by Janet Dean
“Papa likes to play dominoes.” Elise put out her piece then lifted her eyes to Callie’s. “I miss him.”
“Have you thought about going home for a visit, Elise? Maybe he’s had a change of heart.”
“He still insists I give up the baby, either to a married couple not from here or…an orphanage.”
“If your father ever spent time in an orphanage, he’d change his mind about having his grandchild there.”
Elise sighed. “He’s so upset he doesn’t act like my baby’s even human, much less his grandchild.”
Callie took Elise’s hand. “I’m praying that your father will change his mind once the baby arrives. Who couldn’t help but love a newborn?”
“Oh, thank you. I hope you’re right.” Elise turned to Jacob. “What was it like in the orphanage, Jake?”
“Life was regimented. We were lined up and marched to meals that we ate in silence.” He gave a wry smile. “Nothing resembling your meals, Callie. We didn’t starve, but we came close. There never seemed to be enough food.”
Jacob had gone hungry? And hadn’t known the joy of conversation at mealtimes?
Elise’s eyes filled with sympathy. “I had everything I needed and more.”
Callie patted her hand. “We were fortunate.”
“Depravation comes in many forms. We worked. We slept. No hugs at bedtime. No praise. Not that all the kids deserved it. Bullies terrorized younger kids. Disobedience was a problem. Every day some kid, sometimes several, got a switching or hit with a razor strap for serious or even slight infractions.”
Callie gasped. “I’ve never been whipped.”
Jacob grinned. “I earned a few. The belt didn’t hurt as much as the lack of reconciliation afterward, no making up and being forgiven. Some kids cried most nights.” He met her gaze. “You learned to be tough.”
From what Callie had seen, a lesson Jacob hadn’t forgotten. Everything he’d said about the orphanage twisted inside her. “Talk to Elise’s father. Tell him what you’ve told us.” She laid a hand on his. “Please.”
“Maybe I will,” Jacob said, playing his last domino. “Next time I need a haircut. Though, like most folks, I suspect he won’t appreciate the interference.”
“Can’t you talk to him sooner? Elise’s baby will be here before the month is out.”
Jacob avoided her gaze. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you for trying,” Elise said, then added up the scores. “Looks like Jacob won.”
“Nothing to this game.” Jacob grinned.
Callie cocked her head at him. “Are you sure you’re a novice?”
“It was the luck of the draw,” he said, trying to look humble but failing, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Or I’m a fast learner.”
Callie laughed, enjoying this fun side of Jacob. But even more importantly, pleased he’d agreed to talk to Mr. Langley. “Let me know when you’re going to speak to Elise’s father. Elise and I will pray.” An idea seized her mind and wouldn’t let go. “Even better, let’s pray now.”
At the suggestion, Elise smiled, but Jacob looked as if he’d swallowed a persimmon. Still, she reached out her hands. Elise took her left. Jacob hesitated then took her hand in his. The solid strength of his callused hand, evidence of his occupation, filled her with reassurance. She gave him a smile, then bowed her head.
“Father God, Jacob has agreed to talk to Elise’s father about his experience of living in an orphanage. We pray that Mr. Langley will listen and their talk will go well. And Lord, please meet the needs of orphans and all Your children, no matter who or where they are. Amen.”
Jacob dropped her hand, as if the experience scorched his conscience. She doubted that he valued prayer. But perhaps, along with Elise’s father, God would teach Jacob Smith a thing or two. She sent up a silent prayer that the experience of talking to Elise’s father would somehow bring Jacob closer to God.
They’d just finished their second game when Elise yawned. “I’m tired. You’ll have to play without me. I’m going to bed.”
Jacob rose. “I’d better leave.”
Elise walked to the window and peered out. “It’s still pouring.”
“A little water won’t hurt me.”
“Don’t be silly.” Callie packed away the dominoes. “Wait until the rain stops.”
Elise said goodnight, then left the kitchen. The memory of the last time she and Jacob were alone in the kitchen brought Callie to her feet. She refilled the bowl of popcorn, moved about the kitchen, wiping grease off the stove, cleaning out the pan, straightening the hand towel, keeping her distance.
