Whispers of the Heart

by Stephanie Wilson

  At Erika’s blush the elderly man became shy and dropped his head. “Thank you, Mr. Cunningham. That was the nicest thing to say. You are too kind.”

  “I just speak the truth. Morgan, here, is my friend. I don’t have many. He used to pack in to see me when he was just a wee one ... all those many years ago. I live out there,” he indicated with a shake of his head. Then, laying a hand on T.J.’s nearby shoulder, he continued. “Still comes to see me though I know his time is very valuable and limited now.”

  Erika smiled tenderly first at T.J. and then Harry Cunningham. “Perhaps Tim can bring me to visit you before I leave. I would very much like that, if you don’t mind, of course.”

  “Tim is the only one I allow onto my property, but I would make an exception for you,” he responded politely.

  “These carvings, Mr. Cunningham, are breathtaking,” Erika said as her eyes traveled along the figurines. “I almost can’t believe that you are responsible for all this.”

  “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” he chuckled. “I have a lot of time on my hands back in those woods. I whittle every day. It takes me a full year to create what you see here in this booth.”

  “But, it’s unbelievable! I mean ...,” she paused while glancing at his twisted fingers.

  “Yes,” he responded rubbing his hands together. “I’m not as quick as I used to be. For some reason, whittling is the only thing that makes the pain actually go away.”

  “This is truly remarkable,” Erika breathed. “You know, I live in Los Angeles. Do you know what price your pieces could retail for in California? You could make a small fortune, Mr. Cunningham.”

  “Marie,” T.J. said slipping his hand to the small of her back. “He’s very aware of their value. My friend Harry is a stubborn man,” he said with a gentle smile. “He only wants to sell here, near his home.”

  “Well then, Mr. Cunningham, don’t let me keep you from your customers a minute longer. I’m going to continue to browse and before I leave the lake, I will be purchasing some things,” she said with a twinkle in her eye and a confident smile.”

  At his nod, Erika and T.J. continued to move down the isle to examine the other pieces. “He is quite something,” she whispered carefully, judging T.J.’s reaction. “I mean, is he actually a ... hermit? ... I mean, a real one?”

  T.J. of course remembered her accusation that he was just such a man and chuckled. “Yes, Marie. He is authentic. One of the very few who are actually ... how shall I say ... doing so of their own free will.”

  “What,” she exclaimed and at his emphatic “shush,” she continued in a whisper. “You mean there really are ... outlaws here! And you told me I was safe!”

  “You are, they never come out of the woods. They don’t want to see you anymore than you want to see them.”

  “Mr. Cunningham seems like so much more than... a hermit. Actually, quite articulate,” Erika replied carefully.

  “He is very educated,” T.J. responded quickly. “He doesn’t like people to know ... so please don’t speak of it to him ... but he has four earned doctorate degrees. Two from Yale, one from Cornell and one from Harvard ... business and marketing.”

  When T.J. smiled, enjoying her look of disbelief, she misinterpreted. “You are just kidding me!”

  “I am not,” T.J. said seriously.

  “Then, why?”

  “Because, among other things, he was tired of society ... the greed, the politics … the social climbing ... in general, the state of humanity. He is quite the philosopher. Unlike many of them, however, he also is a brilliant businessman and has amassed quite a fortune in his dealings over the years. He just doesn’t live on his considerable income.”

  Shaking her head Erika responded, “Unbelievable ... so,” she continued with understanding, “... you were actually saving my pride when you cautioned me against educating him about the retail world a few minutes ago?”

  “Well,” T.J. confirmed wryly, “it would have vastly amused Harry to hear your dissertation.” Abruptly changing the conversation, he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone, “Why were you in Italy last year?”

  Suddenly Maime came rushing up to Erika and T.J. successfully interrupting a question Erika could not truthfully answer. “They are getting ready to award the ribbons in the preserves category. Hurry!”

  “And the winner of the jam competition is ...” the Fair Director paused dramatically as the trio joined the other competitors, “none other than ... You know ladies and gentlemen ... of all the competitions we have at the Priest Lake Harvest Festival, this one is always the most spirited!”

