‘‘No regard for others.’’
Sophie’s ears burned. She clamped her teeth and sucked in a deep breath. The cold burned her nose all the way to her lungs. Say something or just ignore? What would Mor do? She heard her mother’s voice as clearly as if she were standing next to her. ‘‘A soft answer turneth away wrath.’’
What kind of soft answer? The old bat didn’t speak directly to me.
What do I do?
‘‘Sophie?’’
She could tell by the nudge that Astrid had most likely called her name before. ‘‘Sorry. What?’’
‘‘We’re going to have a popcorn-ball party when we get home. Can you come?’’
‘‘Please do.’’ Grace added, speaking carefully, since she couldn’t sign with her hands in mittens. She smiled at Mr. Wiste. ‘‘You are invited too.’’
Sophie closed her eyes for a moment. I want to go, to have fun for a change, to laugh and forget about the boardinghouse. She faced Grace so she could read her lips. ‘‘I’m sorry, I can’t. Mrs. Sam still wears out easily. I need to be there to help with supper.’’
‘‘Come for a little while.’’
‘‘I could bring you back as soon as you need to.’’ Mr. Wiste’s smile made her want to go even more.
‘‘All right, I’ll go, but I can’t stay too long.’’ There, she’d followed what her heart wanted to do for the first time in months.
‘‘Oh, wonderful.’’ Grace threw her arms around Sophie’s shoulders.
Sophie hugged her back. ‘‘I’ll go tell them I’m going.’’ She started out and turned to find Mr. Wiste beside her. What would Mrs. Valders be saying now? Ignoring the thought, Sophie hurried so as not to keep the others waiting. She was going to a party, a time for fun and laughter, with people her own age. The thought made her want to jump in the snowbank.
Garth held the door for her, and she breezed through, stamped her feet to get rid of snow, and started for the kitchen to tell Mrs. Sam. She met Lily Mae flying across the dining room.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ The wide-eyed look told her it wasn’t good.
‘‘Ma fainted.’’
All the pleasure left Sophie with a whoosh to be replaced by fear. ‘‘Is she all right?’’
‘‘She awake, sort of. I sent Lemuel for Dr. Elizabeth.’’
Sophie turned to Mr. Wiste. ‘‘You go on out with the others and have fun. Tell them why I couldn’t come. You’ll get a chance to meet more of the folks of Blessing.’’
‘‘But I could help you here.’’
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Wiste, but that is not necessary.’’ She nodded in dismissal and turned to head for the kitchen. ‘‘Where is she?’’
‘‘In the storeroom. I fixed a pallet for Ma there.’’ Lily Mae’s voice cracked, her dark eyes wide with fear.
‘‘Why didn’t you put her on my bed?’’
‘‘That wouldn’t be proper.’’
‘‘Oh, for—don’t be silly. The storeroom floor is cold.’’ Sophie flew across the room as she spoke and pushed the half-open door so it banged against the wall, Lily Mae right on her heels. Dropping to her knees beside the pallet, Sophie smoothed her hand over Mrs. Sam’s forehead. ‘‘Do you hurt anywhere?’’
‘‘Not so’s I know. I jes’ found myself on the floor.’’
‘‘As soon as Lemuel comes back, we’ll carry you into the other room, where you’ll be more comfortable.’’
‘‘Where he go?’’
‘‘To get the doctor. You shouldn’t have come back to work yet.’’
‘‘Thought I was good enough. ’Sides, you need help here. Lily Mae, you get dat roast out and let it set before slicin’ it. Better be no lumps in dat gravy, girl.’’
‘‘Yes, Ma.’’ Lily Mae scurried back into the kitchen.
Sophie laid a hand on Mrs. Sam’s forehead, as she’d seen her mother do when anyone was sick. ‘‘Do you have a fever?’’
‘‘Jus’ a headache. Nothin’ to go worryin’ yerself over.’’
‘‘We’ll each take a corner of the quilt and carry you to my bed.’’
‘‘You do no such thing. Don’t you go liftin’ me. I can get up and sit on de chair by the stove. Be fine.’’
‘‘Why? So you can faint again?’’
Mrs. Sam snorted, but Sophie didn’t see her pushing to get up right at the moment. What to do? Mrs. Sam was right. The two of them couldn’t carry the old woman into the other room, but she couldn’t lie there either.
