by Bonnie Leon
JEAN GRIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL AS SHE BUMPED UP ADAM AND Laurel's snow-covered driveway. When she stopped, Laurel stepped out her door, fastening the last button on her coat, which stretched over her protruding stomach. Jean smiled. In less than two months her first grandchild would be born. If only Will were here, she thought sadly.
Laurel took the steps carefully and walked to the truck, waddling a little like a plump goose. “Good morning,” she said as she opened the door and slid in while Brian shuffled Susie onto his lap.
“Careful with that arm,” Jean said. “Just 'cause you got the cast off doesn't mean it's good as new.”
“The doctor said it is,” Brian responded.
“Hi, Laurel,” Susie said, wearing a bright smile, her cheeks pink from the cold.
“Hi.” Laurel gave her little sister a quick kiss and patted Brian's head. “How are you all today?”
“Good,” Brian said, then without taking a breath, he asked, “Do you know if John is going to be there? 'Cause if he's not, I won't have anyone to play with.”
“I saw Adele at the store yesterday, and she said the boys would be there,” Laurel assured her brother. Laurel looked at her mother. “It's cold.” She rubbed her gloved hands together for emphasis. “But I need to get out. A quilting at Mrs. Prosser's is just the thing.”
“I'm already tired of the weather.” Jean shifted into reverse and backed up the truck. “It's been too long since I've gotten together with my friends. Back in Wisconsin the ladies used to meet all the time.” Heading down the driveway, she glanced at the gray sky. “Looks like we're in for more snow. Hope it's not an all-out blizzard.”
“Adam's holed up in his little corner of the house, writing. I don't think he even noticed I left. He was a little curious about quilting parties though.” She grinned. “Probably hoping to find an angle for another story.”
“Is that going well? Is he getting work?”
“Yes. Pretty regularly now. The readers love stories about Alaska.”
“Well, this quilting is about neighbors helping neighbors. He could write about that.”
“How is Mrs. Fletcher feeling?” Laurel asked, settling back in her seat and resting her hands on her belly.
“Edna's still feeling poorly, but she's ninety-eight years old. I s'pect we'll lose her before winter's passed. Hopefully this quilt will lift her spirits.”
“I can hardly believe she still lives on her own.”
“Her children and grandchildren do a lot for her.”
“Mrs. Fletcher looks real old, like maybe a hundred and twenty,” Brian said. “I've never seen anyone with so many wrinkles.”
“Brian!” Jean said, taking her eyes off the road for just a moment to frown at her son.
“But she's real nice,” Brian quickly added. He brooded a moment, then added, “She does have a lot of wrinkles.”
“She does, Mama,” Laurel said with a grin.
Jean smiled and nodded. “I suppose she does.” The truck slipped sideways, and Jean gripped the steering wheel, struggling to control the slide. When the pickup straightened, she relaxed slightly. “I'm still not very good at this. I liked it better when your father drove.”
“You're doing fine, Mama. It's good that you drive. Lots of women do nowadays. Adam said after the baby's born he'll teach me.”
Still gripping the wheel and keeping her eyes straightforward, Jean smiled slightly. “Good. Then you can drive for me.”
When they arrived at the Prossers', Brian and Susie ran ahead and knocked on the door. John Jenkins opened it, and the children disappeared inside.
Wiping her hands on an apron, Norma Prosser stepped onto the porch. “Good morning. How nice to see you. Come in before you get frostbitten.” She draped an arm around Laurel's shoulders. “You're looking wonderful. How are you feeling?”
“Just fine,” Laurel said, stepping into the house.
Jessie, who had been in the middle of saying something, stopped and smiled at the latest arrivals. Miram Dexter and her mother, Margarite, looked at Laurel and Jean and nodded their greeting.
Adele Jenkins stood. “Hi, neighbor. Good to see you.” She smiled.
Mattie Lawson smiled and nodded.
Jean was happy to see that Mattie had been included. It was just like Norma to think of inviting the native girl. She'd been struggling to fit into a woman's world and a white world.
“How are you feeling, Laurel?” Jessie asked, approaching the newcomers.
