by Tate, Kristy
Mercy looked out the window to hide the heat staining her cheeks. She wasn’t ready to meet Trent’s formidable grandmother. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready to meet his grandmother. She might be just another person to whom she’d have to later bid goodbye. She might be another person who would wonder what had become of Mercy Faye when she disappeared. Again.
Trent continued to pepper Dorrie with questions. The girl no longer seemed to mind. She relaxed in Trent’s company. No longer sitting ramrod straight on her seat, her shoulders stiff and her mouth a tight, narrow line, she rocked with the swaying coach and occasionally even smiled.
“A small framed girl with brown curly hair? That could describe nearly a dozen girls,” Dorrie told him.
Mercy watched the landscape slide past the window and worried about Rita’s disappearance. She tried not to listen, but in the rhythm the horses clip-clop she heard “it could have been me, it could have been me, it could have been me.” She listened with a grim fascination. Every so often, Trent caught her eye and so she tried to keep her focus on the trees, sheep and cattle that dotted the landscape.
She didn’t know how she felt about Trent’s grandmother. Trent had told her Hester knew about the kiss. Mercy smoothed down her blue poplin dress. Tilly had fussed over Mercy’s appearance, having, of course, the completely wrong idea about Mercy’s visit to the ranch. Mercy jiggled her foot. It couldn’t be helped. She’d thought of confiding in her aunt; she loved her aunt and had infinite trust in her good heart. It was her tongue Mercy didn’t trust. And Dorrie had been fervent about the need for secrecy. Mercy couldn’t blame her.
They rounded a small hill and Mercy let out an inadvertent small gasp. Below her, nestled in a valley of vibrant grass and yellow buttercups sat a white farmhouse with blue trim. The meadow disappeared into a ridge of alders sprouting new green leaves and a pine tree covered mountain topped with snow sat in the distance. Not far from the house lay a massive red barn. Chestnut colored horses in all shapes and sizes meandered in the meadow beyond a white split rail fence.
Dorrie’s chatter stopped and a quick look at her face told Mercy that she’d also fallen under the farm’s spell.
“Are you sure your grandmother won’t mind our sudden arrival?” Mercy asked again, licking her lips and trying to soothe her anxieties.
“We’ll find out,” Trent said. “Besides, she wants to meet you. She’s heard the rumors.”
“More than just, you know?”
Trent’s lips twitched. “No, I don’t know.”
Mercy jutted out her chin. “Well, I’ve heard rumors about her, too.”
Trent leaned towards her. “Not everything you hear is true.”
“Exactly,” Mercy said thinking back to that morning’s conversation with her aunt.
*****
When they arrived at the Michael’s farm, the food on the dining room table was still warm. Sunflowers had been arranged in a cut crystal bowl, four white bone china place settings topped with sparkly goblets sat on the white lace table cloth. The sun peaked through the spotless windows and cast a warm glow over the large dining room and steam rose from chicken stew in the colander.
“How?” Mercy squeaked. “She didn’t know we were coming, right?”
Trent shrugged. “She’s always been omniscient.” A wheat roll emitted a fragrant puff when Trent picked one out of the basket and tore it in two. “It’s a little scary, but you get used to it.”
Mercy stared at the prepared table, her skin crawling. “Are you sure you should eat that?” she asked, wondering if somehow the display of food could be an etiquette test or trick. “She must plan on returning momentarily.”
Trent popped the roll into his mouth and headed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Mercy watched him disappear and stood in the middle of the dining room. She could see the sitting room with its expanse of wood floors, the tall pianoforte, and the elaborately carved fireplace mantle. Windows looked out over the valley and in the distance she could see Mount Rainer. She swallowed hard. Tilly had told her Trent’s grandparents had been Seattle’s royal couple, but she hadn’t told Mercy that they were so wealthy. Mercy looked down at her modest dress. Tilly had made it, had sewn the dozens of shell buttons down the back. Tears had come to Mercy’s eyes when Tilly had given it to her. She had found the soft poplin beautiful, the hand tatted lace at the bodice and sleeves charming, but looking around at the opulent ranch house, Mercy felt tacky, gauche and misplaced.
