Only then did she take another cup and saucer from the cupboard and pour herself a cup of tea. “May I carry this into the study?”
He nodded and stood up. “I’ll carry the tray.” He didn’t want to leave those muffins behind. But then, picturing the study as he had last seen it, he realized there would be no place to set a teacup, let alone a tray. “Wait.”
When she gave him an inquisitive look, her eyes were almost pretty.
“Let me go in first and pick up. I … had trouble this morning.”
“You hired me to make order from chaos, Reverend Nelson. Please direct me to the study and trust me to earn my pay, which, by the way, has not yet been discussed.”
“Down the hall and to the right.” To the left of the hall lay the parlor, which completed the house’s main floor plan. Upstairs were two small bedrooms, and below the kitchen lurked the earth-walled cellar, where she had found the peaches. Not much in this tiny parsonage to interest a cultured woman.
Estelle took a sip of her tea and set the cup and saucer on the table. With a lift of her chin, she swept past him into the hall, her skirts brushing his legs. Belle trotted after her, trilling a feline love song. The study door creaked open. Frank sat down, crossed his forearms on the table, and dropped his head to rest upon them. A silent plea moved his lips.
The screen door slammed, and his heart gave a jolt. Tea sloshed on the table from the two cups, and a muffin fell from the basket. Halfway to his feet, he gaped at Mary Bilge.
“You sick, Preacher?” Her dark eyes scanned the tidy kitchen, the teapot, and the muffins—and narrowed. “Eating sweets at this hour musta soured your stomach. What you need is strong coffee.” She filled the coffeepot from the pump, poured in a quantity of grounds from the canister, and clanged the pot on the stovetop. “Reckon I’ll put on beans to soak for supper before I start the laundry.”
Frank nodded. Beans again. He took another muffin. “No coffee, thanks. I’ve got calls to make.”
“She gonna be here all day?” Mary jerked her head toward the study. Beans rattled into a cast-iron pot. She dropped the empty gunnysack, placed the pot in the sink, and pumped until water gushed to cover the beans.
“Yes. Let me lift that, Mary. You want it on the stovetop?” Frank couldn’t sit by and watch a woman heft such a load.
“Yup.” Mary grinned at him. “I’ll keep an eye out to make sure that woman don’t cheat you.”
Frank hoisted the pot to the stove. “Want this over the heat?”
“No, it’s just gotta soak a few hours. You go on, Preacher. I ain’t no city lady with skinny arms and a frozen heart. You can rely on me. I’ll do your wash today.”
Frank smoothed his hair as he approached the study. Still in the hall, he heard Estelle give a little cough, then the shuffle of papers. “Miss Truman, I have calls to make. I’ll be back after midday. Can you cope alone until then?” He closed his eyes while waiting for her answer, feeling like a coward.
“Yes, Reverend Nelson. Remember to wear a clean shirt.”
He glanced down at himself and brushed at the imbedded hair. “Of course.” If I can find one.
Minutes later, he cantered Powder through the stable yard and out the gate. August sun baked his shoulders and wind whipped his cheeks, but for a few blessed hours he was free from controlling women.
First he visited the Dixons and their recovering baby. He prayed over the tiny boy, rejoiced in his increasing strength, and promised to return soon. Althea Dixon gave him a hug and a jar of tomatoes before he left. She reminded him of his own daughter, Amy.
While riding to his next call, he wondered about Estelle. Upon his return, would she resign her position and inform him that his scribblings could never form a book? Would her cool blue eyes mock his pretensions? A confusing blend of fears troubled his heart.
In a sunlit sitting room at the rambling Coon homestead, old Beatrice Coon talked with him at length about family concerns, particularly one great-grandson. “Jubal’s boy, Abel, is shiftless and sly. I pray for him every day, as I do for all my loved ones, but I do believe the boy is deaf to the Lord’s call. His great-grandfather surely turned in his grave when Abel left college.” She dabbed tears from her wrinkled cheeks.
Frank sympathized, well aware that Abel had been expelled from the university. The young man was rapidly becoming a bane to the community as well as a sorrow to the honorable Coon family.
