Miracle in a Dry Season

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  His next stop was the Talbot sisters’. Angie was famous for her divinity. Around the holidays the crunchy, meringue-like candies were a staple in the community. Maybe he could sweet-talk her into making him a batch.

  When he pulled his old truck into their yard, Liza was sitting in a swing hanging from the huge old oak tree in the side yard. Frank was leaning against the trunk. He waved at Casewell.

  “I’ve been trying to get Liza here to let me give her a push, but she seems to think I might get carried away.”

  Liza laughed. “Isn’t it marvelous? We haven’t had a swing in this tree since I was a girl. It was Frank’s idea to hang one. I don’t think Angie likes it too much, but she didn’t put up a fuss. I swan, I feel like I’m twelve years old.” She pushed herself back and kicked her heels up into the air. Her skirts fluttered, and she squealed as the swing began its gentle back and forth arc. Frank grinned, as did Casewell. They could see the child Liza had been and, somewhere deep down, still was.

  “I bet if we could get Angie in this swing, she’d let me push,” Frank said.

  “Pshaw. You won’t get her in the swing. She’s too proper a lady,” Liza scoffed.

  “Who says?” Angie stood, arms akimbo, on the edge of the porch. “Just because I don’t have a penchant for foolishness doesn’t mean I’m not willing to kick my heels up now and again.”

  “Come on, then.” Liza stood and made a sweeping gesture toward the empty swing. “Show us.”

  Casewell realized he was not only seeing the fun-loving child Liza had once been, but he was also seeing the way the sisters had likely baited each other as children. He wished his mother could be here for this.

  Liza marched over and gingerly settled herself in the swing, grasping the ropes firmly and pushing off with one foot. She swung like the pendulum on a grandfather clock, slow and steady. Chin high, she shot a defiant look at her sister.

  “But will you let Frank push you?” There was a teasing note in Liza’s voice.

  “Certainly.” Angie bit the word off and raised her chin a notch higher. “Frank, if you would be so kind.”

  Frank grinned and waggled his eyebrows at Casewell. He stepped behind Angie and held his hands near her bottom. Then he hesitated and moved them up a bit. Grasping her waist like he might handle a newborn pup, he eased her forward. Once she was moving a bit, he gave her several gentle pushes.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I won’t break.” Angie began pumping her legs back and forth. She was surprisingly limber for a woman her age. Soon she had the swing going, if not high, then higher than Casewell would have expected. She closed her eyes as her hair worked its way loose from its bun and fluttered over her cheeks. Then Casewell saw her smile. Not a half smile or a pleased look, but an expression that curled her lips, plumped her cheeks, and crinkled her eyes. It was a look of utter delight, and Casewell felt oddly humbled seeing it. Angie laughed long and loud, then let the swing coast to a stop.

  “Oh my. That was wonderful. Frank, you are an old fool, but even old fools have good ideas now and again. Thank you for our swing.” She stood and brushed her hands against her skirt, then smoothed wisps of gray hair back into place. “Well, now, Casewell. You will have something to talk about come Sunday.”

  But Casewell didn’t think he would talk about it. Seeing the twins here in the yard with the man they both had loved, getting on with life and enjoying it—well, it was too tender a thing to share. He might tell Perla one day. She would see the beauty. She wouldn’t think it was a great joke, two old women finding joy in being childish. He reckoned they all could do with being a little more childlike.

  Angie started toward the porch, but turned back. “Casewell, I’m thinking you didn’t come here to watch us act the fool. Did you need something?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I need a batch of divinity.”

  “Oh, well, I’ve got everything but the pecans. Problem is, divinity never does right when it’s humid, and with all the rain lately I doubt I can get it to turn out. Now, if you’d come to me during the drought, I could have made the perfect batch.”

  Casewell must have looked crestfallen. “But if you can get me enough cream and butter, we can make caramels—they’re supposed to be a mite sticky.”

