by Janet Dean
With the contents of the wagon stowed in the library and the wagon back in Mrs. Uland’s yard, Jake returned to the porch.
Inside, Callie Mitchell sat across the table from her neighbor, a pot of tea and some kind of secret between them.
Callie poured Mildred’s cup of tea. “What’s this about?”
“I’ve spent days rummaging through every nook and cranny in my house searching for that memorabilia, then getting it in order.”
Callie’s usually dapper neighbor looked like she’d gotten into a brawl and lost. Her hair appeared uncombed. The lapels on her dress tipped like a bird in flight. Her stockings were drooping around her ankles. Finding and putting those newspapers in order had taken its toil.
“I’ll tell you it wore me out. I’m not what I used to be. Why, last week I had to rest while weeding the garden.” She smiled. “Isn’t the early lettuce yummy? I love wilting it, though it’s tender enough to eat straight out of the garden.”
Though she had a sharp mind, upon occasion Mildred went off on some tangent and forgot the point of the conversation.
Her eyes met Callie’s. “Oh, sorry, dear. You asked about the newspapers.”
“Why did you bring them here?”
“Those newspapers and scrapbooks are records you’ll need.” Her voice had a slightly impatient tone, as if unable to understand Callie’s dim-wittedness.
“Why would I need them?” Callie asked gently.
“So you can write our town’s history.”
“Why me?”
“Your wonderful essays and poems used to make me cry. You love history. Told me that yourself. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with the job.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but why do you want a history written?”
“I’ve lived in Peaceful all my life. One look at the obituary column makes it clear we oldsters are dying off. Soon no one will be left to answer questions about the town. Down the road, young people will want to know.” She rolled her eyes. “They don’t realize that now, of course, but it’s true. Most of us never think to ask our elders anything until it’s too late. I know my ancestors came over from England. But I have no idea what part and…”
As Mildred went on about her heritage, Callie thought about the countless times she’d wished she could’ve asked her parents some detail about their lives. Like when and where her father and mother first met. Either Aunt Hilda couldn’t remember or never knew. Her pulse tripped. These articles might reveal something new about her mother or her mother’s parents. The prospect of learning even one fact to fill the blanks on her family tree was reason enough to take the job.
“You’ve got the talent. And I’ve got the facts.” Mildred sat back, looking pleased.
Callie hated to refuse her friend, especially since she’d enjoy delving into the town’s past, but could she squeeze in another task? “It’ll require a lot of time to organize the information and write it up.”
“I know. That’s the reason I will pay you and pay you well.”
Was this God’s answer? Not only for her longing for information about her family, but also for her financial predicament? As certainty filled her heart, a smile curved her lips. This put the lie to Commodore’s prediction that she’d lose the house. God had provided a way to handle expenses, not with a miracle but through Callie’s hard work.
She’d need other sources of revenue to increase the number of women she could help. As soon as the house was safe, she’d seek community support. If her plan were God’s will, He’d provide. Her eyes misted. She’d been unsure, even discouraged about how she’d manage. God cared about every detail of her life. She’d lean on Him, the one constant in her ever-changing circumstances.
“I have the money,” Mildred was saying, “and I’m running out of time to spend it.” She grinned. Every line in her face stood at attention like a squad of eager recruits. “Mr. Uland, God rest his soul, always said I could squeeze a penny until Mr. Lincoln hollered.”
Knowing the truth of that statement, Callie bit back a grin.
“All my life, I fought letting go of a dollar. Last I looked, those dollars were breeding. Why, I’ve got more than enough money to last me and then some. And you…” She paused. “With Commodore’s attitude toward this house, I doubt he’s helping with your bills. You need income, especially with Elise living here.”
Who would’ve thought Mildred Uland, a tight-fisted friend, and Jacob Smith, a closed-mouth drifter, would be the keys to launching her dream? “Thank you, Mildred, for the opportunity. I’ll work on the town’s story in the evenings.”
