Without looking in their direction, Frank knew when the Truman family neared his position at the open double doors. He patted an elderly parishioner’s hand, gazed into her eyes, and thanked her for her compliments on his sermon. “God’s Word is my source, Mrs. Coon. A preacher cannot go far wrong if he sticks to his source. Bless you, ma’am.” The widow of the town’s founding citizen always had something kind to say.
For two days Frank had been wondering how Miss Truman was adapting to her new surroundings and how her family was adjusting to her. He both dreaded and anticipated introducing her to his dilapidated manuscript on the morrow.
Paul gripped his hand hard. “Good message. Supper with us this evening? David’s already coming.”
“Lately it seems the only way I get to see my son is to meet him at your house. Can’t imagine why,” Frank said, grinning. “Thank you. I’ll be there.” Anything beat Mary Bilge’s Sunday stew. And the fellowship at Paul’s house was always excellent.
“Pastor Nelson, thank you for that wonderful sermon.” Susan’s smile radiated inner beauty. “I always leave this church inspired to live another week in the Lord’s presence.”
Miss Truman stood nearby, hearing every word. Frank lowered his gaze, cleared his throat, and said, “It’s the Holy Ghost, not me.”
“I know, but you’re His instrument. Come by at five o’clock tonight.”
Susan moved on. Margie, Joe, and Flora each shook his hand in turn. Josh and Alvin had passed through the line earlier. Flora asked him, “You met Auntie Stell, didn’t you? She likes cats.”
He looked into the child’s pale blue eyes, then up at her aunt’s, noting the resemblance. “I know she does. She met Belle at my house the other day.”
“And she is going to make me a blue gown for Margie’s wedding.”
“Indeed?”
“Today we’re going to make pies from the blackberries Joe and I picked yesterday. I get to roll the crust, Auntie Stell says. Margie never lets me. You get to have pie after supper tonight.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Flora returned his smile and walked on, head high, shoulders back, without her usual bounce. Frank suspected imitation of her aunt, and the realization surprised him.
He turned to face Miss Truman. “I trust you are adjusting to your new home? Flora is evidently smitten with you.”
“She is a sweet child.” Yet no hint of a smile curved the woman’s tight lips. “Thank you for your inquiry, Reverend.” After barely touching his hand, she moved on.
Frank shook hands with the last few people, then walked around, straightening hymnals and picking up rubbish. Two calls to make that afternoon, then supper at the Trumans’. These next few weeks should prove interesting in many ways. Perhaps after all these years, he would begin to make headway on his manuscript.
“How are things going with your aunt?” Frank asked Alvin that afternoon as he stabled his gelding in the Trumans’ barn.
“Not bad.”
Hardly the informative answer Frank desired. “She gets along with your ma?”
“Yep. She’s a good cook.”
“And your pa doesn’t fight with her?” Frank bent to pat Eliza, letting the dog lick his hand.
“Nope. She don’t talk much.”
A family trait, apparently. “See you at supper.”
“Yessir.”
Paul greeted him at the front door.
“How are things going?” Frank asked, hanging his hat on the hall tree. He ran his fingers through his damp hair and hoped he didn’t stink of sweat and horses.
“Surprisingly well. My sister jumped right into the chores, cooking and cleaning. Even washed and ironed the family’s laundry along with her own and started in on the mending. I didn’t know she had it in her. Guess she’s learned how to work since our childhood days.”
Paul led him to the kitchen. “Pastor’s here.”
Miss Truman and Flora worked over at the counter. Neither one looked up.
“Hello, Dad.” David sat at the kitchen table, conversing with Margie while she helped prepare the meal. “Good sermon this morning.”
Frank reached across the table to shake his son’s hand. “Thank you. How are things going?”
“Very well. If you have time this week, I could use help replacing the windows in the parlor. The frames are rotted, and two of the panes are cracked. I decided to replace them entirely. It’s slow work, but I expect to have the house ready by December.” David smiled at Margie, who gazed adoringly into his eyes.
“What about the harvest?”
