Dying to Decorate

by Cyndy Salzmann

  I’m impressed. “You were quite the career woman.”

  “Definitely . . . and very independent. That is, until I met Walter.”

  “Walter?” asks Lucy, seeming a bit more relaxed.

  “He was one of the photographers who covered our spring show for a local trade magazine. Although he arrived late, he was able to charm me into giving him backstage access. Afterward he insisted on returning the favor by taking me out to dinner.”

  “So he must have been handsome?” I ask.

  “Liz, you are so shallow!” Kelly teases.

  “Actually, he was quite handsome—at least in my eyes. But even more attractive was that Walter was unlike any man I had ever met. He was warm, witty, and full of adventure. I remember one time he surprised me with a picnic in Central Park . . . at midnight.”

  “Midnight in Central Park?” says Kelly. “I’d definitely call that adventurous.”

  “He kept me guessing. A few months later, Walter asked me to marry him. I surprised everyone—including myself—by saying yes.”

  Lucy sighs. “How romantic.”

  “Oh yes, it was very romantic . . . and Mother and Father were thrilled. I think they were relieved that their independent daughter was ready to settle down. And once they met Walter, they loved him.”

  “It sounds just like a fairy tale,” I say.

  “Well, as I said, this fairy tale did not have a happy ending. These were the days before the Salk vaccine. Walter had the misfortune of contracting polio.”

  “How terrible for you, Aunt Bette.” Lucy reaches to take her hand.

  The old woman’s eyes mist over. “Yes, it was terrible. My sweet Walter, who was so full of joie de vivre, was forced to spend his last days encased in one of those horrid iron lungs.”

  “You mean one of those long, steel machines?” Kelly asks. “Where you could only see the person’s head?”

  “Exactly. And I’ll never forget the sound it made—whooshing in and out to expand his lungs just so he could breathe. I sat by his bed day and night, praying he would recover and we could continue with our wedding plans. I watched him suffer for two months before he finally gave in to the disease. I was shattered.”

  “Oh, Aunt Bette,” Lucy whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She pats Lucy’s hand. “I had a lot of support from my friends and family, but I could not understand how God had allowed this to happen. How could He take away the man I loved before we even started our life together? It didn’t seem fair. After Walter’s funeral I quit my job and came home to Tredway. I didn’t have the energy—or the desire—to do anything else. I spent a lot of time in my room.

  “The years passed, and I worked at a dress shop in town. After Mother and Father died, I found myself alone at Locust Hill. I was like one of those ghosts that supposedly haunt the house. Just floating through life.”

  “By the way, how did that rumor about the ghosts get started?” I ask.

  Kelly frowns. “Liz, don’t change the subject.”

  “I just wondered.”

  “Actually, what I’m about to share with you is tied into those old stories.”

  I smirk at Kelly. “See? I wasn’t changing the subject.”

  “Shush!” says Kelly. “Please go on, Aunt Bette.”

  “One day, as I was moving some furniture in my bedroom, I came across a loose floorboard. I pulled the board up to remove the old nails and repair it. Under the board I was shocked to find an old journal.”

  “A journal? Like a diary?” I asked. This is getting good.

  “Yes. It was kept by my grandmother, Anna Simmons Crawford, when she was a girl.”

  “And it was hidden all those years?” says Lucy.

  “Apparently so. I never heard Mother or Father mention it.”

  “So did you read it?” I ask.

  Aunt Bette smiles at me. “Of course, dear. I was depressed—not dead.”

  I felt the heat of embarrassment creep up my neck.

  “I’m just teasing you, dear.” Amusement sparkles in her eyes. “Actually, I read the journal from cover to cover that same evening.”

  Lucy appears impatient. She hugs herself as if the room has suddenly turned cold, then finally says, a bit brusquely, “Aunt Bette, this has all been very interesting, but I’m still not sure what it has to do with my questions.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but we seniors have a tendency to run on and on, don’t we?”

  “I’m being rude again, aren’t I?”

  “No, you are quite right.” The old woman laughs. “Now where was I?”

