The wonder in his expression touched her. She’d had a few boarders over the years who’d not taken good care of her furnishings, but she sensed Rufus Dille wouldn’t leave scratches or dents or stains behind. “I’m pleased you like the room. Now, there’s a basket on the upstairs landing. Have you seen it?”
“Woven, about so big?” He held his hands about three feet apart, the way Sam would have when he told a fishing story.
Fond memories pressed upward, bringing a bittersweet rush of emotion. She swallowed. “That’s the one. If you have anything in need of mending, make sure it’s in the basket on Wednesday morning. I’ll fix whatever I can, and if I’m unable to do it, I’ll take the item to Mrs. Perry. She runs a millinery shop, but she also mends and alters clothing. I pay her, and then I add it to your monthly bill.”
He bent over the page and studiously recorded everything she’d said. He looked up, eyes bright. “What else?”
She’d never seen anyone take such pleasure in writing down her rules. She wasn’t sure if she was more tickled or puzzled by his reaction. “Friday is cleaning day. I dust and sweep the rooms and take the pitchers and washbowls so I can give them a thorough scrubbing. I ask that you remove any clutter to make the task of cleaning easier.”
The young man sighed. “Well, seein’ as how I have hardly anything to call my own, I don’t reckon you’ll find much clutter in my room.” He propped his chin in his hand. “Mrs. Kirby, my granny Iva wasn’t one for borrowin’ things. Said it was best not to borrow, especially from friends. I appreciate you lendin’ me your late husband’s razor an’ comb an’ giving me a brush to clean my teeth, but I’d sure like to buy my own things. Do you know when I’ll get paid for preaching an’ how much it’ll be? I’ve got a little money I was carryin’ in my pocket, so the thieves didn’t get it. But I don’t know how far it’ll stretch.”
Bess frowned. “Didn’t Reverend Cristler give you that information before you traveled to Fairland?”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s in one of Grace’s—er, Miss Cristler’s—letters. I’ll look at ’em and see.”
How odd that he wouldn’t retain something so important, given his careful recording of her directions. “Yes, review the letters. But in the meantime I can accompany you to the mercantile and help you establish an account there.”
“Charge things?” He gaped at her as if she’d suggested something immoral.
“It’s quite customary. Most people in Fairland keep a running balance at the mercantile and pay in full at the end of the month. Mr. Benton, the owner, actually prefers the system as it allows him to easily see which items have sold and therefore need to be restocked.” His wide-eyed look remained. She frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No, I…” He drew his hand down his face, erasing the stunned expression. “My granny didn’t like to be owin’ anybody, so she never put a charge on the books. An’ my uncle wasn’t allowed to because he couldn’t be trusted to pay the debt. I guess I’m just not used to such things.”
In those brief minutes she gleaned much about his life before coming to Fairland. Her heart warmed even more toward the young preacher who wanted so desperately to do right. “Well, unless you’ve got cash in hand to purchase everything you need, I suggest you start an account at the mercantile. Then make sure you pay promptly.”
“I will, ma’am. I sure will.”
She didn’t doubt his words. “Shall we finish our rule list?”
He nodded and dipped the pen.
He dutifully recorded her strict exclusion of tobacco and alcohol use while residing in her boardinghouse. He grimaced when she stated, “No food is allowed in the rooms,” and she suspected he’d hoped to sneak a cookie or two up there. But he wrote it down, and she believed he would honor it.
“Meals are served promptly at seven in the morning, at noon, and at six in the evening. If you miss a meal, you can request a sandwich but only after I’ve completed my cleanup of the dining room and kitchen.” She grinned and tapped her temple. “My thinker is aging along with the rest of me. I have to keep my routine so I don’t accidentally forget to do something important.”
He snickered and wrote the times on the paper. “What else?”
“That’s all.”
He held up the page. “I reckon I can follow all of this.” He smiled at her over the top of the white sheet. “I like knowing what’s supposed to happen and when. It’ll keep me from making a mess of things.”