“Mr. Gallagher put only three fields into corn and beans this year before I bought the place. Harvest should be quick. Got five hogs ready for market by next week. It’s a great farm.” Enthusiasm burned in David’s eyes. Frank recognized himself at that age. So zealous for life, with a promising future and a lovely bride.
When David’s attention returned to Margie, Frank allowed himself a look at Miss Truman. Wearing a calico apron over her black mourning gown, she laid a circle of pastry atop a mounded heap of blackberries, all the while chatting with Flora. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing white arms. Silver laced the waves of dark hair around her forehead.
“Hello, Pastor Nelson.” Susan’s greeting from the pantry doorway jolted him back to reality. Holding up two jars, she said, “Estelle, I have pickled beets and dilled cucumbers. Which do you think?”
“With chicken pie, I would serve the cucumbers, but this is your home, Susan.”
“Nonsense, sister,” Susan said. “It’s your home now, too. And it’s your chicken pie.”
“Hello, Susan. I didn’t see you there,” Frank said. “Can I do anything to help?” She gave him an odd look. “You needn’t shout, Pastor. My hearing is excellent.”
Frank felt his face burn. Anxiety sometimes increased his volume.
“If you truly wish to help, you may carry the chicken pie to the table once it’s baked.” Susan moved toward the work counter.
Frank tried to make himself small to let her pass, but she stepped on his boot. “Excuse me, Pastor.”
“Sorry.” He shuffled back, colliding with Miss Truman. “Pardon.”
Giving an exasperated huff, Miss Truman planted one hand between his shoulder blades and pushed away. He turned to see her brushing flour from her skirts and staring downward. Following her gaze, he beheld his scuffed, cracked brown boot toes emerging beneath striped gray trousers. Did his feet look as large to her as they felt to him?
Without a word, she returned to her pie, and Frank felt himself scorned. “I’d best remove myself from the kitchen before I break something.” He laughed and saw Estelle wince. Another loudmouthed gaffe.
Before he could escape, Flora slid in close and caught his sleeve. “Auntie Stell made an extra pie from my berries for the Dixons ‘cause their baby was sick. She made a chicken pie for them, too. Josh took supper to them, but he’ll be back before our supper is cooked.”
“How thoughtful,” Frank said quietly. “I’m certain Althea and Ben will appreciate your kindness.”
Flora beamed. Miss Truman did not even glance in his direction. Frank patted Flora’s shoulder and tried to smile. He longed to slink away and lick his wounds.
At supper, the men discussed the town baseball team’s latest game while Margie chatted about wedding plans with the ladies. Alvin, Joe, and Flora remained politely silent. Needing no urging, Frank accepted a second helping of chicken pie. Its crust flaked over creamy gravy and tender strips of chicken. He wanted to compliment the cook, but her expression discouraged light conversation.
Susan voiced Frank’s thoughts. “Estelle, this pie is delicious.”
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Paul asked. “Not at the office of Blackstone and Hicks, I’m certain.”
“Our great-aunt Bridget taught me to cook while she lived with us.”
Paul chuckled. “Aunt Bridget! I haven’t thought about her for decades. Remember the time we broug
ht the litter of raccoons into the parlor while she and Mother were having tea?”
Joe and Alvin stared in silent disbelief.
“We truly did.” Paul nodded. “Back in those days, we were a pair of rascals. Most of our pranks were Stell’s idea. I was the trusting little brother.” Miss Truman’s lips tightened. “Nonsense.”
“Aunt Bridget, the ornery old buzzard.” Paul leaned back in his chair and reminisced. “We called her ‘the witch’ when our parents weren’t around. She always wore black, and she always looked disapproving. Aunt Bridget taught you more than cooking, Stell.”
“She also taught me piano.”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re just like her. I hadn’t realized until you mentioned her name; then the resemblance struck me.”
Frank heard several sharp gasps around the table. His chest felt tight, but not one beneficial word came to mind.
Miss Truman pushed back her chair and rose. “I must check the pie.”
Paul glanced at Susan and wilted. Making a visible effort to amend the situation, he said, “You should hear Estelle play piano. She used to play the pipe organ at our church in Madison, too.”
