Maggie's War

by Terrie Todd

  Okay, Lord, I admit I am low on compassion where Bonnie Cartwright is concerned, he confessed as he reached for the doorknob. From the back door of the church, he could hear the telephone jangling in his office. He ran to grab it.

  “Smith Street Community Church, Reuben Fennel speaking.”

  Silence. Reuben decided the caller had given up before he’d answered and went to replace the receiver in its cradle, but then he heard the familiar voice.

  “Reverend? Reuben?”

  “Yes.” He could have sworn the voice was Maggie Marshall’s, but he figured his ears were playing tricks on him because she’d been on his mind.

  “It’s me. Maggie.”

  Reuben sat. The sudden addition of weight started his wooden office chair’s wheels turning. The chair scooted backward, dragging the telephone halfway across Reuben’s desk and knocking a heavy concordance to the floor—but only after it hit the edge of the metal wastebasket, tipping it over with a crash.

  “Uh. Maggie! I was just—uh. Good to hear from you.”

  “What’s the commotion? Did I call at a bad time?”

  “Uh, no. Not at all, uh . . . Maggie. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, if your sermons are as well delivered as your phone conversations, I haven’t been missing much.”

  It was Maggie, all right.

  “Sorry about that, I just, uh . . . dropped something. No problem.”

  “Anyway,” Maggie continued. “Looks like I need to take you up on your offer. You know, when you said to call if I needed anything.”

  “Of course!” Reuben pulled the chair closer to his desk and sat. “I’m glad you called. What is it you need?”

  “Well, it’s kind of complicated. I was hoping to make an appointment and talk to you about it in person.”

  Reuben stood his wastebasket upright and returned the concordance to his desktop. “Certainly. When would you like to come?”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  Looking down at his appointment book, Reuben picked up a pencil and neatly stroked out Bonnie Cartwright’s name. “A slot just opened up, in an hour. Can you get here by then?”

  “Back door?”

  “That’s best, yes.”

  “I’ll be there.” Maggie hung up without a good-bye.

  “Forgive me, Lord,” Reuben muttered. “But if I said ‘I’m sorry,’ we both know I’d be lying.”

  CHAPTER 5

  After calling Bonnie Cartwright to reschedule, Reuben completed precisely three sentences of his Sunday sermon in the hour he waited for Maggie Marshall’s arrival. What was it she needed? As strong-willed and independent as Maggie seemed, he’d never dreamed she would look to him for help, no matter how many times he offered. It must be something serious for her to have swallowed her pride and asked. Would he be able to help her? Finally, he brushed aside his paperwork and rested his forehead against his hands, his elbows on the big oak desk.

  “Lord, who am I to counsel a new widow when I’ve never even been married? Whatever it is Maggie’s coming to me for, equip me to help her. Please give me wisdom. I don’t want to let her down.”

  Reuben heard the door open and close, as if on cue. He went to his office door and saw Maggie shaking water out of an umbrella and wiping her shoes on the mat. When had it started to rain?

  “Hello, Maggie. Don’t worry about your shoes. Come on in.”

  “It’s really coming down out there.” Maggie grabbed one edge of her full skirt and gave it a flip to shake out the water, then walked toward Reuben.

  “Let’s hope this doesn’t continue for the funeral tomorrow, eh?” Reuben said.

  Maggie raised one eyebrow, making him wish he could retract his words. What had made him say such a thing? What difference did it make what the weather did? Perhaps a rainy day was perfect for a funeral. But instead of trying to backpedal and risk making things worse, he changed the subject.

  “Have a seat, Maggie. Can I get you some tea? We even have a little sugar, I think.”

  “Oh, that isn’t necessary.” Maggie sat in one of the two chairs facing Reuben’s desk.

  “Well now, I didn’t ask if it was necessary. But you got yourself rained on out there, and I bet you’d like a nice hot cup of tea. It’s all ready.”