She looked up to see Mr. Wiste coming through the door, a quilt over his arm.
‘‘I sent the others on. Perhaps I’ll go later.’’
‘‘I say bring me dat chair.’’ Mrs. Sam rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow. When she saw Mr. Wiste, she made a disgusted sound and hid her face behind one hand but smiled when he spread the quilt over her.
Sophie heard the bell tinkle over the front door and boots pounding through the dining room.
‘‘They back here,’’ Lily Mae called.
Sophie rose.
‘‘Hep me up.’’
‘‘I don’t think so.’’ She turned to see Elizabeth following closely behind Lemuel. ‘‘Thank you for coming.’’
‘‘How is she?’’
‘‘I’s jest fine.’’
‘‘Then why did you end up on the floor?’’ Elizabeth knelt and took the patient’s wrist to check her pulse, checking for fever with the back of her other hand. ‘‘Any pain in your head?’’
‘‘No. Well, not enough to fuss over.’’
‘‘Anywhere else?’’
‘‘No. I jest want to get up.’’
‘‘Mr. Wiste, you take her one arm and, Lemuel, you the other. Let’s help her up to sit on the chair. Sophie, you go get the chair.’’ Elizabeth smiled at Mrs. Sam. ‘‘You tell me if you get dizzy now.’’
With only a couple of grunts, they had the older woman sitting in the chair with her eyes closed.
‘‘Dizzy?’’
‘‘A mite.’’
‘‘Put your head between your knees.’’ Elizabeth gently pressed down on the back of Mrs. Sam’s neck. ‘‘We should have gotten you up in stages.’’ With gentle fingers she explored the old woman’s head. ‘‘No bumps, so you must have fallen easy like.’’
‘‘You were lucky,’’ Sophie said.
‘‘We won’t be so lucky if we don’t get de supper on de tables,’’ she muttered from her knees.
‘‘We take care of that.’’ Lemuel flashed a smile at the doctor. ‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘I didn’t do anything yet.’’
‘‘Nothin’ to do. I be fine now. Sorry to bother you.’’ Mrs. Sam sat straighter and glared at her son. ‘‘Never seen an old woman faint before?’’ She mumbled some more under her breath. ‘‘Weren’t de first time I fainted. Most likely not de last.’’
‘‘I’d say you should go on home and take it easy for a day or so, then come see me.’’ Elizabeth turned to Sophie. ‘‘You want me to send Thelma over to help for a day or two?’’
‘‘No, we can manage.’’ Sophie laid a hand on Mrs. Sam’s shoulder. ‘‘You can go home or go lie down in Bridget’s room. Might be better to not go out in that cold.’’
‘‘I sit right in de kitchen and make sure—’’ ‘‘I will make sure all goes well. Which will it be? The bed here or go on home?’’
‘‘I could go get Pa,’’ Lemuel offered.
‘‘Good idea. As soon as we get the food served.’’
Sophie turned to see that Mr. Wiste was still there, standing back out of the way and watching the proceedings. ‘‘Thank you for your help.’’
‘‘You are welcome.’’
‘‘You could go on out to the party now.’’
‘‘I’ll stay here.’’ He smiled at her. ‘‘I’ll keep out of the way.’’
For some reason his smile made her feel comforted. He had chosen to stay just because he saw a need. ‘‘Would a cup
of coffee help?’’ she asked.
‘‘That it would. Dr. Bjorklund, would you like one too?’’
Sophie turned back to see Dr. Elizabeth checking Mrs. Sam’s pulse again. ‘‘Coffee?’’
‘‘That would be marvelous, but here in the kitchen where I can keep an eye on my patient.’’ She studied Mrs. Sam. ‘‘I think she needs a cup too.’’
‘‘My land, this ain’t de way—’’ ‘‘You can have coffee or tea, in here or in the bedroom.’’ Elizabeth spoke in her doctor’s orders voice that even Mrs. Sam obeyed.
‘‘Coffee . . . in here.’’
