Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Our plan?” Cook’s eyebrows nearly met her graying hairline.

  “You know how she hates to create a scene. I am sure this will work.” Elizabeth picked up the silver tray and headed for the French doors. Please, Lord, bring this about. I want my mother well again, and this is the best idea so far. Surely it is from you.

  “Well, my dear, you’ve certainly had a busy day.” Phillip Rogers joined his daughter in the study later that evening.

  “I know, and I’m grateful it worked out so well. If Thornton had tried to carry Mother back up those stairs again . . .” Elizabeth gave a delicate shudder, then a chuckle. “He surely was a big help. With him teasing her, how could Mother be anything but agreeable? And I know she will be happier down here where she can be part of life instead of stuck up in that gloomy bedroom.”

  “I tried to talk her into such a move a week ago, but she was adamantly against it. I think you are going to have to marry that young man sooner rather than later if he can charm her like that.”

  Elizabeth fought to keep the smile on her face. One of these days her mother and father were going to have to learn she and Thornton were only playacting. There was no imminent engagement, no future wedding. Guilt pricked like a hair shirt.

  How could she ever tell them she thought of Thornton more like the older brother she’d never had than as a husband? She stared down at the sheet of paper that was supposed to be a letter to Dr. Morganstein. Would this be another secret too heavy to keep?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  June 1894

  “Thorliff, do you think you’ll be able to finish the serial before you leave for home?” Phillip leaned back in his office chair, hands locked behind his head.

  Thorliff stuck his head around the door from the pressroom where he was cleaning up after the print run. “I think so. I’m two installments ahead right now, and I see only two or three more before the end of the story.”

  “I sure wish you could manage to stay on through the summer. You’ve spoiled me, son. I haven’t even looked for someone to replace you over the summer months.” Phillip brought his hands down to the chair arms with a thump. “You will be returning, right?”

  “Planning on it. God willing, as my mother says.”

  “I never would have made it through that measles mess without you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Thorliff lingered. “How is Mrs. Rogers doing?”

  “Not well, but better. Elizabeth’s getting her out of that bedroom and outside like she did was pure grace. I was beginning to think Annabelle would continue to fade away.” Phillip cleared his throat. “I never realized measles could be so vicious.” He swung his feet off his desk and pulled out a side drawer. “That reminds me, and for this I must beg your pardon. A letter came requesting permission to reprint your satire on the measles. You don’t mind, do you? They would have to pay you for the privilege, of course.” He dug through his files. “Here it is.” He handed the letter across the desk. “Don’t know how I can misplace things like that. Sorry.”

  Thorliff read through the letter, fighting back the grin that threatened to crack his face. “Legally you don’t have to ask my permission. I work for you, so what I write for the paper is really yours.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s not the way I work. If we go ahead and print your story in book form like we talked about, you will receive a portion of the sales, royalties if you will. This new press is opening up all kinds of possibilities for us.”

  Royalties. Thorliff swallowed to settle his pounding heart. Was the story really good enough to print in book form, or were the people of Northfield just more accepting of local talent? However, even Mr. Ingermanson at St. Olaf had commented on how good the story was. And as head of the Manitou Messenger, the school’s monthly magazine, he was pretty critical. At times Thorliff regretted that he’d not had time to join the magazine staff, but just when he was about to do so, the measles epidemic broke out, and he’d been working around the clock to keep up at school and put the newspaper out.

  “Should I give them the go-ahead?” Phillip waited for Thorliff ’s answer.

  “Ja, of course. This just caught me by surprise, is all. I mean, that satire just came about so . . . so . . .”

  “Easily?”

  Thorliff could feel his ears heat up. If he said yes, he would sound like he was bragging, and if he said no, he’d be lying.

  “It is not a crime to have a piece come to you like that. Consider it a gift, and remember that gift the next time you are ready to rip your hair out over another article that isn’t so easy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The telephone jangled, and Phillip got up to answer it. “We’ll talk more about the book another time.” Nodding to the noisy instrument, he continued, “Most likely Elizabeth calling me home. Or rather us. You didn’t stop by to pick up your supper, did you?”

  “Ja, I did. I need to study for exams and finish another research composition.”

  The phone jangled again.

  “All right, I’m coming.” Phillip reached for the earpiece. “Rogers here.”

  Thorliff returned to cleaning the printing press and sweeping the floor, all the while swallowing the shout that wanted release. Mr. Rogers was serious about printing his story in book form. He’d mentioned it several weeks earlier, but when nothing more was said, Thorliff figured Phillip had changed his mind.

  And he was to receive royalties. Just seeing his name on the cover would have been enough.

  Anji, I’ve got to tell Anji—and Pastor Solberg. The thought died as quickly as it flowered. Why hadn’t she answered his last letter? Three letters since Christmas was all she’d sent in spite of his apology for not being able to spend more time with her in December. Was it his fault there’d been such a terrible blizzard?

  Like all the other times, he alternated between sorrow, despair, and rage. And like all the other times, he had a choice—sink into despair or put it aside and keep on working. He’d somehow found the strength to do the latter before, and he would do so again.

