lap, remembering the emptiness she’d felt after her parents’ deaths.
Mark waited until she was looking at him before he spoke. “How long ago did they die?”
“Five years. It was soon after Josef and I married. We’d been living with them, so we just stayed on in that house.”
“And you have no brothers or sisters?”
Celia shook her head. “No aunts and uncles, either. Both of my parents were only children. So were Josef’s.”
Mark’s eyes darkened, and this time Celia suspected the sorrow she saw was directed at her. “So you’re alone now. Most women would consider that a reason to remarry.”
It was an argument Bertha had used on numerous occasions, the sequel to the “Emma needs a father” speech. Like Bertha, Mark meant well. Celia was certain of that, but she was also certain that the seemingly obvious solution was not the best one for her. She forced a laugh. “I guess I’m not most women.” Knowing what was coming next, she continued, “I suppose you think I ought to marry Jacob or Frank.”
To her surprise, Mark flinched as if she’d hurled a heavy object at him. He was silent for a moment before he said slowly, “They’re good men. You never can be sure what’s inside a man’s heart, but they both look like they’d be good fathers for Emma.”
“That’s not enough.” The words were out of Celia’s mouth before she realized what she was saying. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Bertha, why she was in no hurry to remarry. It wasn’t Bertha’s business, she had reasoned, and it certainly wasn’t Mark’s. And yet, somehow it seemed important that he understood.
“There’s not just Emma to consider. There’s me too.” Celia leaned forward, as if bridging the distance between them would help Mark realize how vital this was to her. “My parents and Josef’s arranged our marriage. That’s the way it was done in the Old Country, and my parents were like many other immigrants. They clung to the old traditions. No one thought it odd that Josef and I barely knew each other before we were married. That was simply the way it was done. Parents decided who their children should wed.”
When Mark said nothing, Celia continued. “Josef was a good man, and I grew to love him, but ours wasn’t the kind of marriage I dreamt about, and it certainly wasn’t the kind I read about.”
A raised eyebrow telegraphed Mark’s feelings. “Are you talking about novels? They’re not real.”
“No, they’re not.” Celia thought of her less-than-fairy-tale proposal from Jacob. “The stories may not be real, but the love they portray is. I’ve seen it. I want a husband who looks at me the way Reverend Pearson looks at Bertha. I want a man who will love me for myself, not for my cooking or because I would be a mother to his son or even because he’s lonely.” Celia closed her eyes for a second before she said, “I want a man who will give me roses for Christmas.”
When she opened her eyes, Mark was staring at her, his expression inscrutable. “That’s a pretty tall order. Roses don’t grow in December, leastwise not in Wyoming Territory.”
Was he laughing at her? Celia couldn’t believe she’d told him her dearest wish. It sounded so silly when she said it out loud. At night, when she’d lain awake, thinking of her future and Emma’s, it had seemed romantic—a man who would indulge her love for the sweetest of flowers, a man who would put beauty and Celia’s happiness before practicality. But now it just seemed foolish.
Forcing a laugh to cover her embarrassment, Celia gave Mark a wry smile. “Then I guess I won’t marry again.”
5
“You fixin’ to take someone to the Thanksgivin’ dinner?”
Mark looked up from the cabinet edge he was scribing. Though Frank might not notice a gap of a fraction of an inch, Mark was determined that the cabinet would fit flush to the wall, and that required concentration. Unfortunately, it was difficult to concentrate when Daniel kept interrupting. The boy who had directed Mark to Celia’s boardinghouse the day he’d arrived in Easton seemed determined to help him, although that help had actually delayed Mark’s progress.
“Nope.” Mark doubted his answer would discourage Daniel. Nothing seemed to discourage him, not even his obvious lack of skill with a saw and hammer. One of the disadvantages of this final stage of Frank’s store expansion was that it required Mark to work on-site, and that meant constant interruptions from Daniel. Whenever there was a lull between customers, he hurried to the back room to assist Mark.
Daniel’s eyes widened in surprise—or perhaps it was disappointment. Since Mark had been working in the mercantile, Daniel had treated him like some kind of hero. The boy’s claim that he wanted to be a carpenter like Mark had elicited a guffaw from Frank. Daniel, the store owner claimed, changed his plans along with the bathwater each Saturday night, and Mark should pay him no mind. But Mark, who knew how devastating discouraging words could be, didn’t want to destroy Daniel’s ambition, and so he let him carry in pieces of wood and watch while Mark assembled them. The work would have taken less time if he’d been alone, and he wouldn’t have had the distraction of Daniel’s chatter, but those were prices Mark was willing to pay.
“How come not? Thanksgiving’s more fun if you go with someone special.” Daniel leaned against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he considered either the way Mark was carefully planing the cabinet edge or his refusal to escort one of Easton’s eligible young women to the celebration.
For his part, Mark was startled by the jolt of pleasure he’d felt when Daniel had pronounced the words �
��someone special.” Celia fit that description to a T. He had no doubt that the dinner would be more enjoyable if she were at his side.
“I’m not sure I’m going at all,” Mark admitted. While everyone else in Easton was talking about Thanksgiving, his thoughts were focused on Christmas—Christmas roses, to be precise. Ever since Celia had told him she wanted a man to give her roses for Christmas, Mark had thought of little else. More than anything he could remember, he wanted to be the man who made her dream come true, and yet . . .
“You gotta go.” The horrified expression on Daniel’s face spoke volumes. “Everybody in Easton will be there, plus all the folks from Cedarville.” When Mark didn’t respond, Daniel continued. “The food is mighty good.”
Since he’d arrived in Easton, Mark had been no stranger to good food. Celia’s meals were more than good. Everything she cooked was delicious, making a man want second or even third helpings, and yet when Mark complimented her, he often saw a pained expression flit across her face. Did she think that was all he cared about? Perhaps she did, for he couldn’t forget her saying that she wanted a man to value her for herself, not her cooking. It was true that he appreciated her cooking, but his admiration for Celia went far deeper than that.
He ran his hand over the side of the cabinet, checking for splinters and rough spots. The wood was smooth, but not as smooth as Celia’s skin. Though he’d never touched her cheek, Mark knew that. All he had to do was look at her to know that her skin was as soft as the petals of those roses she loved so much. He bent his head, not wanting Daniel to view the confusion in his eyes. Mark had seen pretty women before; he’d met kind women before; but none of them had lingered in his memory the way Celia did. He couldn’t forget her sunny smile or the delicate scent of roses that clung to her. Most of all, he couldn’t forget the love that shone from her eyes when she looked at Emma. That was his problem.