Lesson of the Poinsettia
by
Mildred Colvin
~*~*~*~
Published by:
Mildred Colvin
Lesson of the Poinsettia
Copyright 2011 by Mildred Colvin
Cover photo used by permission
Poinsettia by Pam Turner
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons.
This eBook may not be re-sold or given away. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission in writing from its author except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Chapter 1
Kansas City, Missouri—1906
Abigail Stevens paused at the door with a full watering can in her hand. She tilted her head to listen. The chirp of a bird, the rumble of a wagon, the bark of a dog. Nothing out of the ordinary. She stepped on the porch, letting the front door close behind her. Three steps to the right, and she faced the potted mum. Her fingers touched the cool pottery.
Creak.
The front gate’s rusty hinges sounded loud in the quiet morning. She froze, her watering can held in mid-air, her fingers pressed to the rim of the flowerpot. She tilted her head again and concentrated. There it was. Another creak.
Maybe someone had left the gate unhooked and the wind moved it. She lifted her face and no breeze brushed her cheek. Her long skirt didn’t ruffle against her legs as it did on windy days. No, someone stood even now at her front gate just as they had yesterday—and the day before.
The sound stopped. Only the usual street noises reached her. Whoever stood at her gate was quiet, but probably still there. She sensed the intensity of their gaze pressing against her as she stood on the porch waiting and listening. If only she could see. Her heart pounded as if she’d run a mile, though she hadn’t taken a step. How could she when the uncertainty of what she faced brought such weakness to her limbs?
She hated this feeling of vulnerability—the reason she seldom traveled farther than her front porch except to attend church with her sister, Rachel. And why she took little part in the business, letting Rachel handle it all.
Giving in to the fear that crowded her heart, she turned toward the door as she had the day before. Her fingers brushed the porch post, and she stopped. What was she running from? The wind or a curious passerby? What good would that do? The next time or even the next might be the same. She often heard noises she couldn’t identify just as she’d heard the creaking gate three mornings in a row. Resolve grew within her. This time she wouldn’t give in to a faceless fear. If someone wanted to watch her, so be it. Her house sat on a busy residential street. During the day many people passed. If one of them wanted to stop and watch the blind lady water her flowers, there was nothing to fear.
She turned back to her flowers, and her fingers prodded the dirt at the base of the mums, feeling the moisture before lifting the watering can. She let the water flow slowly into the thirsty soil. Her fingers remained curled around the rim of the flowerpot until moisture rose to touch them.
Creak.
She lowered the watering can slowly. Summoning courage she didn’t feel, but knowing she must do something, she turned toward the sound and called out. “Hello, how are you today?”
The gate squealed even louder and light footsteps approached. A child. Air whooshed from her lungs. She’d been frightened by a child. She cupped her hand around the porch post for support as her tense muscles relaxed.
“Do you like flowers?” She smiled toward the child. If only she hadn’t lost her sight so many years ago. Then she wouldn’t fear the slightest sound or the least change in her environment. She would’ve known immediately her visitor was a harmless child.
“I like your flowers.” A small, sweet voice spoke. Hollow footsteps sounded on the porch steps as the child approached.
“Thank you. I like them, too.” Abigail turned to the left and walked five steps. She caught the chain suspended from the ceiling. Letting her hand slide down the chain to the wooden armrest, she pivoted to sit on the porch swing, setting her watering can on the seat beside her. “What’s your name?”
“Mary Ella Warren. I live across the street. My papa said I couldn’t come to see your flowers.”
So her visitor was a little girl. Abigail smiled in the direction of her voice. “Would you like to swing with me, Mary Ella?”
The swing bounced as the little girl climbed on. Abigail turned toward her. “I’m glad you came to see the flowers, but I don’t want you getting into trouble. Shouldn’t you obey your father?”
“Papa’s at work and Mrs. Grimes doesn’t know I’m gone.” Mary Ella didn’t seem in the least worried that she might be missed.
“Who is Mrs. Grimes?”
“Our housekeeper. My mommy died a long time ago.”
“I see.” Didn’t the housekeeper keep track of the little girl as part of her job? Surely she wasn’t allowed to run free. “Did you come to see me yesterday, too?”
“I comed to see you water your flowers. They’re awfully pretty.”
“Thank you. These on the porch are Chrysanthemums. They like the cooler air of autumn.” Abigail gestured toward the pots to her right.
“I like roses, too. And, daisies, and petunias.”
Mary Ella chattered about the flowers on the porch. Without taking a breath, she said, “I have a cat.”
“Is that right?”
“Mmm-hmm. His name is Pinky.”
“Oh my!” Abigail feigned surprise. “He isn’t a pink cat, surely?”
Mary Ellen giggled. “Cats aren’t pink.”
Abigail laughed with her. “Then why did you name him pinky?”
“Because I like pink. It’s my favorite color.” The swing bounced. “But you gotta keep Pinky a secret. Papa and Mrs. Grimes don’t know.”
“You mean they don’t know you have a pet cat?”
