by Janette Oke
“Well, we will all have more work to do when guests arrive,” Julia continued.
“Who’s coming?” asked Felicity, for the moment forgetting that her mouth was not empty.
“Well, no one—yet. I mean—I do not know of anyone yet. But it is still early. The advertising has hardly had time to be seen. But when—when we do have guests, we all will have to help. There will be extra cleaning, and laundry, and jobs in the kitchen.”
Julia saw concern, then interest, then excitement in the twins’ eyes. “What do we have to do?” asked Felicity candidly.
“Well, I thought I might make a list of chores, and each of you can pick the ones you’d like to do.”
“A whole bunch?” asked Felicity, a frown appearing. Jennifer’s elbow nudged her.
“Not a whole bunch. Some. And it will depend on how many people are here,” explained Julia.
“I’ll collect the rent,” offered Felicity, her eyes shining, and Julia and Jennifer both shared the joke.
“It won’t be rent, really,” explained Julia. “They will only stay for a short time—so it will be—fees, I guess. Lodging fees.”
“I’ll wait for the list,” said Jennifer.
“Will there just be big people?” asked Felicity, her eyes holding Julia’s.
“Perhaps not. I have said that we have three bedrooms and so could take families,” Julia answered.
Felicity and Jennifer exchanged nervous glances. “Will we need to share our things?” asked Felicity.
“Your own private possessions, no. But the porch swing and the playhouse, perhaps. Tom is going to build a sandbox and a teeter totter. We want the children to have something to do. The parents will enjoy their stay more if their children are happy,” Julia explained. “Then perhaps they will want to come again—and tell others who might also enjoy visiting a quiet mountain town.”
John supervised the dismantling of the equipment at the mill and watched as it was loaded on boxcars and moved down the tracks to be set up at another location. It wasn’t until he stood watching the train roll from view around the bend of the mountain that the reality of it all settled in. Work at the mill had come to an end.
There was nothing to do but draw his final wage and go home. He had decisions to make. Difficult decisions. He had been holding them at bay—begging for time—but he could delay them no longer. He had to face reality and find a way to provide for his family. He was proud of Julia. He hadn’t known that she was made of such “strong stuff.” She had rallied the town women, determined to fight to save her beautiful house on the mountainside. The house meant a lot to Julia, John reasoned. She was used to fine things. But John had the sickening feeling that no matter how hard she tried, she would end up brokenhearted. There was no way enough people would be drawn to Calder Springs. They had Banff, already becoming a major tourist attraction. And farther up the Rocky Mountain chain was Jasper. It too was growing in popularity. People already knew about Banff and Jasper, and there were only so many people with money to spend at resorts. There would be no additional dollars to spend in their little town, John figured.
It might have been different if they could have built up a clientele slowly, but no one in the town had money to cover their needs while they waited. The town would die. The rest of the people would be forced to move out—just as some had already done.
John sighed deeply, his shoulders sagged. It was hard for him to see Julia lose what she loved so much. It was hard to face the fact that the girls—who had been born to plenty—might now have to do without.
He himself knew all about hardship. He could live simply. But his family? Except for the first few years of their marriage, John and Julia had lived well. And the girls had never known hardship.
It sometimes bothered John that it was Uncle George’s money that had built the grand house, not money he had earned through his own hard work. But he had never begrudged Julia the house. She deserved it. He thanked God for the miracle that made it possible. He always thought of Uncle George’s money as a miracle.
John recalled his secret dream of one day owning a business of his own. He had never told anyone. Not even Julia, for he deemed the dream impossible—selfish. Uncle George’s money had been a temptation—but only for a brief moment. He would not have considered using it to fulfill his own ambition. Julia’s house was always uppermost in his mind.
Still, on occasion, he thought about that little business. A wood-shop. A place where he could take the rough wood that came from the forest and shape and polish it until it shone like glistening dark gold beneath his fingers. He loved the touch of wood—the smell—the pattern of its grain.
If they could have sold the big house—even for a fraction of what it was worth—they might have had a possibility of starting over. As it was, they would lose the house, lose everything. John’s jaw twitched and his eyes hardened. It would be tough giving it all up. He tried to shrug off his dismal mood.
“As Jule says,” he reminded himself, “God didn’t pack up and move off with the mill. He’s still here—still looking after us.”
John headed for the office to pick up his check. Time was passing quickly and he’d be late for the evening meal if he didn’t hurry.
Julia stopped by the bedroom where the girls were preparing for supper.
“How about wearing your blue gingham dresses tonight?” she asked them.
Two sets of eyes lit up. “Are we going out?” asked Felicity.
“No.”
“Are we having guests?” asked Jennifer.
“No—it will just be us.” Then Julia answered the question that she could read in their faces. “They’re Papa’s favorite dresses,” she explained.
Jennifer turned to study her mother. Julia also was wearing one of John’s favorite dresses.
“Will Papa be feeling sad tonight?” she asked.
Julia tried to keep her voice steady, her chin from quivering. “He—he may be. Just a bit. The mill is gone now. Papa hated to see it go. This was a hard day for him.”