  “Ma makes those sometimes.” He perked up. “As a matter of fact, if you’re willing to part with your recipe, I can probably get Ma to help me out.”

  “Come on in and I’ll write it out for you.” Angie beckoned him inside. “We’ll leave the young’uns to their play.”

  Liza giggled from where she had resumed her seat on the swing. “Push me, Frank,” she said.

  Recipe in hand, Casewell headed back to the Thorntons’ store. The ingredient list and directions were less complicated than anticipated. He could do this by himself. He had cream, butter, and sugar already, so all he needed was some corn syrup and vanilla.

  Robert raised an eyebrow when Casewell told him what he needed.

  “Shopping for your ma?”

  “Oh, just stocking up now that your shelves are full again.” Casewell didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want to explain.

  Delilah swooped in with a small bottle of vanilla in hand. “Leave him alone. If all the men around here would get a little more familiar with supplies beyond coffee and cornmeal, the world would be a better place.” She plunked the bottle down next to the corn syrup Casewell had found on his own.

  “Whatever you say.” Robert looked confused, but he rang up the items and Casewell headed home, whistling. Step one was accomplished—well, nearly.

  The next morning, Casewell walked out to the pasture while the dew was still on. He carried a pocketknife and a Mason jar with some water in it. He began cutting the flowers that had sprung up as fast as the grass. There were daisies and black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, and butterfly weed. He debated cutting some Joe-Pye weed, but decided it was too big a flower. He settled on some little blue asters and decided it was aplenty. The Mason jar was stuffed with flowers, and he wondered how he might go about arranging them better. He decided to look for something prettier than an old jar to put them in when he got back to the house.

  Plopping the flowers on the drain board, Casewell set out his ingredients for caramels. He dumped everything but the vanilla into an extra large saucepan and lit the gas flame under it. This was going to be easier than he thought.

  Fifteen minutes later, Casewell knew he was in trouble. The mixture in the pan seemed to be taking forever to come to a rolling boil—whatever that was—so he jacked the heat up. He’d just turned away from the stove for a minute to look for a better container for the flowers when the caramel boiled over, spattering the stove with a residue that seemed to turn to stone. He’d gotten the flame under control and saved most of the contents of the pan, but a great deal of what was in there seemed to be adhering to the sides. Angie had explained that he could test to see if the candy had reached the hard ball-stage by dropping a little bit of it into a glass of cold water. He’d done that, but all he got was a gummy wad of gunk that wasn’t a hard ball of anything. He decided enough was enough and dumped what he could into a buttered pan.

  Then he nearly cursed. He’d forgotten to add the vanilla. Grabbing the little bottle, he sloshed some into the pan of candy. The liquid pooled across the top and then seemed to mostly evaporate. Maybe that’s how it worked. Casewell jammed the hot, sticky saucepan under the faucet and filled it with cool water. He reached in to loosen the residue with his fingers and found that it had hardened to a satiny sheen. He considered whether he really cared about keeping that pan. Probably he could get by without it.

  Caramels finished, Casewell turned his attention to the flowers. He found an old blue-speckled coffeepot that he thought would look better than the Mason jar. He filled it with water and began trying to arrange the flowers. Somehow it didn’t look quite like he’d pictured, but he guessed it would do.

  He poked a finger at the candy and found it to be the consistency of sof
t taffy. Maybe Angie had been right about making candy when it was humid. He stuck the pan in the Frigidaire and hoped for the best. After cleaning up the kitchen and throwing out the saucepan, Casewell considered the third element he needed to win Perla. Words.

  He began to suspect the candy and flowers had been the easy part. Surely if he could preach a sermon, he could tell a woman how he felt. Thinking about his sermon gave him an idea. Maybe the Bible would have some words he could use. He flipped to the Song of Solomon. He’d never found cause to spend much time in this particular book, but it was the love story of King Solomon and his bride, so surely there was something good in here. He browsed until he came to the seventh chapter. And there he read King Solomon’s description of his beloved and, blushing, decided that this was no help at all.

