“Am I in trouble?” Gina’s voice was the familiar whispered squeak.
“No ma’am, you are not in trouble or I would look much, much, meaner,” Grace exaggerated the word for comic effect and added a smile. “So scoot on in there, I will be right with you.”
Bernadine’s voice dropped. “Has anyone told you about the clothes closet?” Bernadine hissed, “Some of the church ladies and I keep clothes for kids who need them. We keep a closet back behind the teacher’s lounge.”
Grace grabbed this idea with both hands. Thank God for Bernadine Turner and the Church Ladies. “What size do you think? She’d be a six, I think, maybe a 6X?”
“Too little meat on those bones. But I think a six will work.” Bernadine was already out of her chair.
“Look for shoes, Bernadine. And socks if we have them!”
The secretary was already trotting down the echoing hallway toward the teacher’s lounge with all the speed her sixty-year-old bones could muster.
Grace braced herself and walked back into her office, the aroma of unwashed underwear filling the air.
Grace soaked that night in her deep claw-footed tub and thanked God for the blessings of hot water, bubbles, electric light and central heating. A good meal before a blazing fire had offered further comfort for which to be grateful. That day had been a rush headlong, a crash without protection into the reality of rural life and the poverty surrounding Franklin Hill.
Grace had blanketed the dirty child’s worry about handing over her clothes. “My goodness, that skirt has about given up. What a shame. And it’s getting so cold. This was very nice when it was new, I’ll bet.” She admired the ragged, torn and rent garment. “But we surely have something you can borrow. I had to go get a sweater myself, just this morning. Thank goodness we can all trade clothes when we need too. If you or your brothers or sisters have something to give, you just bring it in and they can borrow when they need to as well. Now, would you like to wash up a little before we put on these clean jeans? Well look, Miss Bernadine has found some socks and shoes. That’s fantastic!”
Gina’s blue eyes followed Grace, uncertain, but she put out a hand to accept the small package of Wiggles underwear from Bernadine along with a sweater and a pair of jeans with glittery designs on the pockets.
Bernadine graciously assessed the neatly folded, sky-blue sweater she passed over to the dark-haired girl, who tracked it with a hungry, anxious gaze, “Gina Rodwell, I believe that matches your eyes. It will do nicely.”
Gina stood at the desk, looking down, after her transformation, scuffing the slightly large shoes on the floor. Something was on her mind.
“Yes, Gina?”
“Miss Phillips? What . . . what’ll I tell Mama about these clothes?”
“Tell her the truth, Gina.” Grace was smiling but firm. “The skirt was torn, but it served you well until today. At Franklin Hill we are all trading clothes to give them a good long life, just like your mama does at home. I’m sure your mama’s busy. So she’ll be glad you were able to stay in school today and keep studying when your poor old skirt didn’t make it, isn’t that right?”
The head stayed bowed, a small black-haired wall facing her.
“Gina,” she added “what could you bring in to share? Can you think of anything?”
Gina looked up at last, her fine feathered eyebrows creased. Grace realized with a start that Gina was a beautiful child beneath the ever-present grime of poverty with a mother too tired to be sure she was clean. “Mama’s too busy to fix our clothes most of the time so Derry tries to do it. But he can’t use a needle and thread so good, he’s only ten.” Gina paused and then her eyes lit up, reminding Grace of cartoon characters with lightbulbs over their heads. “Derry’s got some boots! Nobody can wear them. Too wide for our skinny feet, mama says.”
“Boots! Phenomenal! Bring them in, someone will be happy to have those boots, I’m sure. Maybe I could wear them!” Grace thought she saw a shadow of a smile beneath a fringe of black lashes.
After a moment, Gina squared her shoulders, then looked concerned. “You won’t tell Miss Bernadine about—the other day? She was so nice to me.” The squeak returned.
“No Gina. I won’t. Everyone makes mistakes. And everyone should get a second chance, kiddo. Everyone. Just remember what I told you.” She noted Gina touched her small bottom pensively, no doubt remembering the whipping she had received. Evidently Mrs. Rodwell was still parenting in some form. “And Gina, if you want to help your Mama and Derry, you make it your job to be sure all the kids take a bath at night. That’s something you can do for your mother that doesn’t cost a thing.” Gina blinked and nodded.