  “I’d like to come right to the point, if you don’t mind.” Maggie pulled some papers out of her purse and flattened them across her lap.

  “All right.” Instead of sitting behind his desk, Reuben turned the other chair to face Maggie and sat in it. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “Remember when you offered to sit with me at the funeral tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I’d like it if you would.”

  “Oh? Well, certainly. I’d be happy to sit with you. But you didn’t have to come all the way down here to ask me that. You could have said something on the telephone.” Reuben’s curiosity was definitely piqued.

  “There’s more.”

  “I thought there must be.”

  Maggie shuffled the papers in her hand. “Reuben, did you know my father left the restaurant to both Douglas and me when he died?”

  Reuben remembered Bert Sutherland as a levelheaded, hardworking man. “Well, I never really thought about it, but I guess that makes sense . . . if your brother wasn’t interested in the business.”

  “He wasn’t. I was.”

  Reuben waited, but Maggie’s gaze drifted to the window, where the rain still formed rivulets. He felt himself wanting to stare at her, knowing full well doing so was inappropriate.

  “I’ve had some wonderful meals there, Maggie, before and since your father passed.”

  Maggie sighed. Then her voice took on an angry tone and she spoke through a clenched jaw. “This morning I found out that Doug changed his will before he shipped out. He left his half of the restaurant to his brother.” She held the papers out for Reuben to see.

  He took the will and sat back in his chair, skimming the document. It all looked completely official and legal, as far as he could tell. What on earth was Maggie going to ask of him? And why did he suddenly want so badly to be able to do it, whatever it was?

  “I see. Is that a problem?”

  “A problem? Yes, it’s a problem.” Maggie’s tone made Reuben feel like a moron. “That was my father’s restaurant. He and my mother worked hard to build that place up and grow its clientele. It should be mine.”

  Reuben called upon his most soothing pastoral voice. “It still will be, Maggie. It will be half yours, just like it has been since your father died. Am I misunderstanding something?” Reuben checked the signature at the bottom of the page.

  “It will be half Earl Marshall’s.” Maggie’s fists were clenched in her lap. “And that’s just unacceptable. Daddy would never have wanted this.”

  “It’s a challenging thing for a woman to run such an establishment all on her own. It seems to me that your husband was trying to protect you by arranging for his half to pass to his brother. He didn’t want to burden you with the sole responsibility of—”

  “Responsibility? Don’t talk to me about responsibility!” Maggie’s face was turning red. “I’ve been running that place alone since my father died, Reuben Fennel. And let me tell you, the job became a far sight easier when my dear husband went off to Europe.” She all but poked Reuben in the chest with her pointer finger.

  Reuben knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. The fire in Maggie’s voice nearly restored the youthful amber glow to her hair instead of the faded beige it had become. But this new piece of information was something he had wondered about—just what kind of relationship had Maggie and her husband had? Had Douglas merely been too passive to match Maggie’s ambitious work ethic, or was it worse?

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t realize things were so difficult for you. I mean, before.”

  Maggie looked him straight in the eyes for a moment, then spoke quickly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” She rea
ched for the papers, but Reuben hung on to them more tightly.

  “No. I’m glad you came.”

  “So you could talk some sense into me? Help the little woman understand how it is?” She rose to her feet, still reaching for the papers.

  “No. I apologize, Maggie, I just . . . Help me understand the full story here. Tell me about your brother-in-law.”

  Maggie focused on a point on the far wall for a moment, then finally lowered herself back into the chair.

  “Let’s just say I don’t trust the man, Reuben. I wouldn’t want to partner with him in a three-legged race at the Sunday school picnic, let alone a business. Let alone my father’s business!”

  Reuben sighed. He didn’t know much about married life, but he had to wonder: How could a man make such an important decision without consulting his wife? Still, there wasn’t a lot to be gained in agreeing that Maggie had been wronged in this. Surely there was some bright side to be found.

