Christmas Roses

by Amanda Cabot

  Mark frowned as he slid the cabinet into place. The townspeople were right. Emma needed a father. More than that, she deserved a father. That sweet little girl deserved a man who’d cherish her as much as her mother did, who’d teach her the things only a father could, and who’d protect her from life’s dangers. The problem was, Mark didn’t know the first thing about being a father, and he sure as the sun set early in November wasn’t going to risk a child’s future happiness on the chance that he could learn. What if he was as inept at being a father as Daniel was at hammering a nail?

  “You really oughta go. Food’s even better than Christmas.” Daniel appeared to be waiting for Mark’s response.

  “I imagine it is,” he said, grateful for the excuse to think of something—anything—other than Celia and Emma, “but I reckon I’ll be working that day. I need to be sure everything will be ready for Christmas.” Mark had been surprised by the number of orders he’d received. Although a few women had come to his shop, the majority of his customers had been men who claimed that Reverend Pearson had told them about his work. In addition to boxes designed to hold jewelry, he had commissions for plate racks, small tables, even a pair of bookends for the schoolteacher. The parson hadn’t been exaggerating when he claimed that Easton could use a carpenter.

  When he’d finished installing the cabinet, Mark returned to his workshop and studied the blanket chest he was making for the minister’s wife. The box itself was finished, the scent of the cedar lining battling with the smokehouse walls for supremacy. All that remained was the lid. Mark had drawn a design of Mrs. Pearson’s initials and was ready to carve it into the top, but, even though he’d chosen elaborately curling letters, he needed something more. Roses for Christmas. The thought circled through his head, reminding him once again of Celia and the night she’d told him why she wouldn’t remarry. Mark studied his drawing. No doubt about it, the chest would be beautiful if he surrounded Bertha Charlotta Pearson’s initials with a wreath of roses, but he wouldn’t. Perhaps he would use lilies. Roses were for Celia . . . and Emma.

  As he started sketching a circlet of lilies, Mark envisioned Emma in fifteen years. She’d be a beauty, just like her mother, and Celia would find herself having to fend off her daughter’s suitors. He could picture the pimply faced boys lined up to see Emma, while Celia stood guard like that big old shepherd dog Ma had put near the henhouse. That sure would be something to see. But Mark wouldn’t be here.

  She was content. The thought washed over her like the pictures she had seen of ocean waves breaking over a rock, startling her with its intensity. Here she was, sitting in her storage room, rocking Emma and listening to Aaron sing silly songs while she waited for the bread to bake. It was an ordinary afternoon, and yet Celia felt more content than she could ever remember. Perhaps it was foolish, for the future remained uncertain. If she didn’t get at least one more boarder after Mark left, she wasn’t confident she would be able to keep the house. Perhaps she ought to worry about that, but today she couldn’t. At least for this afternoon, she was happy.

  Emma was healthy. Just last week, she’d smiled at Celia and jabbered something that sounded like Mama, making Celia’s heart overflow with happiness. Aaron made her laugh with his nonsensical ditties, and then there was Mark. Celia had never met a man like him. It wasn’t simply that he was more handsome than anyone in Easton, although she had heard the single women discussing that particular fact in great detail when they gathered after church services. It wasn’t simply that she found his conversation stimulating or that she enjoyed the challenge of trying to beat him at checkers. What drew Celia to the undeniably handsome man who rented her best room was his thoughtfulness. Mark was unfailingly kind, but more than that, he anticipated her needs almost before she was aware of them. There were times when she felt as if they were two halves of the same whole.

  And then she would catch a flash of his anger. Though he tried to hide it, it would emerge at unpredictable times. Sometimes it was the mention of a child that brought it out, and Celia knew he was remembering his childhood without a father. Sometimes it was a casual reference to church or to God. He said little, merely shaking his head when Celia asked if he wanted to accompany her to Sunday services, and Celia would not press him.

  Frank had no such reservations. “You a heathen?” he had asked at supper last night.

  Mark took a sip of water before he responded. “What makes you think that?”

  “I haven’t seen you at church.”