“Don’t worry, Callie.” Jacob shot her a teasing grin. “You and those pretty feet of yours are safe with me.”
Her cheeks heated. “I’m not afraid of being alone with you.”
“That’s not what I’m seeing. I promise to keep my distance. Come sit before you wear yourself out and the wooden planks on the floor.”
“You’re imagining that.” She set the bowl of popcorn down on the table, then took a seat across from him, careful to tuck her feet beneath her skirt.
Though every nerve in her body zinged at being alone with Jacob, a man who made her feel things she’d never felt before and didn’t want to feel now, she didn’t want the evening to end.
Jacob took her hand, rubbing his thumb across the palm. “I’ve had a wonderful time, playing a game with you and Elise, sharing a bowl of popcorn. It was like being a kid again.”
She pulled her hand away. “What, ah, kind of games did you play as a boy?”
“When our chores were done and weather permitted, we played outside—kick the can, dodgeball, racing games and, of course, baseball. In winter, we had snowball fights and built forts.” He chuckled. “Most of us had runny noses all winter.”
“I was afraid from what you said that you never had fun.”
“Kids find ways to have fun. Sometimes at others’ expense, like the time we hid a frog in the silverware drawer.” He laughed. “We scared the cook so badly she refused to fix our supper.”
“You were an imp.”
He grinned. “That’s a kind description. What was it like at your aunt’s?”
“Aunt Hilda liked to play board games and dominoes on winter evenings. In the summer I spent every moment I could outside playing jump rope, hopscotch, roaming around town.” She giggled. “Getting into trouble.”
“You?”
“No more than most kids.”
“You were never punished?”
Callie laughed. “Occasionally, Aunt Hilda gave me a scolding. Once I had to sit in my bedroom without supper.”
“What did you do?”
“I lied to her. I learned my lesson and haven’t told a lie since.”
He raised a brow. “Never?”
Their eyes locked and everything within her stilled, as a surge of connection to this man swept through her. Evidence that she was lying right now, to herself. No matter how much she wanted to deny it, no matter how wrong he was for her, Jacob Smith had gotten under her skin.
She wouldn’t let him get close. Not until she knew what brought him to Peaceful and why he wanted to look at those newspapers. He’d admitted that he’d lied about his reason, but hadn’t confided in her, either. Never again would she fall for a man without seeing what lurked beneath the surface.
“What about you, Jacob? Perhaps you’re not telling a lie, but…” She took a deep breath, afraid of his answer. “Are you living one?”
A flicker of something lit in his eyes. He dropped his gaze. What had she glimpsed in their depths before he turned away? Something wary, something secretive, something leery.
Her breath caught. How could she have fallen for another deceiving man?
Chapter Thirteen
Jake had hightailed it out of Callie’s kitchen last night before the rain had stopped, dashing to the lean-to, each footfall drenching his pant legs and his spirits. Callie had pushed to ferret out his secret, destroyi
ng the camaraderie they’d shared. Before she learned the truth, he’d finish his search for his mother and get out of town.
With a grunt, he shoved the wooden handles of the hedge shears together, cutting off the branches of the overgrown evergreens blocking Mrs. Uland’s windows. A chore he’d offered to do, hoping to question her about the gossip she’d heard about the Squier family. But the search for his mother didn’t preoccupy his thoughts. All he could think about was Callie.
Better to sever the relationship, as he did these branches, than to let her become involved with him, a man who’d rubbed elbows with depravity and ugliness in jail and smelled the stench of it in his nostrils still. A man who had no idea how a proper husband behaved. Or, for that matter, what it took to be a good father. Callie deserved better than him.
Not that he could take the risk of getting close, even if he hadn’t spent time in jail. He’d been burned by an indifferent foster family, a woman he’d thought loved him and an unscrupulous best friend.
As much as he felt Callie incapable of such treachery, he couldn’t seem to let go of his mistrust. To avoid Callie and her questions, he’d gulped down breakfast, mentioning his plans to trim Mrs. Uland’s shrubs on his way out the door. Callie hadn’t tried to stop him. She knew as well as he did that Jake wasn’t the man for her.