  “Have you spoken with your brother-in-law about it yet, Maggie?”

  “I have not.” Maggie played with the snap on her purse.

  “Well, there. How can you be so sure he’s not to be trusted?”

  She sighed and snapped the purse closed with a firm click. “Let’s just say I know.”

  “All right. Let’s say your assessment is correct. You still need to speak with him and find out what he intends to do with his share, right? Perhaps he would sell, either to you or someone you feel you could work with.”

  Maggie’s head was shaking before Reuben finished his speech. “I want to fight this, Reuben.”

  “Okay. What did your lawyer tell you?” He looked at the papers in his hand again, trying to decipher the legal lingo.

  “That I don’t have a prayer.”

  “Well, perhaps we need a second opinion.”

  “That’s just it. I can’t afford lawyer’s fees. I can barely afford to keep the restaurant open, and I certainly can’t afford to buy Earl out.”

  Reuben sighed. He wanted to help Maggie, but her troubles were completely outside his realm of expertise. And, while the whole thing did seem unfair, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she might be overreacting.

  “What was it you were hoping for from me, Maggie? I’m not an attorney. I really don’t know anything about the legalities of such things.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “I guess I was hoping you’d go with me when I talk to Earl. Just for support, or . . . oh, I don’t know.” She took the legal documents from Reuben’s hand and folded them into her purse. “I’m sorry I bothered you with this.”

  “Maggie, you’re not bothering me. I want to help you. And of course I’ll go with you. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  For the second time since she’d walked in the door, Maggie looked straight into Reuben’s eyes. He tried to ignore the warmth that stirred in his heart. “Let me sleep on this, Maggie. Do you mind if I ask around a bit? Without giving your name, of course.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” She snapped her purse shut.

  “In the meantime, I can tell you one thing your lawyer was wrong about, with absolute certainty.”

  Maggie looked up, a faint glimmer of what might be hope in her eyes.

  “When he said you don’t have a prayer, he was badly mistaken. I’ll be praying for you like crazy. And I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice had softened to nearly a whisper.

  When he showed Maggie out the door, the rain had stopped and the sun was out. As they stepped outside, they were hit with a wall of hot, muggy air. He watched until Maggie reached the bus stop half a block down the street, then he came back inside, perspiration forming on his upper lip.

  “Lord, I have no idea what to do for Maggie.” He spoke the words aloud as he returned to his desk. “This one is way too big for me. But thank you. Thank you that she asked.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Charlotte picked the last bean in the row, just as the rain started. Fresh rain on a neatly weeded garden ought to make Mrs. Marshall happy. She welcomed the cool raindrops on her face as she took her time putting the tools away in the tiny garden shed, then gathered up her basket of beans and carried them inside. By the time she’d washed up and settled herself at the kitchen table with a glass of water and a knife, the downpour had subsided and the sun shone again. She was glad to be done outdoors, knowing how humid the air would feel after the rain. I won’t get a wink of sleep tonight in that stifling upstairs bedroom.

  She was halfway through trimming and cutting the beans when Mrs. Marshall appeared. Without a word, the woman hung her umbrella on its hook and walked past Charlotte, as though she weren’t there.

  Maybe she won’t even notice when I’m gone.

  When Mrs. Marshall came back downstairs, she had changed out of her good gray dress into her everyday gray dress. The woman dressed like a nun. Charlotte watched her tie an apron around her trim waist, find another knife, and take a seat next to her. She started in on the beans, working at twice the speed Charlotte worked.

  “Shall I get the canner going?” Charlotte asked, breaking the silence.

  “No. It’s too hot to can. Let’s put these in the icebox and serve them when we reopen.”

  I won’t be here when we reopen, Charlotte mused. By late Thursday, she would have found her way to Reginald and everything would be right again. Mrs. Marshall would have to find another slave to serve her beans.