  “You were going to tell us what Anna had written in her journal.”

  “No, I think that’s something you need to read for yourself. Finding Anna’s journal was a turning point in my life, and it came at a time I definitely needed to go in a new direction. Lucy, I’m sorry to make you and your friends listen to all this ancient history, but I think you’ll find the answers you’re seeking within the pages of Anna’s journal. I also suspect you may discover the answer to questions you might not even realize you have. Just try to keep an open mind, dear.”

  “I guess that’s the least I can do. Thank you, Aunt Bette.”

  “I’ve lived a long time, and there’s one thing I know to be true. Learn everything you can from the bumps in the road. That way you may not have to bounce over them again.” She smiles kindly. “As you read Anna’s journal, think about the reasons God may have brought you to Tredway, and remember His promise to guide you over the rough spots.”

  Aunt Bette takes Lucy’s hands in her own and gives them the gentle squeeze of reassurance that can only be passed from one who has traveled the same road.

  “Now, where has young Emma disappeared to? I’ll ask her to fetch the journal from my room so you ladies can be on your way.”

  As we walk to M.A.’s SUV, a piece of paper flutters from the tattered brown leather journal Lucy has tucked under her arm.

  “Oh, look!” Lucy points to the paper blowing down the drive.

  “I’ll get it,” I volunteer, running ahead and trapping the slip of paper under my shoe. I pick up the rose-colored sheet and hand it to Lucy. She sobs quietly, then reads aloud what Aunt Bette had written:

  And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.

  ROMANS 8:28

  LIZ’S TRIPLE CHOCOLATE PECAN BROWNIES

  1 package brownie mix

  1/2 cup white chocolate chips

  1/2 cup semisweet or milk chocolate chips

  1/2 cup coarsely chopped pecans

  Instructions

  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  2. Prepare brownie mix as directed on package. Add remaining ingredients to batter.

  3. Put batter in greased 9x9-inch pan. Bake 40–45 minutes until toothpick inserted near center comes out clean.

  Before Jeff left Locust Hill, he built us a cozy fire in the front parlor to take the chill off the fall evening. As I settled into one of the old armchairs, I found it surprisingly comfortable. My prior experience with antique furniture has consisted of a painful afternoon perched on the edge of a sofa to avoid a loose spring.

  I suspected it might be a long night, so I set up an assortment of soothing herbal teas and a tray of my specialty, Triple Chocolate Pecan Brownies, on a small walnut table near the couch, within easy reach of all of us. My motto is, “When life gets sticky, dip it in chocolate.”

  Jess walks into the room. “Liz, this looks wonderful. You definitely overstated your lack of domestic ability in your last column.”

  “You better watch out, kiddo, or we’ll be back to calling you Martha,” Marina adds as she settles cross-legged on the old sofa.

  “No chance.” I lift my chin in determination. “Just as your fence-hopping days are over, I’ve turned in my pastry bag and spring form pan.”

  “So how are your readers taking this change of attit
ude?” Kelly, who has claimed the other armchair, is already methodically picking the pecans from her brownie.

  “It’s hard to believe, but I’ve only had a handful of negative e-mails. Apparently most of my readers feel the same way I do, but were afraid to admit it. Many of them wrote that they can’t wait to see the changes.”

  “Have you decided on your first topic?” asks Jess.

  “I interviewed this lady in Omaha who can make a dozen freezer meals in a couple of hours.”

  “Twelve meals in two hours? I want her phone number!” Marina exclaims.

  “Speaking of phone numbers,” teases Lucy, who has just walked in the room with Mary Alice, “did Jeff ask for yours?”

  Marina rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah . . . right after I called him a tree hugger.”

  “Seriously, Marina,” says Jess, “I noticed a few sparks flying between you two this afternoon.”

  “That’s called friction, Jess.” But two spots of red dot Marina’s cheeks like she’s a life-size Raggedy Ann doll. “Can we change the subject? Please?”

  As Lucy and Mary Alice sit down on the edge of the hearth with their desserts, Jess pulls out the journal. “So, are we ready to begin? And you’re sure you want me to read, Lucy?”