Jennifer’s face grew serious. Felicity looked more buoyant. “Should I tell him my joke?” she asked.
“I’m not sure he will be ready for jokes,” Julia said softly. “Just try to be cheerful—and as agreeable as you can be. No fusses.”
Both girls nodded.
Julia closed the door quietly behind her as she left the room.
“I think I should tell him my joke,” insisted Felicity.
“What joke?” asked Jennifer.
“A man had twins and they were both the same size and had the same color hair and the same color eyes, so how did he tell them apart?”
Jennifer looked dubious. She slipped her blue calico over her head and then asked the question Felicity was waiting to hear, “How?”
Felicity whisked on her own blue dress, her eyes sparkling in anticipation of the punch line.
“The boy wore britches and the girl didn’t!” she exclaimed, then laughed uproariously at the humor of her story.
Jennifer did not even smile. “It’s silly,” she declared. “Silly and stupid.”
But Felicity was still laughing—so hard that she could not tie the bow of her sash.
“It’s silly,” Jennifer said again.
Felicity’s face sobered. “You’re just cross ’cause you didn’t think of it,” she challenged.
“Am not,” Jennifer shot back. “I’d never tell such a silly joke.”
“You never tell any jokes at all,” Felicity threw at her. “You are so—so sour—and—and dull. You never even laugh.”
“I laugh when things are funny.”
“No, you don’t. You never think anything is funny.”
“I do too,” Jennifer declared. “When Papa tells a funny joke—I laugh.”
“Papa doesn’t tell jokes.”
“He does too.”
Felicity shook her head. “He hasn’t told a joke since—since—”
“Well, he used to tell them.
And he will again when—”
Jennifer stopped as her tears began to fall. Would Papa ever tell jokes again? Would he ever laugh and play with them? Would he ever tease Mama good-naturedly? When would their world get back to normal again?
“See! You don’t even know how to laugh. You just cry,” Felicity taunted.
Jennifer slapped her.
Julia was not at the door to greet John when he arrived home. She was in the bedroom settling the dispute between her daughters. Both girls were in tears, and Julia herself felt ready to cry. She had wanted a warm, serene welcome for John on this most difficult day. Hettie had fixed his favorite dinner, and Julia had groomed herself to please him. The girls were to have presented themselves in their father’s favorite dresses, hair carefully combed, happy faces inviting him into the warmth of the family circle. But it had all gone wrong.
“Poor John. Poor, poor John,” wept Julia.
Chapter Eight
Hard Work
The scene that greeted John as he entered his home that night did more to lift his spirits than Julia could have imagined. Weeping daughters and a distraught wife reminded him in a very real way that he was still needed.
His eyes lifted to Julia’s tearfilled ones as he wordlessly asked the reason for the fuss. Julia shrugged weary shoulders and her tears increased. He nodded her from the room, followed her out and shut the door softly behind them.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, turning Julia to face him.
Julia blinked back her tears. “It’s just—just a little spat over some silly joke.” As soon as she said it she realized that it was really much more than that. “Oh, John,” she sobbed, leaning against his broad chest. “I thought we could have a special night to—to—” She couldn’t say “celebrate.” The day’s events hardly called for a celebration. “To show our thanks that we are here—together,” she finished lamely. “I wanted your favorite dinner, a happy family, the girls in their prettiest dresses—but the girls—the girls—” Julia burst fully into tears and buried her face in his shoulder, the sobs shaking her.
John held her and stroked her back to ease her tension. He still didn’t understand what the trouble was all about.
When the tears began to subside John spoke again. “Should I discipline the girls?” he asked.
Julia jerked to attention, her eyes opening wide. “Oh my, no,” she quickly responded. “That would spoil our dinner.”
John pulled her close again.
“It’s so strange,” Julia murmured against him. “I thought they had become—so—so—grown up. They worked so hard—and so well in the garden with me. Why, I’ve been thinking that they are now young ladies. I was all set to enjoy their company—their help—and then—all of a sudden—this.” Julia sniffed.
“Have you forgotten their age?” John asked, patting her shoulder. “They’re only thirteen. I don’t think anyone knows at that age whether she is an adult or a child. Remember?”
Julia shook her head. She couldn’t remember. She had been forced to go from childhood to adulthood when her mother died.
“I do hope you are not implying that I’m going to have to live with this—this fluctuation—for some time,” Julia said as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose on a lace handkerchief. A sparkle of humor had returned to her eyes.
John nodded.
“Oh my!” exclaimed Julia. “We’ll never know from one minute to the next whether we have children or adults!”
“Would you like me to talk to them about this incident?” John’s arm tightened.
“No, I will,” Julia said softly, straightening her shoulders. “You wash for dinner. Hettie will be anxious to serve us before the meal gets cold.”
John kissed Julia on the forehead. Then he released her so she could speak to the girls.
Julia found two contrite young ladies sitting solemnly on their beds. Their tears had ceased, though the traces remained.
“Wash your faces and prepare yourselves for dinner,” Julia said in a calm voice. “And after you have apologized to each other, you may join your father and me in the dining room—where I will expect you to conduct yourselves as young ladies. Understood?”