Seconds later Trent came back through the door. “Even the cook is gone,” he said, scratching his head.
Dorrie looked frightened and pale. Her eyes darted around the room and her fingers plucked at her dress.
“It was a long drive,” Mercy said, laying her hand on Dorrie’s arm.
Trent took the hint. “Would you like to rest?”
Mercy shook her head. “I’m fine, but how about you, Dorrie?”
Dorrie sniffed and admitted she’d like to lie down. Trent led them to a library where shelves of books lined the walls floor to ceiling. After a moment of hesitation, Dorrie curled into a ball on a slipper chair and closed her eyes, but Mercy slowly circled the room eyeing the books. How long would it take to read them all? A fireplace for chilly winter nights, a bay window with a cushioned nook for summer afternoons, a card table for friends and games.
“This is like heaven,” she whispered, awed by the possibilities. “Why would anyone ever want to leave?”
Trent watched her with an unfathomable look in his eyes. “Come on,” he said, with a husky voice. “Let’s go find Gram.”
He held out his hand and she slipped hers into his even though she thought she’d changed her mind and would rather stay in the library with Dorrie. She looked over her shoulder at the girl, whose eyes remained closed.
Mercy drug her feet as Trent pulled her through the kitchen. She stared at the black and gleaming chrome cook stove, the massive oak table dusted with flour. Mercy hadn’t often thought about baking since arriving in Seattle, but suddenly, in the most elaborate kitchen she’d ever seen, her heart twisted in homesickness for the days she’d spent making pies with her mother.
Trent cast her a look as he led her out the back Dutch door and through a vegetable garden. “It’s just a house,” he said, as if he sensed her unease.
“It’s a really lovely house,” Mercy said, stumbling after him. “You must have loved growing up here.”
She couldn’t see his face, but she saw his shoulders shrug. “I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have.” He pulled open the picket gate that separated the garden from the dirt path that led to the barn. “I wanted to go home. I missed Chicago.”
She stopped in front of him. “Could you have stayed? In Chicago, I mean.”
Trent shook his head, looking down at her. “When my parents died, I’d wanted to stay with my Aunt Arlene. I actually tried to run away a couple of times.” He laughed and pointed to the north. “Once I made it as far as the next farm. Spent the night in the Jenson’s barn. Spence Jenson found me the next day in his hay. I had a raging head cold for a week.” He pulled her towards the barn. “I was only seven.”
Mercy imagined Trent at seven, gold curly hair, light green eyes, a smattering of freckles, a city cherub thrown into the gritty world of horse breeding. She hung back. “If you had relatives in Chicago, couldn’t have stayed?”
Trent cleared his throat. “Should I trot out all the family skeletons to a girl who won’t introduce me to any of her own?”
“I don’t have secrets,” Mercy said, and then she immediately blushed over her lie. “Well, not many.”
They stopped beneath an apple tree. A small wind picked up and tossed the white blossoms scattered over the grass. Trent rubbed his thumb across Mercy’s cheek. “Uncle Aidan was a drunk. When I was young, I thought he was fun, witty, always ready to play elaborate games. I loved him and I didn’t understand why Chloe and I couldn’t stay with his family. Luckily, Grandmothe
r understood. And, now, so do I.”
Mercy swallowed. “I’m sorry about your parents. It must have been shocking to lose them suddenly.”
“You know something of that,” Trent said.
Mercy shrugged. “My mother died in childbirth when I was eight. My parents had warned me it would be difficult. I expect they didn’t know exactly how difficult.”
Trent drew her closer to him. “If any of us knew how painful life could be--”
“It doesn’t have to be painful.”
In the nearby stable Mercy heard horses nickering. Birds chirruped in the forest just beyond the pasture. Somewhere close a squirrel chattered. She could smell the apple blossoms, the garden’s fresh turned soil, and the hay in the barn, but all she could see was Trent’s face leaning towards her and when he kissed her, she lost all her senses. His lips on hers, her fingers touching his chest, tentative at first. As the kiss deepened, her arms went around his neck, her hands touched his hair.