“Good, just big. The doctor says the baby and I are doing very well.” She smiled and rested a hand on her stomach.
“I miss seeing you every week, dear.”
“I'm feeling fine and could come by and work on organizing some of the chapters.”
“Oh, no.” Jessie patted Laurel's hand. “I decided that until the baby gets here, you're to take it easy. We've got plenty of time to finish that book.”
Norma took their coats and carried them into a bedroom. When she returned, she asked, “Are you ready for a hot cup of tea?”
“Sounds good,” Jean and Laurel said simultaneously.
Miram stood and walked across to Laurel. Crinkling up a cheek to readjust her glasses as she often did, she said, “You must be so excited. It won't be long now. Sometimes I dream of what it will be like to be a mother.” Her voice sounded shrill and nervous as always. She leaned closer and said softly, “Are you scared?”
“A little. I've never been a mother before.”
Miram sniffled and dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. “Thank goodness for Dr. Donovan. I'd hate to think of having a baby way out here without a doctor.”
Norma handed Laurel and Jean each a cup of tea, then returned to her place at the table. “All right, ladies. We can chat while we work. We still have a lot of work to do on this quilt.”
Laurel and Jean sat on either side of Miram, the only free places at the table, which wasn't unusual. People didn't dislike Miram, but she almost always reeked of camphor, which she used to relieve her nasal congestion. Jean smelled it immediately and turned away slightly. She noticed Laurel had done the same.
“I've always been so fond of crazy quilts,” Adele said, pushing a needle through the material.
“This one's special,” Norma said. “The pieces of material came from Edna's children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren's clothing. Every time she uses it, she will be wrapped up in memories.”
“It's snowing again,” Adele said with a sigh. “I'd hoped it would hold off.”
“It's just barely coming down, and the wind's not blowing,” Miram said. “We have nothing to worry about.” She gave her mother a sidelong glance as if waiting for a reprimand. Margarite didn't even look up from her work.
“We've already had quite a winter,” Jessie said, “one of the snowiest I can remember for this early in the year.” She sat back, letting her hands rest on the quilt. “I'm grateful for all the help Adam and Ray have given me. Why, between those two, I have enough wood to keep me warm through two winters.”
Margarite looked up and lifted an eyebrow when she glanced at Jean, then returned to her sewing.
Norma took a sip of tea. “Jessie, you still working on your book?”
“Not right now. I can't do much without Laurel.” She smiled at the young woman. “I figured that with her time so near it wouldn't be a good idea for her to be traipsing back and forth to my place, especially with the weather being so cold.”
“I'm perfectly fine. The doctor said so. And he said walking is good for me,” Laurel explained. “I'd love to start on it again.”
“Oh, no. I definitely don't agree with that,” Margarite clucked. “You need to take care with that little one. Why, I remember when I was expecting Miram I had to go for water every day in the dead of winter, right up to the last days. I know that's why she came early. It had to be the cold and all that walking.” Her eyes rested on her daughter. Miram nervously dabbed at her nose. “I've often wondered if all that walking and
cold and being born so early might have something to do with her nasal troubles.” She leveled a serious look on Laurel. “I caution you, young lady—no walking—and stay out of the cold.” She sniffed and sat straighter in her chair. “You can never be too careful, you know.”
“I'll be careful,” Laurel promised.
“Well, I can't believe that a brisk walk in cold air will hurt anyone,” Jean said. She smiled at her daughter. “Seems to me, the stronger you are the easier things will go for you.”
Her mouth pinched, Margarite turned dark eyes on Jean. “Hmm, well I must say I've always heard that cold weather and exercise are to be avoided when one is in her condition. My mother did a good job of raising me. I never had a sick day in my life, not until we moved up here.” Her eyes still on Jean, she tipped up her chin. “I'd say she knew a good deal more than you, Mrs. Hasper.”
Jean could feel a retort on her tongue, but she knew better than to try to win an argument with Margarite Dexter. The woman never backed down. Working hard to maintain a calm exterior, Jean took another stitch. “Well, I suppose we all have to be careful when it comes to being outside in this weather.”