“I’ll help all I can. It’ll be good to have a new purpose, since that husband of mine up and died on me. Why, I’m as adrift as a rudderless sailboat.”
Though her husband had been gone for more than twenty years, Mildred often groused about his passing, as if the poor man had died just to annoy her. Perhaps her way of handling grief was better than holding everything inside, as Callie often did. “I’m sure Elise would help, too.”
“If she does, tell her to keep quiet about the book. It’ll be my gift to the town at Peaceful’s seventy-fifth anniversary two years from now. I don’t want it blabbed about until it’s in print.” Mildred reached a blue-veined hand. “I’m paying for your talent and your reticence. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Callie gave her neighbor’s hand a squeeze. “You’re an answer to a prayer.”
“Not surprised. God’s been nudging me to get moving on this.” She sighed. “Lately it’s been more of a shove. I don’t hanker to wrestle with God and end up with an out-of-kilter hip. Got me enough aches and pains as it is.” She smiled. “I’m late learning the lesson, but when God says, ‘Do it,’ I do it.”
Callie rose and came around the table, wrapping her arms around Mildred’s shoulders. “Remember the spring after I came to live with Aunt Hilda? I picked your tulips.” She kissed her cheek. “I still can’t believe you forgave me for ruining your front flowerbed.”
“You were only seven and meant well, wanted to give them to Hilda on her birthday. You weren’t the brightest vandal I’ve come across.” Mildred grinned up at her. “You left a trail of petals clear to her house.”
“You followed that trail. Carrying a bouquet of tulips you’d picked from your flowerbed out back, claiming I’d missed a few. Then you helped me put together a bouquet, though you surely wanted to paddle my behind.”
Tears flooded Mildred’s eyes. “No, dear girl. You’d lost your brother and your parents. I lost only petals.”
A sudden spasm seized Callie’s throat. Her baby brother, Ronnie, just starting to walk. Mama and Papa going about their routine with no warning that the dam was about to give way. All gone.
When she could finally speak, Callie said, “Where would I be if not for Aunt Hilda and people like you, who took a frightened little girl into your hearts?”
“You’d be fine. You were born with all the strength you needed, just like your mother. She’s up in Heaven chatting with that inconsiderate husband of mine.” She patted Callie’s cheek. “That faith of yours will see you through. I’m proud of you, Callie Marie Mitchell.”
Callie’s smile trembled. “You’ve been my rock. I’m happy I can do something for you now. Writing this history will be fun. Imagine, Peaceful’s past at my fingertips.”
Mildred removed some bills from her pocket. “This’ll get you started.”
At the generous sum, Callie shook her head. “I can’t accept this.”
“You’ll soon have four mouths to feed.” Mildred said, then left through the back door and disappeared between the shrubs separating their houses.
In Callie’s hands was enough money to meet their needs for months, maybe more. As she tucked the bills into her purse, the weight of obligations she’d had no idea how she’d pay fell from her shoulders. And she knew—
A naughty little girl’s petal trail had brought Mildred Uland into her life, a very special friend. God had seen Callie through he
r troubles every step of the way. He’d given her this home. He’d sent Jacob Smith to make repairs. And Mildred with an offer of much-needed funds. Ensuring that she’d be able to take care of her baby and keep the promise she’d made to Nell, a desperate young girl who’d believed she had nowhere to turn.
With her heart filled to overflowing for the good fortune God had brought into her life, Callie could barely contain the unfettered joy pounding through her. A walk would help expend some of that energy.
She opened the screen door and jerked her foot back. Most of the porch floor was missing. The boards had been stripped away, revealing support timbers underneath. Thankfully, they appeared solid and wouldn’t need to be replaced.
Jacob Smith turned from tossing another plank to the lawn.
Callie smiled. “I’m amazed at the progress you’ve made while Mildred and I have been visiting.”
“I don’t believe in wasting time.”
Truer words had never been spoken. Jacob might not be an open book but he could be trusted to do a good job in a timely manner.
“If all those newspapers your neighbor brought get in your way, I could haul them to the barn.”
