by Janet Dean
His mother’s desertion had taught him others let you down. Even those you thought loved you. He’d loved his mother with a little boy’s trusting heart, soaking up her gentle touch; her soft breath on his cheek as she tucked him in at night; her acceptance of his assertion that one day he’d build furniture like her father, Grandpa Brooks. She’d smiled and encouraged him to follow his dream. Yet following her dream had devastated his family and resulted in her death.
He couldn’t ignore what her experience taught. To temper one’s dreams and avoid giving one’s heart. Better that he never marry, never bring children into this world. When a marriage ended children’s hearts were broken.
Abby would make someone a wonderful wife. With the trouble between them that someone wouldn’t be him. The prospect of not having her in his life sunk inside him like a stone. As much as her attitude about Seth, about his lifework, irked him, he admired her spunk, her wit that deflected his father’s guff, how tirelessly she worked.
Earlier she’d recruited volunteers from the job site to move his father’s bedroom. Those men worked long hours day after day to restore what the fire had destroyed. Wade hadn’t done his share.
Inside his shop, his gaze roamed the furniture lining the walls and landed on the oak head and footboards leaning in the corner in front of the slats and rails. An idea took hold in his mind. Plenty of men could nail a stud or shingle, but no one else in this town crafted furniture. He’d build beds, as many as he could manage in the time he had. From what he’d heard, he’d have a month. He’d order mattresses through the Mercantile.
The salesmen samples would have to wait.
The needs of others preempted his dream. His stomach lurched. Not that he was accomplishing much anyway. Rafe hadn’t shown up at the warehouse at noon. He’d have to find someone else to repair the building.
Seth would arrive any time now to work in the shop. Wade wouldn’t bring up his father. Though Seth probably already knew Rafe had missed the appointment and lost the chance to earn money they badly needed.
The boy could cut and sand slats and rails while Wade worked on the head and footboards. As he calculated the beds’ dimensions, figuring the cuts he’d make, the tension of his encounter with Abby drained out of him.
If she dared to show her face and try to talk Seth out of the boy’s own plan for his life, Wade would keep his mouth nailed shut.
Though he suspected Seth would teach Abby a lesson on being true to oneself that no amount of college classes had prepared her for.
“I’m quitting school.” Seth toed the ground, avoiding Abigail’s gaze. “Going into crafting furniture with Wade.”
This harebrained idea was Wade’s fault. She’d like to stomp through the shop door, mere feet away from where she and Seth stood, and give Wade what he deserved—an old-fashioned tongue-lashing, but first she’d try to convince Seth to reconsider.
What could she say to convince her brightest student that education laid a strong foundation for a good life? “Seth, making money to help out at home is a worthy goal. But a college education will enable you to make more money.” She took a breath. “If you’re worried about the cost of college, I might’ve found a way to help with your expenses.”
If Wade heard her he’d be furious, but his father’s offer had been generous, something he should celebrate.
Seth lifted his gaze, his dark eyes resolute. “I don’t see the point in going, Miss Wilson. I know enough to get along.”
“You’re not the first farm boy to consider dropping out of high school.” She knelt beside the flower bed and scooped up a handful of loose dirt, holding it toward Seth. “Working the soil is an honest occupation, an admirable occupation. This nation would go hungry if not for our farmers. But you never know when that farm might disappear.” She opened her hand and let the dirt slip between her fingers. “You can’t rely on land.”
Hadn’t she seen that? Their farm had been there one day and gone the next. Education could not be taken away from you.
“We have a sheepskin deed signed by President Van Buren in 1840. Our farm isn’t going to disappear.”
Rafe, with his weaknesses, hadn’t borrowed on his land? If her father hadn’t, how different their lives would have been.
Seth’s eyes lit. “Farming isn’t what I want to do with my life.”
“Do you think Wade’s shop couldn’t disappear? You can learn the craft of cabinetmaking, but if the orders don’t come in, you’d be out of work. You’re smart, capable of doing anything you put your mind to.” She ticked off the possibilities on smudged fingers. “You could be a doctor, lawyer, professor, writer, scientist—the possibilities are endless. You need an education to fall back on.”