Bess couldn’t help wondering how much of his life had been spent in chaos for him to be so pleased by a few simple rules. She stood. “Speaking of messes, I have one in the kitchen I need to clean up. And then I need to start on the laundry if I’m to be finished by supper time. If you would like me to accompany you to the mercantile and assist you in establishing an account, I will do that after I’ve finished tidying the kitchen and before I start washing laundry.”
He shook his head and stood. “That’s all right, ma’am. You have plenty to do without walkin’ me to the mercantile. I can find it on my own.” His hands shook slightly, but he stood with his spine straight, determination on his face. “Gotta get used to the town if I’m gonna live here.”
“Well, since you have an errand to run and since I’m a little behind in my schedule, just this once I’ll go into your room and gather your soiled clothing.” She shook her finger at him. “But don’t think this will happen every Monday. This is only because you were new and didn’t know to put your clothes in the summer kitchen this morning.”
He grinned and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I understand. You’ll find everything in the bottom of the wardrobe. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She flicked her hands at him. “Now, shoo. I have work to do.”
He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket as he ambled out the door. Moments later the porch door slammed in its frame, letting her know he’d set off for the mercantile. She finished her kitchen cleanup and then raced up the stairs. The sooner she started the wash, the sooner she’d finish.
She entered Reverend Dille’s room and crossed directly to the wardrobe. As he’d indicated, his few items of clothing lay in a heap on the wardrobe floor. She gathered them in her arms, then turned to leave. Although she hadn’t intended to linger, she couldn’t resist pausing to admire the neatly made bed, the old Bible lying precisely in the center of the bedside table’s top, and three string ties forming evenly spaced lines across the bureau. Not a thing out of order.
Reverend Dille might prove to be her least challenging boarder to date. She started for the door, and her gaze fell on a stack of envelopes displayed prominently on the little table in the sitting area. She smiled at the rumpled pink ribbon holding them together. Without even looking at the return address, she knew these were Grace’s communications to the new preacher.
The letters must be important to him to be positioned against the lamp, easily seen from every corner in the room. Her smile faltered, though, as a curious thought entered her mind. If they were so important to him, why did he seem unfamiliar with their contents?
Theo
The apprehension he’d experienced when purchasing supplies at the little mercantile in Stockton returned and multiplied while Mr. Benton tallied Theo’s purchases. The man had talked him into a whole lot more than he’d planned to buy. The wood countertop held a boar-bristle brush, hair oil, a razor, razor strop, shaving cup and brush, shaving soap, cologne, and tooth powder. A towering stack of clothes—three pairs of trousers, six broadcloth shirts, and two sets of pale-pink long johns—teetered next to the personal items, with four pairs of black socks and two pairs of gray-and-white striped suspenders topping the tower. A package of a dozen white-linen collars already waited in the bottom of a crate.
The mercantile owner finished and shook his head, whistling through his teeth. “We did some damage here, Reverend, but the good thing is you won’t need to do any shoppin’ for a while. Least not for clothes. These cot
ton worsted pants’ll suit you for both warm and cold weather. I gave you a discount on the shirts since you bought a half dozen. ’Stead of a dollar apiece, I’m sellin’ ’em for ninety cents each.”
Which meant five dollars and forty cents just for shirts. Theo gulped. “Th-thanks.”
“No problem. Least I can do for the Gospel Church’s new preacher. Now…” He tapped the items as he rattled off the price for each. Theo tried to add in his head as the shopkeeper went along, but he lost track somewhere between the tooth powder and the suspenders. “An’ it all comes to fifteen dollars an’ sixty-three cents. Want to put it all on your account, Reverend?”
How could the man be so calm when announcing such a massive sum? Theo inwardly bemoaned the loss of the wagon’s contents again. Those thieves had done more damage than he knew how to measure.
“Lemme see what I’ve got on me.” He dug in the pocket of his pants and pulled out several coins. He placed them all on the counter and added them aloud. “Dollar, dollar fifty, dollar sixty, dollar seventy, dollar seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight.” He slid the whole amount toward Mr. Benton. “Put this against my account.”
