As she walked down the porch, a basket in each hand, she realized she had miscalculated the number needed to adorn the rafters. She’d start from the front and work her way back. She tiptoed to the corner and put the baskets down. She returned for her stepladder, and as she carried it to the front, it bumped along the floorboards. She froze, expecting Mr. Keller to shuffle out the door to check on the noise. When he didn’t appear, she continued until she had unloaded everything in the wagon.
From the corner, she studied the overhang. With a hammer in one hand and two nails in the other, she climbed the stepstool, reached high overhead, and tapped a nail into the wood. A thin crack appeared. Would a section of the overhang split and fall? Mr. Keller wouldn’t appreciate it if she destroyed his property in the process of decorating it.
Tucking her tongue behind her teeth, Gladys waited and the nail held. Next she centered the basket handle on the nail. She stepped down to study the effect. Good. Setting another arrangement on the railing, she climbed the stepstool to hammer the second nail in place.
As she adjusted a couple of ribbons around the berries, she wondered what else she could do for Mr. Keller. Fashioning a few bows hardly qualified as a mission project, and she wanted to do more. She tapped the nail in and reached for the basket.
Behind her, the front door banged. “What are you doing?”
The edge of the door caught the stepstool, throwing Gladys off balance. Her arms windmilled, her feet slipped, and she fell backward.
Into two strong arms.
“Oomph.”
The arms lifted her and held her steady while she regained her footing. The basket had fallen, crushing the bows and scattering the juniper branches across the floor.
Falling into Mr. Keller’s arms wasn’t the introduction Gladys had hoped for.
Slowly she turned around to meet the man she wanted to help. And looked up … and up … and up. Long legs, straight limbs, strong arms … brown hair.
Definitely not Norman Keller.
Haydn stared at the person who had been making all the noise. Her cheeks gleamed bright red beneath a green knit cap, and brown curls bounced on her shoulders. Her mouth opened just far enough to reveal straight white teeth. This little thing didn’t weigh much more than a hummingbird. “Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.” She brushed her hands on her coat and glanced at the porch, covered with greens and ribbons and straw baskets. What was this stranger doing on the porch on a ladder in the middle of winter? The Old Man hadn’t mentioned any guests.
“I apologize for making such a mess.” She gestured helplessly at the scattered items on the floor. “If you give me a broom, I’ll clean it up.”
The Old Man’s pride demanded Haydn refuse. As he stepped to the side, a board moved underneath his foot, a reminder of all the repairs needed on the house. Whoever this stranger was, at least she wanted to help. “Let me get one for you.” He paused at the door. “But who are you?” And what are you doing here?
“I’m Gladys Polson.” Shivering, she slipped on a pair of gloves. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m Haydn …” He hesitated in mid-introduction. “Haydn Johnson.” He used the name he often gave in his newspaper work.
Miss Gladys Polson was as pretty as a Christmas angel, standing there against the backdrop of the winter-white world, and whatever her purpose in coming to the house, she surely meant no harm. He smiled. “Look, it’s a miserable day. Come in and get warmed up before you do any more work.”
Her mouth opened, and he thought she was going to refuse. Tilting her head, she touched her lips with a mittened hand. “I’d like that.”
Haydn held the door open.
“Who was it making all that blasted noise?” The Old Man’s petulant voice carried across the living room.
“It’s Gladys Polson.”
“Don’t know her.”
Gladys crossed the room to greet the man sitting in the straight-backed chair by the lowlying fire. “Good afternoon, Mr. Keller. You may not remember me, but I want to introduce myself. We’re members of the same church.”
Haydn hid a smile behind his hand. The Old Man didn’t know how to respond to this force of nature. “So you were the one making all that racket out there?”
Pink tinged Gladys’s cheeks. “I apologize for the noise. I had hoped you might not hear me inside. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
She shivered, and Haydn remembered how cold the living room had seemed when he first arrived. He added a couple of logs to the fire, and soon the flames leaped merrily. “I’ll fix us some hot tea while the room warms up some.”