When Frank made noises about heading out, Beatrice protested. “Why so restless today, Pastor Frank? You can’t be leaving without reading to me from the Good Book.”
Although Mrs. Coon lived with her grandson Sheldon’s large and literate family, any member of which could have read to her throughout the day, Frank couldn’t deny her request. She rocked in her chair and knitted while he read, and when he did finally say good-bye, she handed him a blue stocking cap with a tassel. “Soon the snows will be upon us, and you’ll find it useful to warm places your pretty yellow hair doesn’t cover anymore.”
His hand lifted to the thinning patch on top of his head, and he returned her grin. “Thanks, Mrs. Coon.”
“I made it to match your eyes,” she said with a feminine titter. “Can you blame an old woman for keeping a handsome man near using any means she has?”
Freedom from controlling women was a pipe dream. He chuckled, squeezed her gnarled hands, and prayed with her before he left. Being near the feisty octogenarian made him feel young and spry, a rare sensation since the passing of his fiftieth birthday last spring.
As he entered town and approached the parsonage, he noticed the rundown condition of Mary Bilge’s house across the way. Mary’s personal habits seemed unaffected by her profession of faith. True, she no longer inhabited the saloons, a mark in her favor. But her slovenly attire, cigar smoking, and lack of ambition persisted. Hiring her as housekeeper had been his daughter Amy’s idea, a kind-hearted attempt to build up Mary’s dignity. Instead of dignity, Mary seemed to have developed expectations Frank would rather not think about.
Pepper whinnied a greeting from the paddock. Young Harmon Coon, another of Beatrice’s great-grandsons, should arrive soon to hitch up the old pony. Frank trusted the boy to keep his end of the bargain. Those Coons were principled people. A founding family to be proud of, despite their one black sheep.
Frank’s laundry waved from the line behind the house, neatly pinned. Shirts, trousers, combinations, nightshirt, all looked … clean. Kitchen towels and dishcloths gleamed white under the summer sun.
As he mounted the veranda steps, a pleasant aroma made him stop and sniff. Had Mary baked bread? Maybe the perceived competition from Miss Truman had prodded her into action. Brows lifted, Frank pursed his lips in a soundless whistle and let the screen door slam shut.
He placed the jar of tomatoes on the kitchen counter. “Hello?” Belle, curled on a kitchen chair, lifted her head to blink at him sleepily. Two towel-draped mounds on the countertop drew his attention. He peeked under the towel and nearly drooled at the sight and smell of warm, crusty loaves. Something bubbled on the stove. He lifted the lid of a saucepan to find not beans but a simmering vegetable soup.
Mary Bilge could not create such artistry if her life depended on it. Had she and Estelle fought for control of the house? How would two women fight? Flat irons at ten paces? Rolling pins to the death? The mental image of Belle the cat battling a mangy upstart to maintain her queenly status made him smile. No wonder the cat had bonded with her human counterpart. However—his smile faded—Mary had been here first.
The only way to find out for certain what had occurred was to ask. “Miss Truman?” He pushed open the study door and actually saw carpeting instead of books and papers. His gaze lifted to discover shelves full of books, papers stacked on the desk, and his flighty notes weighted by the rock. The file cabinet stood open, and Miss Truman appeared to be labeling files.
She had removed her jacket. A tailored shirtwaist emphasized her slim figure. No longer did she look scrawny
to Frank. He knew her as a creative powerhouse. How had the woman accomplished so much in one day? And she still managed to look unruffled.
She glanced up. “Reverend Nelson, I require your assistance. I believe it would be helpful to create an individual file for each topic or chapter of your book. As I look over your outline, I see distinct categories which will simplify this task.”
His heart thundered in his ears. “You do?”
“Yes. We should also file your published periodical articles along with their research material in case you decide to reuse any of them in your books. My suggestion would be to create a file for each doctrinal issue—eschatology, predestination, divine attributes, and so forth. You may discover a need for further breakdown of these categories, but this will give us a start.”