Bernadine’s brusque demeanor hid a gentle heart. She discreetly bagged the girl’s clothes to drop in the dumpster. Grace saw her take three Hershey’s kisses from her desk drawer and tuck them it into the pocket of the blue sweater. She then took out a worn black coin purse and removed a dollar bill. It would be wealth to the little girl from the wrong side of the tracks in Franklin Hill.
Chapter Ten
Saturday morning found Darla Jinks transferring trays of apple fritters into her bakery case, sending the aroma through the propped-open door and down Main Street. Grace sat at a corner table and dived into a fritter, accompanied by her standing coffee order: French roast with a shot of espresso, heavy-handed with cream and sugar. The apples folded over her tongue, the blend of pastry reminiscent of Granny Stillwell’s fried doughnuts. She promised herself no dinner tonight, just a good long walk back to the Petite River. She glanced over the Reporter, the local news a mindless blend of easy reading:
CONSERVATION DEPARTMENT ON THE LOOKOUT FOR POACHER
Deer season was rapidly approaching and crime was on the rise in Toller County.
THREE PRIZE WINNERS IN ANNUAL HALLOWEEN PARADE
A Power Ranger, a smiling apple and a gypsy girl held up five dollar bills, happy expressions showing missing teeth.
COME SEE ROBERTA’S - NOW OPEN ON MAIN STREET
A photo graced page two, showing a secondhand store with an elderly black woman standing proudly beside a sign which proclaimed “Roberta’s Revisited”.
Darla Jinks appeared around the corner just as the door ding announced another customer. “Why, Lance Curtis! Look at you in here on a Saturday morning!” A fair haired, well-dressed man entered. Lance Curtis wore a heather-green sweater, no doubt calculated to match the color of his eyes, and dark grey pleated slacks that had not, Grace was certain, been purchased at the local Sears. Grace put him at just under five foot six, his pant cuffs hiding what appeared to be elevated shoes. She looked back down at her newspaper and cut into the fritter.
“Why, it’s just so nice to have you back in town, Lance! My goodness, we haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays!” Darla gushed.
“Only a fortnight Darla, truly.” The faint English accent seemed preposterous to Grace, but she refused to look up. She could feel the man staring at her while he barely acknowledged the bakery’s proprietress. She’d thrown on a sweatshirt over her jeans and combed her hair but make-up had, once again, escaped her. Lipstick would have been a waste of time on a beautiful day like today. She had moisturized before leaving the house and decided she was going with the natural look, whether it worked for her or not.
“Lance, this is Grace Phillips, the new administrator over at the school! She’s a local, “ Darla whispered conspiratorially, “just come back from the City to live near family.” Grace smiled quickly and looked back down, thinking maybe she could slide by this introduction. But Lance Curtis was headed her direction like a hound on the scent.
“A schoolteacher! I, too, am a teacher, Miss— It is Miss?” He blasted her with a broad smile, the effect ruined by the frank assessment in his gaze. The dimple in his cheek deepened. Grace made a mental note: weak chin. Never a good sign in a man under the age of fifty. There was a time when the English accent might have caught her attention, but she was no longer a girl of twenty-four. She
caught a hint of heavy musk aftershave as he leaned in — Oh, God, he wasn’t! — to kiss her hand. She flinched, but masked the response, retrieving her hand back to her lap, moving the napkin over the wet spot. She picked up the newspaper again, and took another sip of coffee.
“No, not a teacher. Just administration.” Grace sighed quietly, realizing her private coffee and newspaper moment was now over. For Lance Curtis was obviously someone who did not read reaction well. Long experience had taught her that men who did not take social cues were either so intelligent they were caught up in their own esoteric thoughts, possibly painfully shy, or so self-involved they could only see, feel and hear the planet “self” around which everyone else orbited. Observing her new acquaintance, Grace knew instinctively that she could eliminate the first two possibilities.