It was too late. Margarite's fire had been lit. “I heard Ray Townsend's been over at your place quite a lot lately,” she said with the acid of accusation.
Jean kept sewing and said evenly, “Yes, he has. Since Will died, Mr. Townsend has been very kind and helpful.”
“I also heard you and him took a trip into the mountains together …just the two of you.”
Jean knew where Margarite was heading. She pushed her needle into the material and looked at the woman. “We did. Mr. Townsend was kind enough to take me hunting.”
“And you brought back a nice ram, didn't you?” Norma interceded, her voice a bit tight.
“Uh-huh. I shot it myself. The meat will be important to us this winter.”
“Well,” Margarite said, her voice huffy. “I would never travel alone with a man.”
Jean was getting angry. She bit her lip. “We weren't exactly alone,” she said.
“Oh?”
“No, it was me and Mr. Townsend and God.” She couldn't keep the smirk off her face. “I'd say God is a good chaperone, wouldn't you?”
Momentary confusion touched Margarite's face, but Jean's sarcasm didn't stop her. She continued the inquisition. “So, how many days would you say Ray Townsend visits your farm in a week?”
Jean wanted to tell her it was no one's business, but she simply kept sewing. Anger fueled her adrenaline, and she was unable to keep her hands from trembling. The needle slipped, and she stabbed her index finger. “Ouch,” she said, examining the wound, then putting the tip of her finger to her mouth to staunch the flow of blood. Finally she said, “I don't know just how often he comes by. I suppose a couple times a week.”
“That's not what I heard.” Margarite raised an eyebrow. “He's over there very nearly every day, and sometimes he stays to supper.”
Jean's anger bloomed, and now she didn't care. “Yes, sometimes Mr. Townsend stays for supper,” she said tersely. “He works hard, and it only seems fair to feed him.”
Margarite pushed further. “So, you two are alone? Often?”
The other women had stopped sewing. Laurel's face was crimson.
“Of course, we're not alone. Luke, Brian, and Susie are always around.”
A satisfied grin touched Margarite's lips. “But you were alone when you went hunting.”
Jean didn't reply. She wished she hadn't come today and wondered if she could find a polite way to excuse herself.
“I've done my best to be charitable to you and your family,” Margarite continued. “Especially after your husband was killed. I've bit my tongue many a time, but it's time something was said. It wouldn't be Christian of me to remain silent any longer. I'd just be allowing you to stumble.” She met Jean's eyes. “It's downright indecent of you to be spending so much time alone with that man. What kind of example is it to your children?”
Jean stood. “Nothing improper is going on between me and Mr. Townsend. He's a friend, and he's good to the children. Without Will we needed the help.” Jean could feel tears burning the back of her eyes, and that made her more angry. She wasn't about to let that woman make her cry.
Laurel joined her mother and placed an arm around her shoulders.
“And about the hunting trip, Mr. Townsend was simply being generous. My family needed the meat, and he offered to teach me. He's the best hunter in these parts.”
“And what about your son? He could have taken you. And didn't he go hunting himself? I see no reason why you needed to go traipsing off into the mountains with a man.”
Miram stood and rested her hands on the table. “Mama, hush. This is none of your affair.”
Margarite's eyes opened in surprise, then hardened as they fell upon her daughter. Her tone cruel, she said, “You'll be still.”
Miram's chin quivered, and she pressed her lips together. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she said nothing more.
“That's enough,” Norma Prosser said in a booming voice. She stood with her hands planted on her hips and faced Margarite Dexter. “I asked everyone here to do a good turn for Edna and to enjoy each other's company. This is not the time or place for finger-pointing. Margarite, you need to keep your opinions to yourself.”
Margarite's face turned red, then purple. She shoved her needle into the quilt. “Well! I was only trying to help. It's my Christian duty to show a sister the error of her ways.” She scanned the others around the table. “I can see I'm not welcome here.” She tipped her chin into the air. “It doesn't really matter anyway. We're leaving this valley.”
Miram gasped.
