by Amanda Cabot
And so was Lydia.
Travis was right, Lydia realized a week later. Hiring Opal had been just what she needed. The girl—Lydia still thought of her that way, even though she was married and expecting a child—had proven competent at every task she had assigned to her. Having her cut and box candy in the morning had indeed allowed Lydia to sleep an additional two hours, and Opal’s work in the back room meant Lydia could leave as soon as she closed the store rather than having to remain to wash dishes. The extra time made a big difference, and so did Opal’s company.
Though at first they’d talked about nothing more than which flavor fudge Lydia should make next and what designs seemed to sell the most chocolate creams, as the days had passed, their conversation had widened, touching on everything from Opal’s desire to learn to play the pianoforte to Lydia’s experiences as a teacher. And now, only seven days since she’d hired her, though Lydia would never have expected it, she admitted that Edgar’s wife had become her friend.
“Is there anything else I can do?” Opal asked.
Lydia nodded. They were in the middle of the afternoon lull. “You can watch the store for me. If someone comes in, you know what to do.”
Opal’s eyes widened. Though she’d refilled tea cups and brought out the plates of tasting samples, she had never sold candy. “Where will you be?”
“I want a cloth for the table.” Now that the words were spoken, Lydia realized how silly they sounded. There was no reason the addition of the tablecloth couldn’t wait until tomorrow. It wasn’t as if anyone had complained about the plain table. All Lydia knew was that the idea had popped into her head half an hour ago and wouldn’t leave. While she’d been helping Mrs. Wilkins select an assortment of creams for her bridge party, she kept picturing the trunk in Aunt Bertha’s attic and the beautiful crocheted tablecloth that lay within it. Never before had she felt such urgency, and she couldn’t dismiss it.
“I should only be gone half an hour,” she told Opal as she put on her hat and gloves.
Her eyes still wide with surprise and apprehension, Opal nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll do fine. I know you will.”
Lydia walked so quickly it was almost a run, compelled by a force she could not explain. When she entered the house, she climbed the stairs, taking care to move as quietly as she could. At this time of day, Aunt Bertha was often napping, and Lydia did not want to disturb her. But as she reached the second floor, Lydia realized that Aunt Bertha was not asleep. The unmistakable sound of sobbing carried through the heavy oak door.
Lydia’s heart wrenched at the despair she heard in those sobs, and she knew it was no coincidence she’d felt driven to come home. The tablecloth was simply the catalyst to get Lydia out of the store and where she needed to be, here with the woman who’d been so kind to her.
As she opened the door to Aunt Bertha’s bedroom, she saw the older woman sitting on the side of her bed, a framed picture in her hand, tears streaming down her face.
“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked as she sank onto the bed beside the weeping woman and wrapped her arms around her. “How can I help you?”
For a second she thought Aunt Bertha would say nothing or, worse, would tell her to leave. Instead she handed the silver frame to Lydia. “This is my daughter. Joan.”
The words were simple, but the emotions they stirred were not. At the same time that she felt honored that Aunt Bertha had trusted her enough to mention Joan to her, Lydia wondered what had triggered today’s tears. Joan’s portrait was not normally on display. Lydia knew that from the times she’d entered this room to fetch something for Aunt Bertha. Why had the older woman retrieved it from wherever it had been hidden?
Lydia looked at the likeness. The old-fashioned clothing confirmed her suspicion that the picture had been taken more than two decades ago when Joan was still living in Cimarron Creek. If Travis’s story was true, this was the last portrait Aunt Bertha had of her daughter.
“She’s beautiful.” Though she was more slender than Aunt Bertha, Joan had the same delicate features as her mother. And while many daguerreotypes showed solemn people in formal poses, Joan’s smile and the tilt of her head left no doubt that she enjoyed life.
The older woman nodded, acknowledging the compliment as she wiped her eyes. “Everyone said she was the prettiest girl in town, but now she’s gone.” The sorrow in her voice left no doubt that while Aunt Bertha might not have spoken of her daughter once she left Cimarron Creek, she had never stopped grieving.