Lance moved himself into the chair across from her, sucking in a moderately paunchy stomach and striking a pose, one leg crossed over the other. Grace wondered how long he’d be able to maintain that posture without turning blue. She glanced at him pleasantly, but did not speak, preferring to hide behind her cup of coffee.
He launched into a detailed explanation, nearly a lecture, really, on his various degrees received at Oxford, his summers studying in France, and his decision to come to the “States” (accompanied by a jovial chuckle which had a slightly forced edge to it), to work where he could once again take up the book he hoped to have published very soon, but then, editors, you know, could be so very pushy and he was a writer and must have time to reflect.
Grace was downing her coffee faster than the temperature would safely allow and praying for relief. Where was the talkative Darla when she needed her? The door jingled again. Her reprieve had arrived.
The day could only get better from here. Nola Brayton walked through the door and tapped her way across the shop on stilettos to tower over the short man. “Lance! I wondered when we would see you. Oh. I see you’ve met our new resident, or rather former resident. Where was it that you lived, Gracie?”
Grace felt contrary, as Granny Stillwell would say. “Please, Nola, call me Grace.” She returned to sipping her coffee. The bell chimed again as Darla’s customers began to fill the shop.
“Gracie is just here to help out in the school office. Now, isn’t that right, Gracie?” Nola exaggerated her name sweetly.
“School administration isn’t quite the same as office work, Nola.” Lance muttered, having risen at Nola’s entrance, but still ogling Grace like a fresh piece of fruit, the last on the platter.
The door opened again and Grace grabbed her coffee, then managed to exit as Nola turned to face Lance, putting her back to Grace. Grace waggled her fingers at Darla from outside the shop window and realized that Lance’s eyes, assessing and interested, followed her exit. She groaned inwardly. “Don’t get any ideas, Buster. Nola has the field.”
Chapter Eleven
Thanksgiving was rapidly approaching and preparations were underway at Granny Stillwell’s. Grace sat at Granny’s grey Formica table and worked on her grocery list. There was no holiday more special to Grace and her sisters. Thanksgiving embodied what they loved most about family. It was not only a celebration of Thanksgiving and the bounty they could offer one another, it was a time to enjoy each other without the gift-giving stress of Christmas.
All four girls could cook and cook well. The fall weather brought out those nesting instincts, the laughter and warmth of their sisterhood an impenetrable veil. They cooked together, spread out in Granny’s kitchen, every surface covered with a tidbit to be prepared. Granny would hand out white butcher’s aprons, wrapped double around the waist.
“Gracie, you have no idea how much I appreciate this. I hate like the devil to go in that grocery over to Columbia this time of year. All those people and cars. It makes a person jittery.”
“I don’t mind Columbia, Gran. Just call me if you’ve forgotten anything.” Grace had determined that to buy the items needed for the school supply donation box at school, Columbia would be the only place she could build up provisions at a reasonable price. She tackled the growing list, “Let’s see . . . nutmeg, fresh sage, kosher salt?” Granny Stillwell using kosher salt? Surely not.
“I saw that on the Cooking Channel over to Ellie’s. They soaked that bird in a brine of kosher salt and honey. Grandma Melch used to do that out in the country, back when we were comin’ up. She’d soak the bird for two or three days and the skin was so crisp it’d melt in your mouth. Of course, my grandma had never heard of kosher anything, she just used a salt rub and honey and some spice.” Grace kept writing. Granny Stillwell would always keep up with the times even when she stepped backward in her memory.
“Cooking pumpkins – fresh. Do you want me to get those in Columbia?”
“Go over to Darnell Whelan’s produce stand. He has the best pumpkins around and apples for pie.”
“Bacon, sweet potatoes” Grace grimaced. She could never tolerate the heavy flavor even when marshmallows were melted smoothly over the golden orange casserole at Thanksgiving. “You’ll have green beans, Granny?”
They continued with the list, her mouth watering as they went on, herbed bread crumbs to accompany Granny’s already prepared crumbled cornbread would make a fine stuffing, laced with giblets that had simmered all day in a bouquet of parsley, sage, peppercorn and bay leaf. Granny would sneak in mushrooms diced finely for those who thought they couldn’t tolerate them. A green-bean casserole, laced with bacon in the country style and a salad tossed with red leaf lettuce, Boston bib and elegant romaine would fill a large green glass bowl.