  Lucy nods, and Mary Alice takes her hand.

  “I guess I’ll start at the beginning.” Jess turns the brittle, yellowed page to the first entry.

  PIONEER MUSH

  3 cups water

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 cup cornmeal

  Additional sugar or syrup

  Instructions

  1. Bring water and salt to a rolling boil.

  2. Add cornmeal. Turn heat to low—or cook over another pot of water (double boiler).

  3. Simmer 20 minutes, stirring often.

  4. Serve immediately with sugar or syrup.

  February 14, 1861

  It is St. Valentine’s Day, and I am in a sour mood. Mother and Papa were in a gay mood all day—teasing and exchanging playful looks. Rather than being infectious, their foolishness has created the opposite effect. It has drawn me into an even darker mood. How can they appear so happy living in this infernal wilderness, where each morning brings a sad reminder of our distasteful circumstances?

  Fourteen-year-old Anna Simmons woke to the pelting of icy rain against the sides of the rough log cabin. In an effort to avoid the cold wind drifting through the chinks in the wood, she huddled lower in the feather tick.

  It looks like another lovely day on the prairie, I wonder how many times I’ll slip on the ice on the way to the barn this morning. Yesterday it was four times. Maybe today I’ll only fall twice.

  The sound of her mother’s voice from the room below shook Anna from her thoughts. “You’ve slept long enough, child. I need you to draw water. And your father will be needing help in the barn.”

  “I’ll be down in a moment, Mother,” replied Anna, pulling the worn quilt over her head once again.

  I hate it here! I hate all of it, lamented Anna silently. I hate the cold, the wind, the mud—even the coarse people who have moved into town. Why would Mother ever agree to leave our family and friends in Ohio to settle in this wild Nebraska Territory?

  “Anna, are you coming? I need your help,” called Emily Simmons sharply.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I have to find my stockings.”

  “Be quick, child.” Her mother peered over the railing of the loft to check on her daughter’s progress. “We are expecting visitors again this evening, and in this weather, they will be worn out.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Visitors, thought Anna, always visitors. The only news that could add more unpleasantness to this day is to find that our new house on Locust Hill has burned down while we slept, forcing us to live in this drafty cabin another two years. Maybe if we had fewer visitors, Papa would have more time to finish our house.

  Almost immediately Anna felt the familiar pang of guilt for her uncharitable attitude. One couldn’t help but feel sorry for the fugitives—travel-worn, sick, hungry, frightened—who found their way to their cabin. But Anna also worried. The seemingly endless train of refugees had almost depleted the family’s meager supply of food. Food that had to last them through the remainder of the cruel Nebraska winter.

  The fugitives were also often in dire need of clothing to replace their rags. And they always needed shoes. Anna could not believe how many arrived barefoot, even in the midst of a Nebraska winter. It was a heart-wrenching sight. She shivered just thinking about it. But how much was one family expected to do?

  Anna dressed quickly and descended the stick ladder that connected her sleeping loft to the kitchen. Her mother already had a cheerful fire going in the hearth. Emily’s small frame was bent over the fire, stirring the pot of mush she had prepared for breakfast.

  A long homespun apron covered her woolen work dress. Her honey-colored curls were twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. She turned at the sound of her daughter’s footsteps on the wood plank floor. “There you are, sleepyhead.”

  Anna was relieved that the sharp tone was gone from her mother’s voice. Now amusement lit her sapphire eyes upon seeing her still-sleep-rumpled daughter. “You’ll need your cape, dear,” she advised. “The weather is wicked this morning.”

  “I heard ice on the roof,” Anna replied. “I hope this doesn’t mean another blizzard is on the way.”

  “We will just have to pray against that possibility. Travel is dangerous enough without a blizzard complicating things.”

  Anna fastened the hooded wrap at her throat and grabbed the wooden pail by the door. “I’ll draw your water first, Mother. Then I’ll help Papa with Buttercup.”

  “Thank you, dear. You don’t have to come back in. Just leave the water by the door.”