“Oh, Lydia.” Another spate of weeping accompanied her words.
Though Lydia searched for something to do or say to comfort Aunt Bertha, she felt helpless in the face of her despair. Knowing it was far from enough, she stroked the older woman’s back and murmured, “I’m so sorry.”
Aunt Bertha reached for the picture that Lydia had laid on the bed and clutched it to her chest. “I would give everything I own to see Joan again, but that will never happen.”
“Do you want to tell me about her?”
Aunt Bertha shook her head. “It hurts too much,” she said as tears continued to roll down her cheeks.
Lydia closed her eyes and prayed for guidance. What could she say to a woman who’d lost her daughter and who’d grieved for twenty years? Words might accomplish nothing, but remembering how pleased Aunt Bertha had been with the first fudge Lydia had made, she reasoned that perhaps actions would. The question was, what should she do? It would take more than a plate of candy to cheer Aunt Bertha today.
While Aunt Bertha continued to sob, Lydia’s gaze was drawn to the window, where she could see a soft breeze stirring the tree branches. Beyond it, the sky was a faultless blue without even a single cloud to mar its perfection. It was a day to be outside, celebrating life. Perhaps that was the answer.
She patted Aunt Bertha’s back one last time, then rose. “You and I need a change of scenery,” she said firmly. “We’re going out, so put on your hat and gloves. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Lydia’s first stop was the store. As she’d expected, Opal was doing well. She had served a couple customers, and though each of them had said she missed seeing Lydia, Opal was willing to continue selling candy for the rest of the day.
“No one even blinked an eye at me,” she said with obvious pride. “I thought they might be snooty, figuring they were better than me, but all they cared about was getting a few sweets for their family.”
Her heart lighter, Lydia made her way to the livery stable. As she had expected, Porter was the only person there at this hour. Though his father owned the livery, Porter did all the work.
“Uncle Charles isn’t a silent partner like Aunt Bertha,” Travis had told Lydia one day when he’d been bemoaning his father’s outspokenness. “He’s always telling Porter how to do things. The truth is, Porter has done more for the business than his father ever did. I wish Uncle Charles could see that and leave Porter alone.”
“Good afternoon, Porter.”
“Lydia!” Blue eyes so like Warner’s revealed Porter’s surprise. Though he was a couple inches shorter than his brother, Porter had the same light brown hair, blue eyes, and build as Warner. “I didn’t expect you. I thought you were at your store all afternoon.”
“I usually am,” she admitted, “but I decided I owed myself a break.” Lydia looked around. While the livery had the same open rafters that she’d seen in similar establishments in Syracuse, it was cleaner and smelled fresher than those had. Travis had not been exaggerating when he’d claimed that Porter took exceptional care of his business. “I’d like to rent a horse and carriage for a couple hours.”
“You came to the right place. I have the best horses in town.” A wry smile crossed Porter’s face. “The only horses too. But are you sure you want to go out alone? Cimarron Creek isn’t as safe as it used to be when Sheriff Allen was around. He kept a tighter rein than Travis does.”
“I won’t be alone.” And even if she were, Lydia doubted t
he person or persons responsible for the thefts and vandalism would bother her. Their work seemed to be done under cover of darkness.
“I see.” Porter’s confused expression belied his words. “Usually the gentleman hires the carriage.”
She smiled as she realized that Porter’s assumption that she would be riding with a man was the cause of his confusion. “There are no gentlemen involved. I’m taking Aunt Bertha for a ride.”
The livery man grinned. “Well, in that case, I have just the rig for you, if you can handle it, that is.” When Lydia assured him that she was comfortable driving horses, Porter led the way into the back of the building and pointed at a shiny cabriolet. Designed to be pulled by one horse, it was the perfect size for two passengers. “Aunt Bertha and Uncle Jonas used to rent this one.” He began to pull the vehicle away from the wall. “You’ll want the hood up today,” he said with a gesture toward the folded leather hood. “The sun is mighty bright.”