  Mark sighed, and Celia sensed his reluctance to say anything more. Whatever his problem was with God, it was between him and God. Frank had no right to interfere. “I used to go to church,” Mark said. “Every week, in fact. But I wouldn’t be welcome there anymore.”

  “Folks are friendly here. They welcome most everyone.” Jacob entered the conversation.

  “It’s not the townspeople I’m worried about,” Mark countered. Though he said nothing more, Celia had felt tears well in her eyes.

  Emma stirred, bringing Celia back to the present. How selfish she was, sitting here, counting her blessings, when Mark was in pain. He might express it as anger, but she had seen the anguish in his eyes. He was troubled, and there was nothing she could do for him other than pray. Preaching didn’t work. Celia knew that. When she’d been angry with God after Josef was killed, both Bertha and Reverend Pearson had counseled her to put aside her anger. It wasn’t that simple.

  No matter how much she cared for him, and Celia would not deny that she had more than friendly feelings for Mark, she could not change what was inside his heart. But, oh, how she wished she could help him.

  “Celia?”

  She blinked, startled by the sound of Frank’s voice. Was she late? A quick look at her watch confirmed that it was only three o’clock, two and a half hours before supper would be served. Frank never came this early.

  “We’re in the storage room,” she called out, rising and laying Emma in her basket. Apparently annoyed at being disturbed, Emma started to fuss.

  “I fix, Mrs. Celia.” Aaron put his arms around Emma and began to croon to her. To Celia’s amazement, the ploy worked.

  “Thank you, Aaron.” Celia turned toward Frank, who stood in the doorway, a brown paper-wrapped box in his hands. “Is something wrong?” Though Frank sometimes worked in the back room and let Daniel wait on customers, he never left the store before closing time.

  He shook his head. “I just wanted a chance to see you alone.” Frowning slightly, Frank looked down at Aaron, as if the young boy’s presence were a nuisance.

  “Oh, well . . .” Celia knew Aaron could be counted on to play by himself for a few minutes. “I suppose we could go into the parlor.” With the doors open, she would be able to hear Emma if she fussed. “I have bread baking, and when it comes out, I need to put tonight’s cobbler into the oven.”

  Frank shifted the box from one hand to the other, then nodded. “The parlor would be nice.”

  When they were seated in the matching chairs on either side of the small table where she and Mark played checkers, Frank held out the package. “I brought you a token of my affection.”

  Affection. That was what Celia felt for Aaron. It was not something she sought from this man. Trying not to frown, she kept her voice even as she said, “Thank you, but that wasn’t necessary.” She wouldn’t insult Frank by telling him that she didn’t want his affection. There had to be another, more subtle way, to make him understand that their relationship was purely business. “You pay me fairly for the meals you take here.”

  He shook his head, and his eyes darkened momentarily when she did not accept the proffered package. “This has nothing to do with meals. It’s for you.”

  Short of being rude, there was no way to refuse the gift, and Mama had taught Celia that a lady was never rude. She managed a small smile as she reached for the box, but her smile broadened when she slid the twine from the package and opened the wrapping. Though Frank might call the gift a token of his af
fection, the contents were not personal. Instead of the flowers, books, and candy that Mama had claimed were traditional courting gifts, Frank had brought her a tin of oysters.

  “Thank you, Frank.” Not just for the exotic food but also for the fact that they could not be construed as part of a courtship ritual. According to Mama, no man would give a woman he favored something that required her to work. Courtship was a time to pamper a lady, not remind her of housewifely tasks. “I’ve never eaten oysters, but I understand they’re delicious.” Oysters were one of the most costly food items at Frank’s store, far too expensive for Celia’s limited budget.

  He grinned, as if her earlier reluctance were forgotten. “I got a new shipment today and figured you’d like them. You’re a mighty fine cook, Celia. You could turn them into oyster stew or pudding.”

  Perhaps Frank was giving her a not-so-subtle hint that he’d like more variety in his meals. Celia hoped that was the reason for his visit, although the gleam in his eye suggested otherwise. “It’s kind of you to say that. And now . . .”

