Legacy of Love

by Christine Johnson

  The plaster had been a surprise. It was to be expected in the apartment, but why would anyone plaster a garage? Yet someone in the past had done just that. Judging by the dingy film of dirt, dust and cobwebs, the plastering had been done years ago.

  Anna had found a rusty old handsaw that managed to cut through thick boughs after jerking the teeth back and forth against the wood.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t cut a tree for us,” she apologized again to her mother.

  “We don’t need a big old tree in this little room. We’d never be able to walk around it. If you ask me, the branches are perfect. Smell the pine.”

  Anna inhaled deeply. The warmth of the fireplace had released the piney scent from the needles.

  “It’s wonderful,” Ma said from her perch before the fireplace, her head back and eyes closed. “That smell always makes me think of Christmas.” She chuckled, eyes still shut. “Remember when your father cut down that ten-foot-tall tree? He insisted on stuffing the thing into the living room. We had needles everywhere. I was still finding them in August.”

  “That must have been before I was born.”

  “I’m sure you were there, but maybe you were too little to remember.” Ma sighed. “Such good memories.”

  Anna hoped her mother didn’t get misty-eyed. “We’ll start new memories.”

  “Yes, we will. And keep some of the old. That reminds me. I promised we’d bring plum duff for dinner tomorrow.”

  “Plum duff?” Anna couldn’t hide her surprise. She loved the traditional steamed Christmas pudding, but Ma spent days preparing it. “There’s not enough time. The fruit has to be ripened.”

  Ma waved a hand. “Mariah mixed the fruit and nuts with the suet a week ago. She dropped it off this afternoon.”

  Anna looked around and saw nothing.

  “I had her take it to the kitchen. You’ll have plenty of time to mix the ingredients and steam it.”

  “Me?” Anna tried not to panic. “You want me to make it?”

  “It’s not that difficult. I wrote down the recipe. It’s on the table.”

  Anna glanced over to see that indeed Ma had jotted down her recipe. But knowing which ingredients to use wouldn’t ensure it turned out. Ma always said plum duff was temperamental.

  “It’s Saturday afternoon,” she pleaded, “and Brandon probably doesn’t have the ingredients.”

  Ma smiled sleepily. “I had him call in an order this morning. The mercantile should have delivered everything by now.”

  Anna’s jaw dropped. Ma had not only ordered items they couldn’t afford, she’d somehow managed to suck Brandon into her scheme. “How will we pay for this?”

  “Don’t fret. Mr. Brandon put it on his account.”

  “He did?” Anna choked. “Why would he do that? We’ll pay him back.”

  “Now don’t you go doing that. He insisted, wished us a merry Christmas. What a fine gentleman. He stopped by while you were cutting the boughs. He wanted to make sure you found everything you needed.”

  Anna struggled to piece together this very different picture of Brandon Landers. “He always seems so...gruff, like he’s angry with me.”

  Ma smiled softly. “The Lord puts people in our lives for a reason.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine why he put Brandon in ours.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find out one day. He’s such a nice man...” She yawned.

  Anna glanced outdoors. It must be nearly four o’clock. If they weren’t going to be up all night, they had to start the plum duff soon.

  “Ma, don’t fall asleep. I need your help.”

  Ma answered with a soft snore.

  Oh, dear. Baking had never been Anna’s strong suit. Making the plum duff without Ma’s help would be difficult. What if she burned it? Or got it too dry? What if... Her mind bounced through a hundred calamities. Worst of all, Brandon would come home in two hours and expect supper.

  “I can’t do it myself,” she pleaded. “Why did you tell everyone we’d bring plum duff?”

  Ma just snored.

  Hands shaking, Anna picked up the recipe. She’d have to try or there’d be no plum duff for Christmas Eve dinner.

  * * *

  Brandon heard the clatter the moment he stepped into the house. Something metal, he guessed. Pots and pans, most likely, considering the racket came from the direction of the kitchen.

  “Get out of there,” commanded a very tired and very upset female voice. Anna’s voice. “Get out!”

  His pulse quickened. Someone had broken into the house and was threatening her. Brandon raised his ebony cane to use as a weapon and headed for the kitchen. The room had a swinging door to assist with dinner service. He now realized this could be used to advantage. He pushed it open a crack to get the bearings of the intruder and prepared to whack the man over the head.

  He pressed his face close to the opening and peered into the well-lit room. From this vantage point, he could see only cupboards.

  Bang!

  “You horrible, stupid thing,” Anna exclaimed. “Why won’t you come out?”

  Come out? That didn’t sound like an intruder. Brandon let the door close and lowered the cane. Maybe she’d found a mouse. It was entirely possible, given the age and dilapidation of the house. At least she wasn’t screaming at the top of her lungs. He admired that in a woman. It would be more difficult to play the hero, though, since a mouse could easily outmaneuver a man with a bad foot.

  A thundering crash came from inside the kitchen, followed by Anna’s cry of despair. “I give up.”