“Might she be willing to play piano for our church?” Susan asked, turning to watch Estelle remove the berry pie from the oven. “Estelle, would you? We’ve had no pianist for years. The old piano just gathers dust.”
“She could give music lessons, too,” Margie suggested. “Flora has always wanted to play piano.”
Flora nodded vigorously, her eyes glowing.
“If Miss Truman wishes to play piano for the church, we would all be grateful. We have plenty of hymnals.” Frank watched her work at the counter, keeping her back to the table. “Not that I wish to impose, Miss Truman.”
“I shall be pleased to play the pianoforte for Sunday meetings.” She laid down a knife and squared her shoulders. “This pie needs to cool for a time before I slice it.”
“Let’s go sit on the porch and enjoy the evening,” Susan suggested.
Dishes clinked and flatware clanked in the tin dishpans as Margie and Estelle hurried to use the last minutes of twilight. Two cats plumped on the kitchen windowsill, tails curled around their tucked feet, yellow eyes intent on the aerial dance of fireflies and bats above the lawn. Stars already twinkled in the pink and purple sky over the small orchard of fruit trees.
Although barnyard odors occasionally offended Estelle’s nose, she savored the stillness of a country evening. Perhaps Iowa was a small corner of heaven, for her new life here held an almost magical charm. She found the big boys, Joshua and Alvin, somewhat boisterous and intimidating, though they spoke to her kindly and complimented her cooking. Gangly young Joe seemed aloof, but she suspected he was merely shy. Marjorie treated her like a bosom friend, and little Flora hung on her every word. Susan seemed grateful for her assistance with the housework.
Paul was the only fly in her ointment. Aunt Bridget, indeed!
“Tell me what you think of David, Auntie Stell,” Margie said, rousing Estelle from her reverie. “Don’t you think he’s handsome?”
She contrived an honest compliment. “He has kind eyes.”
“Doesn’t he? Bluer than blue, with those thick yellow lashes. And I love his golden hair and his dimples. He sunburns easily, but in the winter his skin gets white like marble. I call him my Viking.”
“I had the same thought.” David’s parson father required only a Wagnerian opera score to accompany his clumsy swagger.
“Did you?” Margie gave a delighted chuckle. “The pastor looks even more like a Viking with his bushy beard. I was afraid of him when I was little because he’s so big and has such a loud laugh, but I soon figured out how kind he was.”
Recalling the pastor’s sympathetic expression and obvious efforts to please, Estelle felt a twinge of guilt. There was more to the man than enormous feet and a forceful voice. His sermon that morning had been excellent.
Susan entered, carrying a lamp. “Why are you two working in the dark?”
“Our eyes had adjusted,” Margie said. “It didn’t seem dark until you brought in the lamp. But now I can see better to wipe off the table. We’re almost finished, Mama. David had to leave, so I plan to spend the evening sewing.”
“The rest of the family is in the parlor, absorbed in newspapers and checkers. Pastor Nelson said to tell you both good-bye, and he’ll see you in the morning, Estelle.”
“Isn’t he nice, Auntie? I’m so glad you’ll be helping him with his book. David says he had about given up on ever finishing it, so you’re an answer to prayer. You should see the pastor’s study—papers everywhere!”
“It will also be wonderful to have a pianist for our church,” Susan said as she placed glasses in a cupboard. “We haven’t had one since Kirsten Nelson passed away.”
“Reverend Nelson’s wife played the piano?” Estelle asked.
“The church piano was hers,” Susan said. “You can set those plates back on the china dresser if you like, Estelle. I can never thank you enough for your work around the house. You’re a godsend to all of us, and no mistake.” She gave Estelle’s shoulders a quick squeeze and returned to her task. “I can’t recall the last time I felt so rested of an evening.”
Estelle couldn’t recall the last time anyone had thanked her, let alone hugged her.
“Mrs. Nelson was a nice lady,” Margie continued, “cheery and friendly. I remember how she always played hymns so high that no one could sing them. And we sang the same five songs over and over. David says they were the only hymns she knew.”
“Marjorie, that is unkind.”