Mrs. Uland would no doubt insist on paying him, but he’d refuse. He had money, which he didn’t need to use as long as he stayed in Callie’s lean-to and ate at her table. But his time here was running out. Soon the unwed mother from Bloomington would arrive. Before she did, he’d be gone.
The thought of leaving drenched his good spirits like an April downpour. He tried to tell himself that his reaction had more to do with not finishing the renovations on the old Victorian than an interest in Callie.
But, no matter what Callie claimed, he’d never been a good liar. Since the age of seven, he hadn’t even been able to lie to himself.
He swiped sweat from his brow in the crook of his elbow. A man had no problem staying warm working at this speed. He dumped the last armload of branches onto the tarpaulin, grabbed two ends and hauled it to the back of Mrs. Uland’s lot. On a windless day, he’d burn them. Not today. He glanced toward the fast-moving clouds. Today was better suited to flying kites.
The idea of holding on to the string with Callie beside him, watching a kite soar into the sky, the tail whipping in the wind, held him in its grasp. He could visualize her delight, the huge smile she’d wear as she looked upward, holding on to her hat. He’d wrap an arm around her—
In reality, the blustery day would be better spent mucking the barn. Odors didn’t linger on a day like this one. He’d handle that chore when he finished here. And forget what he couldn’t have.
Jake stowed the hacksaw, clippers and tarpaulin in the small shed near the rear of her property, then walked around to the front door.
Mrs. Uland answered his knock, wrapped in a bulky shawl. “Gracious, you’re a whirlwind on two legs! I’m practically dizzy from watching you. Come in, dear boy. I have coffee made.”
He flicked evergreen needles from his sleeve. “I’m a mess. Just wanted to let you know I’d finished trimming your bushes. I’ll burn the branches when this wind dies down.”
“I’ve been walking between the windows, enjoying the view. My neighbors probably thank you as much as I do. All those overgrown shrubs looked like a hermit lived here with something to hide.” She laughed, obviously not the least concerned about what her neighbors thought. “If you’re sure you won’t come inside, let me get you a cup of coffee to ward off the chill.”
“Coffee sounds good.”
“Sugar? Cream?”
“I like it the way it comes.”
“I prefer to dress it up with both.” She laughed. “My hubby said I didn’t like coffee, only what went into it. He might’ve lived long enough to greet old age, if he’d indulged.” She shot him a look. “You might want to give that a try.”
He bit back a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
Accompanied by her dog Sandy, Mrs. Uland returned carrying a tray holding two mugs and a plate of gingersnap cookies sprinkled with sugar. “The older I get the more I can’t tolerate the cold.”
“Your windows may need caulking.”
“That or my bones.” Her grin crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Maybe that would stop their creaking.”
Jake grinned, taking a seat in one of the wicker rockers on the porch across from Mrs. Uland’s. Sandy laid his nose on Jake’s leg. He gave it a pat. The porch was comfortable in the morning sun and they were somewhat protected by the wind.
He could set Mrs. Uland’s house to rights in no time, but he’d move on before someone discovered his past. Though maybe this quirky dowager, who didn’t appear to care what anyone thought and wasn’t easily rattled, wouldn’t be thrown by the news that he’d spent a year in jail. Perhaps, just perhaps, Callie wouldn’t be undone by the information, either. Not that he’d take a chance by telling her.
Mrs. Uland wrapped both hands around her mug and took a sip. “This is nice. Help yourself to the cookies.” She motioned to the plate on the table between them. “Don’t waste them on Sandy. He’s not fond of them, silly dog. My ma baked gingersnaps every week. They gave me a sore tongue, I ate so many.” She chuckled. “That’s what I got for being greedy. But they’re still my favorites.” She inhaled, closing her eyes. “The aroma makes me think of my childhood.”
He took two. “I didn’t realize I was hungry till I got a whiff of these.” He took a bite. “They’re delicious. Cookies are my favorites. At Christmas, a nearby church would bring gingerbread boy cookies to the orphanage. One for each of us.”