  “Hurry up, John,” and “Let’s get on with it,” were comments being yelled around the barn.

  “Well, okay ... if you’re that interested! The winner is ... Maime Dooley and Marie Bancroft for the finest huckleberry jam I’ve personally tasted in a long time,” the Director regally announced.

  T.J. quickly hugged Erika as her shock gave way to true joy. Maime was vigorously waving her arms prodding her to accept the blue ribbon on their behalf.

  The rest of the day continued along in much the same vein. Shortly after the blue-ribbon ceremony, T.J. was pulled away to compete in a series of annual contests including a gunny sack race, a wheelbarrow race, a rope climbing race ... even a pumpkin smashing event. At each venue, he, of course, won handily. At each win, T.J. would charm Erika with a wink and endearing smile.

  She was lead along to a grouping of hay bales and a gathering of old friends and neighbors. The conversation was warm and easy. Erika listened as elderly women advised younger ones about household duties, parenting skills and attracting their mates. Wisdom handed down from generation to generation. A tight community interacting with one another. One snippet caught Erika’s amused attention.

  “Now ladies, when I was young, my mother always told me that ‘the power of beauty always controls the fate of dynasties and the lives of men.’ Now, Susan,” she said speaking to a girl around Erika’s age, “if you want my opinion,” which Susan evidently did not, “if you really want to make a difference in this world, pay attention to how you look because beauty is power and if you want to govern, control, manage or influence people ...” she paused for dramatic effect, “or retain the love of a good man ... you must look your prettiest at all times.”

  Susan rolled her eyes at Erika and went in search of a diet coke and women closer to her own age.

  “So, Marie, when did you learn to make jam?” Erika was asked by none other than Mary Neddleson. “Of course, I recognized Maime’s style. It is very different from my own. Are you aware that I have won the blue ribbon for ... let’s see... I can’t recall just how many years in a row I have won.” And at the other ladies’ rebuffs, she quickly continued, “Actually the last three but I said to George, my husband, last evening that I really shouldn’t win again this year.”

  Maime poked Erika’s knee. She smiled with a perfunctory, “of course.”

  “You see,” Mary Neddleson continued, “I use paraffin for sealing. It’s a tried and true method. Maime, of course, believes in the water bath method.”

  “Mary, have you read any recent material on canning?” Maime questioned. “Most experts agree that the water bath is the safest and most reliable way of sealing preserves and keepin’ them free of bacteria. Old ways are good ... sometimes. But we also must be willin’ to put aside old ways and make room for better methods.”

  “Oh, Maime, save me the sermon,” Mary Neddleson admonished. “I still make my own soap, just as my mother and her mother did before her. Convenient? Of course not, it’s old fashioned and ... probably out of touch ... but sometimes tradition is what matters. What if every one of these people here didn’t quilt, or knit, or create in the old ways ... think what we would lose, not to mention the economic loss to the cottage industries.”

  “Mary, I’m not sayin’ that and you know it! More importantly, I agree with you. But when it comes to food ... the new ways are better’n th
e old.”

  And most of the women agreed. Each then recited memories of childhoods spent washing clothes by hand on their front porch and boiling soap in the back yard, of their earliest attempt at baking bread and so on. The conversation lulled Erika into a state of serenity, as if she was part of a bygone era. A day when she could share heirloom recipes and tea with neighbors, look across a field and claim the most handsome man as her own and know a good and full life. If only it could last ... if only it could be true ... for just one day.

  Before long, the air turned chilly. One by one, the men began to make their way from their competitive games on the beach to the barn where women were gathered chatting over needlepoint, latch hooking and quilting sessions. Most knew exactly where they would find their mate. The friendly community began to segregate into two’s and three’s. The air was expectant. Each knew dawn was but a few hours hence. By morning, more than one thousand anglers would descend on the cool deep waters of Priest Lake. Each hoping to be the one. It was the challenge that now consumed the village. As each blanket was folded neatly, each basket packed tightly, every coat, hat and mittens donned, deliberate talk of tomorrow consumed the town. For, quite possibly, everything could change by sundown.