There would be roasted walnuts and pecans glazed with brown sugar, an acorn squash coated in butter and baked, the cavity sprinkled with cinnamon. Cranberry relish would fill small crystal bowls used only at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Mountains of mashed potatoes would flow, whipped with butter and fresh whole milk from the farm. Two mammoth turkeys would be placed at each end of the banquet for the traditional photo of the gathering, and then whisked away for carving.
Warm potato rolls would sit strategically at each elbow, sweet bread, banana nut loaf and pecan tarts nestled on platters surrounded by garnish of fragrant orange slices and frosted grapes. Golden brown pumpkin pies, an oak-leaf cutout of pastry on top, along with flaky cherry, rich buttery pecan and fragrant apple pies would line the kitchen counters, bowls of whipped cream at the ready, in a grand dessert parade that would leave no calorie unturned, unnamed or uneaten.
Granny would bring down a bottle of elderberry wine, kept in the back of the kitchen cupboard. The adults would sip merlot and a select white wine furnished by Katy, the connoisseur. Black, steaming coffee would follow dinner and dessert and then everyone would retreat to rockers and folding chairs, piling onto Granny’s couches, settees and ottomans, some taking up spots on the worn living room carpet to watch football or play Scrabble.
The smallest children would rake leaves piled in Granny’s yard to scatter them, shrieking with delight. Only to re-rake again and again, falling from the rope swing gleefully into the musty splendor of fall. Older teenagers would catch up on cousin business and investigate Grandpa Stillwell’s shed, which had been off limits for years when he ruled the Stillwell household. Then they would tromp back through Granny’s kitchen, begging for turkey sandwiches and more pie, please, Granny.
Grace knew that while Katy and Ellie’s spouses could have shared that holiday with their own families, no meal could rival what they would eat at Granny Stillwell’s celebration, a fact which their mothers-in-law did not enjoy, but had come to accept once they had also been invited to share in the feast.
The youngest Phillips girl, Victoria Alice Eliza Jane (affectionately known as Babe), would drive in from her Montana ranch retreat with Mercer, her boyfriend of ten years and constant companion. They would come bearing elk jerky and venison sausage from the fall hunt along with a local beer that would make Grace’s ears ring after just one drink. Wednesday morning before the celebration, Katy and Chri
stopher would arrive from Des Moines with their brood of three, in time for Katy to join in the cooking.
Granny Stillwell’s kitchen was open to any wayfarer who had no home to go to at Thanksgiving. Grace and her sisters invited friends and companions who were without family. The long kitchen would be filled, three tables running the length of the room, covered with beautiful old antique tablecloths and the bounty of the household. It was a sharing that most families would envy. The love was unconditional in the offering and always full in the acceptance. Until Grace left her family for those years on the eastern shore she had not appreciated the depth of that love and the flow. It surrounded her like a river, as strong and sure as the one she had crossed to return to the fold.
Babe and Mercer arrived on Grace’s doorstep before dawn on Wednesday morning. Grace, suffering from intermittent insomnia, sat in the small bay window looking over a proposal for the used clothing drive that she wanted to present to Homer Emerson. She heard the rumble of the mammoth black Dodge truck with the sprawling fifth-wheel camper as it groaned into the driveway at 4:30. Babe and Mercer were bleary eyed but cheerful and glad to be off the long highway. Grace hugged her sister enthusiastically, feeling the still-narrow shoulders and small but muscular frame that Babe had attained by thirteen and never surpassed in adulthood..
“She just stopped growin’.” Granny Stillwell had said. “I reckon the little people would take her for one of their own, if they had a mind.” Babe might be small and compact but she could ride a stallion like a man and with the grace of an Olympic gymnast. Mercer towered over the small woman, hard, lean and a foot-and-a-half taller, height exaggerated by his ever-present weathered Stetson. He put his arm around Grace and squeezed with an uncharacteristic show of affection after so many holidays spent together.
“Glad to be home, Gracie girl?” he spoke in her ear. Grace answered with a smile, leaning up to smack her lips against his cheek.
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