Until the Harvest

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  Even with the new snow blanketing the roof, the house looked a bit bleak. Its windows were blank, and it seemed . . . lonesome. Margaret thought she and the house might be a good match.

  Emily pulled a key out of her pocket and handed it over. “You do the honors.”

  Margaret inserted the key and jiggled until it turned. She opened the door into a sort of combination kitchen and dining area. It was small with linoleum on the floor and Formica on the counters. Floral-sprigged wallpaper peeled off the walls in places, and there was a dinette table with four chairs that seemed to take up too much room. Emily flipped a switch, and the overhead light blinked on with a buzz. A layer of dust lay over everything, and cobwebs draped the corners, but it wasn’t anything a thorough cleaning couldn’t fix.

  “Looks like Casewell hadn’t been here in a while.” Emily brushed her mittened hand through the dust on a counter. “I doubt he even noticed the wallpaper. But a little dirt never hurt anyone.”

  Margaret moved through the room and saw there was a sitting room behind it and two bedrooms to the side, with a cramped bathroom in between. The sitting room had a few pieces of furniture draped with sheets. She could see a twin bed in the first bedroom and nothing but a wardrobe in the second. Everything needed a fresh coat of paint, at the very least.

  “We’ll have to find you some more furniture, but this should get you started.” Emily stood in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. She turned a slow circle. “So what do you think?”

  “It’s perfect.” Margaret pushed down a wave of emotion. “But I don’t know if I can afford to pay the rent.”

  “Well, I assumed that might be an issue. I was thinking if you were willing to keep it clean and maybe fix it up a bit, that could serve as your rent.” She walked over and looked out one of the naked windows. “Goodness knows it needs a little life in it, and while I’m not sure I want a roommate, I would very much like a neighbor. We’ll give it six months and then see. Could be you won’t like it.”

  Margaret clasped her hands in front of her and squeezed. It was all she could do not to gather cleaning supplies and start in right this minute. “I think I’ll like it very much.”

  “Wonderful.” Emily clapped her hands. “You discuss it with your family this evening, and we’ll come up with a plan to get you moved in here.”

  As they drove back to the house, Margaret thought there would be little “discussion” about her moving out. Her mother would probably be relieved, and her father wouldn’t notice. The only thing that gave her pause was Mayfair. She needed to come up with a plan to rescue her sister.

  10

  HENRY WENT TO HIS GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE. Mom would worry when he didn’t come home, but he had the feeling she’d know what he’d been up to just by looking at him. He’d disappointed her enough lately. Grandma Emily, though, wouldn’t push. He hoped Margaret wasn’t there. He should have paid more attention to her schedule.

  Henry wanted to stride in the front door like he owned the place, but instead found himself creeping in like a skunk-sprayed dog. He took off his coat and hung it on one of the hooks behind the back door, then kicked off his boots. He flopped on the sofa and tilted his head back. He remembered how, as a kid, he would kick his feet up on the back of the couch and hang his head down over the edge. It somehow made the world look like an entirely different and more mysterious place—sitting upside down.

  But now maybe that was the problem. His world was a different place—completely upside down since Dad died. It dawned on him that the house was quiet. No one was home.

  “Grandma?”

  No answer. He closed his eyes. Where could she be? He should probably get up and look for her. She was getting old. Something might have happened. But he felt weighted down on the sofa.

  The sound of people coming in the door awakened Henry, and he jerked upright from where he had slumped over. For a moment, he flashed back to childhood and being too sick to go to school. Grandma would settle him on the sofa with Sprite and saltine crackers, and they would watch game shows. He wished, for a moment, that he could go back to those days.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Emily. This is a perfect solution.”

  Margaret spoke as she came in the door unwinding her scarf. Her freckled cheeks had pinked in the cold, and snowflakes sparkled in her hair. She looked happy, and Henry thought it suited her.

  “Margaret, the Lord has a plan even when we don’t.” Emily glanced toward the sofa. “Why, Henry, when did you pop up?”