That night after crawling into bed, Sophie sighed. What would they do without Mrs. Sam again? And what if something was truly wrong? She thought back to when Mr. Wiste told her thank-you and good-night, as if she’d done something special for him. He was the one to be thanked. She smiled to herself. He was always so proper to call her Mrs. Bjorklund. She tried to remember what being a missus felt like but could hardly even remember what Hamre looked like. His face seemed to be fading like a figure going off in the fog. Three months since he’d been gone, and she’d thought she’d never laugh again. Yet today she’d laughed and almost went to a party.
She rolled over onto her side. Would she ever get to attend popcorn parties again?
27
March
‘‘YOU HAVE A LETTER,’’ Sophie told Garth as he stood before the desk in the boardinghouse lobby.
He took the letter she handed him and smiled. Not a wide smile, because he could scarcely hold his head up, but his lips moved in spite of the fatigue. ‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘Are you all right?’’
Her concern made him straighten—barely. ‘‘Just tired.’’ He paused and then for some strange reason, added, ‘‘I’ve not been sleeping well.’’
‘‘Too much coffee with your supper?’’
‘‘Perhaps.’’
‘‘Your supper is waiting.’’
‘‘Thank you. Let me wash some of the flour off, and I’ll be right back.’’ And no, it wasn’t the coffee. He half folded the letter in his hand. He knew by the handwriting who it was from. His mother. And he most likely knew what was in it. She was urging him to return to Minneapolis and resume the care of his children. But he didn’t have to go there to do that. All he had to do was build a house here in Blessing and have his sister bring the children out, and they would be a happy family again. All the better if Dan decided to come work for him at the flour mill.
Strange how lately the face he thought he would never forget, that he would mourn forever, seemed to be fading away. That was one of the reasons he’d not been sleeping well. While he fought to remember the shape of her eyes, the memories of their earlier years together always brought joy to his heart. The first time he met her, the way she laughed, their wedding, the birth of their first child—a boy who was, as the old saying went, the apple of his eye.
Some days he missed little Grant so much his heart tried to quit beating, but mostly he concentrated on his job to the point of thinking of nothing else. Going home at Christmas had made matters worse, not better, as he’d hoped.
His mother pleading for him to come home, to return to a house that was home no more, didn’t help either.
He washed his face and hands, brushed the flour from his hair, eyebrows, and mustache, shook out his suit coat, and left the letter lying on his chest of drawers. He headed for the kitchen, a place that had come to be the symbol of home to him.
Sophie—he couldn’t keep calling her Mrs. Bjorklund—turned from drawing a plate from the warming oven and smiled at him. Her smile could drive away demons.
‘‘Will you sit with me, Mrs. Bjorklund?’’ He asked her the same thing every evening.
‘‘I will.’’ She set the filled plate at his place.
He sat and tucked the napkin into the collar of his shirt.
Sophie brought the coffeepot to fill his cup. ‘‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have tea?’’
‘‘No. This is fine, thank you.’’ He waited for her to sit, started to cut his meat, paused, put the knife down, and bowed his head. Why all of a sudden he felt the need of saying grace, he wasn’t sure, but for some reason it seemed important.
Perhaps it had to do with Pastor Solberg’s sermon on Sunday. He’d spoken of finding joy in Jesus, of talking with the Father about everything. Heaven knew he needed a friend. When he opened his eyes again, he found Sophie staring at him. Was a man saying grace such a shock?
Go ahead and ask her, he ordered himself while he buttered his bread. Instead, he cut his meat and took a bite. Even warmed up, the food tasted better than any other he’d had in his life. Maddie had not been a particularly good cook. His mother was adequate. What her meals lacked in flavor, she made up for in quantity. He could feel Sophie watching him.
He stopped to take a drink of coffee. ‘‘So how has your day gone?’’
Her smile made his heart kick up.
‘‘Busy. We have two new boarders, and they each paid for a month.’’
‘‘I’m glad to hear that. Who are they?’’
‘‘A Mr. John Snyder. He is looking for work here. He came from Indiana and is thinking of heading on west if he finds nothing here. I wondered if you might be needing another man.’’
‘‘I’ll talk with him. And the other?’’
‘‘A woman, Miss Bergstrom, from Minneapolis like you.’’ Sophie leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘‘She says she is a nurse and is looking to build a hospital.’’
‘‘A hospital?’’ He stopped chewing.
‘‘I know. She said she was planning to talk with Elizabeth. She heard of her through that doctor in Chicago. It takes a lot of money to start a hospital.’’