Gladys nodded. “Thank you.”
As she unbuttoned the top button of her coat, he started forward. “I’m sorry. Let me help you.” He stood behind her, his arms easing behind her slim shoulders, ready to take the coat as it slid from her back. This close, she smelled like rosewater and cedar needles. Draping the coat over his arm, he pulled the chair closer to the fire. “Sit here by the fire until the room gets warmer.”
She glanced at the man in the chair, huddled beneath a thick blanket. Noting her silent interest, Haydn scooted the Old Man’s chair closer to the fire.
“What the fool do you think you’re doing?”
“Putting your feet to the fire. Doesn’t that feel better?”
Scowling, the Old Man stared at the fireplace. “It’s a waste of good firewood, that fire is.”
Yes, Mr. Scrooge. “We want our company to feel welcome, don’t we?”
Gladys stared at her hands, folding and unfolding them in her lap. “Go ahead and fix the tea while Mr. Keller and I visit.” She flashed a smile full of genuine warmth at Haydn, and he relaxed.
“Three cups of tea, coming up. I wish I could offer you some cookies, but all we have is a couple of slices of bread.” He grinned.
Walking into the kitchen, Haydn questioned why he had offered tea instead of coffee. Maybe because tea seemed like the kind of thing he should offer a lady. Hot cocoa sounded even better on a cold day, but he didn’t know how to make it, some slow process of heating milk and adding cocoa powder and sugar. He’d prefer coffee, but they only had the dregs of the pot from the morning.
He couldn’t mess up boiling water and adding tea leaves. He opened the cabinets to the usual collection of blue enamelware but then changed his mind and headed instead for the china cabinet. If he was going to entertain a stranger, even one up to an unexplained errand on the front porch, he might as well do it in style. A silver tray nestled at the back of the china cabinet; he brought out three cups and saucers that looked like they hadn’t been touched in a month of Sundays. He cleaned them with a dishrag, filled a sugar bowl, and poured fresh cream into a small pitcher.
While he waited for the water to boil, he listened to the quiet murmurs of conversation from the living room. Gladys spoke in a pleasant cadence, and the Old Man answered in short, one-word answers.
After the water came to a boil, Haydn poured it over the tea leaves in the pretty china teapot.
“I have a question of my own.” A querulous voice broke the quiet murmurs. “What are you up to, disturbing my peace and doing all that hammering on my front porch?”
Chapter 2
The tray tilted in Haydn’s hands, and he righted it. Waiters and hostesses might handle trays with a single deft hand, but he kept all ten fingers on this one. His host would never let him hear the end of it if he dropped any of the china. Through the open doorway, he watched the tableau unfolding before him. The Old Man had his hands on the arms of his chair, his face set in an angry mask.
Across from him, Gladys leaned forward, perfectly at ease in this awkward social situation. “Why, I’m obeying our Lord’s command.”
“Speak up, young lady. I can’t hear you.”
“I’m obeying our Lord’s command.” The girl spoke louder and slower, as if used to speaking to someone who was hard of hearing.
“Which
one is that? The one that says to trouble a man in his own home?” The Old Man waved
Haydn into the room. “Come on, young man. Stop hovering.” Haydn laid the tray on a small table with a marble top.
“Shall I?” Gladys reached for the teapot as if she was the hostess, ignoring the outburst. “What do you like in your tea, Mr. Keller?”
“A teaspoon of sugar.”
She stirred in the sugar. “The command to love our neighbors as we love ourselves.”
“You don’t live next to me.” He looked through the windows on either side of the parlor. “I would recognize you.”
“No, I don’t. How do you like your tea, Mr. Johnson?”
The Old Man looked up sharply at that, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. He covered his chuckle with a sip of tea.
“I’ll take it black, please.”
Handing the cup to Haydn, Gladys continued her explanation. “But everyone in Calico is my neighbor, don’t you see? God brought you to my mind. I realized I don’t know much about you except your name. And I thought I should remedy the situation.”