  Henry stood and cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. “Just got here a little bit ago. I, uh, thought I’d better check on Bertie. See if I could help with the evening milking.”

  “Well, that’s a ways off yet, but you can help us churn the butter from this morning, and we’ll give you supper if you want it.”

  “I guess that’d be all right.”

  Margaret’s expression dimmed a notch, and Henry wondered if she didn’t want him around. But Emily was his grandmother. Margaret had less right to be here than he did. She’d just have to lump it.

  “Come on then. Margaret, you skim the cream, and I’ll fetch the churn.”

  Margaret moved into the kitchen past Henry. He thought she might say, “Hey,” but she pretty much ignored him. He followed along behind the women and leaned on the counter while they bustled about.

  “Where were you two?” He didn’t much care, but it seemed like the obvious question.

  “Over at your great-grandmother’s house. Margaret is going to live there.”

  Henry jerked like he’d been stung. “What do you mean?”

  “The little gray house. It’s been sitting empty for years, and with your father gone, someone needs to take care of it. Margaret needs a place of her own, and she’ll be doing me a favor by keeping it up.” Emily stood from where she was rummaging in a cupboard, a glass churn with its crank dasher in her hands. “And it’ll be nice to have a neighbor.”

  “I could’ve taken care of it.” He felt a wave of annoyance that bordered on anger.

  Emily put the churn down and patted his arm. “I know, but I’m holding out hope you’ll go back to school yet.” She slanted a look at him. “If you’re going to inherit this farm, you’ll need that agriculture degree to keep it up to date.”

  “Inherit?”

  “I’ve been thinking I’d leave this place to you for a while now. Might even hand it over to you early—once you earn that degree. It’d be a fine place to raise a family.”

  “You’d really do that?”

  “I long to do that,” Grandma said and patted his cheek.

  His earlier annoyance gave way to something that almost felt like hope. He guessed Margaret could keep the gray house up for now. He’d want to live in the main house, anyway. Might be nice to have Margaret on hand to keep up with the housework and such. Lost in thought, he almost missed it when Margaret spoke.

  “I’m hoping I can find a way for Mayfair to come with me.”

  Henry thought of Mayfair there, moving through the little house, and it somehow made everything seem even better. “What would stop her?”

  “My mother. She wants to turn her into a debutante or something.”

  Henry snorted. “Mayfair? But she’s . . . she’s not a debutante. Do we even have those in West Virginia?”

  “I’m afraid so. Mom failed to transform me into a copy of herself, so now it’s Mayfair’s turn.”

  Margaret ladled the last bit of cream into the churn and then attached the top with its paddles. She handed the contraption to Henry.

  “You remember how that works, don’t you?” Grandma asked.

  Henry rolled his eyes and began to turn the crank. “It isn’t complicated.” He worked the cream, trying to think how he could get Mayfair into the little house with Margaret. By the time solids had begun to form in the buttermilk, he thought he might have an idea.

  Margaret, who had been doing something in another room, came back int
o the kitchen to check his progress.

  “So, is it just about appearances with your mom?” Henry asked.

  Margaret registered surprise. “Yes, that’s pretty much all that matters to her.”

  “So we have to make her think it’s somehow better for her reputation to let Mayfair live with you.”

  “I suppose.” Margaret got out a bowl and a wooden paddle to work the butter.

  “So what if you play up how much better and easier her life will be without the two of you around? She could have parties, invite people over, and never have to worry about an inconvenient kid being there.”

  “Mayfair usually stays out of the way and isn’t any trouble. She’s so quiet and shy she practically hides anyway.”

  “When will your mom have people over again?”

  “She’s hosting her bridge club tomorrow.”

  Henry strained the buttermilk from the churn and dumped the butter solids into Margaret’s bowl. “So make sure Mayfair is inconvenient this time. Make your mom want to get rid of her.”