  He scrounged up a piece of paper and a pencil, which needed sharpening. He pulled out his pocketknife and gave the lead a good point. Then he sat at the kitchen table, flowers at his elbow, and gave his full attention to writing down what he should say.

  Maybe if he started it like a letter. Dear Perla. There, a beginning. I wanted to tell you that I . . . That he what? Loved her? That seemed kind of blunt. Wasn’t he supposed to warm up to something like that? Aha . . . admire and respect you. Good. But that was all he could come up with. He could tell her he liked her cooking, but he liked his mother’s cooking. He could say she was a good mother, but that seemed too far afield from what he really wanted to say. And what was that? Casewell flung the pencil down and cradled his head in his hands. He just wanted her to know that he didn’t want to live another day without her.

  He heard a sound and jerked his head up.

  “Casewell?” A woman’s voice wafted through the screen door.

  “Come on in.” He folded the paper and crammed it into his breast pocket.

  Perla stepped into the kitchen, wearing a soft-yellow dress that made her hair look as golden as a late autumn field. But her blue eyes seemed almost gray today, like creek water reflecting storm clouds overhead. Casewell marveled that he could think thoughts like that but couldn’t write a simple love letter.

  “I found this pan outside.” Perla held the ruined saucepan. “Shall I clean it for you?”

  Casewell jumped to his feet and reached for the pan. “No, no. I was, uh, putting it out for the critters to eat.”

  Perla looked skeptical but relinquished her hold. “Oh, how lovely.” She spied the flowers on the table, and her eyes brightened just a bit.

  Casewell felt off balance. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He threw up a quick prayer to heaven, something he should have done before he embarked on all this nonsense, and turned to pull the bouquet closer.

  “They’re for you,” he blurted.

  Perla seemed to lose what little color there was in her cheeks, and then they flushed pink. “Why, thank you,” she said, reaching out to cup a blossom. “I have to say I’m surprised, but it’s very thoughtful of you.”

  “You should have flowers every day of your life.” Now Casewell flushed. Where had that come from?

  Perla seemed to be amused. She gave a little smile and raised one eyebrow. Were her eyes getting bluer? “Really. Every single day? Even in winter?”

  Casewell grinned. He liked her spunk. “In winter you should have a different snowflake for every hour of the day.”

  A soft smile spread across Perla’s face. “Why, Casewell, that’s practically poetry.”

  He decided there was no time like the present. He opened the refrigerator door and pulled out the pan of caramels. “I made you candy, too.” He plunked the pan down on the table and rifled through a drawer for a butter knife. “Here, I’ll cut you a piece.”

  “Caramels? I love caramels.”

  Casewell thought Perla looked younger and prettier by the minute. He thrust the knife into the candy and found it to be the consistency of cold molasses. He must have looked like he needed rescuing, because Perla took the knife from his hand, scooped up a bit of candy on the tip, and popped it into her mouth.

  “Delicious,” she said. “Try some.”

  She handed him the knife, and in that small act of sharing, Casewell realized that he couldn’t keep from speaking his heart another moment.

  “Perla, I don’t want you to leave.”

  “I’m not exactly anxious to go, but I really do think it’s for the best. Actually, that’s why I’m here. I came to tell you good-bye. I’ve been putting off going long enough, and I just wanted to . . . to thank you, I suppose.”

  “What in the world for?”

  “For being such a help serving food. For being my . . .” She hesitated. “My friend when so many people treated me like I was some kind of bad luck. And for being so good to Sadie. I know she needs a father, and you and John and Robert have been such wonderful examples of godly men for her. I appreciate that.”

  She looked Casewell fully in the eye for the first time since she came in the door. He thought he saw something there—a question?

  “I want to go on being an example.” He spoke in a hurry, as though the words he’d been searching for had arrived all at once. “I want to be more than an example for that child. I want to protect her and love her and be there for her when she falls out of trees. I want to hear her laugh and hold her when she cries. I want to be a father to her.”