“They’re fine where they are.”
“I’m curious why Mrs. Uland dumped them on you.”
“Mildred’s—” She wouldn’t spoil her neighbor’s surprise. “Asked me to handle a project for her. I have plenty of room.”
“Might make interesting reading. I like looking into the history of old houses. When you’re finished, I’d like to take a look, see what I can find.”
“I won’t be done anytime soon.” She cocked her head at him. “Are you planning on staying in town that long?”
“Only long enough to…repair your house. Then I’ll move on.”
Exactly as she’d thought. She wouldn’t get involved with Jacob Smith or the problems she felt lurking beneath his polite, standoffish exterior. Why, he could walk out of her life as quickly as he’d walked in and never finish the job. She straightened her spine. Another reason to steel herself against this strange attraction she had for him.
“You might want to lock the screen so you and Elise don’t use that door and fall through the floor joists.”
Nodding, Callie closed the screen, hooked it, closed and locked the wooden door, and then found a red ribbon and tied it around the knob. Satisfied that Elise wouldn’t miss the warning to avoid the porch, she left for her walk by the back door.
A warning she’d take to heart. The truth was Jacob Smith could hurt her. Not physically. She’d never think that. But hurt her nevertheless. She’d lock her heart against this drifter. And focus on making a family with her baby, with Elise and her child and focus on her dream. She’d have a full life.
The excitement bubbling within her like an effervescent underground spring sputtered and died. In truth, she’d been lonely for years—most of her life. Marriage to Martin hadn’t filled that aching void.
Hadn’t she learned anything? Attraction meant nothing.
Jacob Smith was the last man on earth she wanted in her life.
In a matter of hours, Jake had torn the planks off the porch. He’d found ample lumber in the barn to replace them, the boards covered with a layer of dust and mice droppings, evidence that the intent to make repairs exceeded Martin Mitchell’s follow-through.
As Jake pounded in another nail, he cringed at his rush to judgment. If he’d been married when he’d ended up in jail, he’d have no doubt left some things undone. Not everyone was suited for restoration. The poor guy lost his life trying.
Still, Martin’s widow lived in a house all but unfit for human habitation. Jake couldn’t let a woman endure such conditions. Not that he blamed the house. Time and effort would bring this place back to its former grandeur. Though enough work was here to tether a man indefinitely, a sentence without parole.
Yet to walk away, when he’d witnessed Mrs. Mitchell’s relief and joy at the house’s revival would be cruel. In the time he remained, if possible, he’d see the task to completion.
His heart lurched. Was the pull more the woman than the work? Either way, he doubted he’d get the job done. Someone was sure to discover his jailbird past.
The aroma of something sugary drifted on the air. Jake pulled the tantalizing scent of home into his lungs then released it in a gust.
Who was he fooling? This wasn’t home—at least not his.
He grabbed the length of lumber he’d cut. Grasping another large nail between thumb and forefinger, he pounded it into the pungent pine, the perfume of Jake’s life. Far better than the stench of prison, but nothing like the aromas floating out of Mrs. Mitchell’s kitchen.
A shadow fell across the porch floor.
He turned to face a man and woman standing on the flagstone walkway. Offering a tentative smile, a round-faced, sturdy woman wore a feather-adorned hat atop her salt-and-pepper hair.
The burly man’s brow furrowed beneath the brim of his hat. “Who are you?”
Jake laid the hammer down and rose. “Jake Smith,” he said offering a hand.
The visitor didn’t take it. “The name means nothing to me.”
“Doubt it would. I’m new in town.”
“What are you doing to our daughter-in-law’s porch?”
So these people were Callie Mitchell’s in-laws.
The screen door opened and Mrs. Mitchell stepped out on the solid boards he’d laid, looking fresh as a summer morning after a rain. She glanced at Jake, then at her in-laws. Her bright smile slipped. “I see you’ve met Mr. Smith, the carpenter who’s fixing up the place. I’m sure you’re pleased to see I’m taking action to ensure our safety.”