Mrs. Dexter scanned the faces at the table and settled on Miram. “We'll be leaving before the middle of the month.”
“Leaving?” Miram asked, her face grief-stricken. “You never said anything. We can't go.”
“Oh, yes we can. And we are.” Margarite stepped away from the table. Heavy hips swaying, she walked to the coatrack and retrieved her and Miram's coats. “It's time to go.” She shoved the coat into her daughter's arms, then pulled on her own, swept a scarf around her neck, and pulled on gloves. Finally she pushed a hat over her short dark curls and looked at her daughter, who still stood holding the coat. “We're going.”
Miram didn't move at first. She pushed up her glasses and looked at her friends. “I'm sorry,” she said meekly, then pulled on her coat and gloves and followed her mother out the door.
Still feeling the pall of the afternoon's clash, Jean stuffed wood into the stove. A knock sounded at the door. “Now, who could that be? It's dark as pitch out there, and I didn't hear a car.” She opened the door.
Miram Dexter stood shivering and gripping a lamp in a gloved hand. Her fur-lined hood was pulled tightly around her pale face. With her shoulders hunched up and her voice smaller than usual, she asked, “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Jean rested a hand on the young woman's shoulder and guided her inside. “You must be frozen. Let me get you something hot to drink. Do you like tea or coffee?”
Miram sat at the kitchen table. “Tea, I guess. Thank you.” She managed a small smile. “I'm so sorry to bother you, but I… I didn't have anywhere else to go.” If it were possible, her face crumpled more, and she looked even more sorrowful.
“What's happened?” Jean asked, pouring tea into a cup and setting it in front of Miram.
Miram loosened her hood and pulled it off, remaining silent.
“The children are in bed, and I was just about to have a cup of tea. It's nice to have someone to share it with.” She smiled encouragement and filled her own cup, then sat across from the young woman. Warming her hands on her cup, she waited. Miram still said nothing. Finally Jean asked, “So, what brings you to my door this time of night?”
Miram's response was tears. Her eyes filled and flooded her red cheeks. She reached for her handkerchief, pressed it to her nose, and blew.
“I'm sorry,” she managed to say. After blowing again, she blubbered, “I need a place to live.”
“What about your parents?”
“They're leaving. You heard my mother.” She straightened slightly. “But I'm not. I told her I'm staying. I can't go. This is the first place I've ever had real friends. And Ed, well, we're nearly engaged. I can't leave.”
Her hands trembling, she picked up her tea and sipped. Carefully she set it down, then looked at Jean. “I was wondering … well, since your husband passed away … well, there's so much work for just one woman …” She let the sentence hang, then began again. “Is it at all possible that I might stay here with you? I'd be a real help. I'm a hard worker. I can sew and cook, and although I've never done much farming, I'm sure I can learn.”
Miram's words tumbled out quickly. Jean took a moment to absorb the request.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come,” Miram said as she stood up. “It would be an imposition. I should never have come,” she repeated. “I'm sorry.” She headed for the door.
“Miram,” Jean said gently. “Please. Sit. Let me think a moment.” She offered what she hoped was a cheery smile, and the young woman returned to her chair. Jean hadn't considered sharing her home with anyone outside the family, but maybe it wasn't a bad idea. There was a lot of work to do, and having another woman's company would be nice. The house had seemed empty without Laurel.
She looked at Miram and thought over what kind of person she was. Miram could be slightly annoying, what with her constant sniffing and the smell of camphor wafting about her. Her sharp, high voice grated, but she was kind and honest. Jean had often felt sorry for her, having to live under her mother's authoritative control.
Miram stared at her hands.
“Have you talked to your mother and father about this?” Jean asked.
“No. I just told them I'm not leaving Alaska. They insist that I go with them.” Her eyes brighter now and more confident, she added, “I'm a grown woman—twenty-five now. It's time I was on my own.” All of a sudden her eyes were swimming in tears again. “If I leave the valley now, I may never marry. Ed is my only chance for a husband. He loves me just the way I am. I know I'm no catch. I doubt that anyone else will ever want me.”