The Cherry Harvest

by Lucy Sanna

  Remy Lapointe wasn’t a military man but a civilian, an engineer of some sort, employed by the Coast Guard with privileges Charlotte could only imagine. The Coast Guard supply boat routinely stopped at the island, bringing anything the lightkeeper and his family wanted. He certainly didn’t need to fish for supper.

  Charlotte watched as he reeled in another and captured it in his net. Fish weren’t among the rationed items up this way, but those who caught fish these days kept them. What a waste for the lightkeeper’s family to have the fish! Charlotte turned from the window. What can I trade? Glancing about, her eyes landed on the canvas bag. That’s it! If Marta provides the yarn, I can knit her something, something special she can’t buy. She slipped into a freshly washed housedress and grabbed the canvas satchel to show Marta the quality of her work.

  Downstairs in the chilly kitchen, Charlotte opened the cast-iron stove, added a log from the wood box, and lit the kindling. Kate and Thomas would appreciate a hot stove when they came down for morning tea. Soon the scent of cherry wood filled the room.

  Charlotte opened the back door, picked up the Door County Advocate, and scanned the headlines. No new war news today. She put the paper on the kitchen table for Thomas, donned her coat, hat, and gloves, and went out the door.

  Down in the boathouse, Charlotte turned the winch and the blue wooden motorboat rolled down the track alongside the dock. A silvery fish flashed briefly near the surface. She stepped into the boat, pushed off, and lowered the propeller into the water. Floating beyond the dock, she pulled hard on the starter rope, then again, until the motor finally caught and growled into motion. Oily fumes permeated the air. Charlotte shifted the throttle, and the bow lifted and bounced on the waves as she guided the boat across the bay to the island.

  Through a rising mist, the eastern horizon shifted from purple to orange, and by the time Charlotte reached the lighthouse the round fiery sunball was dancing on the lake’s surface. When was the last time I danced? She had taught Ben and Kate how to dance in the living room—the waltz, the foxtrot, the Lindy Hop. Ben was so light on his feet, laughing and singing along with the music. All the girls wanted to be his partner.

  She tied the boat at the dock below the lighthouse and headed up the walk. Charlotte didn’t know these people well, Remy and Marta Lapointe. They had arrived in 1939 when the former keeper received a new assignment. Charlotte and Thomas had gone to the welcoming party—a square dance at the armory. She recalled Remy, dignified in his uniform; Marta, his plump wife reaching out to greet everyone; and their four children—two boys, two girls, Josie the oldest. Was that where it started, Ben and Josie dancing together?

  Charlotte stepped along the stone walkway near the massive brick tower and rounded the corner to the front of the residence. When the door opened, Marta looked startled, wide dark eyes, brows lifted. “What is it? Did something happen?” Her French Canadian accent so foreign to Charlotte’s ears, the nasal o, the missing h.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Marta. I’ve only come for a visit.” Charlotte wasn’t one to make neighborly calls—for one thing, she didn’t want neighbors knocking at her own kitchen door—but for the sake of business, she was prepared to do so now. “If this isn’t a good time . . .”

  Marta opened the door further. “Please come in, if you don’t mind speaking softly lest we wake the brood.” She paused. “I do love my mornings before the children are up and about, eh?”

  “I’m disturbing you.”

  Five years earlier, shortly after the couple arrived in Door County, Charlotte had called on Marta, bringing a cherry pie. Marta was friendly then, but now she wasn’t smiling.

  Handing Marta her coat, Charlotte noted the woman’s resemblance to Josie—the high cheekbones, large features, thick dark hair and eyelashes.

  “I was about to make coffee.”

  Charlotte took it as an invitation. “How delightful.” She hadn’t had coffee for ages, just chicory once in a while. She drank mostly mint tea from her window garden.

  A good seven inches shorter than Charlotte, Marta led the way to the kitchen. She wore the latest military-cut slacks and matching cardigan sweater—a style Charlotte had seen on the covers of magazines at Schwarz’s Drug Store. And shiny new leather loafers! The only shoes available in Turtle Bay were canvas.