“Ma made those, too.”
“I’d prolong eating mine for as long as I could.” He grinned. “I’d start with the legs, then the arms and finally the body. Left the head for last.”
“Now why was that? I always ate the heads off first.”
Jake shrugged. “I guess I…liked their smiles.”
“You must’ve been a sweet little boy to care about that. You make me feel like a monster,” she said with a laugh. “So we both have good memories of cookies.”
A list of memories from his childhood tromped through Jake’s mind: his mildewed pillow, beans of every kind, scratchy towels, limp shirts, a pile of work, the sting of a razor strap. The giant old bush behind the shed, the place disobedient boys were sent to get their punishment. He’d never smell a lilac without thinking of that bush. Odd that, now, he didn’t mind the scent.
Mrs. Uland dunked another cookie into her coffee. “When you go shopping for a wife, make sure she can make gingerbread cookies. Your house will always smell like home.”
To Jake, cookies—any kind of cookies—each individually made, often with kids in mind, were a small serving of affection. He used to help the cook in the kitchen, cleaning up, peeling potatoes, shelling beans. On rare occasion when cookies made the menu, she’d sneak Jake a couple of extras. He’d carry those cookies in his pockets as he’d roamed the woods or fished the pond. Just knowing he could munch on them whenever the notion struck put a smile on his face.
“Are you looking?”
“Pardon?”
“For a wife?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I’m thinking Callie might change your mind about that.”
Jake choked on his coffee. Curled at his feet, Sandy raised his head then lowered it again.
“Not just yet, you understand, what with her only months since Martin’s death. But a woman needs a man. I’m a rudderless ship since my husband passed.” She sighed. “Keeping up this house is more than I can handle. Those bushes should’ve been trimmed years ago, but I didn’t know who to ask. Not Martin.” Mildred shook her head, tsk-tsking. “He was a congenial fellow, but not partial to work.”
“I got that impression.”
“Take my advice. Don’t say as much to Callie. She doesn’t cotton to criticism of that husband of
hers. I admire her loyalty. We’ve both lost husbands. Mine was a saint.” She smiled. “I never deserved that man. The only time he made me mad was when he up and died on me, leaving me to manage without him for twenty years.” She rolled her eyes Heavenward. “Or for however long it’ll be before the Good Lord takes me home.”
Jake didn’t know how to respond to this talk of Heaven. Shifting in his chair, he let his gaze roam the house’s exterior. “I’m impressed with the construction of these Victorian houses. They’re solid. If properly cared for, they’re almost indestructible.”
“Changing the subject doesn’t fool me, Jacob Smith. Call me a busybody, but you and your Maker need to have a talk.”
If only he could believe. “Reckon you’re right about that.”
“Don’t be waiting too long. As for that house of Callie’s, it was hard to watch it fall into disrepair. Couldn’t understand why the senator built a lovely home then left it to rot.”
Here was the opportunity Jake sought. “Wonder what makes someone move under the cover of dark and never return?”
She tapped a finger against her lower lip. “None of the rumors made any sense. Some said the house was haunted.” She chuckled. “Such foolishness, but people talk. Make up something if they don’t know the facts.” She sobered. “Another story, which makes more sense was that votes were the reason he left.”
“Votes? How so?”
“He never did one thing unless he thought it’d get him a vote. Near an election, he’d attend church, faithful as you please. Sat in the front row. Once elected, he didn’t darken the door, that is, till the next ballot. He’d attend Peaceful’s festival in September if there was an election in November. Shake his way from gathering to gathering. But otherwise never joined in, never took part.”
“Seems like people would’ve caught on and not reelected him.”
“Reckon they thought he’d done a good enough job, but they weren’t fooled, if that’s what you’re thinking. Folks aren’t fooled long by a user.” She narrowed her gaze. “Make sure you don’t do the same thing, Jake. I don’t know what brings you to Peaceful. I suspect you’ve got your reasons. An agenda, some call it, for coming and not joining in. We got enough folks living on the sidelines. Don’t be one of them.”