Seth’s mouth turned mulish. “Making furniture is what I want to do. All I want to do.”
Wade appeared in the doorway. Arms folded across his chest, stance wide, expression stony—ready to leap to Seth’s defense. If only they could be on the same side of this issue.
She turned to Seth. “Is that the main reason you don’t want to finish high school and go to college next fall? Or is it that you don’t want to leave your father…ah, shorthanded?”
Seth flushed. “I’m needed at home.”
“If you go to Iowa State in Ames, you can get back home to see your dad.” She studied him. “If you’re concerned your father can’t manage by himself, I’ll find a way to help Rafe.”
She had no idea how. Perhaps Wade could give Rafe a job in his shop. She sighed. Wade wouldn’t tolerate an employee who drank, even if that employee was Seth’s dad.
Seth took a step back, moving toward the shop, toward Wade. “You’re a good teacher, Miss Wilson. You’ve always been nice to me—patching my clothes, giving us home cooking. I appreciate it, but I’m going to work in Wade’s shop.” He glanced at Wade. “As his apprentice,” he said, voice filling with pride.
Wade laid a hand on Seth’s shoulder. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
A smile lit Seth’s face. “Making something special out of ordinary boards, pegs and glue—something solid enough to last for years is like sharing in the creativity of God.” His face flushed either with embarrassment or sheer emotion. “With sandpaper, stain and varnish, I can produce a finish that glows like a starry night.” He looked at Abigail. “That’s what I want to do. With instruction and practice, I will.”
For a moment Abigail couldn’t speak. The sweetness of Seth’s words, the satisfaction on his face mimicked Wade’s. The temptation to concede defeat slid through her. But then she remembered the stakes. “Getting an education and a good job won’t keep you from building furniture in your spare time. Maybe even selling a piece or two to bring in extra income.”
Seth’s brows beetled. “I don’t want to do this in my spare time. I’ve prayed for this apprenticeship, dream about it at night. When I’m making furniture, I’m content, never in a rush. You can’t hurry something beautiful.”
“But, you can’t make money if—”
“Abby, money isn’t everything.” Wade stepped closer. “You’ve said your piece, given Seth your advice. As his teacher, something you should do. But you don’t know when to quit. You’re stomping on Seth’s dream.”
“The decision he makes now is important. The lack of a high school diploma can cut off a path he might want to take later.”
“I don’t want to be a doctor, poking and prodding sick folks. I don’t want to be a lawyer waiting for trouble to march in the door. I don’t want to be a scientist concocting a formula for a better paint or a horseless carriage.”
“Those are all good things, Seth,” Abigail said. “Things that could make a difference, save a life, change the world.”
Seth nodded. “For someone else, but not for me.” He released a gust of air. “I’ve got a plan for my life that suits me fine.”
“Seth, why don’t you go on inside?”
“Yes, sir.” Seth glanced at Abigail. “Goodbye, Miss Wilson.” As if he co
uldn’t get away fast enough, he sprinted inside.
Easing the door closed behind him, Wade walked out into the lawn, moving Abigail along with him until they stood in the Cummingses’ garden. The soft buzz of bumblebees gathering nectar from delphinium and foxglove gave a misleading sense of harmony. But the look on Wade’s face, his puckered brow and narrowed lips, predicted an impending storm.
“I won’t have you badgering that boy.”
“I want him to see he’s making a mistake.”
Wade let out a sigh. “I know you care and your intentions are good but you’re bullying that boy. Instead of harping at Seth—” Wade pointed toward the house “—perhaps you need to remember the reason you’re here and spend your time and energy on my father.”
His rebuke stung like one of those bees. Straightening her shoulders, she gave him a curt nod as the truth sank inside her.
“You and I are miles apart. Worlds apart. I don’t know why I expected otherwise.” Abigail tilted her chin. “Whether you know it or not, we’re in a battle. A battle I intend to win.”