“I don’t mean it to be unkind. I liked Mrs. Nelson. I sometimes wonder if Pastor should move in with David and me after we marry, to be certain he eats meals and gets his wash done. David says Mary Bilge causes more dirt and mess than she cleans up. She’d probably go back to drinking if Pastor fired her, so he keeps her on.”
Estelle hung her apron on a hook and straightened her hair. “If you don’t mind, I’ll do some sewing tonight as well.”
“Of course I don’t mind! I want you to teach me how to make piping and those tiny ruffles.” Margie caught her aunt by the hand and towed her upstairs.
Chapter 3
Frank shifted a stack of papers from one chair to another, then placed a second stack on top. No, that last pile needed to be separate. He moved it to the first chair and used a rock as a paperweight. When he slid a stack of books aside to search, it tipped. He grabbed at the sliding top book, but it eluded his grasp and landed open on his boot. Then the bottom half of the stack disintegrated and dropped to the floor with successive plops. He juggled two last books, caught one by its flyleaf, and watched the page rip out.
A morning breeze wafted the tattered window curtains, and notes fluttered about the room like moths. A horse whinnied outside. Hoofbeats passed the house. Frank ducked to peer outside. Estelle Truman, regal upon the seat of a dogcart, drove toward the barn.
Frank dropped the flyleaf and abandoned his study. Hearing the screen door slam, Miss Truman stopped her horse and looked over her shoulder. “Good morning, Reverend Nelson.”
He took the veranda steps in two strides. “Good morning. I’ll unhitch your horse today. Since you’ll be coming regularly, I’ll hire a boy to care for him from now on.”
“You are kind.” A hint of surprise colored her voice as she accepted his assistance to climb down. “Paul says Pepper can be difficult to catch. It might be best to stable him.” She reached back to lift a covered basket from the cart.
“On such a fine day, I’ll put him in the paddock with Bessie. Don’t worry. If he gives us trouble later, we’ll bribe him with carrots.” Frank grinned, wondering if anything could make her smile.
“If you say so. Shall I begin work in your study?”
“Uh, you might want to wait for me. How about … how about you make tea again?”
She lifted one brow. “Most men prefer coffee.”
�
��I like both,” he said, stroking Pepper’s forehead. The pony began to rub its face against his belly. Miss Truman’s eyes followed the motion and widened. She tucked her chin, turned, and walked away, her swishing skirts raising a cloud of dust.
Once his new secretary had entered the house, Frank looked down at his blue plaid shirt and found it coated with horse saliva and white hair. “Thank you, Pepper,” he muttered.
Freed of his harness, the pony bucked about the paddock, sniffed noses with the swaybacked mare, then collapsed to roll in the dust. Frank stowed the dogcart in his barn, hung up the harness, and rushed toward the house. Miss Truman must not see his study until he had a chance to pick up that last avalanche.
He stopped inside the kitchen door. The tea tray waited on the kitchen table. A basket of blackberry muffins and a bowl of canned peaches sat beside his filled teacup. Miss Truman poured hot water from the kettle into the dishpan, whipping up suds with her hand. The black cat rubbed against her skirts, purring.
“I brought muffins from home. Flora thought you might enjoy them. I found the peaches in your cellar. While you drink your tea, I’ll wash up these dishes. Is Miss Bilge off duty today?”
“She usually shows up late. You don’t have to do that.” He waved at the dishpan.
“I cannot concentrate in an untidy environment. Tomorrow I shall come earlier to prepare your tea. The morning is already half gone. At the office in Madison, I began work at seven each day.”
“And how late did you work?” Frank sat at the table, bowed his head to give silent but fervent thanks, and picked up a muffin.
“Until seven at night. I shall be unable to work that late here, however, for I must help with chores at home.” She scrubbed dishes as she spoke. “My mother became accustomed to dining late.”
“You prepared supper for your mother after working twelve-hour days?” He polished off his second muffin and took a sip of tea.
“When Aunt Bridget was alive, she cooked. After her death …” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “We lived simply.” She wiped down the countertops, the stovetop, and the worktable. Sinews appeared in her forearms as she wrung out the dishcloth. Hefting the dishpan, she carried it outside. He heard water splash into the garden.
Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote Page 52