  In the kitchen, Marta nodded toward a chair at the round fruitwood table. The previous lightkeepers had kept the place in the original brown and gray, but now it was painted bright blue and yellow, a cheerful look. A large bowl of fresh fruit sat on the wooden counter—grapefruit, oranges, lemons, bananas—and baskets of vegetables hung on a rack, not just root vegetables but fresh garden greens—lettuce and cucumber and ripe tomatoes. How did she get them so early in the season? So as not to appear wanting, Charlotte swallowed her question and said, “Such a cozy kitchen.”

  Just then, Marta opened the coffee tin and oh, that rich dark aroma! She poured beans into the grinder and turned the handle. “It’s not like Boston . . . but for now . . .” Marta said, as if this were quite a comedown from her husband’s former assignment. Remy and Marta didn’t have an easy life here on the island—no electricity, not even a pump at the sink because the well water was bad. Goods had to be shipped in. Still, Charlotte envied their easy access to things because Remy worked for the government. Charlotte’s son worked for the government too, but his family was suffering while this family remained above it all.

  Marta lifted the cover to the bread box and pulled out a tray of pastries. Charlotte couldn’t help but stare. No one had sugar or flour for such treats these days.

  “Apple or apricot?”

  “Apricot,” Charlotte said too quickly.

  Marta put two pastries into the bun warmer on the stove. “Have you heard from Benny? Such a handsome, capable boy. You must be proud, eh?”

  Charlotte cringed at Marta’s use of the nickname Josie had given him. “Thank you, yes, we hear from Benjamin often.”

  Marta’s eyes remained on Charlotte, expecting more, but Ben’s letters were none of her business.

  Marta poured steaming water over the crushed coffee beans. “Josie gets letters . . .”

  “Letters?” Charlotte felt the sting. “From Benjamin?” What does he say to her?

  Marta laughed. “Lovers . . . who knows!”

  Charlotte didn’t laugh. Josie was one of those clever girls who would do whatever she needed to get what she wanted. And what Josie wanted was Ben. Some might call the girl attractive, but she was far too free with her body to suit Charlotte, walking with a deliberate swing of her hips, standing too close, breasts pushed forward. Charlotte wished Ben had chosen one of his own kind—a farm girl, a Norwegian, at least a Protestant. That was the worst of it: these people were Catholic. Charlotte wasn’t fond of any church, but it was the Catholic allegiance to the pope that galled her. A Catholic marriage would mean Ben would have to be baptized and, worse yet, swear to raise his children—her own grandchildren—Catholic.

  Josie had even drawn Kate into her little web, luring her with books—to get information about Ben no doubt. The Coast Guard brought a roving library to the island regularly, and Josie ordered whatever books Kate asked for. Impressionable as she was, Kate spent far too much time with the older girl.

  When Marta brought the coffeepot to the table and poured steaming dark liquid into the cups, Charlotte nearly swooned with the seductive scent.

  “Sugar and cream?” Marta asked.

  Sugar and cream! Charlotte hadn’t seen such a casual display of luxuries since before the war. She tried to act nonchalant as she reached forward. “Was that your husband I saw out on the lake fishing?”

  “Remy? Yes, it’s his way of relaxing.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I tried fishing a few times, but all I could think about was everything else I should be doing. The fish bite early morning and evening, just when I need to be preparing breakfast or dinner. Benjamin was the one . . .”

  Marta set the pastri
es on the table and sat across from Charlotte. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t friendly, as she had been in the past. What’s this about?

  Charlotte chose the fat one dripping with apricot jelly. “Thank you.” If only she could take this home to share with Kate and Thomas. She was about to bite into the sweet when Marta cleared her throat for attention.

  “Let us say grace.” Marta lowered her head.

  Charlotte dropped the pastry to the plate and, out of respect, followed Marta in the sign of the cross, but inside, her blood bubbled with resentment. She didn’t want Ben to feel the shame if he might pick up his fork too soon.

  Just as the prayer ended, the door opened and Marta looked up. “Ah, here’s Remy.”

  The lighthouse keeper came into the kitchen.

  He tipped his hat—“Mrs. Christiansen”—but he didn’t smile. He carried a mesh basket of perch, tails flicking, iridescent scales catching the morning light, and put it into the sink. “I do hope nothing’s amiss.”