A muscle in Wade’s cheek jumped. “We have nothing more to say.” He turned and trudged to the shop.
Wade’s opposition festered like a splinter under her skin. As she watched him go, Abigail tamped down her dismay at the impasse between them and made her decision.
She’d talk to Rafe. Surely he’d realize his life was going nowhere. And he had a negative influence on his son. If he knew funds were available to handle the cost, he might see he held Seth back from a better life.
If the attraction between her and Wade, the sense of connection, had evaporated like dew on a hot sunny morning, well, nothing could make her happier.
So why did she feel like crying?
Not that she would.
A Wilson never cried.
The image of Abby’s face, of the disappointment she felt when Seth asserted his desire to apprentice, nibbled at Wade. She meant well, genuinely feared for Seth’s well-being, he knew that, but whether she admitted it or not, she’d gone too far.
God wanted His children to use the talents He’d given them. To hone them, yes, with education, but also with practice. To use those talents to provide for one’s family, as Seth wanted to do. As Abby did. Why couldn’t she understand the boy’s urgency to help out at home? Had her anger at him colored her thinking?
A lump formed in his throat. Losing the farm and her father had hurt her. When Wade had set her aside years ago, he’d done it to save her from losing her family. Yet his decision had hurt her even more. Had the combination of all those hurts caused her to put her trust in education? Not in God? He’d pray she could lean on God, leaving the future to the One in control of the universe.
Perhaps, just perhaps, he could find a way to mend the pain he’d caused her.
For now, he’d focus on the task of producing beds. The simple design had no turned legs or posts. No curlicue ornamentations. Just straight lines made from solid oak to withstand a lifetime of use.
To add to his growing list of problems, he’d received written notice that the equipment he’d ordered must be paid in full before delivery. To approve his own loan smacked of duplicity. Yet without equipment, he couldn’t produce orders. He’d have to speak to his father about a loan. That meant revealing his plan to open the shop. News his father wouldn’t take lying down.
With handling the bank, overseeing other holdings and constructing beds in the evenings, Wade would barely have time to eat and catch a few hours of sleep. Maybe before long his father could work from home or come into the office for an hour or two each day and slowly take over the reins.
Across the way Seth, eager to help the burned-out families, cut the slats for the beds. The peaceful look of concentration on the boy’s face reminded Wade of the contentment he found creating furniture.
“Wade, why veneer the top of the buffet instead of using a solid piece of cherry?” Seth asked, glancing at the finished piece.
“With the uneven heat in many homes a veneered surface reduces the likelihood of cracking. Poorly dried wood increases the possibility. The mill supplying my lumber has gone out of business. I’m planning a trip to the Sullivan Lumberyard in Waterloo. Would you like to go along?”
“Yes, sir, I would,” Seth said, a big smile on his face.
“Speak to your father. We’ll go once we finish the beds.”
“I will.”
Wade wondered if Seth had a good solid bed to sleep on at home, but wouldn’t insult him with the question.
Seth turned to Wade with troubled eyes. “Miss Wilson’s been kind to me but now she’s upset.”
Seth called Abby kind. Wade had seen her kindness with George, the gentle way she spoke to Seth. Upon occasion, he’d even heard that tone connected to his name.
“Well, if that’s true, Seth, she’s upset with both of us.”
The boy tilted his head, his expression puzzled. “Sometimes you and Miss Wilson sound like you’re fighting over who you are, not over me.”
Wade blinked. His grip on the saw slowed. Why hadn’t he seen that? How could he and Abby find harmony and give Seth the help he needed?
Not that Wade wanted anything permanent with her.
Not that the Wilsons would allow it if he did.
He’d concentrate on his work, on Seth, and try to ignore the spitfire of a woman who occupied too many of his thoughts.
Yet he understood Seth’s dismay. How could he ease the boy’s mind? “I don’t think Miss Wilson’s so much upset with you as she is with your decision. She cares about you.”