  “Good night, Thorliff. Don’t worry about the garbage. I’ll take care of that in the morning.”

  “Good night and thank you.”

  “I’m not sure what to say you are welcome for, but you are.” Phillip snagged his felt fedora off the hatstand and headed out the door, a cheerful whistle floating over his shoulder.

  Promising himself that if he finished his paper he could write another chapter, Thorliff ate his supper without warming it and continued to cover pages with his research, thoughts, and conclusions on the Pullman strike. He’d chosen the topic because he was hoping that Mr. Rogers would allow him to write a series of articles on the subject, or perhaps it would turn into another serial story. Most likely it would have to be the second.

  The thought made him write faster, otherwise his mind would go off on another tangent, and he’d not finish the composition he was working on. . . . Maybe his characters from The Switchmen would be involved in the strike. What if one of them were wounded—or killed? What if . . . ?

  The clanging of the milk wagon woke him in the morning after getting far less sleep than he needed. By the time he reached the Rogerses’ back door, he finally felt awake enough to continue on up the hill.

  “You’re late!” Elizabeth met him in the kitchen.

  “No, I’m not.” Thorliff nodded to the clock. “It’s only seven-thirty.” He took the cup of coffee Cook handed him and sat down at the cloth-covered oak table.

  “But I told you we needed to be early today.”

  Thorliff shook his head. “No, you said don’t be late, and I’m not.”

  “You sit down and eat, miss. You still need to get your strength back.” Cook pointed toward the place set at the other side of the table. Since Annabelle still slept later in the morning, the family had yet to return to breakfasts in the dining room.

  Elizabeth growled but did as told, sending resentful looks across the table.

  Thorliff g
lared back and shook his head. Whatever had gotten into her? He looked again and noticed the purple circles under her eyes and her pale face.

  “You feel all right?” Ever since the measles, she’d not regained the vitality that made it hard for anyone to keep up with her. She’d most likely been studying too hard to try to make higher grades to make up for her winter quarter. But he knew if he mentioned anything more, she’d take his head off. Women. Inwardly he shook his head and ground his teeth. Outwardly he sipped his coffee and did away with the ham and eggs that Cook set before him. All without looking at Elizabeth again. On the way out he picked up her satchel at the same time as his own and held the door for her.

  “I can carry my own, thank you.” Icicles had returned in spite of the spring breeze.

  Without answering, he nodded for her to precede him and struck off for the path up the hill. If she wanted to be obnoxious, let her. Two could play that game.

  “I said I can carry my own satchel.”

  “Nice day, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Thorliff Bjorklund, you can be the most stubborn, exasperating man I know.” She verbally stamped her foot.

  “Thank you. I do hope your exams go well. It would be good if you could pull top marks to make up for earlier.”

  Her sputtering made him think of Astrid, for often he’d dealt with her bouts of temper the same way. When he heard Elizabeth panting to keep up with his long stride, he slowed imperceptibly so as not to be noticed.

  Oak trees in full emerald dress whispered secrets in the breeze, their feet tickled by nodding grasses. Robins sang for their mates, and a woodpecker rata-tata-tated on a nearby tree trunk. After the hush of winter the songs and smells of summer played upon the senses like an oratorio in full crescendo.

  At the door to Old Main he handed Elizabeth her satchel and sketched half a bow. At her glare when she passed him, he shrugged his eyebrows and followed her into the building. Her “humph” made him smile as he headed up the stairs. Sure enough, just like Astrid.

  The thought made him whistle as he walked the hall to his first class.

  “You certainly seem to be in a good mood,” groused Benjamin, who caught up with him at the door. “You’d think exams were over instead of just beginning. Did you not spend all night studying?”

  “More than half of it, and my paper is done. That alone makes the day worth a whistle or two.”

  “How you keep up is beyond me.” Benjamin dropped his books on his desk and dug in his pocket for a pencil. “You can bet this will be all essay questions. I hate essay questions.”

  “You hate everything at this time of the morning.” Thorliff took his seat and set out two pencils already sharpened and several sheets of paper. When Mr. Ingermanson entered the room, all conversation ceased, and the nearly late arrivals slid into their seats.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, when I take down the sheet, you will begin to write immediately, and when you are finished, hand your tests to me, and you may leave the room. I expect you to do so quietly so as not to interrupt those around you. Are there any questions?” He glanced around the room. “If not, then good luck, and you may begin.” He reached for the clothespins holding up the sheet, and the questions appeared before them.

  Thorliff read through all five questions and stopped to both think and take a deep breath. He claimed to be a writer. Now all he had to do was write. Right?

  By the time he’d finished the last question almost two hours later, his hand had permanently cramped around the pencil that he’d stopped to sharpen twice, along with its mate. While he wasn’t the first to leave, he wasn’t the last either, and when he turned in the pages, he felt certain he’d done well enough.

  He made his way to the dining room, poured himself a cup of coffee, and headed toward a corner where he could continue working, hopefully without interruptions. Taking two cookies from the packet Cook had packed, he munched and sipped while reviewing his Greek and Latin notes.

