Passersby gazed quizzically at her as she lingered, unable to believe the business had closed. She retraced her steps, in a fog, unable to believe what she’d just seen. Why was God punishing her? Her Pa was moving them. Tom was planning to stay in camp, but as a teacher. No one was communicating their plans with her.
Have you? The words were almost audible and Jo glanced around.
Then she saw him. Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and marched toward her, closing the distance.
When he drew her into his arms, Jo knew she had found home. Maybe she’d still be working in the lumber camp. Maybe she’d even have to keep cooking. But if they were together, she’d be at home.
“I’m sorry, Jo.” He kissed her forehead. “Your brothers told me you wanted out of the camp and you told me yourself.”
She nodded against his chest.
“And I’m perceiving that the bakery was where you’d hoped to start your new life.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do everything within my power to help you find where you need to be, Jo. Even if that means you’re far away from me.”
She sniffed and then pulled back to look up at him. “You’re going to take a job as teacher in Pa’s new camp.”
“Don’t know yet.” He kissed her cheek. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the railroad dock.”
“Okay.”
“No argument?”
“No.”
He took her hand and they hurried through the blowing wet snow toward the dock.
Chapter Eleven
Cordelia Jeffries handed the train conductor her ticket before climbing aboard and selecting a seat by the window. The last leg of her journey. Her trunks had been placed on the baggage car. All that was left of her old life. She’d left Ohio soil for good. The thought pricked her conscience—perhaps she shouldn’t have written her letters to Miss Christy in a language that intimated her demise was swiftly arriving. She laid her carpetbag on the floor by her feet then reached in to pull out four letters to re-read by the sunlight streaming through the window. After she set the missives on her lap, she arranged her wool skirts around the bag.
The train compartment rapidly filled, as others moved through to find an open space. Train travel had made travel so much easier than the old days. A family of four, the mother clutching her child’s hand, passed by. Cordelia smiled, remembering how Tom had to be held by both her and Hiram to keep him from running. Her grin wilted—her daughter, Emily, was left behind in Ohio, buried in her lifelong church’s cemetery.
Leaning back against the overstuffed leather seat, Cordelia opened the first letter, typed on crisp white paper. Once again she read Mr. Skidmore’s words—she was, indeed, the proud owner of her own restaurant, the Grand Northern. A real bona fide businesswoman. Times were changing across this vast country and now she was part of it. She slid the letter back into its official-looking envelope and shuffled it to the bottom of the pile.
Next she opened Mr. Christy’s letter of introduction. He must love his daughter very much to wish her to be happy. Written on a plain piece of ledger paper, his writing scrawled across the page, speaking to her as one parent to another. She folded it back up before reading Josephine’s final letter to her, before Cordelia had sold the farm and packed up her belongings. The girl had gumption and she’d need it with Tom as her husband. Bless her heart, Josephine finally, after some finagling, asked straight out for the recipe. Cordelia laughed as she folded the floral notepaper and slipped it into its matching envelope.
“Anyone sitting here, ma’am?” A handsome man, about her age, dressed in the heavy wool pants and red and black checked wool coat glanced toward the back and Cordelia followed his gaze. All the other seats were taken.
“No. Have a seat, sir.”
He smelled of wood smoke and pine—nothing like Hiram, who favored bay rum and plenty of it. “Thank you.”
The man looked like a lumberjack, with broad shoulders that spilled over into her space. Cordelia slid a little closer to the window.
“Sorry if I’m crowding you, ma’am.” He tried to scrunch himself, but the effort failed.
She laughed. “It’s all right. I’m used to it. My husband, rest his soul, was a big man and so is my son.” Cordelia gazed into his coffee-colored eyes.
The man laughed. “My two boys are even bigger than me—I think they’d make them each pay for two seats if they got on the train.”
“Oh my.” Cordelia fingered the last letter in her lap. She wanted to linger on Tom’s words again.
“I wouldn’t be on this train if it wasn’t for my daughter.” He frowned. “And if it wasn’t for my wife having passed away.”