“Busybody.” The word came out under the Old Man’s breath.
If Gladys heard him, she ignored him. After she fixed her own cup of tea, adding both sugar and cream, she leaned forward and chafed her hands together in front of the fire. “A fire cheers up a room, doesn’t it?”
The temperature had risen a few degrees. The Old Man no longer looked so drawn. It was a surprise he hadn’t come down with a cold before now. Haydn would keep the fire going after Gladys left.
“You still haven’t explained all the hammering.”
Gladys’s face turned bright pink. So this question came closer to revealing her true purpose for showing up this morning. Haydn leaned forward, awaiting her answer.
“I had some bows left over from last Christmas that look good against greenery.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “From what I could see from the outside, you didn’t have a Christmas tree. I thought some hanging baskets might cheer up the house.”
The Old Man harrumphed. “Seems a waste to cut down a tree just so’s to decorate a house for a couple of days a year.”
“We each may celebrate the birth of our Lord in whatever way we wish, that is true. But I didn’t notice you at church any time during December.” She batted her eyelashes, making her stinging statement into innocence reborn.
“I don’t have to go to church to know the Savior.”
“That’s true. But God wants us to love each other. It’s hard to do that if we never see each other. That’s why I’m here.” Gladys smiled, having brought her argument full circle.
Haydn felt the indictment. He, who had good reason to love the Old Man, hadn’t bothered to spend much time with him at all since he started college four years ago. This slip of a girl was practicing the heart of the law: to love the Lord God and to love one’s neighbor as one’s self.
She poured both men a second cup of tea before standing. “Now, with your permission, I will return to hanging the baskets.” She slipped on her coat and headed outside.
“Well, go after her. Make her stop.”
A smile sprang to Haydn’s lips. “What, and stop her in her God-given mission in life? You have to admit, it’s kind of sweet.” He stood behind the curtain, watching Gladys move the precarious stepstool. Soon the banging of the hammer resumed.
“Sit down, why don’t you,” the Old Man said. “We haven’t yet had that conversation I promised you.”
“Very well, Grandfather.” Haydn settled in his chair. “You do have some interesting neighbors.”
“Sweet, I think you said.” A calculating look brightened his dark brown eyes. “That’s just as well, given the nature of my proposition to you.”
Haydn arched an eyebrow. “I thought since I graduated from college, it was high time I came for a visit.”
“Your father and I have been in communication. Believe it or not, we do write to each other.”
Haydn did know. Something in the Old Man’s most recent letter had scared his father enough to insist his only son come straight to Calico. Haydn leaned forward. “I’m here to help in any way I can, Grandfather.”
“Humph.” Grandfather’s gnarled fingers tapped the arm of his chair. “It’s more what I can do to help you. I understand you’re interested in the newspaper business.”
Haydn nodded. “I was the editor of my college paper my last two years at school. I’ve applied for an internship at the Topeka Blade. The editor who interviewed me said I have a good chance.” That news had brightened Haydn’s Christmas holidays considerably.
“What would you say if I told you that in spite of its amenities, one thing Calico sorely needs is a newspaper?”
Was the Old Man suggesting …? It was out of character from what Haydn knew of him. “That’s good news for someone who has capital to invest.” He closed his mouth before he mentioned his financial constraints. From what his father had said, the Old Man believed each man should make his own fortune.
“Or someone who has an investor willing to back the enterprise.” The words fell into a dead silence in the room.
Haydn slowly leaned forward, clenching his hands in his lap. “What do you mean?” He reached for a log, ready to add it to the fire.
“Don’t do that. Can’t waste good money.”
Haydn tamped his impatience. The Old Man’s idea of a warm room barely kept water from freezing. Why he wasn’t sick remained a mystery, but they could talk about that later.
“Sit back and look me in the eye.”
Haydn did as his grandfather requested, resting his hands on the arms of the chair while the silence lengthened.