  After all, it was a world record the inhabitants of Priest Lake were after. It hadn’t happened since 1971 when a fifty-seven-and-a-half-pound Mackinaw lake trout was landed. No one had been able to beat that all-consuming record. But tomorrow, at the annual Priest Lake Fishing Derby … there was the possibility.

  “I think we should go,” T.J. whispered in Erika’s ear while she was earnestly conversing with an elderly woman he had known since childhood. “I’m sweaty and dirty and in desperate need of a shower and a good meal,” he continued in her ear.

  Erika cheeks turned a pleasant shade of pink during the intimate conversation. Turning to apologize to the women she had been conversing with, Erika found it was unnecessary. The woman had apparently disapproved of the display and turned her back with a loud “Humph!” Giggling, Erika turned to confront T.J. on his manners, only to find him imitating the woman behind her back. Gently slapping his arm, Erika smiled knowing she couldn’t condemn his perfect observation.

  “That really isn’t nice,” she said humorously.

  “Honey, after everything that woman has put me through since I was five years old, it is my right, believe me.”

  “Were you a naughty little boy?” Erika asked while stooping to pack the picnic basket lunch Maime had brought for them.

  “If you were to ask that woman, I have only escaped San Quentin by the skin of my teeth. After all, I destroyed her petunias one year and ... let’s see ... scared her helpless calico cat ... and purposefully destroyed her apple pie left cooling on the back porch for her one and only date with Mr. Lealand, a retired teacher. And that ... scorned woman ... made me apologize to her ... cat ... in front of all my friends. And, at ten years old, it was quite embarrassing.”

  “Oh, dear,” Erika sympathized, “you did have an underprivileged childhood.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to imply ... I mean, I wasn’t speaking of your economic background ... I guess I mean,” Erika continued haltingly, “that ... underprivileged wasn’t the correct word. I was just trying to be funny,” she said red-faced.

  T.J. had stopped on the trail leading back to the wagon and simply stared at Erika. It was the first time in his life that someone had thought his upbringing lacking. Never had anyone questioned his economic stability. The Morgan family was infamous for their vast wealth and holdings. During childhood, he had been sheltered, never engaging in relationships that hadn’t been approved by his father’s security firm.

  The more T.J. thought about it, however, the nicer it felt. Erika’s feelings could never be suspect if she truly believed his rearing was deprived in any way. Suddenly the pine scented air was more potent, the chilly air more penetrating, T.J.’s breath more ragged, his anticipation much sweeter. Suddenly, there were infinite possibilities. That Erika wasn’t a member of the socially elite perhaps didn’t matter as much as he thought. Perhaps his family could accept her. Perhaps ... a future could be contemplated.

  Erika slowly followed T.J. up the winding path. She could tell her comments took him aback. She couldn’t believe what came out of her mouth … that she had uttered her most intimate thoughts. What must he think of her now? She sounded like some of the acquaintances she had back in L.A. The ones she despised. How could she ever erase those words? Because even though she knew the futility of pursuing their relationship past this month, she wanted him to know that it had nothing to do with his economic standing. What she cared for, very much cared for, was him.

  Pictures began to flash through her mind of the carefree and uninterrupted fun they had shared. How could she have ruined it. By uttering those words, she felt like their relationship had turned a new corner and she knew … absolutely knew it couldn’t be ignored forever. At some point, probably sooner rather than later, she would have to tell him the truth about herself and her life. But perhaps, she thought, after glancing at T.J.’s immense shoulders and tapered back, it could wait for just a few more days.

  The ride back to Kootenai Bay was charged with expectant silence. Erika did not know how to break the mood. Unaware of her chagrin, T.J.’s thoughts continued to dwell on the possibility of more serious involvement.

  “Well, we’re here,” he said slowly rolling to a halt in front of the cottage she now felt was home.