“A start,” he echoed. While she continued to describe her system, he moved closer and looked over her shoulder at the miraculous way his stacks of paper fit neatly into her files. She smelled of fresh bread and soap. Although her skin betrayed her advancing age, sagging slightly beneath her pointed chin and crinkling around her eyes and mouth, it looked soft to touch. She must be near fifty, since she was Paul’s elder sister. Just the right age.
Her eyes were like diamonds with blue edges, keen and cool, focused on his face. He suddenly realized that she had asked him a question. “Pardon?”
“I asked if you were planning to work on your manuscript tonight. If you prepare a few pages, I’ll transcribe them for you tomorrow. I do request that you attempt to write more clearly. Some of your letters are illegible.”
“Can you … can you write from dictation?”
“Yes, although I find that few people organize their thoughts well enough to dictate good literature.” She tucked one last sheaf of paper into the file, slid the drawer shut, and leaned her back against it. Her expression as she surveyed the room revealed gratification. “A promising beginning to our work, Reverend. Tomorrow I shall clean this room before we begin.”
The thought of her returning in the morning warmed him clear through. “I noticed the bread and soup in the kitchen. Mary had planned beans for tonight. I don’t see her around anywhere. What happened?”
Her long fingers rubbed the corner of the file cabinet, and her gaze lowered. Pink tinged her cheekbones. “I smelled the beans burning and went to stir them. Reverend, she did not rinse the beans, and they had not soaked long enough to soften before she set them to boil. You would have had crunchy beans for supper tonight, along with rocks and sticks.”
It wouldn’t have been the first time. “And the laundry?”
Her lips tightened into a straight line. “She was washing your clothes without soap and draping them over the line dripping wet.”
“So what did you do?”
“I advised her to use soap. She dropped your … uh, garment in the dirt, called me some unrepeatable names, and walked away. I have not seen her since.”
“So you washed my laundry, baked bread, cooked my dinner, and filed my papers, all while I was away for a few hours. Miss Truman, you will exhaust yourself at this pace.”
Her gaze snapped back to his. “Nonsense. I enjoyed myself.” Suddenly her color deepened. With a quick lift of her chin, she slipped around him and headed for the entryway. “I had better leave, since my chaperone is missing.”
He followed her. “You won’t stay for soup?”
Tying her bonnet strings, she glanced up at him then away. “They will expect me at home. The soup should be ready for you to eat. I made it with canned vegetables from your cellar and a bit of bacon.”
She opened the front door. Pepper, harnessed to the dogcart, waited at the hitching rail out front. Afternoon light dotted the lawn beneath the trees, and sunflowers bobbed in a breeze. “Good day, Reverend Nelson. I shall return in the morning.”
“You’ll make tea?” He wanted her to look at him.
“Yes, but you need to purchase more.” When she gazed into the distance, her eyes reflected the sky. “You need to bring in your laundry. It should be dry.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you, Miss Truman.”
“It was my pleasure. I’ll iron tomorrow.” She hurried down the walkway and climbed into the cart. Frank watched her drive away. Almost as soon as she disappeared from view, he set out down the street toward the general store to stock up on tea.
Later, after piling his clean laundry into a basket, he sliced bread and buttered it, then ladled out soup into a truly clean bowl. He spooned a bite into his mouth. Slightly spicy, rich, and hot. Perfect with the tender bread. He ate his fill, then put the rest away for lunch tomorrow. Remembering Estelle at his sink, sleeves rolled up as she scrubbed, he rinsed his supper dishes and stacked them in the dishpan. In a happy daze, he sat and rocked on his veranda until evening shadows fell.
How could this be? A man his age couldn’t be fool enough to fall in love with a woman for her cooking. He scarcely knew Estelle Truman, yet his heart sang like a mockingbird every time she entered his thoughts.
“Lord, what do I do now? I don’t even know if she’s a believer, though she spoke about doctrine with familiarity. She is so serious and … and cold.” His brows lowered as he remembered Paul’s analogy.