Both girls nodded.
Julia left the room and went to inform Hettie that she could serve dinner.
The meal turned out to be a joyous occasion in spite of the preceding event. Felicity did not tell her joke, but John told a few. The family needed something to laugh about. Even Jennifer smiled.
After the evening meal and the family devotional time, the girls led their father to the large backyard where they proudly pointed out the growth in the family garden.
“See, Papa, this is one of the rows I planted!” Felicity said excitedly. “It’s peas.”
“I planted the row beside it,” Jennifer added, her voice more controlled.
“My peas look a little bigger,” Felicity boasted. “Don’t you think so, Papa?”
John was not to be drawn into such a foolish argument. He eyed the rows of peas. “They all look healthy to me,” he observed. “I can hardly wait to taste them.”
They returned to the house. The girls were sent to bed, and Julia picked up her handwork. John settled himself at the small desk in the library and drew out his account book. He had one more paycheck—and a number of bills to pay. Would the money go far enough? Would there be any left over to care for their needs in the days ahead?
John figured and refigured, but the numbers always came out the same. After the bills were paid, there wouldn’t be much left. He pushed the book aside and left the room, snapping off the light with an impatient gesture.
Julia was still in the parlor, her handwork spread across her knees, her fingers fluttering silently as she turned a skein of white thread into an exquisite doily.
John’s thoughts were miles away, but he tried to act interested in Julia’s project. “What are you making?” he asked.
Julia lifted the doily for him to see. “It’s for our tourist craft shop,” she answered, an edge of excitement creeping into her voice. “All the ladies are making things. We’re working hard to get it stocked as quickly as possible.”
So, John thought, Julia has not given up her dream.
“We are getting quite a selection of items,” Julia continued. “You should see the lovely lace collars Mrs. Shannon has made. And Mrs. Clancy has specialized in calico aprons—beautiful things. Mrs. Adams is working a quilt. She has already made two crib quilts. One in pinks, the other in blues, and—”
“It’s been a long day,” John interrupted. “I think I’ll head up to bed.” It hurt him to hear how hard the women had been working on a dream that would never be any more than that. John wondered whether he should be honest with them or let them continue to work and hope. The work did keep their spirits up.
Julia laid aside her crocheting and lowered her hands to finger the fine silk of her gown. Her eyes sought his.
“Is your last paycheck enough to cover the accounts?” she asked.
John nodded, and Julia sighed in relief.
“The garden will be ready shortly,” she hurried on. “And I have another piece of material on hand for new dresses for the girls. Hettie is good at making stews and soups so the—”
“We’re all right,” John tried to assure her.
“Mr. Brock says there is plenty of wild game in the woods,” Julia felt compelled to add.
John had often hunted in the local woods and knew that animals were plentiful.
He reached a hand to her, and she stood. “We’re fine,” he said again.
Julia was unconvinced. Looking directly into John’s eyes, she pleaded, “If there is some way—any way—that we can cut back—make do—you will tell me, won’t you?”
John saw the seriousness in her face and he loved her for it. He leaned to kiss her forehead. “I’ll tell you,” he promised, and then closed his eyes against the pain of the dreadful thought. He would do almost anything rather than tell his Ju
le that she had to find ways to cut back.
Spring passed into summer. The eight women on Julia’s committee continued their industrious labors. Each week they placed more items on the shelves in their little craft store. Julia laid aside her plans to use the new linen tablecloth herself. Instead, she pinned a price tag in one corner of it and placed it on the merchandise shelf.
Soon they would be receiving requests for accommodation in their new resort town. Those who had extra bedrooms had them ready and waiting—with outdoor-fresh linens on cozy beds, newest towels hanging on door racks, and shining windowpanes behind freshly laundered curtains.
But with every mail delivery, letters requesting accommodation were conspicuously absent. In spite of brave smiles and determined brightness, morale began to sag. They tried not to let it show—but it was there, dogging their footsteps, causing them to add more water to the soup pot, less meat to the stew.
For Julia it meant more feverish involvement. Her efforts increased. More letters written. More doilies crocheted. More hours spent coaxing and caring for her garden.
John walked the streets, pretending that he would soon find work—but deep in his heart he knew that the town had no jobs to offer.
Jennifer and Felicity were like yo-yos. One day the enormity of the family’s situation would have them down. The next day, something as small as a smile from a boy could have them up again. For Julia every moment was as fragile as spun glass. She never knew when something might snap—when she might snap. The strain was almost unbearable.
Two more families moved away. The residential streets looked deserted. Houses were boarded and left. No children played skip-rope in those front yards, no weekly laundry fluttered on wire clotheslines, no smoke curled lazily from the chimneys.
Julia hated to pass the empty houses. Where there had been neighbors, now there was only emptiness, nakedness, pain. She avoided looking at them and hurried past as quickly as her clicking heels would carry her.
Downtown was even worse. The butcher had packed his cleavers in wooden crates and thrown his stained, worn apron in the garbage can. “Can’t stay any longer,” he muttered. “Got a wife and family to feed.”