  “Leave out a good bunch for our supper,” Mrs. Marshall said. “There’s still some chicken in the icebox. After supper, we should turn in early. Big day tomorrow.”

  Charlotte looked up. Oh no. Surely she wasn’t expected to attend the funeral, was she? That would ruin everything! She had to think of something, quick.

  “I know you’ll want to spend as much time as possible with friends and family tomorrow,” Charlotte began, ignoring the snort that came from the other woman. “So I thought I’d stay here and get things set up for reopening. Maybe do the laundry, too. And with this weather, there’s sure to be more things to pick in that garden by tomorrow—”

  “Relax. You don’t have to go to the funeral.”

  The woman had read her like a book. How did she do that? They continued working together quietly until only a handful of beans remained in the bottom of the basket.

  When Mrs. Marshall broke the silence, Charlotte nearly jumped. “Things may soon be looking a little different around here.”

  Charlotte waited for her boss to continue. What was that supposed to mean? Was there a new girl coming? That would work out well, actually. Charlotte really wouldn’t be missed.

  “I’ve been thinking of renovating the restaurant.”

  “Oh?” This was not what Charlotte had expected, but it was nice to hear the woman talking about something besides more tasks to be completed.

  “This war has got to end sometime soon, and when it does, I want to be ready. The boys will be coming home, and there will be celebrations galore. Folks will want a nice place to go for a good meal.” Mrs. Marshall took Charlotte’s knife and carried both knives to the sink.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Charlotte didn’t give a fig about renovations, but she might as well keep the woman talking.

  “We’ve got good meals already. What we need is more space.” Mrs. Marshall began walking around the room, and Charlotte could almost see the gears turning in the woman’s head as she envisioned her plan coming to fruition.

  “How would you create more space?”

  Mrs. Marshall stood at the window. “My father bought the lot next door and had it appended to this one, thinking to expand one day, but it never happened. I figure we could add more dining space on the south side, knock that wall out.”

  Charlotte tried to picture it. “Sounds ambitious.”

  “Oh, I don’t suppose it’ll affect you any. It’ll be at least a couple of months before I can get everything organized for the work to start. You’ll be gone home by then, I imagine.”
<
br />   “My baby is due in five weeks.”

  To Charlotte’s surprise, Mrs. Marshall gazed at her with a look that might almost be called tender. Then she scooped up the empty basket and walked over to hang it by the door. “Start some of the beans cooking for our supper now, and put the rest in the icebox. You can pull that chicken out of there, too. I’ll go down to the cellar and fetch apples.”

  Charlotte did as she was told, amazed. It was the first time Mrs. Marshall had offered to go down to the cellar herself. She always sent Charlotte. Had the reminder of Charlotte’s due date finally sparked an ounce of compassion in her?

  Glad for the chance to cut more chicken meat away from the bones so Mrs. Marshall wouldn’t notice the bit that was already missing, Charlotte placed generous slices onto two plates while the green beans steamed on the stovetop. She added a handful of freshly pulled carrots to their plates and filled two glasses with water. While Mrs. Marshall cleaned and sliced the apples, Charlotte drained the beans and divided them between the two plates. The pair sat down to eat in silence.

  As she contemplated her plan for the next day, Charlotte felt too excited to swallow much.

  “Too hot to eat?” Mrs. Marshall focused on Charlotte’s full plate.

  That was as good an excuse as any. “I guess so,” she said.

  “Better eat up. That baby needs nourishment.”

  Charlotte knew she’d need to keep her own strength up for the trip ahead, and kept coaxing the food down her throat. By the time they’d finished their chicken and beans, the apple slices went down more easily.

  After they finished, Mrs. Marshall disappeared into her little office off the kitchen. Charlotte could hear the rat-a-tat of the adding machine while she washed the dishes. Mrs. Marshall was no doubt figuring out what her renovation plans were going to cost. How could she be thinking about such things when her husband had just died? Charlotte didn’t understand.