“I’m so sorry.”
The man’s eyes misted but he drew in a long breath as though steadying himself. “You have children, so you understand how it can be—you want them to be happy.”
“Indeed—that’s why I’ve made this long trip from Ohio.” Part of the reason, anyway.
“Ohio? Why, ma’am, you’re fortunate we’ve got such a mild winter this year or you’d not be traveling down these tracks. At least not with such ease.”
“I’m so grateful weather has permitted me to come this far. I’d heard about the change in climate this year when I made my plans.”
“Not so good for logging but good for travelers.” He patted his legs and offered a warm smile. “What brings you so far north?”
“I’m bringing a gift for my son.”
“He’ll be mighty pleased, I’d bet.” The man tilted his head toward her, and she could more readily see what fine features he had. “I just took this train up and back to the next town today to get my daughter something—kind of a gift, too. Though with all the money I’ve been shellin’ out in the past month for her baking efforts, I’m losing hope of this young fella, makin’ a half-hearted effort to woo her, is gonna do the right thing by my Josephine.”
“Oh!” Cordelia’s hands trembled and dislodged Tom’s letter from her lap.
The note slid onto the man’s knee and he clapped a broad hand down over it. He picked Tom’s note up and handed it to Cordelia but as she tried to take it, he held it fast.
“Cordelia Jeffries? That you? And this letter is from Tom Jeffries, your son?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you know?” He leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. “Do you like surprises, Mrs. Jeffries?”
“I do.”
“That’s good. But I don’t. Would you mind reading me that letter from your son?”
Even the cook shack’s fragrant decorations of pine and spruce and the pretty paper chains the children had made couldn’t lift Jo’s mood. Tom had been so moody since they’d returned from St. Ignace and he’d convinced Frenchie to take him into town a couple times, after which he was more sullen than she’d ever seen him.
Ruth came alongside her at the table and rubbed Jo’s shoulders. “Don’t give up.”
Jo chopped walnuts, cherries, dates, and raisins into the tiniest pieces she could manage. She’d sifted and resifted and then some more trying to get the flour as light as possible. And the hens had obliged by laying just the right sized eggs.
“I haven’t given up—I’m just discouraged.” She really wanted to make Mrs. Jeffries’ fruitcake for Tom.
Mrs. Peyton uncapped the last bottle of vanilla. “We need a miracle, Jo.”
The entrance doors to the cook shack swung in.
“It’s your Pa and a lady I’ve never seen before,” Mrs. Peyton whispered.
Jo pushed her chair back from the kitchen worktable and stood. The attractive woman, with wavy chestnut hair, was about Jo’s height and build and dressed in a heavy wool traveling suit.
Pa held a note card aloft. “Here it is, Jo—straight from your Aunt Hannah’s hands.”
She sucked in a breath then clapped her hands together. “Do you think it’s going to be close enough?”
; Pa arched his eyebrows. “After you carrying on and tearing up the house looking for your Ma’s recipe, this better be close enough to Mrs. Jeffries’ recipe.”
The woman’s lips twitched. She and Pa exchanged a long glance.
“This is Cordelia, by the way. And she’ll be visiting with us. I put her in the Thompson’s cottage and the boys are getting a good fire going for her.”
“Cordelia Jeffries?” Jo’s eyes filled with tears as the woman nodded. Jo sped to her and hugged her close as she began to sob. “I …I thought …”
“I’m so sorry, dear. Your father told me you thought I might be dying. But I am fit as Tom’s fiddle better be—for I intend to do some dancing tonight.”
Jo sniffed, drawing in the scent of lavender and roses. She pulled back and Mrs. Jeffries dabbed Jo’s tears with her linen handkerchief. “Now, I think I have some explaining to do. But first, I’d love ever so much to assist you in your baking tonight, Miss Christy.”
“But ma’am, your fine clothes will get dirty.”
The woman pointed to the wall, where the aprons hung. “Give me the biggest one and I’ll keep covered up.”