Lydia nodded her agreement.
“Look around if you like,” Porter said. “I’ll have this ready in no time.”
Though she had no particular interest in the contents of a livery, Lydia wandered to the back of the building. A coat of whitewash covered the soot on the rear wall, leaving only the faint smell of smoke as evidence of the Founders’ Day fire. Closer to the front of the building, stalls held half a dozen horses, while shelves crowded with merchandise lined one wall. Lydia recognized the jars of molasses and the bins of hay and oats. Wedged between two bins were several yellow bags that looked familiar, though she could not place them.
“Here you go,” Porter called out.
Lydia turned and made her way to the front of the stable, admiring the beautiful chestnut mare now harnessed to the cabriolet.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s perfect.” Just the sight of the meticulously cared for vehicle and the well-groomed horse made her smile. Surely they’d have the same effect on Aunt Bertha. “How much do I owe you?”
When Porter quoted a price that seemed too low, Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s all?”
He nodded. “Cimarron Creek isn’t a big city like Syracuse or Dallas, so prices are lower here, and people are friendlier.”
Lydia saw no reason to dispute Porter’s statement. The truth was, most of Cimarron Creek’s residents had been friendly, with the notable exception of Travis’s father. No matter how cordial she had tried to be, he’d rebuffed every overture she made. But the day was too beautiful to worry about Abe Whitfield.
Lydia looked down as something brushed against her skirts. There, attempting to rub her legs, was a butterscotch-colored cat. She smiled. “That’s the largest cat I’ve ever seen and the friendliest.”
“See, I told you we’re a friendly town. That’s Homer, the best mouser you could want.” Porter reached down and stroked the animal’s back. “I haven’t seen a mouse or rat since he came here.”
“How long have you had him?” The gray she saw on Homer’s head made Lydia suspect he was an elderly cat, although he moved with the ease of a young one.
“It’s going on ten years now. He just showed up one day. The scrawniest kitten you ever did see. I gave him a saucer of milk and wound up with a friend.” Porter gave Homer’s head a rub before he stood. “Talking about Homer isn’t getting you on your ride.” He turned toward the cabriolet. “Here, let me help you.”
When Lydia reached home, she was pleased to see Aunt Bertha waiting on the front porch, all signs of weeping gone. “You brought my favorite cabriolet,” she said with a smile.
“I can’t take any credit for that. Porter picked it out.”
When Lydia started to get out so that she could help Aunt Bertha, the older woman shook her head. “I’m not that old,” she said and proceeded to demonstrate that she could indeed climb into the carriage without assistance. “The horse is different. Jonas and I used to rent a gray gelding, but this one’s beautiful.” She settled back in the seat. “Where are we going?”
Lydia shrugged. “I’m not sure. All I knew was that we needed to get out of town.” And judging by the change in Aunt Bertha’s demeanor, the decision had been a wise one.
“Let’s go north. The road’s especially pretty that way.”
It was. The trees were denser here, not quite a forest but tall enough and thick enough that they gave the impression of riding under a green canopy. Though the shade was welcome after the summer’s heat, what Lydia welcomed most was the feeling that they had left Cimarron Creek and its problems behind, entering a world that was free of strife.
“This is lovely,” she said.
Aunt Bertha smiled. “The best is yet to come.”
While the road had been almost flat when they left town, ten minutes later it began to climb a small hill. When they reached the top, Aunt Bertha touched Lydia’s arm. “Stop and look back.”
They were high enough now to see all of Cimarron Creek spread below them, the trees standing proudly along each of the town’s streets and in many of the yards. Beyond them fertile fields, some dotted with goats, others clad in differing shades of green from a variety of crops, bore testimony to the founders’ wisdom in settling here.
“It looks so beautiful, so peaceful,” Lydia said, her heart filling with joy as she gazed at the pastoral scene. This was what she had sought for Aunt Bertha, not simply a change of scenery, but a place that would soothe her spirit.
Aunt Bertha made a clucking noise. “Appearances can be deceptive. Looking at it, you’d never know there were secrets hidden along those streets, would you?”