Square jaw set in a stubborn line, Mitchell folded beefy arms across his chest. “The best thing you could do is torch this place.”
Callie sighed, obviously not the first time she’d heard such nonsense. Father-in-law or not, Mitchell had no right to badger his dead son’s wife, a gentle woman with a heavy load.
He turned his gaze on her, ready to toss the idiot off the property if she showed the slightest inclination, but she continued to wear that calm expression of hers. How did she keep her patience, when Jake would like nothing better than to punch the guy?
“We aren’t here to argue, Commodore.” Dorothy Mitchell laid a hand on her husband’s sleeve. “Tell Callie why we’ve come.”
Mitchell shifted on his feet. “I, ah, we brought the fabric and some of those baby things you were looking at before we, ah, got off on the wrong foot.”
“Thank you.” Smiling, Callie Mitchell motioned to the house. “Would you care for tea? I just took an angel food cake out of the oven.”
Ignoring his daughter-in-law’s peace offering, Mitchell swept a hand toward Jake. “Can’t see how you can afford a handyman.”
“Mr. Smith agreed to do the work for a roof over his head and meals.”
He turned narrowed eyes on Jake. “Why? When you could get a good-paying job at the grain elevator or lumberyard?”
“I don’t plan on staying long.”
“That so? Then why did you come?”
Jake kept his expression blank, a skill that had held him in good stead in prison. “Peaceful sounded like a nice town.”
“Peaceful is the way we aim to keep it. Most folks around here distrust drifters.”
“I appreciate your concern, Commodore, but I’ve already arranged for Mr. Smith to do the work.” Callie Mitchell tapped the toe of her serviceable shoe on the newly laid porch floor. “His work speaks for him.”
“Let’s have that tea,” Callie’s mother-in-law said. “Please.”
Ignoring his wife, Mitchell frowned. “You’re hardly a good judge of character, Callie. The last man you hired ransacked the place and took every cent in the house.”
Jake took a step forward. “Where I come from, a man speaks kindly to a lady.”
Mitchell turned suspicious eyes on Jake. “And where is that, Smith?”
“Does
it matter? I believe good manners are the same everywhere.”
“I’ll tell you what I believe. A drifter has something to hide.” He smirked. “As soon as someone gets close to his secret, that’s when he leaves.” He turned to Callie. “Reckon I’ll stop at the sheriff’s office. See what he knows about ‘Smith’ here.”
He thrust the bundle at his daughter-in-law, then took his wife’s arm and stomped down the walk.
The threat tore through Jake, heating his veins. Even if the sheriff didn’t find out anything about him, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t come around asking questions. It wouldn’t be long until his past caught up with him and forced him out of town.
Jake didn’t know where to pin his gaze, but he couldn’t look at Callie Mitchell. He couldn’t risk the suspicion he’d see in her guileless eyes. He couldn’t risk her seeing the alarm surely hovering in his.
“I’m sorry about that. About him,” she whispered, then stepped inside.
Something frozen inside him knotted tighter. Callie Mitchell had lost her husband. She managed this run-down house and her daily chores while giving refuge to a young unwed mother—all that responsibility rested on her slender shoulders.
Yet without a moment’s hesitation, a member of her family had piled on more burdens. No doubt Commodore Mitchell would call himself a Christian. The man was a hypocrite. The world was full of them, further evidence that if God existed, he had little impact on anyone’s conduct.
Anyone that is, except Callie Mitchell. From what he’d seen, people in this town either harassed or leaned on her.
The woman needed someone to look after her. Someone who’d help carry her burdens. Someone like…
Not him.
Anyone but him.
Jake knelt on the porch, then grabbed a nail and swung the hammer. This time, he found his thumb, not the nail’s head. Through gritted teeth, he bit back the cry of pain and cradled his throbbing thumb in his palm.
No point in getting all riled up about Mrs. Mitchell’s load. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—get involved with her. He’d never known a woman he could trust.