“Uhn-uh. I save him some of my dinner every day. When Mrs. Grimes goes into the other room, I throw it out on the back stoop. He’s smart, too, ’cause he always knows to be there right after lunch.”
Abigail laughed. The cat probably was smart, knowing when he’d get a handout. “Does he let you pet him?”
“Yes, but not when he’s eating.” Mary Ella sighed. “Papa told me when a cat’s eating it might scratch me, so I’d better not be bothering him. But he doesn’t never. Papa’s just afraid I’ll get hurt. He’s awfully per… pertec….”
“Protective?”
“Yeah, protective.” Abigail could hear the frown in Mary Ella’s voice. “He gets mad when I get hurt.”
“Oh, surely not angry.Maybe frightened.” Abigail smiled at the child. “What color is your cat if it isn’t pink?”
“He’s got lots of colors. Brown and black and yellow and white.” The swing swayed with Mary Ella’s wiggles.
Abigail hadn’t sat on her front porch for more than a minute or two at a time since she was a girl. The heavy tread of a man going past caught her attention. She glanced toward the road rather than turn away to hide her face as she normally would have. With Mary Ella sitting beside her, there was no reason to hide. Pedestrians could stare at her if they wanted to. She no longer felt exposed or vulnerable as she usually did in a public place. Instead, the image of the little girl sneaking food to a cat filled her thoughts. Mary Ella was such a
sweet child. Her chatter brought pictures to Abigail’s mind she would’ve never thought of on her own.
Finally, Mary Ella jumped from the swing. “I gotta go home, ’cause Mrs. Grimes is gonna come looking for me if I don’t.”
“Oh well, I certainly don’t want you to get into trouble.” Abigail smiled in the direction of Mary Ella’s voice. “Maybe you can get permission to come visit me again one day soon.”
“Okay,” Mary Ella clomped down the front steps. “I’ll come see you tomorrow. Bye.”
Abigail lifted her hand to wave, assuming Mary Ella would do the same. She might be blind, but she didn’t announce her disability to the world if she could help it. If Mary Ella had picked up on the fact, she hadn’t let on.
She might not come back if she knew.
Abigail sat on the porch swing even after the gate opened and clicked shut. The last few minutes had been more enjoyable than any other she could remember in her adult life. So she sat, pushing the swing with her foot, while memories of a little girl and a secret multi-colored cat named Pinky kept her company.
She looked up when the front door opened, and her older sister stepped out on the porch.
“Did I hear voices?” Rachel asked.
“Probably.”
“Well, are you going to tell me who was here or am I supposed to play some childish guessing game?” Rachel sounded annoyed, which wasn’t unusual. Although only two years older than Abigail’s twenty-four years, she was always in a hurry running from one appointment to another.
Abigail shook her head. “I didn’t know you were interested. It was just the little neighbor girl who lives across the street.”
Rachel made a disgusted sound in her throat. “Why would you encourage a child like that? I’ve seen her roaming the neighborhood like some little homeless urchin. Mrs. Janes across the street says she’s strange, and she lives right next door, so I’m sure she knows.”
Rachel had tried to run Abigail’s life ever since the fever took her sight when she was fifteen. She could put up with most of her sister’s bossiness, but she wouldn’t lose Mary Ella’s friendship if she had anything to say about it. For some reason the little girl had found a place in her heart in the short time she’d been here.
She widened her eyes and lifted her chin. “Is that so? She didn’t sound strange to me. I enjoyed her visit, and I hope she comes back.”
“If she does, you can tell her to stay home where she belongs.” Rachel’s skirts rustled as she moved past. “I’m going to the office for a few hours.”
“Is something wrong at the plant?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.” That tone in her sister’s voice always made Abigail feel small. “Robert is having some problems with one of the engineers. By the time we’re finished going over the reports and talking to him, we may have to find a replacement.”
Rachel stepped off the porch. Her voice softened. “Abby, please go in the house before you get a chill. Mrs. Marshall is in the kitchen. Maybe you can talk her into a cup of hot chocolate.”
Abigail bristled at this caring tone, although she shouldn’t. No doubt Rachel cared more than she let on, yet she acted as if Abigail should do nothing but hide in the darkness because she couldn’t see. She sighed. She couldn’t blame her sister. She’d encouraged that notion for the past nine years by hiding away from the world behind her flowers.
“All right. Maybe I will.” Abigail pulled her shawl closer as she rose to go inside. Rachel’s steps sounded so confident going down the walk. But they always did. Abigail closed the door and strolled through the living and dining rooms before coming to the kitchen. Hot chocolate sounded good now that Rachel had mentioned it.
The faint scent of bacon and cinnamon that always clung to their housekeeper, reached Abigail first before the clink of a plate against the dish pan told her Mrs. Marshall stood at the dry sink.
“Did ya get those flowers of yours watered?” The older woman called out a cheerful greeting.
“Yes, I did. I met a neighbor and had quite a visit, too.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Marshall bustled about as she worked. “What neighbor did you meet?”