  At one point he looked up when he heard a familiar laugh. Sure enough, Elizabeth. Why was she so cantankerous with him and so jolly with the two young men accompanying her? He shook his head, sent a glare her way, and went back to his notes. Women!

  “There’s a letter for you,” Phillip called from behind the press when Thorliff arrived at the newspaper office. “On the counter.”

  “Thanks.” Thorliff picked it up and read the return address. “Moen at the Boarding House in Blessing.”

  Thorliff wandered down the hall to his room to drop his satchel on the bed. Letter in hand, he crossed to the window to have more light.

  Dear Thorliff,

  I am writing this to inform you that your story on the blizzard and the schoolchildren will be printed in the paper I work for in Norway. Your sister told me about the story, and since my paper is begging for news on Norwegians in America, I requested the rights from Harper’s and sent it all on. You write a very good story, by the way. I am enclosing a small stipend for the privilege of using your story again. Perhaps when you come home for the summer, you and I can discuss other stories you might like to write for the Norwegian papers.

  Sincerely,

  Ivar Moen

  Thorliff turned over the draft paper. Two dollars and fifty cents. Enough to make a good start on a quarter’s tuition. Since he had deposited his hundred dollars with Reverend Ytterböe at the school and only used about half of it, he already had sufficient finances to start school again next fall, besides the money he’d received from Mr. Rogers, money that he kept in an envelope in his desk. I am rich. Lord, thank you. I am rich beyond measure.

  Later that evening he felt like tearing at the roots of his hair. Two more days until he’d be leaving for home, and he still had not finished The Switchmen. Every time he tried to write the climax, he felt like he’d run into a barn wall. A stone barn wall.

  He looked up at a knock on the door to his room. “Yes?”

  “Thorliff, can I talk with you a moment?”

  No, go away. Three days of grouching and now Elizabeth wanted to talk? Now when he was caught in the tangle of characters who refused to do his bidding. He gritted his teeth and inhaled, the smell of printer’s ink pervading the air. He pushed himself to his feet and went to the door.

  Taking a deep breath to keep from snapping, he opened it. “Yes?”

  “I’m bothering you.”

  “I’m trying to finish the serial so I can catch the train the day after tomorrow.” He knew he sounded rude, but then she’d been more than rude the last few days.

  “I . . . I think I owe you an apology.” Elizabeth stared at the floor, then glanced up to his face.

  “Ja, you do.” There, he’d said it. So much for good manners.

  “Oh.” She gathered herself and stood straighter. “Then, I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I’ve been a . . .” She looked down again and shuffled one foot. “I have no excuse, at least not one worth anything. But I was pretty worried about my exams and perhaps having to go to summer school, but now I don’t. I mean, my grades are all right and . . .” Now she looked him straight in the eyes. “I was rude to you and behaved like a child and . . . you can stop me any time you feel like it.”

  I would if I felt like it, but what you say is so true. “You’re forgiven.” Now go away.

  “Thank you.” She turned slightly and looked over her shoulder. “Still friends?”

  He raised his hands and let them fall to his sides, shaking his head at the same time. “Next time you get in a huff like that, go yell at Thornton. Don’t take it out on me.”

  “Why would I yell at Thornton?” She stared at him. “And for your information, I wasn’t taking anything out on you.” Her words bristled faster than a porcupine scenting danger.

  “Okay, okay. Let’s leave this alone. You’ve apologized, and I’ve forgiven you. Now I have to get back to work.” He took a step back. Have a good summer, and I’ll see you in the fall, if, in fact, I choose to come back

  “I�
�ve done it again, haven’t I?”

  “Elizabeth Rogers . . .” Slamming the door in her face was definitely not the way to treat either his employer’s daughter or a friend, or even an acquaintance.

  “Perhaps I could help you.”

  He stopped, studied her for a long moment, and raising one finger to indicate that she should wait, he spun back into his room to pick up a sheaf of papers. “Here. Read this and tell me which ending you like best or give me some other suggestions or whatever.”

  She took them with a smile. “I’ll be at my father’s desk.”

  He watched her back as she marched out to the front office. What had he gotten himself into now?

  An hour later, she marched back in, handed him the sheaf of paper, and announced, “The reason you can’t write the climax is because you have too much story to tell yet, too many loose ends to tie up. What if you just relax, quit looking at the clock or calendar or whatever, and just write the story until you are finished?”

  He stared at her and through her, his mind churning six ways from west.

  She leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms over her chest.

  After a long silence he nodded. “You are right. Perhaps I can finish it on the train going home, then mail it back.” He thought some more, and when he looked up, she was still standing there. Now what? He thought back to their conversation. “Ah, thank you?”

  “You are most welcome.” She smiled sweetly and turned on her heel.

  He heard her shoes tapping down the hall. He shook his head. Was it all women, or was he just blessed, or cursed as the case may be, to have two of the perplexing species in his life?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “I just don’t know what to do.” Elizabeth sat out on the verandah with Dr. Gaskin, who had just finished checking on her mother.