  Anna braced herself for an icy blast of prairie wind and then flung open the door to the cabin. The harsh prairie gusts buffeted her slim frame as she made her way to the well behind the cabin.

  Yes, she thought, I despise this place . . .

  The cold wind continued to blow all day. And just as I suspected, snow is beginning to pile up on our doorstep.

  I chose to retire to my loft as Mother and Papa await the arrival of our visitors. Out of necessity I am making this entry in secret, my only light a flickering stub of a candle. Papa insists on complete silence regarding our activities, warning that discovery will bring dire consequences. I once tried to confide in Mother, hoping for a sympathetic ear, but she has little patience for grumbling. Though I am forced to keep you hidden, dear diary, you are my cherished friend. For without you in which to pour out my heart, I would surely burst . . .

  The fire in the Locust Hill front room has burned down to glowing embers. Marina gets up to put on another log as we discuss what Jess has just read.

  “One thing’s certain,” Kelly announces. “Teenagers haven’t changed much in the last 150 years. Anna sounds a lot like my Michaela.”

  “And my Katie,” I add. “But I know my daughter wouldn’t be caught dead in a cape. Did I tell you she went through my overnight bag to make sure I hadn’t packed anything embarrassing to wear this weekend? I’m getting tired of being called a fashion emergency.”

  Marina nods. “I’m telling you . . . different era but same attitude.”

  “Let’s be honest,” says Jess. “How many of us would cheerfully go out in a blizzard to draw water from a well? Much less milk a cow?”

  Marina looks puzzled. “I don’t remember hearing anything about a cow.”

  “Who do you think Buttercup was, Rina?” asks Jess.

  “It could have been the cat.”

  We groan.

  “Remember, I’m a city girl.” Marina examines her meticulously painted red nails. “The only cows I’ve seen are on television. Or, now that I think of it, maybe at the zoo.”

  Mary Alice tactfully changes the subject. “Actually, I think it’s kind of reassuring to know that teenagers were pretty much the same yesterd
ay as they are today.”

  “It’s hormones, ladies,” states Kelly, “with a healthy dose of teenage stubbornness.”

  “I know,” I add. “Jess keeps trying to convince me that the alien who’s invaded my daughter’s body will eventually move on to torment another unsuspecting family. I’m just hoping it doesn’t move to Josh.”

  “Be strong, kiddo.” Jess squeezes my shoulder. “Remember when I pasted one of Sarah’s baby pictures inside the kitchen cabinet? It was to help me remember that there was a core of sweetness in the midst of all that”—she puts her hands on her hips and wiggles her shoulders for effect—“attitude.”

  “That’s why you did that? But, Jess, Sarah is such a sweetheart—”

  “Of course she is . . . to you,” interrupts Marina. “All our kids are nice to other adults. It’s when they get us alone that the trouble starts.”

  “Maybe it’s a teenage plot designed to keep parents on the edge of sanity. Willing to turn over the car keys at the drop of a hat,” I suggest.

  “OK, ladies,” says Kelly, “I think we’ve had enough conspiracy theory. How about getting back to Anna’s journal?”

  “Would you like me to go on, Lucy?” Jess asks.

  The five of us turn to face Lucy. She is huddled on the hearth—knees clasped to her chest—rocking almost imperceptibly. I realize she hasn’t uttered a word since Jess began reading Anna’s journal. There’s a pained expression on her face as she slowly opens her eyes.

  “Aren’t any of you wondering who these visitors are that Anna refers to? I mean, in light of what Jeff and Marina pulled from behind the wall, these people could be—”

  “Stop right there, Luce,” Marina orders in her tough-cop voice. “We all agreed to collect the facts before making any assumptions.”

  Lucy’s voice is tiny. “I know but—”

  “But nothing,” Kelly interrupts. “A deal’s a deal. Keep reading, Jess.”

  “Lucy?” asks Jess.

  “Fine.” Lucy’s jaw stiffens. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. This could be a lot worse than any horror novel. In this story the characters are real.”