“Her name is Mary Ella Warren. She lives across the street in the big white house with black shutters.” Abigail laughed. “At least that’s what she told me. She also said she is nine years old. She’s quite a little chatterbox. I really enjoyed her visit.”
“I’ve seen the girl around since they moved in last month.” The housekeeper clicked her tongue. “Poor, little motherless girl just runs all over the neighborhood. So she sat still long enough to visit, did she?”
“Yes.” Abigail ached at the sound of Mary Ella’s home life. Where was her father? Surely, he should see she was better taken care of. “She seemed to enjoy the visit as much as I did. I believe she’s lonely. She promised to come again tomorrow.”
“No doubt she is lonely or bored. A child that age should be in school, but if she goes, I can’t imagine when.” Mrs. Marshall chuckled. “Anyway, it sounds like you’ve made a friend.”
Abigail hoped so. Her life had very little to brighten it, and she looked forward to Mary Ella’s company. The little girl’s home life didn’t sound ideal, but she had no right to sit in judgment. She put the neighbors out of her mind and turned an imploring face toward the housekeeper. “You wouldn’t have some hot chocolate handy, would you?”
“Coming right up. Thought you might want some today. It’s a mite chilly outdoors.”
“Oh, thank you. Yes, but it’s just right for October.” Abigail pulled a chair from the table and sat down to wait for her cocoa.
~*~
Abigail’s knitting needles clicked to the end of the row before she paused to run her fingers over the shawl she was making. From her chair in the living room, she’d be able to hear her sister’s steps when she returned from Kingson’s Steel. Abigail frowned. If not for her blindness, she’d be helping Rachel run the large manufacturing plant the sisters inherited at their parents’ deaths. Instead, Rachel did everything while Abigail’s lack of sight confined her to the house.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, then picked up her needles and began the next row. Her agile fingers fed the yarn while her needles clicked a steady rhythm.
She’d learned to knit at a young age and was thankful she could continue this form of needlework without sight. By letting her fingers “see” the stitches and patterns she developed in her mind, she was able to make shawls and scarves as well as other simple items that Rachel assured her were beautiful.
The doorbell peeled through the house and she jumped. Mrs. Marshall had gone to her home just moments before. It must be after five o’clock. Rachel should be back by now to see to the door. Abigail lay her knitting to the side and with unsteady steps crossed the room.
As she opened the outer door, leaving the screen door hooked, a man’s rough voice spoke. “Was my daughter here today?”
Abigail jerked back from his aggressive tone. She shouldn’t have answered the door. Rachel would know how to handle this. What could be keeping her? She strained to hear the clip clop of the horse turning in their drive, but heard only the man’s agitated breathing. Rachel wouldn’t be rescuing her today.
She straightened her spine and clutched the edge of the door for support. She focused on the man’s raspy breath. “Sir, I don’t believe we’ve met. Who is your daughter?”
His voice softened. “Mary Ella Warren. She’s about this tall, nine years old with blond hair and brown eyes. Did you see her?”
Abigail relaxed. So this was Mary Ella’s father. She hid a smile. She could honestly say she hadn’t seen his daughter, but she knew that would not be right. Instead, she kept her eyes turned toward his voice. “Yes, Mary Ella was here this morning to look at my flowers.”
“That’s exactly what she said.” The harsh tone crept back into his voice. She imagined a scowl on his face. “Listen, I don’t want my daughter coming over here. I’ll hold you
personally responsible if it ever happens again.”
Abigail’s eyes widened as her breath caught in her throat. How dare this man talk to her that way! As if she somehow could control his daughter from across the street. Mary Ella was such a sweet child. What was wrong with her father? She closed the door in his face. And locked it.
Chapter 2
Seth Warren looked across the breakfast table at his daughter. She sat with her spoon of oatmeal poised halfway to her mouth. Her lips turned up at the corners in an impish grin. Her large brown eyes sparkled with mischief as they met his. Her grin widened. “I guess you’re going to work today?”
“Yes, I guess I am.” He tried to look stern, but knew he failed when her smile didn’t waver. She was so precious to him. Had been from the moment of her birth but even more so since his wife’s death four years earlier. Fear caught in his throat. He could not bear to lose his daughter, too.
“Mary Ella, I want you to promise me you will stay in your own yard today.”
The corners of her mouth twitched as if she held back a giggle. She seemed to be challenging him. Testing to see if he would back down.
“I mean it, Mary Ella. The streets are too dangerous for you to cross alone. We live on a main thoroughfare. Heavy wagons pass often throughout the day. Yesterday I saw one of those new horseless carriages frighten a team into running away. That could happen right out here in front of our house. You could be injured or worse.”
She bounced in her seat. “What did it look like?”
“What?”
“The horseless carriage.” She popped the spoon into her mouth and appeared to swallow her cereal without chewing. “I never saw one before. I heard they’re real funny looking.”
“They aren’t much different than a carriage. There just isn’t a horse in front.”
She giggled, bringing a smile to his lips. “That must be what makes ‘em so funny looking.”
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