The man scooped the coins into his palm and frowned first at them and then at the amount in the book. “You know, Reverend, if you don’t mind, how about I take a dollar sixty-three”—he pinched that much out—“an’ let you keep the rest for now so you’ve got something jinglin’ in your pocket? Never know…you might wanna buy a stamp an’ envelope, an’ the post office is cash only.”
Theo didn’t have a reason to write to anyone, but he understood the man’s reasoning. Leaving fourteen dollars on the books made an easy number to remember. He dropped the coins back into his pocket. “That’s fine. Thank you.”
“Thank you for comin’ in.” The mercantile owner began arranging Theo’s purchases in the crate. “Glad I had what you needed, but I’m sure sorry you had to do so much buyin’ all at once. Disgraceful how somebody made off with your wagon an’ everything in it. What’s this world comin’ to when men’ll steal from a man of God without even a pinch in their conscience?”
Theo wondered if the thieves would have bothered the wagon if Rufus Dille had been driving it. Would folks out and out steal from a preacher? There was no way of knowing. He shrugged. “Reckon if times are bad, some people’ll do anything to take care of themselves.”
Even assume someone else’s name. He winced as his conscience pinched.
“You are likely right.” Mr. Benton placed the razor strop on top of everything else and pushed the crate toward Theo. “Well, there you go. If you’d be kind enough to return the crate after you empty it, I’d appreciate it. I use ’em again an’ again.”
Theo lifted the box and settled it against his stomach. The rough strips of wood pricked his hands. He hoped they wouldn’t snag his jacket front. He couldn’t afford a new jacket. “I’ll return it right away.” He crossed the creaky floor to the doorway, and as he took a step onto the boardwalk, someone moved into his path.
His pulse gave a happy stutter. “Miss Cristler…hello.”
She was wearing the green dress she’d worn to the picnic but without the circle of lace around her throat. He didn’t miss it. She didn’t need the embellishment. The becoming blush staining her cheeks was eye catching enough.
She dipped her head in a wordless greeting and then met his gaze. “Good morning, Reverend Dille.”
“Good mornin’ to you. Were you gonna do some shopping?” If so, he’d stay and help carry her purchases home.
“No, actually I saw you go into the mercantile when I came outside to sweep the walk in front of the post office.” She gestured to the little rock building on the corner of the block and then frowned at the box he held. “I wanted to come earlier, but I had to complete some chores before I could slip away for a moment. I…I wanted to talk to you before you…” She was looking in the box now.
Theo glanced at the shirts hiding the other contents, grateful Mr. Benton had tucked the long johns underneath everything else. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Her hazel eyes lifted and fixed on his face. “Uncle Philemon’s Bible.”
Grace
Was she doing the right thing? She didn’t want to insult Rufus. And she didn’t want to upset Uncle Philemon. But that Bible represented more than thirty years of her uncle’s life. She needed Rufus to fully understand the importance of the gift he’d been given.
He shifted the crate to one hip. His jacket gapped, revealing his trim torso covered by a neatly tucked white-and-gray-striped shirt. “What about it?”
“Well, I—”
Two women approached the mercantile, each swinging empty baskets. They slowed their pace as they moved past Grace and Rufus, unabashedly gaping at both of them.
Grace forced a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Young and Mrs. Beeler. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Young hurried into the mercantile, but Mrs. Beeler paused outside the door. “Very lovely, Miss Cristler.” She turned her pert gaze on Rufus. “Reverend…”
Rufus bobbed his head in greeting.
The woman tittered and entered the store, still gawking over her shoulder.
Grace lowered her voice. “Do you mind if we talk at the post office? I really shouldn’t leave it unoccupied.” Behind the solid walls of the post office, they wouldn’t be spied on by every shopkeeper or shopper on the square, either. She started up the boardwalk, trusting him to follow. “While we’re there, we’ll assign you a box number.”