  When she started to rise, Frank held out a hand to stop her. “I’ve got one more thing to ask. I was hoping you’d let me escort you to the Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Celia took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of cloves that seemed to be his trademark scent. Bertha had been right. Frank was interested in having Celia cook for him permanently. “Thank you, but—”

  Before she could complete her sentence, he frowned. “I waited until your year of mourning was over. I don’t mind telling you it was hard to wait. You’re a mighty pretty woman. Any man would be proud to have you on his arm.”

  At least he hadn’t told her they were matched like horses. Celia knew she ought to be grateful for that, even though his words made her feel like a possession, not a woman. “Be kind,” Mama had always said. Celia would be kind, but she would also be firm. “I appreciate your compliments, Frank, but I don’t want to lead you on. I’m not ready for anything other than friendship. Emma and I will go to the dinner as part of a group.” Unlike Jacob, Frank had said nothing about Emma, and that chafed. Surely he must realize that Emma was the most important part of Celia’s life and that she wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t good for her daughter.

  “I see.” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Will that group include Mark?”

  She wouldn’t lie. “Probably. I expect Hiram will be with us too. Reverend and Mrs. Pearson have asked us to sit with them.”

  “I know he’s younger than me.” It appeared that Frank had dismissed her statements about Hiram and the Pearsons, for Mark was the only man in the group younger than him. “He’s practically a vagabond. He’s going to leave, and then you’ll be alone.”

  Celia nodded. As angry as Frank was, he spoke nothing but the truth. “Mark’s a boarder. Of course he’ll leave. They all do.”

  She wouldn’t add the thought that sometimes kept her awake at night: it would be different when Mark left. That void would not be easily filled. Perhaps it never would be.

  Mark took a deep breath as he poised his chisel over the lid of the blanket chest, preparing to take the first cut. Whether the design was simple or intricate, there was always a rush of excitement when he reached this stage. He smiled at the thought of Bertha Pearson’s pleasure on Christmas morning when she saw her blanket chest. The cedar lining made it practical. The lily-bordered monogram would make it special.

  “Mark! Mark! Help me!”

  As the shout startled him, Mark’s chisel slipped from his hand, gouging the wood. Sparing little more than a glance for the now-wrecked lid, he wheeled around. He’d worry about Mrs. Pearson’s gift later. Right now what was important was that Celia needed him. The panic in her voice told him this was no trivial matter. Had she scalded herself? Had a knife slipped? As his mind conjured horrible images, Mark sprinted toward the house and flung the door open.

  Celia stood in the center of the hallway, clutching Emma to her.

  From the corner of his eye, Mark saw Aaron sitting on the floor, his eyes wide with worry. “Feel her head,” Celia said. “Emma’s burning with fever. She was fine when she woke this morning, and then the next thing I knew, she was like this.”

  Mark touched the baby’s forehead. Celia hadn’t exaggerated. Emma’s face was unnaturally hot. He had heard that some infants were prone to high fevers, and the number of tiny graves in most cemeteries was silent witness to just how dangerous those fevers could be.

  “What should I do?” Emotion choked Celia’s voice. “I tried cool compresses, but they didn’t help.”

  The only remedy Mark knew was immersing the patient in a cold bath, but that was risky. While a bath would sometimes break the fever, it could also cause more problems. “I’ll fetch Doc.” If the God Celia was so fond of quoting was truly a loving God, the doctor would be in town today, and he’d know how to help her daughter.

  Emma started to wail, balling her tiny hands and beating them against her forehead. Mark’s heart sank. The child must be in intense pain to do that. There was no time to waste. If he were certain that Doc was in his office, Mark would have taken Emma there, but he didn’t want to expose her to the frigid outside air unnecessarily. Her breathing was already shallow and rapid.

  “Your coat,” Celia cried as Mark headed for the door.

  He shook his head. There wasn’t time to worry about that. All that mattered was getting help for Emma. Quickly. He raced down the street, ignoring the curious looks of two matrons who were strolling toward the mercantile. The physician’s office was in the building on the far side of the church.