‘‘I’m sure it does. Perhaps she has a lot of money.’’
Sophie shrugged. ‘‘She is dressed very well.’’ She steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them. ‘‘She’s been to Europe and New York and lots of places. Why would she come here to start a hospital? You’d think a doctor would be more interested in starting a hospital than a nurse.’’
‘‘Why don’t you ask her?’’
‘‘I plan to the next time I see her.’’
Garth laid down his fork and picked up his cup to cradle in both hands, his elbows, like hers propped on the table. He took in a deep breath of courage. ‘‘I have a favor to ask.’’
‘‘Of course. What is it?’’
‘‘I am getting tired of calling you Mrs. Bjorklund when in my mind I always think of you as Sophie. Might I call you Sophie and you call me Garth?’’
Sophie stared at him, surprise lifting her eyebrows, then the corners of her mouth. ‘‘I think that would be very nice, but please don’t let Mrs. Valders hear of it. I’ve been castigated by her enough.’’
‘‘She seems to do that well.’’ He sipped his coffee. Sophie’s eyes sparkled in the lamplight. While her middle expanded, her face grew only more lovely. Like many women he’d heard tell, pregnancy became them, as it had Maddie. If only he dared to continue down that lane of thought. But society would condemn them both as being in too big of a hurry, and she had already tasted the censure. He’d heard the woman hiss at Sophie during the runaway automobile fiasco. What a nosy busybody. Running the post office must yield plenty of fodder for her nosiness.
‘‘Good. That’s settled, then.’’ He buttered another piece of bread and continued eating.
‘‘Would you like more? I could reheat some.’’
‘‘No thanks. Why don’t you tell me more about Seattle?’’
‘‘I always talk. I think it’s time I got to ask the questions.’’
Sophie’s chin tilted slightly, a sign he’d learned to recognize as her determined look. Please don’t ask about my wife. He looked down at his plate so she couldn’t read his eyes.
‘‘What was life like in Minneapolis?’’
He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘‘Well, I worked at a flo
ur mill.’’
‘‘Not much different than here?’’
‘‘One major difference. Here I run it; there I had several bosses.’’
‘‘That would make a difference.’’ Her grin turned saucy. ‘‘Being boss is better.’’
‘‘Except you have all the responsibilities, like you here in the boardinghouse.’’ ‘‘True.’’
‘‘And if people don’t show up to work, you have to do it.’’
‘‘Or find someone else.’’
He guessed by the shadow that flitted across her face she was thinking of Mrs. Sam. ‘‘How is she?’’
‘‘She says she’s all right, but I see her stop to catch her breath at times. I don’t know how we would manage without her.’’ She paused, then tossed her head. ‘‘There you go, getting back to me. We decided that it was your turn. Remember?’’
‘‘We?’’ His eyebrows rose on the question.
‘‘Well, I did, but you didn’t disagree. So tell me about your family. You’ve met most of mine.’’ Her eyes took on a sheen.
She still misses her husband. What kind of fool am I, forgetting that?
‘‘I mean, if you want to. If you’d rather not, I understand.’’
‘‘No.’’ He swallowed hard. ‘‘I would be happy—’’ Not happy at all, but I will tell you because it is necessary. He prolonged the pause with another sip of coffee. When he made a slight face, she jumped up.
‘‘I’ll warm that up for you.’’
Wiste, when will you get yourself in order? It is only fair that you tell her.
She returned with the coffeepot and a sober face. ‘‘I’m sorry. It is not proper for me to intrude on . . . on your grief.’’ After filling his cup, she poured her cup half full and set the pot on the table. When she sat down, she filled the cup with cream and took a swallow.
You are so young for all you’ve been through. The thought made him want to reach out and take her hand. ‘‘Thanks for the refill. I never could abide lukewarm coffee.’’ He hoped his smile would reassure her, but she didn’t look at him.
‘‘I own a house in Minneapolis not far from my mother’s house. My sister lives next door. Ma is helping to take care of my two children. My son, Grant, is two and a half, and my daughter is now six months old. My wife, Madelynn—she went by Maddie—died giving birth to our baby girl. I—we found a wet nurse for the baby, and I . . . not long after that I heard of the opening here in Blessing, and the rest you know. My sister Helga took the baby to her house as soon as she had her own baby.’’
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