  Margaret began to work the butter, her brow knit. Henry left her to ponder his idea, but he thought it was pretty good. Actually made him feel kind of useful.

  Margaret pushed the butter against the side of the bowl over and over again, watching moisture bead up and run out. The glossy yellow surface made her think of spring and daffodils. She couldn’t quite remember, but she thought there might be daffodils around the front steps of the gray house. She wanted Mayfair to be there when spring came, so they could watch for the flowers together.

  Henry didn’t half know what he was talking about, and at first his efforts to jump into something that was really none of his business irked Margaret. But the more she thought about what he said, the more it seemed like it might work. Just maybe not the way he was thinking.

  If Mayfair was visible on Friday in all her awkward shyness, Mom would be annoyed and embarrassed. Lenore was such a social butterfly, and Mayfair was the polar opposite. Of course, there was a chance it would backfire and make her more determined to transform her daughter, but if Margaret was there to suggest removing Mayfair in the heat of the moment, it just might work.

  The downside, of course, was that Mayfair would be miserable. But surely being uncomfortable for an afternoon would be worth it to leave that house and live with Margaret on the farm. She salted the butter, worked that in, and decided the plan was worth a shot. She’d tell her mother about moving out right before the first guest was set to arrive. And then the show would begin.

  Margaret and her mother spoke very little, which wasn’t unusual. Margaret helped get the house ready for the bridge party the way she always did, cleaning and doing most of the cooking. She figured the only reason her mother would be sorry to see her go was the loss of free labor.

  The first guest was supposed to arrive at three in the afternoon. At two forty-five Margaret found her mother sitting at her dressing table applying lipstick—some hideous Moroccan Melon color. She paused when she saw her elder daughter.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’ve decided to move out. Emily has offered me the house that John Phillips’ mother used to live in.”

  Lenore carefully replaced the cover on her tube of lipstick and mashed her lips together, opening them with a pop. “Is that so? I suppose you think life is going to be just wonderful when you have bills and responsibilities and no one to fall back on.”

  Margaret itched to say that at any rate life would be pleasanter, but she bit her tongue and measured her words carefully. “I didn’t expect you to be supportive, but I knew you were expecting a decision.”

  Lenore stood, bumping her stool back with her legs. “Fine. I expect you to go then. No lingering, no dragging your feet. And just so you know, I don’t appreciate having this sprung on me right before my friends arrive.”

  Margaret bit her lip to hide a smile. Displeasing her mother shouldn’t satisfy her, but she couldn’t help it. Especially since Mom would be using this tidbit of news to get sympathy from her friends when she complained about how underappreciated she was.

  Lenore swished past Margaret, nose in the air. “Put the hors d’oeuvres out on the buffet.”

  “Oh, Mayfair is doing that.”

  “Mayfair? I thought she’d be tucked away somewhere.”

  “I knew you wanted her to work on her social skills, so I told her she needed to help this afternoon. You know, circulate and charm people.”

  Lenore sniffed and resumed her forward progress. “Well, that, at least, is considerate of you.”

  This time Margaret did smile.

  In the living room the first guest had arrived. Melba Prince was the doyenne of the bridge ladies, and Margaret knew she was at the top of the list of people her mother wanted to impress. Melba perched on the sofa with Mayfair at the far end looking as though she wanted to disappear into the cushions. Her head was down, and she was tightly gripping the arm of the sofa.

  Melba sprang to her feet. “I’ve been, ah, conversing with your, ah, lovely daughter.”

  “Mayfair,” Lenore snapped. “Sit up, for heaven’s sake.” She shook her head and laughed in a way that struck Margaret as nervous. “She’s a bit shy. We’re working on that.”

  “Shy, indeed.” Melba leaned closer. “A bit old for that, isn’t she?”

  Sparks fired in Lenore’s eyes. “Yes, I suppose so. But you know how it is with young people these days.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded forced, and Melba didn’t join in.