“What for?”
“For you to receive mail, of course.” She opened the screened door and gestured him inside.
He crossed to the counter and thumped his crate on the wood surface. He brushed bits of wood from his jacket and then buttoned it. She preferred it unbuttoned. He seemed more relaxed and approachable. He slipped his fingertips into the jacket pockets, furthering the formal pose. “There’s no need to set me up with a box.”
Grace moved behind the counter and withdrew a box-registration form from one of the drawers. She selected a pencil from a glass jar on the corner of the counter and poised it above the form. “Everyone in the township has a post office box, Reverend Dille. You should have one, too.”
He shrugged. “Dunno why. Nobody’ll be sendin’ me anything because nobody knows—” He rubbed his nose, coughed into his hand, then aimed a wobbly grin at her. “Who’d write to me?”
His parents were gone, but surely he had friends, fellow students from seminary, a previous minister, even neighbors who’d watched him grow up. Some of them would want to stay in contact with him. “You don’t think anyone will send a note to ask how you’re settling in to your new community and congregation?”
“I…I hadn’t thought about anybody writing to…me.”
Although he hadn’t mentioned friends in his letters, she’d presumed he was leaving behind a large circle of acquaintances. How could a person spend his whole life in one place and not form attachments? Perhaps his humility led him to surmise no one would care enough to write. She hoped his supposition proved wrong. He looked so bereft that her heart ached for him.
She brushed his sleeve with her fingertips. “Someone will surely write to you. Let’s be certain there is a box ready to receive the communications, hmm?”
Oddly, his expression didn’t brighten. Uncertain, she bowed her head to complete the box-registration form.
“What did you wanna tell me about your uncle’s Bible?”
She set the pencil aside and gave him her full attention. Her determination to ensure his tender care of the Bible wavered in light of his dampened spirits. Should she keep silent on the matter? Then an image of Uncle Philemon at the dining room table that morning with a small, stiff, crisp Bible open in front of him flashed in her mind’s eye. The memory of his weary sigh accompanied it. He missed his old Bible. She knew it.
“Have you opened Uncle Philemon’s Bi
ble and looked at it?”
“Spent quite a bit of time yesterday afternoon an’ evening lookin’ through it.”
“Did you notice anything…in particular?”
A slight smile curved his lips. “There’s hardly a page that isn’t marked on. Reverend Cristler must’ve read it frontwise and backwise a dozen times at least.”
“At least.” She smiled. “If you look at what he’s written, you’ll realize you’re seeing the depth of his faith, those things that challenged him, and the scriptures that spoke to his heart. Mapped out on the pages of the Bible is my uncle’s very life journey.”
He gazed at her with his lips set in a firm line for several seconds. Then he sighed, the expulsion of breath as heavy laden as the one Uncle Philemon released earlier that morning. “You’re wantin’ it back, aren’t you?”
Heat blazed her face. Even though she would have liked being the recipient of the Bible, Uncle Philemon’s reason for gifting Rufus had touched her. She wouldn’t be selfish enough to apply a sledgehammer to the foundation of confidence Uncle Philemon was trying to build, even if she continued to wonder how the man who penned such assertive missives could be so timid in person.
She shook her head. “Uncle Philemon wants you to have it. I believe you’ll benefit from looking at my uncle’s notes and examining the scriptures that held special meaning to him.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“I want…” Should she be forthright? She’d thought their letter writing had established a relationship, but his bashful, almost distant behavior from the moment of his arrival had robbed her of her certainty. Should she advise or, perhaps more accurately, admonish a person who was a stranger to her? She didn’t like thinking of Rufus as a stranger. Maybe her plainspokenness would invite him to be open with her.
She rounded the counter and stood before him, hands clasped, head tilted to meet his gaze. “I want you to treasure it. I want you to respect it. I want you to understand that it’s more than an old book—it’s a reflection of my uncle’s soul.”
Grace and the Preacher Page 16