  “Yes,” she responded, “I guess we are... Um, ... I had a wonderful time today. It was something ... I will never forget ... in my whole lifetime ...”

  “I know. I could see it in your eyes,” T.J. said while slipping an arm around the top of Erika’s tattered seat. Gently caressing strands of her hair, he continued, “But you only think that because you have yet to experience the most exciting day in your life.”

  Intrigued … Erika began to question.

  “The Fishing Derby,” he quickly reminded.

  “Oh yes ... that,” she said.

  “Yes, that! And now, we have much to do before dawn ... so what do you say about calling in that ‘rain check’? I know a really good pizza place just down the road. They have the best broccoli and tomato pizza in the world.”

  “That sounds good,” Erika exclaimed as her stomach began to roll followed by a shy smile. “I guess I am hungry,” she giggled, “and it has been ages since I‘ve had pizza.”

  “Why don’t you run in and change into something warmer and I’m going to run home and shower. I’ll pick you up in a half hour,” he said.

  “Okay, that means six o’clock,” she said consulting her watch. “I’ll be ready.”

  Later that evening, Erika cuddled her knees to her chest under three handmade quilts haphazardly tossed over her comforter. The bedroom was very chilly despite the roaring fire Tim had insisted on building when they returned from dinner. Once in a while she could still hear a sharp crackle and sizzle coming from the fragrant cedar kindling. Tim had left the cottage two hours before and still Erika could not bring herself to sleep. Her mind continued to roll over the events of the day, pictures flashed across her memory, snippets of fun, of belonging, of ... Tim. Always Tim.

  Rolling to the other side of the queen feather bed, Erika grabbed a pillow and tightly held it to her heart beneath the covers. She could see his black hair, dripping with sweat as he competed in the gunny sack race, successfully beating his undefeated record set a few years ago. She remembered his eyes as they caught sight of her standing on the sidelines, cheering him to victory. She remembered his compassion for the tiny child who so badly wanted to participate in the wheelbarrow races that T.J. thoughtfully asked to be his partner. The look of utter astonishment that crossed the child’s face when they had won. The look of adoration and pride when the judges ruled it a victory was unforgettable, even though T.J. had bent the rules by picking the child up in his arms and racing to the finish line after th
e child’s arms had given up in fatigue.

  And then Erika remembered the small things too. She would never forget the blue ribbon, of course, even now artfully displayed on her bedroom mirror. But just as importantly was the way T.J. would lay his hand protectively on her shoulder, or arm, or guide her by placing his hand at the small of her back. She would never forget his kindness to an eccentric old man. Those images were indelibly imprinted on her memory.

  Tiny tears began to gather in the corner of her eyes. She felt so alone. She felt so ... deprived. Erika knew she had been given everything any woman could ever ask for. She knew many were jealous of her birthright, her privileged lifestyle and her successful career.

  But lying in her log bed piled with handmade quilts ... Erika felt the emptiness. She missed the sense of belonging to a family ... a close-knit community. Her thoughts wandered to the women who had so lovingly pieced the fabric of the quilts she now lay under so many, many years ago. She wondered at their hopes and fears. That they cared for their family and wanted to protect them from the harsh winter air was evident in the quality construction and tiny perfect stitches. It was uncanny to Erika how the tapestry of their lives had begun to intertwine with hers. She felt the heaviness of the heirloom quilts upon her body. As the warmth from the heaviness of those quilts began to penetrate Erika’s chill, so also did the warmth from those women and their family begin to warm her soul. It was a physical testimony of their love and protection. How she missed her mother. How she missed growing up with a family.

  And then, that old feeling began to emerge in her heart. The feeling Erika had tried so diligently to suppress. That of one day having her own family to love and to cherish. But she was so tired of fighting that dream. So .... perhaps for only this night … she could indulge that fantasy, let it roll over her and comfort her as none other could. She thought of the quilts, their beautiful designs that harbored long forgotten stories. How she wanted to pass on something as dynamic and comforting to her family one day. A family with a husband that looked peculiarly like T.J. and small children running about on the shores of a northern lake.