She pulled off her long wool overcoat and Pa hung it on a peg on the wall. Then he assisted Mrs. Jeffries in removing her close fitted jacket. Jo smiled to see Cordelia wore a men’s tie over her immaculate white shirt.
“First off, do you have cardamom?”
Jo pulled it from the drawer, where she’d hidden it, saving it for her last effort.
“Thank you, and do you have enough butter, eggs, cream, and flour to make pound cake?”
Pearl offered her hand to Mrs. Jeffries. “I’m Pearl and your son is a right smart young man.”
“Thank you. I’m Cordelia and I’m very proud of what a hard worker he is.”
“Musta been a long trip up here.” Irma pulled the large mixing bowls out from beneath the cupboards.
“Oh, it was, but I wanted to surprise Tom. And I didn’t want him to try to talk me out of my plans.”
Ruth, covered by a new frilly blue apron from Sven, offered her hand. “I’m Ruth and if it wasn’t for your son, I’m not sure I’d be getting married this winter.”
“My son, the matchmaker—never thought I’d see the day, not with his history.”
“I’ll be married soon, too, because of Tom.” Pearl grinned at Frenchie, who helped peel potatoes.
“Maybe it’s a good thing I wanted to start a business closer to my only son.”
“We thought you was sick, Mrs. Jeffries—that is, Cordelia.” Irma placed whisks and their handheld beaters beside the bowls.
Tom’s mother laughed. “I’m sorry I worried all of you.” She sighed. “My comments in the letters were euphemisms.”
When all the cooks stared at her, Mrs. Jeffries continued. “It was just a funny way of saying I wasn’t going to be on Ohio soil much longer—I was taking the train north.”
“We’re glad you’re okay, Cordelia.” Pearl patted her arm and then pulled out one of the flour sacks.
“So is your special secret recipe a pound cake?”
“It’s a tradition handed down in the Jeffries family for generations. We soak dried fruit in apple cider and add that to the pound cake.”
“What a blessing that you can make it for him, ma’am.” Jo meant every word. The relief she felt at the woman not being sick overcame any last reservations she had about trying to prove to Tom that she could please him. That wasn’t what mattered to him. He wanted to make her happy. Her. The best gift ever.
“Oh no, you misunderstand. I’ll be happy to supervise but I’m not making the fruitcake—you are, Josephine.”
Christmas Eve dinner and, with all the families joining them, Tom almost couldn’t find a spot to sit. The ladies had outdone themselves with a Northwoods-style feast, after which he’d provide fiddle music and the children would sing the carols they’d practice. What would Jo say when he told her he’d landed a position as a teacher in Mackinaw City? That if they were very careful, and cultivated a large garden, and he hunted, they could manage?
When he’d spied the rows of sliced fruitcake, his mouth had watered. This attempt of Jo’s looked exactly how his mother’s always did. Maybe it would taste like hers, too. Wouldn’t that be something? Regardless, he planned to tell Mr. Christy that if Jo would have him, he wished to marry her after the log drive. Mother had promised she’d get his grandmother’s ring to him for the occasion, but it hadn’t arrived yet in town. He had, however, received her letter reassuring him that she was fine.
Jo swept toward him, attired in her new red and green gingham dress, looking like a Christmas angel. As she and the other cooks carried trays of fruitcake slices around, Tom tried to catch her attention.
“Jo!”
When she drew near, he reached for a piece, but she slapped his hand. “You have to wait for yours, Mr. Jeffries.”
Then she handed all the other men at the table some cake, all except him.
The men laughed. Her brothers rose. From the very back of the room, almost hidden behind all the shanty boys, Mr. Christy stood and a woman seated next to him also rose.
Mother. What on earth was she doing at this camp?
His boss squared his shoulders. “Men, you may recall that Tom told Jo he’d marry her if she baked a fruitcake as good as his mother’s.”
Tom ducked his head as the men banged their tin mugs on the tables.