  Other ladies began to arrive, and Lenore tried to get Mayfair to pass refreshments. But after she spilled Tab on two ladies and dumped a tray of cheese and crackers in Melba’s lap, Lenore banished her with barely disguised rage. Mayfair fled the room, silent tears streaming down her face. Margaret noted that her mother’s treatment of her youngest child seemed to have done as much damage as Mayfair’s utter lack of social skills. Ladies put their heads together, and Margaret reveled in the damage the afternoon had done to her mother’s reputation. She took over for Mayfair and tried not to enjoy her mother’s clear discomfort.

  When the last guest finally left, and Lenore went to lie down with a cool cloth and what appeared to be a tumbler of vodka, Margaret finally had time to check on Mayfair. She was curled in the middle of Margaret’s bed, sleeping, but it was clear she had cried a while before sleep overtook her. Margaret felt terrible but told herself it would all be worth it if Mayfair got to come to the gray house with her.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and jiggled the mattress. “Mayfair.” She spoke softly, and her sister’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “Oh, Margaret, why didn’t you stop it?”

  Margaret’s stomach clenched. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I was hoping to upset Mother enough that she’d let you move to the little house on Emily’s farm with me.” She tried to smile. “And I think it might have worked. I’ll go talk to her in a little bit, and we’ll find out.”

  “I want to go with you, but it’s not right to hurt Mom.”

  “She’s hurt us often enough.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.”

  Margaret wrestled with the feeling that Mayfair had a good point. But didn’t the ends justify the means? “Sometimes there’s no other way.”

  “There’s always another way.” Mayfair sat up and put her arms around Margaret’s neck, a rare gesture. Margaret felt tears rise at her sister’s touch. She told herself it was just the sweetness of the hug. But something deep down was bending inside her, and she was glad Mayfair pulled away before it broke.

  11

  HENRY FINALLY WENT HOME late in the afternoon the following day after sleeping on his grandmother’s couch. He wondered how the bridge party was going for Margaret and Mayfair. He hoped they’d get what they wanted from Lenore. He hoped he’d get to see them around the farm more, even uptight Margaret. She was kind of growing on him. He paused as he mounted the porch steps. It seemed strange, this thinking about and maybe even caring about s
omeone else. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do that, since losing people hurt so very much.

  Stepping through the front door, Henry breathed in the rich aroma of roasting meat. He felt his stomach rumble and realized he was ravenous.

  His mother poked her head out of the kitchen and smiled. “Your grandmother called to let me know you were likely on your way. Supper will be ready shortly.”

  Henry nodded, not sure what else to do. He thought Mom would be full of questions, but she seemed to be blithely going about the business of her day. He shucked his outerwear and padded to the bathroom in sock feet. He washed his hands and face and tried to make sense of his mother’s attitude. Maybe she didn’t care. Or maybe she’d given up. Either way, he felt uneasy. And a little ashamed.

  “Soup’s on,” Mom called. Henry’s stomach growled in answer.

  He walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. A pot roast with potatoes and carrots took center stage. A bowl of lima beans with bits of bacon and a basket of angel biscuits steamed next to the platter. His mother added a pitcher of iced tea and sat down opposite him.

  “I thought you might be hungry, and I was in the mood to cook,” she said. “Would you bless the meal?”

  Henry froze. His father had always been the one to return the blessing. He was both troubled and pleased that his mother would ask him to say grace. He bowed his head and squeezed his hands together under the table.

  “Dear Lord, thank you for this food and for the hands that prepared it.” He hesitated. There should be more than that, but he didn’t know what. Dad always found plenty to say, sometimes too much as the food cooled and hunger grew. “Thank you for keeping me—us—safe. And, uh, watch over Margaret and Mayfair.” Another moment of silence hung over the table. “In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “Thank you, son.” His mother patted his arm and began dishing up the food. After they ate a moment in silence, she cleared her throat. “Can I ask you a favor, Henry?”