And then a loud voice called out, “And what new filly is this?”
Trent straightened and brushed the hair back from his face. “Grandmother,” he said after clearing his throat. “This is Mercy Faye. She’s the girl I told you about, the one helping me look for Rita.”
Hester’s eyes swept over Mercy and Mercy fought the temptation to adjust her twisted bodice. She flushed with embarrassment. This was not how she wanted to meet Trent’s grandmother. Not that she’d particularly wanted to meet her, but if she had to choose the right setting, the right time, the right circumstances, this would not be it.
Hester used the back of her hand to push back her straw hat and that’s when Mercy noticed the blood. Hester’s hands were covered in blood and so was the front of her dress. Mercy looked for a knife, because Hester looked like she’d been butchering pigs.
“Looks to me like you’re helping yourself.”
Trent stood a little straighter and his lips twitched. “I don’t need help.”
“Heaven only knows how badly you need Mercy’s help,” Hester said, chuckling. Then her eyes turned serious and she fixed Trent with an intense look. “I’m glad you’re here. We got a complicated birthing going on. I need your help.”
Trent lost his studied nonchalance and grew alert. “Where?”
Hester nodded at Mount Rainier. “The back pasture. I just came in for the healing broth.”
Trent nodded. “I’ll get it.”
Hester bobbed her head and sent Mercy an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry to spoil your first visit.”
Mercy held up her hand. “No, please, go.” She looked nervously at Hester’s blood stained hands. “Would you like my help?”
Trent shook his head.
“Right. I’d be in the way.”
“Cook had laid a mid day meal,” Hester said, over her shoulder. Already turning away, heading towards the filly in need, she added, “Please, help yourself.”
Trent led her back into the kitchen. She stood in the center of the room and watched as he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a brown jug.
“And that’s --”
“Healing broth. Gram’s cure for everything,” Trent said, straightening, and wiping the dust off a large brown jug.
“Even horses?”
“Especially horses.”
“But, why does she keep it in the kitchen? Why not keep it in the stable?”
“Because, unfortunately, it’s an all purpose healer.” Trent held up the bottle and looked at it with grimace. “Are you sure you’ll be alright here on your own?”
Mercy nodded, thinking of the all the lovely books in the library. “Of course. Go help your grandmother.”
*****
Although Dorrie looked like a napping fairy, she snored like a drunken sailor. Mercy, not wanting to wake her, had silently slipped the first book she came to off the shelves, but when Dorrie started, Mercy quickly left the room. In the hall, she frowned when she saw she’d chosen a book on philosophy. Flipping open to a random page she read, “Is determinism true? Does free will exist? Determinism is roughly defined as the view that all current and future events are causally necessitated by past events combined with the laws of nature. Compatibilism, also called soft determinism, is the view that the assumption of free will and the existence of a concept of determinism are compatible with each other; this is opposed to incompatibilism which is the view that there is no way to reconcile--”
She stood in the hall, the book dangling from her fingers. We are agents unto ourselves, she reminded herself of Pastor Klum’s sermon, free to chose, free to act.
What would an etiquette book say about her situation? Surely, bringing a prostitute to meet a young man’s grandmother had to be a unique social situation. Besides, Trent couldn’t be classified as “her” young man, could he? Did the kisses define their relationship? Because, if so, she’d love to have a dictionary spell it out for her.
She wandered over to the dining room and trailed her finger along the table. The food looked delicious but couldn’t tempt her. The table had been set for four, but eighteen chairs stood at the ready and four more lined the walls. Twenty-two could fit at the table. Mercy turned away thinking of the tiny board in New York that she’d shared with her parents. After their deaths, how many nights had she sat alone? She went to the window that overlooked the meadow. Could all this land be theirs? The stretch of green that melded into distant trees, the cerulean sky dotted with cotton clouds, the innumerable buttercups-- it all seemed overwhelming compared to the solitary and simple life she’d known.