  Perla’s eyes were decidedly blue now—like icicles against a winter sky. Casewell began to wonder if he’d said something wrong after all.

  “Well, you can’t just decide to be her father.” Perla’s voice was clipped. “There’s more to it than that.”

  “I know.” Casewell reached for Perla’s hand, which she let him take, although she didn’t soften her posture. “I think I started in the wrong place. There’s so much I want to say to you. I’m not good at knowing where to begin.” He tugged her to a chair at the table and scooted a second chair around so it faced her. He sat and took both of her stiff, cold hands in his own. They were small and soft, though not without calluses. He noticed a burned spot on her right wrist—probably from reaching into a hot oven.

  “Perla. I love Sadie, but more importantly, I love you.” He had to stop a moment and catch his breath. There, he’d said it. Perla relaxed the tiniest bit, her back curving a little into the kitchen chair. “I thought about loving you the first time I saw you, and then I found out you had a child, and no . . . well, you know what I found out. I judged you and before I do anything else, I need to ask you to forgive me for that. I was wrong about so many things.” He waited and looked into her eyes.

  “I forgive you,” she whispered.

  “Thank you. Now, once I decided you weren’t . . . appropriate for me, I chose not to love you. But God has been working on my hard heart and so have you. Watching you feed all those people. Watching you love people who scorned you. Watching you love a child that some women might have wanted to abandon. I can’t help loving you.”

  “No.” The word came out of Perla sounding harsh. “No,” she said again more softly. “I’m not worth loving. I think God’s cursed me with the ability to feed people as a way of doing penance for my sin. And I will do that penance. Loving you would be more good than I deserve.” She turned her head away.

  Casewell wanted to pull her into his arms, but he just got a firmer grip on the fingers she was trying to slip out of his hands.

  “If we only got what we deserved, this world would be a sorry place. I used to think I was a good man. I thought my father was a good man. But we sinned against each other by withholding our love and our forgiveness. It took his dying for me to understand that God loves us so much He’ll give us eternity with Him, even though we fail Him every day. Dad and I figured it out just in time. Please don’t spend the rest of your life waiting to find out that you’re loved whether you deserve it or not.”

  Tears streamed down Perla’s cheeks. “I’m afraid,” she sobbed.

  “Of what?”

  “Of losing you. Of giving myself to you and th
en losing you.”

  Casewell stood and drew her to his breast. “I vow that I will love you as long as I live and that we will spend eternity together in heaven. I know it’s not perfect, but it’s the best I can do.”

  Perla cried harder. Casewell could feel her tears soaking through his shirt and wetting his skin. He relished the intimacy of that.

  Perla hiccupped and tried to take a few deep breaths. “Casewell Phillips?” she said at last.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  Casewell laughed. “Leave it to me to forget the most important part. Yes. Perla Long, will you be my wife and bless me with your daughter and your cooking for as long as we both shall live?”

  “I will.” Perla sighed, leaning her cheek against the dry side of Casewell’s shirt.

  23

  CASEWELL WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, his heart full of praise. It was raining again and the soft patter of drops on the roof made him want to tarry in bed. He had a brief thought of how he would be sharing his bed soon and found himself very much awake. It was just as well. He had work to do.

  While his plan to court Perla hadn’t gone exactly as planned, he did still think Delilah had given him good advice. And there was one element of the plan he had neglected—a gift for Sadie. He brewed some coffee, ate a couple of slices of bread and butter, and dashed through the rain to his workshop. He would make the finest dollhouse any child had ever owned.

  Casewell had been working several hours when he heard a knock on the open doorframe. He looked up, feeling a little dazed by the unexpected shift in focus.

  “Well, howdy, Robert. I didn’t hear you drive up.”

  “She’s gone, Casewell.” Robert looked grim.

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Perla packed up and left early this morning. She made me promise I wouldn’t tell you, but Delilah near about pulled a gun on me to make me come over here and let you know. She seems to think you’ll mind.”