But Lydia was not surprised, not when she held her own secrets, not when she knew one of Aunt Bertha’s secrets was the reason Joan had left her home and her family. The question was, what other secrets did Cimarron Creek harbor?
15
You’re responsible for this, aren’t you?” Pa scowled as he held out a familiar-looking white box. “She said she heard the fellas were playing dominoes here tonight, and she thought they might like something sweet. I told her no one would eat anything she made, but she just smiled and said she couldn’t sell them to anyone. Something about a special size and flavor.”
Pa brandished the box in front of Travis’s face, and as he did, Travis saw two things: the chocolate creams were twice their normal size, and one was missing.
“What flavor was it?” he asked.
“Coffee.”
Biting back a smile, Travis recalled once telling Lydia the only thing his father could be guaranteed to consume without finding fault with it was a cup of coffee. Not only had Lydia remembered but she’d turned that offhand comment into a new flavor of candy.
“So, how was it?” Travis asked.
Though Pa continued to scowl, he couldn’t hide the twinkle in his eyes. “Not bad.”
“Do you believe in miracles?”
Startled by the unexpected question, Lydia spun around, her heart beating at twice its normal rate. “Travis! I didn’t know you were coming.” Supper had been over for two hours, but Lydia was still in the kitchen, bruising mint leaves for the syrup that she would let steep overnight.
“What happened? Did you find Edgar?” That would indeed be a miracle.
“No. I’m sorry to have gotten your hopes up. There’s no news about Edgar, but . . .” Travis paused. “Would you mind putting down that knife? I don’t feel comfortable with a weapon pointed at me.”
Lydia glanced at the red-handled knife and nodded. Laying it on the counter, she said, “It may look dangerous, but the blade is so dull that the only danger is to the mint leaves. Aunt Bertha told me to throw it out, but I didn’t want to do that.” Lydia hated waste of any kind. “Besides, it works better than a potato masher at releasing the oil.” As a result, the kitchen was filled with the pungent scent of mint. “What’s the miracle?”
“It may not seem like one to you, but when I came home for supper, I discovered Pa with a box of candy.”
Lydia nod
ded. “He tried to refuse it, but I wouldn’t take it back. To be honest, I thought he’d throw it away, but I wanted him to know that I wasn’t giving up on him. I guess the miracle is that he kept it long enough to show it to you.”
“He did more than that. He’d already eaten a piece, and when I took one, he ate another. Trust me, Lydia, that was close to a miracle.”
Lydia’s heart began to sing with pleasure. Like Travis, she had feared that Abe Whitfield would not eat anything she had made, but she wanted to prove that she cared about him. That was why she’d made a special coffee cream filling and why she’d crafted candies sized for a man’s hand.
“Tell me one thing, Travis. Did he call me the Cursed Enemy?”
Travis shook his head.
“Now that’s a miracle.”
It had been almost two weeks since what Lydia referred to as the Candy Episode. Though she had hoped that it would mark a change in Travis’s father’s attitude toward her, she had seen no difference. When she greeted him after church, he remained silent, ignoring her as effectively as if she were invisible.
“He’s always worse in the summer,” Aunt Bertha told her. “I think the heat bothers his leg.”
There was no doubt that late July in Texas was hot. Though there had been hot days in Syracuse, they paled compared to the unrelenting Texas sun. Lydia had seen the difference in her customers. While they still bought candy, tempers were shorter, with the result that two women had almost come to blows over the last pound of chocolate-covered mints. Fortunately, today was a few degrees cooler.
Lydia walked to the front of the store and smiled at the sight of her best customer’s approach. “Opal,” she called into the back room, “Hilda Gray’s on her way. Be sure to use the Blue Willow teapot for her.” Hilda had admired it, saying it was the prettiest of the pots in the store and that tea brewed in it tasted extra special. From that day on, Lydia had tried to ensure that the woman who ordered more custom-made candy than anyone else in Cimarron Creek was served tea from that particular pot.