  “You’ve got to come,” Mark shouted as he flung open the door. Fortunately the doctor was seated behind his desk in the front room, and there appeared to be no other patients. “Emma’s sick. A fever.”

  Though he rose, Doc appeared in no hurry. He gave Mark a quizzical look. “You’re Miz Anderson’s new boarder.” Methodically, he buttoned his coat before reaching for his medical bag and looking around the room as if to assure himself that he needed nothing more. When he seemed satisfied that he would not require any of the multicolored bottles that filled a glass-fronted cabinet, the doctor nodded. “Heard about you. Quick thinking on your part. Croup,” he added in explanation.

  Mark had heard stories about the doctor’s peculiar way of speaking. He didn’t care that the man would never be an orator. Doc didn’t have to say a word, so long as he cured whatever was causing Emma’s fever. But first he had to get to the boardinghouse. They were outside now, and though the doctor was walking briskly, Mark couldn’t contain his impatience. “Hurry,” he said, increasing his own stride to just under a run. “She’s got a fever.”

  The doctor nodded but kept his own pace steady. “Not uncommon. New mothers panic.”

  Mark wouldn’t accept that explanation. “This is Celia we’re talking about. She’s not one to panic.” Although Mark had to admit that her agitation had been only one step shy of it.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  And the doctor said not another word until they reached the boardinghouse. When they entered the house, they found Celia still standing in the back hallway, her face white with fear as she looked down at Emma. The only difference Mark could see was that Aaron was now clinging to Celia’s skirts.

  “Let me have her.” The doctor held out his arms. Striding into the kitchen, he looked around, then placed Emma on the table. As he began to undress her, the baby started to cry, and Celia took a step toward her daughter.

  “No.” The doctor’s command was brusque. He appeared to be examining each of the flailing limbs as he uncovered them, his expression serious.

  Celia’s lips started to tremble, and Mark wondered if she would be the next to cry. She might brush him aside, but he had to do something. Wrapping his arm around Celia’s shoulders, he drew her close to him. “Emma will be all right,” he said softly, trying to reassure her. “Doc’s here.”

  The doctor rummaged in his medical bag for a moment, withdrawing
a stethoscope and an instrument Mark had seen other physicians poke into a patient’s ears. He’d never learned the name for that.

  “It’s just routine,” Mark whispered as Doc plugged his stethoscope into his ears and listened to Emma’s breathing. Though he wanted to reassure Celia, even Mark knew that Emma’s breathing wasn’t normal. He tightened his arm, bringing Celia closer to him, hoping she would accept the comfort he offered. Her trembling seemed to have lessened, but the fact that she paid no attention to the anxious toddler at her side told Mark that Celia was still caught in the grip of her fears.

  He extended his free arm and placed his hand on Aaron’s head. “You’re a big boy,” he said. “Big boys don’t cry.”

  Aaron raised his tearstained face and nodded. “I big.”

  It seemed as if the physician poked and prodded Emma for an eternity, but Mark knew it was only a minute or two. At last, Doc looked up.

  “Just what I thought. Common aftereffect of croup.”

  Though the doctor didn’t sound concerned, Mark wished he’d say something more. “Will Emma be all right?”

  “Of course.” Doc nodded as he slid his instruments back into his bag. “Fever should break in a few hours. Cold compresses help. Takes awhile, though.”

  Celia slumped ever so slightly, and Mark knew it was with relief. “Your instincts were right,” he said as he released her. “The compresses were helping.” She gave him a watery smile before crossing the short distance to her daughter and beginning to dress her.

  “Thank you, Doctor. I feel better now.” Celia’s voice sounded better too. The strain was gone, as was the threat of tears.

  A brusque nod was the doctor’s only response. While Celia cradled her daughter and Aaron chattered about the doctor’s bag and his stethoscope, Mark walked to the door with the physician.

  “Are you certain she’ll be all right?”

  Doc raised an eyebrow, making Mark wonder if he were annoyed that someone dared to question his judgment. “As sure as anyone can be. Normal for Miz Anderson to worry. Almost lost her daughter before. This is not serious.”