She hadn’t gone to school. She’d been taught to read and write by her parents. The numbers had been taught and then applied in the kitchen where she’d stood by her parents baking bread, pastries, and sweet meats. Three cups of flour per loaf of bread, three eggs per cake, one cup of lard for biscuits. Mercy’s eyes returned to the food. Sliced ham, braised carrots, mashed potatoes, rolls…no dessert. With a cautious glance around to make sure she was alone, she walked into the kitchen. It was as lovely as she remembered.
She leaned against the doorjamb and indulged in memories of fragrant pies, golden crusts, the feel of dough stiffening beneath her fingers. A clock tick-tocked on the wall. Outside, the cottony clouds turned translucent as the sun sunk. She wouldn’t need to snoop -- she could see the flour and sugar bins sitting beneath the counter. The rolling pin hung on a rack on the wall along with a host of other cooking utensils. Even from the doorway she could tell the oven was still warm; she could feel its radiating heat.
No.
We are free to act, to choose our course.
Women, strong, territorial women such as Hester appeared to be, didn’t appreciate other women trespassing in their kitchens, but what kind of impression could she have made on Trent’s grandmother? All Mrs. Michaels could possibly know from their short meeting was that Trent enjoyed kissing her. That was certainly not the impression Mercy wanted to give. First impressions are the most important, but could Mercy alter that? She turned back to the dining room and considered the meal on the table. Double checked. No dessert.
She reminded herself of all the hearts she’d won over through baking. Would Mrs. Michaels be any different? Was she as susceptible to a gooey dessert as Mercy’s past customers?
Mercy’s mouth began to water. I’m being silly, she scolded herself. She could eat, but she couldn’t sit and eat at that big table by herself. She could take a plate and eat at the little table in the sunny kitchen, but that also felt wrong.
Her gaze landed on a row of bottles of homemade cider, each clearly labeled. Slowly, she walked to the pantry. Looking wasn’t cooking. She pushed open the door. Jars of dried apple slices. Cinnamon sticks. Nuggets of nutmeg. Honey.
She had everything she needed.
CHAPTER 20
When making this type of pie crust, chill the fat and liquids before beginning. Chilling prevents the fat pieces from getting creamed into the flour.
From the Recipes of Mercy Faye
The next evening, as promised, a wagon pulled into the back alley behind the shop. Even though it was barely seven, the sun burned hot and a furnace like wind blew back Mercy’s hair as she helped Trent.
“I’ll get this,” he said, lugging a sack of flour as she tried to help. She watched him cart in the fifth bag; he hadn’t let her help him carry one. Sweat rolled down his face and as he brushed past her in the doorway she saw where his shirt had grown sticky and clung to his back.
She followed him to the wagon where Mugs stood holding the reins of a large gentle creature, unlike the stallion Trent typically rode. A few crates holding bottles of dried fruit and cider still remained in the wagon.
When Mercy moved towards them, Trent said, “Let me.”
Mercy crossed her arms. “You haven’t let me do anything.”
Trent stopped, his lips twitching. “You’ll have plenty to do.”
Tilly stood in the middle of the back kitchen, plucking at her skirts. Her gaze flicked between Mercy and Trent, trying to read their expressions. When Trent deposited the last crate, he stood, brushed his hands on his pants and gave Tilly a sheepish smile.
Mercy wondered if her aunt hadn’t been here if he would kiss her goodbye. She didn’t know when she’d see him again; all she knew was that his Grandmother needed him at the ranch for birthing season. Since Dorrie had seemed adamant that a girl of Rita’s description wasn’t at the brothel, Mrs. Michaels thought Trent should leave town and help at the ranch. Or so she said. Did she want Trent at the ranch because Mercy was in town and was best to be avoided? Mrs. Michaels had seemed friendly enough, and she’d obviously enjoyed Mercy’s pie, but Mercy felt unsure.
Trent pushed his hair off his moist forehead. “Take care,” he said. “I’ll call when I come back into town.”