  He thought he heard a sob. He definitely smelled something acrid. Smoke wafted out of the kitchen. That had better not be supper, or he’d be eating crackers tonight. Annoyed, he pushed on the door, intending to have a word with her, but before he got it halfway open, Anna gave out a little sob.

  “Why do I have to ruin everything?”

  Her plea wrenched his heart. Poor girl. The oil stove must have overheated. It hadn’t been used regularly in years. The oil lines might have gummed up or the valves stuck. He could do without supper for one night.

  He opened the door to see what could only be described as an explosion. Flour and bits of dark brown goo covered the stove and worktable. Anna sat at the table, dejected, head buried in her hands.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Her head jerked up, and she stumbled to her feet. “Bran—Mr. Landers. I, uh, I—I—I’m sorry for the mess.” She swiped at her cheeks.

  Not tears. Nothing made him feel more inept than a woman in tears. Should he try to comfort her, or would she only lash out at him? He’d never chosen correctly in the past. Moreover, an employer shouldn’t comfort a young female employee. Except Anna wasn’t exactly an employee. She was a vibrant young woman who lived on his property.

  He flexed his hands, unsure what to do. Deep down he longed to take her in his arms, but he shouldn’t. In fact, they shouldn’t be alone together in his house. Youth might be ignoring convention these days, but he would not. Yet he couldn’t turn her out in this state. Where was Mrs. Simmons when he needed her? It was after six o’clock. Anna wasn’t supposed to be here.

  What should he do? He couldn’t stand to hear her sob.

  He absently picked up a glob of the brown gooey stuff. It smelled rather good as a matter of fact, rich with cloves and spices. He tasted it. The moist cakelike substance melted on his tongue.

  “Whatever this is, it’s delicious.” He tasted another bit and then another. “Quite excellent,” he mumbled, mouth full.

  She hiccuped and lifted her head. “It is?”

  “It is,” he said between bites. “What is it?”

  “Plum duff,” she sniffled, wiping her red swollen eyes on her dress sleeve.

  Didn’t she even have
a handkerchief? Brandon pulled out his and handed it to her.

  She promptly wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Thank you.” She then offered back the handkerchief.

  He grimaced. “You keep it.”

  She withdrew her hand and tucked his handkerchief into her apron pocket, her eyes downcast. “I’m sorry I made a mess of things.”

  He hated to see her spirit crushed. She had stood up to the Neideckers. Why would a little cooking disaster set her spirits so low?

  “No problem.” He cleared his throat. “None at all.”

  That didn’t appear to appease her, for she continued to stare at the black-and-white linoleum floor.

  “Well, then,” he tried again, “whenever I’m faced with a problem, I assess the situation, figure out what went wrong and determine a new course of action.”

  At last she lifted her gaze. Though her lashes were dewy, her expression had narrowed in puzzlement. “Even if I understood what you just said, what does it have to do with my problem?”

  He’d done it again. Without thinking, he’d taken charge as if he was still in the army.

  “Pardon me,” he apologized with a flourish. “I meant, let’s figure out how to solve the problem.”

  “Oh.” Her full pink lips made him want to think of something much more interesting than cooking. “I don’t suppose you know how to make plum duff in a few hours rather than a week.”

  He had to acknowledge he didn’t.

  “Or how to get it out of the mold.”

  Again his knowledge fell short.

  “Then you must know how to clean burned sugar out of an oven.”

  It wasn’t a question, and he hated to admit he had no idea. “Hot water?”

  Her hands went to her hips. “Just what I suspected. All thought and no action. If you can’t cook or clean, how exactly did you plan to help me?”

  That was the Anna Simmons he’d liked so much that day at the mercantile, though he had to admit he wasn’t quite as keen that she’d directed her biting comments at him.

  “I could help you clean if you tell me what to do,” he offered weakly.

  She rolled her eyes. “In your business suit and coat?”

  He looked down at his fine attire. Father would have been shocked to hear what Brandon had just offered. No Landers had ever done servants’ work. When Brandon was no more than five, he’d made the mistake of helping the housekeeper wipe down walls. After shaking him violently, Father had made Brandon say over and over that he would never do that again.

  Brandon eyed the cobwebs in the corners of the old kitchen. Look where that thinking had got Father.

  “I’ll change,” he said.

  She filled a pail with hot water and grabbed the bicarbonate of soda from the cupboard. After hefting the pail from the sink, she set it on the floor in front of the oven with a heavy clunk.

  “You’ll leave me alone,” she said, hands back on those lovely hips. “I have work to do.”

  That was a command. A wise man would obey. Brandon had always thought himself wise. Until now.

  * * *

  After changing into clothes that were better than most people’s Sunday best, the man helped her clean the kitchen. He was worse than useless, but then Anna had to remind herself that she’d been a lousy housekeeper when she’d first started cleaning for Mariah at the orphanage. Still, when she told Brandon to scrub the table, he’d worked and worked at it until she thought he’d rub right through the varnish.