At last his grandfather put on a pair of glasses he only used when he was reading his Bible. “There’s a folder on top of my desk. Bring it out here.”
Haydn walked down the hallway, growing chillier the farther he moved from the parlor. A single thick folder sat on top of his grandfather’s desk, newsprint curling over the edges. He started to pull back the cover then decided against it. His grandfather had taken effort planning this surprise; Haydn wouldn’t ruin it.
The Old Man gestured for Haydn to lay the folder on the end table by his arm. “They’re all in there.” He opened the folder and pulled out a piece of paper about a foot long and two inches wide—a newspaper article from the looks of it. Grandfather peered over the top of his glasses then brought it in closer and read from it. TRENTON RUNS FOR TOWN COUNCIL.
The words sent a shiver of shock through Haydn. He had guessed that the file held his articles, but not that one. He had been so proud when his first piece appeared in his hometown paper when he was sixteen years old. He had been joyfully surprised when the Topeka Blade picked up the story.
“You weren’t expecting that, were you?” The Old Man chuckled. “Your father sent everyone he knew a copy. He was so proud.” He cleared his throat. “So, for that matter, was I. So I asked him to keep me apprised if you had anything else published. I have watched your burgeoning career with interest. You have a gift with words, my boy.”
He paused, inviting Haydn to respond. But what could he say? “I didn’t know … thank you.”
“It seems that Calico’s need and your talent intersect.” The Old Man hammered his fist on the arm of the chair. “So, tell me, are you interested?”
Haydn drew in a deep breath. His dreams, handed to him on a silver platter. “Yes.”
Grandfather’s dark eyes so like his own glittered in the darkening room. “Since you are my heir, it is a fitting use of my capital.”
Haydn hadn’t thought he’d ever hear those words. “I would appreciate the opportunity, sir.”
“Wait until you hear my conditions.” The Old Man scowled. “It is only right for me to help you. Frankly, I’d like to see how you handle money. I had to earn mine the old-fashioned way.”
Haydn had heard the same song when his father insisted Haydn pay for his own college education. “I�
�ve kept my books balanced while I worked my way through college, sir. Running a business can’t be much more difficult than paying tuition and bills on a part-time salary.”
“Perhaps.” The Old Man grunted. He had left school after eighth grade and didn’t hold much use for college education. “Be that as it may. I will help you launch a newspaper in Calico and give you twelve months to make it a profitable enterprise. But I do have one condition. One that is nonnegotiable.”
The Old Man gazed at the fire’s glowing embers. Haydn waited patiently, his mind awhirl with possible demands Grandfather might make of him. Starting with the fact that he would have to live in Calico to run a newspaper here.
“I’m not getting any younger, and I have regretted the distance separating me from my family since your father moved away. The newspaper would allow me to spend time with you, but I want more.” The Old Man looked at Haydn, mirth dancing in his eyes. “I want to see your children before I die. My one requirement is for you to become engaged before my next birthday and to marry before year’s end.”
Of all the … Haydn’s father had warned him the Old Man could be unreasonable and demanding, convinced he knew what was best for everyone. But surely Haydn’s future wife was a matter between Haydn and God—and the young woman in question, of course.
Grandfather looked expectant. Haydn schooled his features not to reveal his shock at the demand.
“Are you courting anyone at the moment?” The Old Man managed to make it sound like a job interview.
“No.” Haydn thought about the coeds who had caught his eye during college. None of them returned his interest, however. The debutantes his mother paraded for his inspection lacked intelligence or beauty or spunk. Haydn was in no rush to marry; he figured God had exactly the right person out there when the time came.
Gladys Polson’s face floated through Haydn’s mind. That one had plenty of spunk, climbing stepladders and hanging baskets on a near stranger’s porch in the dead of winter. Her comments suggested both intelligence and spiritual hunger.
Don’t be ridiculous. Only Grandfather’s suggestion brought Gladys to mind.
Love Is Patient Romance Collection Page 21