Although his memories were fading, he still recalled Kirsten’s round, rosy face with its almost perpetual smile. Plump, blond, and talkative, she had been Estelle’s exact opposite. No, not exact. Kirsten had been a good cook and housekeeper, too.
“And she loved me,” he murmured. “I wonder if Estelle could love me.”
Warmth brushed his leg, and a cat hopped into his lap. Belle, of course, purring and almost maudlin in her demand for affection. He rubbed her cheeks and chin, assured her of her surpassing beauty, and stroked her silken body while she nuzzled his beard and trilled. Of course, if he had picked her up uninvited, she would have cut him dead with one glance, growled, and struggled to be free.
“Is Estelle like my cat, Lord? Maybe she’ll respond to undemanding affection. How does a man go about courting a woman who’s forgotten how to love?” He sighed. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to get scratched if I try?”
Chapter 4
Cold seeped through the study windows as a late October wind moaned around the parsonage. Frank lifted the new calico curtain to reveal a gray early morning, then settled back in his desk chair with a contented smile. Soon Estelle would come and turn the cold, empty house into a home.
Since she had arrived in August, his life had exchanged confusion for comfort. Organization had never assumed a more appealing form. Even Mary now accomplished work around the house—sweeping, dusting, beating rugs, and laundering. Frank suspected the woman hadn’t known how to keep house until Estelle trained her.
And music had returned to the church. From his seat on the platform, Frank could watch Estelle’s profile as she played piano for the morning service each week. Since her arrival, people had started requesting a longer song service, Lionel Coon had led the singing with renewed enthusiasm, and attendance had increased until there would soon be need for two Sunday services unless the church could afford to enlarge the sanctuary. Whatever the board decided was fine with Frank. More people heard God’s Word each week—that was the important thing.
He occasionally finagled a supper invitation out of Paul and had opportunity to observe Estelle in her brother’s household. Frank sought evidence of thawing around her heart, but she seemed as detached and cool as ever. Flora obviously adored her maiden aunt. Did Estelle care at all for the child? Margie raved about her aunt’s needlework; Estelle had helped design the wedding gown and the gowns for the attendants. Yet did she derive any pleasure from her accomplishments? Thanks to Estelle’s help around the house, Susan had regained much of her strength. Although Susan rained affection and appreciation upon her, Estelle appeared to endure rather than enjoy her sister-in-law’s attention.
Only once had Frank witnessed affection from Estelle Truman. Its recipient had been, of all things, Belle th
e cat. Returning early from a call, he had stopped at the post office, then entered his house quietly, examining his mail. Hearing talk in the study, he had approached and stopped outside the door, amazed to recognize the cooing voice as Estelle’s. Loud purring plus an occasional trilling meow identified her companion. Another step revealed the tableau to his astonished gaze. Estelle cradled the fawning creature in her arms and rubbed her face against Belle’s glossy fur, wearing a tender expression that stole Frank’s breath away.
The floor had creaked, revealing his presence. Two startled faces had looked up at him. Belle leaped to the floor and scooted past his feet. Estelle brushed cat hair from her gown and turned away, but not before he witnessed her deep blush. He could not recall what had been said in those awkward moments.
Would Estelle ever look at him with warmth in her eyes? After all these weeks, he still felt uncertain in her presence. While she no longer openly scorned him, neither did he receive affectionate glances from her. They frequently shared pleasant companionship, sipping tea while discussing the arrangement of paragraphs or catching up on community news. She pampered him with delicious meals and fresh-baked bread. Yet she maintained an emotional distance that discouraged thoughts of romance.
He entertained such thoughts anyway. Kirsten had often accused him of being a hopeless romantic; perhaps it was true. A more hopeless romance than this he could scarcely imagine.
Returning to the present, he flipped through notes for the final chapter of his book. The last chapter. How had it all happened so quickly? Estelle insisted the book had been complete before her arrival; she had simply put his notes in coherent order. He knew better. The book never would have been written without her. How had he survived before she entered his life? He never wanted to return to the colorless, disordered existence he had endured since Kirsten’s death.
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