“Well, I’m privileged to have a second judge here, tonight, to tell us if the fruitcake Jo has made for this Christmas Eve feast is as good as Tom’s mother’s. This here is Cordelia Jeffries, who sure oughta know.”
Men let out shrill whistles, some clapped, and others hollered their appreciation—as though Mr. Christy had pulled off this feat.
Grinning, Jo came to Tom and tugged at his hand. He wanted to kiss her and kneel down on one knee and propose right then and there. But he could see that everyone was having too much fun with his contest. He tried to make a face as though he was irked but then he burst into laughter.
Pearl placed a chair between the tables and Jo pointed to it. “Sit.”
Mr. Christy and Tom’s mother stood in front of him. Tom held out his hand to her and she squeezed it. “You found yourself a lovely young lady, son.”
Ruth held out a piece of cake on a tin plate, offered as though it were on the finest porcelain dish. His mother released his hand and he took what would be the final dessert challenge.
Mrs. Peyton handed him a fork. “Eat up, Tom. The whole camp is waiting.”
He took a bite and closed his eyes. Memories of Christmas traditions at home ran through his mind. Father reading from Luke’s account of Christ’s birth. Emily and him checking the gifts they’d made for their parents and trying to sneak a peek at the Christmas tree before the parlor doors were opened. Mother finishing up the mittens she knitted them every year. Grandfather driving up in his carriage and later pronouncing Mother’s fruitcake “the best ever.”
The noise in the room dissipated. This was real. He was about to propose.
Mr. Christy cleared his throat. “Thought I better mention to Tom that we have a tradition in our family, too.”
Jo frowned. “What’s that, Pa?”
He reached into his chest pocket and drew out a large envelope. “A gift for a child going out on their own.”
“She won’t be on her own, sir.” Tom stood. “This fruitcake tastes just like my mother’s!” He swept his mother into his arms and twirled her around.
Mr. Christy tapped him on his shoulder. “But your new wife would be running a bakery.”
Coming alongside Tom, Jo squeezed his arm. He leaned over to kiss her cheek and the men hooted and hollered again.
“Pa, the bakery in St. Ignace is out of business.” Jo cocked her head at her father as he shoved the envelope at her.
“This one is in Mackinaw City.”
“What?” She opened the letter.
Tom peered over her should
er. The paperwork inside appeared to be legal title to the old bakery on Nicolet Street.
His mother took the papers from Jo. “Why that’s right near my new restaurant. We’ll have to talk business later, Josephine.”
Pa hauled her up into a bear hug. “That’s from your Ma and me—we’d been puttin’ a little aside for a long time for you and I know she’d want you to have this now.”
All around them, everyone chipped in to clean up from the feast. Tom still held her hand tight, as though she might run off.
“Thank you.” Jo kissed her father’s stubbly cheek.
“My ma, your grandma Christy, gave each of us property to get us started, the Christmas we were old enough to be married. Your ma and I wanted the same for you.”
Jo was humbled by her parents’ gift. They’d scrimped and done without so that she could be independent, if she so chose. What a sacrifice they’d made.
“I met with the lawyer who comes to town and everything is all legal. Also put some money in the bank, so you can buy what you need to get started.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Your happiness is sweeter than any words you have for me.” Pa squeezed her hand then turned to face Tom.
“Sir, I do need to speak with you. I intend to marry Jo and I’ve been hired to teach here in town, next year.”
“Good.”
“Good?” Hadn’t he wanted him to work at the new camp?
“Shows some gumption on your part. And I think you’ll be better suited to town life with Jo.”
Tom didn’t know what to say.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Mr. Christy boomed, “I’d like to have another piece of cake and some coffee before it’s all gone.” With that, the camp boss lumbered off toward the kitchen.
Mother smiled up at him. “Congratulations, son. I’m so happy for you and Jo.”
“Thank you for the recipe, Mrs. Jeffries.”
“You are very welcome. But if I know my son, he was already planning to propose.” She pulled a battered wood box from her pocket and handed it to him.
The Fruitcake Challenge (Christmas Traditions Book 3) Page 11