“Reckon you’re right. I don’t know much about ladies.”
Wade chuckled. “You’re not alone. Few of us men understand women.”
“I figured you, ah, having a sister and all… Maybe you could help me understand Miss Wilson.”
“Can’t say that I can, but I’m willing to give it a try. What’s bothering you?”
Earnestness rode Seth’s features. “She takes care of her ma. Since the fire, she’s providing for her whole family.” His brow furrowed, as if trying to fit a piece into a puzzle that didn’t fit. “So why doesn’t she understand me wanting to look after my pa?”
No wonder Seth was confused. Abby’s behavior contradicted her stance. “She probably does understand, underneath.”
“Then why is she set on me going to college?”
“She believes college is your best chance for a good life.”
The boy raised baffled eyes to Wade. “But that’s what I don’t understand. My life is good.”
Not one whit of deception lurked in those blue eyes. Yet surely the boy’s life wasn’t easy with a father who drank too much. With a father who barely made ends meet. With a father who kept the community at arm’s length. Except for an occasional appearance at church or the feed store, Rafe was a recluse.
Was Seth deceiving himself? Or did he even know what constituted what most would call a good life? “What’s the best thing about your life?”
“Pa’s always been good to me, drunk or sober, but he hasn’t been himself since Ma passed.” Seth sighed. “He looks…lost. Each morning, he gets down on his knees and prays to be a good man, pleading with God for strength to not take that first drink. Pa doesn’t want to let me down.” Tears filled the boy’s eyes. “Even though he fails time after time, he never stops trying. One day, he won’t fail. One day, my pa will win.” Seth gave a dazzling smile like the sun bursting through an overcast sky. “Knowing with God’s help, Pa will defeat this thing, that’s the best.”
The backs of Wade’s eyes stung. This boy was like no other. Seth Collier loved his father. Believed Rafe didn’t want to fail him. Believed his Heavenly Father would help Rafe find the courage and strength to stop drinking. That faith never wavered. Seth stood by his father as flawed as Rafe was, not out of duty, but because he loved his father totally, without conditions.
Wade was teaching Seth to know wood, to craft furniture, but Seth was teachin
g Wade something far more vital.
“You know, Seth, I want to be just like you—a man with God’s own heart.”
Instead of a man with a heart too damaged to love.
Sunday morning Abigail sat with her family in their usual pew, grateful to be back to church as a family, to know the days of uncertainty would soon end. Billy slept in his mother’s arms. Ma held Donnie on her lap while the twins and Peter sat wedged between the adults.
Heart overflowing with thankfulness for God’s healing and the town’s support of those who lost everything, Abigail scanned the parishioners, asking God to bless each one as they’d blessed the Lessmans.
One of Joe’s blessings had come from an unlikely source. George Cummings had insisted he no longer needed his wheelchair, a generous loan considering her employer still struggled with shortness of breath. Ma had been wary of George’s motives, but when Joe hobbled down the stairs that morning, eager to get outside and into that wheelchair, Ethel had changed her mind.
Another blessing—Pastor Ted had set aside this Sunday to bring in used clothing, furnishings and items for those who’d lost everything in the fire. Chests of drawers, hall trees and chairs dotted the churchyard. A huge stack of linens, countless bags of clothing and several boxes of tableware all but filled the vestibule, proof of the congregation’s generosity. The ladies auxiliary would meet Monday to divide and distribute the bounty.
As Orville Radcliff rose to lead the singing, everyone stood. A movement out of the corner of her eye drew Abigail’s attention. Wade followed his father down the aisle to their pew on the far side of the church. The dark hair at Wade’s nape, damp and curly from a dousing, broad shoulders back, head high, he was an imposing figure, turning young ladies’ heads.
Abigail’s breath caught. Including hers.
A familiar cough proved the short walk from carriage to pew had taxed George’s lungs. Why had Wade’s father insisted on lending a wheelchair he obviously needed? Was he trying to assuage his guilt over calling the Wilson loan?