  Before scrubbing he’d eaten the bits of her demolished plum pudding. At first she’d taken it as a compliment, but then she realized the poor man was hungry. She’d stuck his beef cutlet in the warming oven and forgot about it. By now it must be as dry as shoe leather. To his credit, he’d never once asked what had happened to his meal. Her boiling temper died to a simmer and then cooled.

  She pulled the cutlet from the warming oven and set it on the table. “I’m afraid I ruined it.”

  “Nonsense.” He sat down with knife and fork and attempted to hack off a bite.

  “I’ll make something else.” She reached for a match, but he hopped to his feet and stilled her hand.

  “I’ll cook something later.”

  “You know how to use a stove?” She could not imagine Brandon cooking. Ever.

  “I’m a bachelor. I have to do many things for myself.”

  She doubted he had ever cooked or cleaned. Men of his social class hired housekeepers or ate at a club or restaurant. They did not cook.

  Still, she kept her doubts to herself. It was pleasant working beside him. She kept glancing over to make sure he wasn’t making a bigger mess, and occasionally she found him looking at her. Their glances didn’t meet for more than a second, but each time it sent an unexpected thrill through her.

  When he worked near her, she could smell that sagelike scent that was all his. She closed her eyes to drink it in, and jumped when he touched her.

  “Are you all right?” He looked concerned.

  Oh, yes, she was more than all right, though if she had to admit it, his nearness both excited and terrified her. And when she stuck her hand in her apron pocket and felt his handkerchief with his monogrammed initials, she ran her fingers over the embroidery and imagined what it would be like to be Mrs. B.L.

  “Can we make another duff?”

  Anna shook her head. “The fruit and nuts have to sit for a week.”

  “A week? Why would you make such a difficult dish?”

  “For Christmas. It’s like plum pudding.”

  His gray eyes twinkled in the electric lights. “Like in Dickens’s Christmas Carol?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps there’s something else you can make.” He stood and mopped his forehead.

  She noticed he’d stopped using his cane a while ago, and though he balanced against the table when moving about, he could stand perfectly well without the aid of his cane.

  “What happened to your leg?” she blurted out, and then, when she saw his expression tighten, instantly regretted the question. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. It’s an honest question. It happened in the war.” He offered no further explanation.

  “It’s not much, hardly noticeable.”

  If anything, his scowl deepened.

  Anna tried again. “The cane is so distinguished. Don’t all rich men carry them?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “You think I’m rich?”

  The way he said it sent shivers down her spine, as if she’d just accused him of the worst thing possible. “W-w-well, you have a nice house, one of the biggest on the hill.”

  At last his expression eased, though it didn’t return to the pleasant conviviality of moments before. “I suppose it would seem big to you.”

  The words cut deeply. Yes, she was poor, and he was rich, but he didn’t need to be rude about it.

  “It was meant as a compliment. I counted seven bedrooms, two parlors, a formal dining room, this large kitchen and two washrooms. You even have running water.”

  After a moment, he apologized. “I appreciate your powers of observation and your curiosity.” He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to personal questions.”

  “I won’t do it again,” she said, fingering the handkerchief.

  His mouth quirked up at one corner, making him look younger and even a bit mischievous. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  Anna fought an answering grin. “I’ll try not to pry.”

  His laughter rumbled with surprising warmth. “Stay curious. If not for curiosity, Mr. Carter would never have found King Tutankhamun’s tomb.”

  A thrill ran through her. Brandon had just compared her to Howard Carter. Maybe he would help her follow in the man�
�s footsteps.

  “I want to do that, to find a lost tomb like he did,” she gushed, the words coming out so quickly that they jumbled together.

  He smiled, and a dimple appeared in his chin. “Maybe someday you will.”

  Anna caught her breath. He’d practically promised to help her.

  Chapter Six

  Brandon got out of his automobile and peered at the unimposing two-story house that served as a parsonage. The place looked strangely quiet, considering Sunday dinner was about to take place. The pastor had indicated the entire extended family would be attending. True, Hendrick Simmons’s automobile was still parked at the carriage house, but Brandon expected to see one or two other cars here.

  Not so.

  Brandon hesitated at the foot of the steps, wondering if Pastor Gabe had taken ill or was called away on emergency.

  “There you are,” called out the youthful minister from the front door. “Come on in.”

  Despite the icy December day, Pastor Gabe dressed in shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow, much more informal than Brandon expected for Sunday dinner.

  He mounted the steps with care, using the handrail to ensure he didn’t lose his balance. “I expected to see a car or two in front of the house.”

  Gabe held the door open for him. “You’re the first to arrive.”

  “I am? It’s almost two o’clock.”

  “The others will be here soon.”

  Brandon stepped over the threshold and into a Christmas fantasy. Every wall, shelf and table was decorated with greenery, ribbons and bows. The parlor contained some of the finest mahogany furniture that money could buy. A large tree graced the far corner, covered with garlands and crystal ornaments that looked like they’d come from Tiffany. The overpowering scent of cloves must be coming from the apple-shaped golden pomanders. The room reflected high society on a small scale. That certainly did not fit the minister’s casual dress and manner. The church must be doing very well indeed.