  “Charlotte’s just come for a visit.” Marta’s voice had an edge. Husband and wife exchanged looks, frowning.

  What’s going on?

  Remy gave a slight bow. “Please excuse me. I must dress for work.”

  Footsteps pattered upstairs. Charlotte had to finish her business while she still had a chance. She smiled across the table at Marta. “You’re lucky to have a husband who brings your family supper.”

  “The children turn up their noses at fish, except Josie.” Marta sighed. “Remy does it for sport.”

  Sport? So they didn’t even want them! Charlotte could get by with trading something small, a hat or mittens perhaps. She took a sip of the rich coffee. “The last time I enjoyed my fill of fish was when Big Mike’s eldest son was married.”

  “The boy who was killed in the Kasserine Pass, killed by that Nazi Rommel!” Marta stared into Charlotte’s eyes, pursed her lips. “We heard what you did at that county meeting.”

  Charlotte’s cup rattled on the saucer.

  “How could you, with your own boy over there? My future son-in-law!”

  Not if I can help it! Charlotte sat up straight, much taller than the other woman. “We don’t have a boat bringing us food and supplies. We need men to pick the fruit. Surely you understand.”

  “What you don’t understand, Charlotte”—Marta splayed her hands flat on the table—“is that you are putting my husband and all the others who watch out for your safety at risk. With Nazis loose right here on the shore—”

  Charlotte shook her head. “The prisoners will have Army guards. You don’t need to worry—”

  “Worry? In addition to all they had to do before, lighthouse keepers are now charged with protecting our shores from the enemy. The shores of the Saint Lawrence Seaway and the Great Lakes.” She leaned in. “And you think a few prison guards can protect us from that madman Hitler, who’s bent on controlling the world?”

  Charlotte shivered. What if a prisoner did escape? If there were submarines in Lake Michigan . . . no, no, she wouldn’t let herself be drawn in by the fear.

  “This is war, Charlotte.” Marta stood, hands on hips. “What do you want? What did you come for?”

  Charlotte was stunned by Marta’s hostility. She wanted to leave. Walk out. But what she wanted more were those fish. She took a deep breath and bent down and opened her canvas satchel. “I came to show you something I made.” She pulled out the blue vest.

  Marta’s eyes brightened. She sat back down and took the vest. “You can’t buy anything like this.” She held it up. “It’s just about right for Remy. Yes, just his size.”

  “I could knit something for you, Marta.”

  Marta’s mouth opened, her eyebrows rose in a question.

  “I’m willing to trade,” Charlotte said. “I have nothing for supper.”

  Marta smiled. “The fish, eh?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “You’d trade this beautiful vest for a basket of fish?”

  “No, not this vest. But I’ll make something special if you provide the yarn. Mittens, a hat, a scarf.” She paused, waiting. “Even a vest. I would do that for you.”

  Marta touched the cable stitching. “I like this one.”

  “I’ll need eight skeins. Ellie’s Dry Goods—”

  “No, this one.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I made this for Ben.”

  Marta looked at the vest, then at Charlotte, her mouth twisted into a self-righteous smirk. Charlotte felt tears welling. I need those fish!

  Marta’s head cocked toward the ceiling, children prancing above, coming down the stairs. Charlotte stood and walked to the window. Three gulls cut through the sky, a freighter slid northward on the horizon. What’s the vest worth to this woman?

  “Well?” Marta demanded.

  Charlotte turned to face her. “I’ll trade the vest for the fish.” She scanned the room. “And those grapefruit and oranges and lemons. That basket of green vegetables. A tin of coffee.”

  Marta opened a cupboard and pulled out a burlap sack and began filling it, then another. “The Coast Guard boat comes tomorrow.” She said it as if she had won.

  Charlotte looked at the table. “Cream and sugar.” What else? “And three of your pastries . . .”

  “Three pastries?” Marta hesitated. “I promised the children.”

  “One then, for Kate. Apricot.”

  Marta wrapped an apricot pastry in butcher paper and added it to the sack.

  Charlotte picked up the vest and fingered the blue cable stitching one more time before letting it go.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AFTER MOTORING BACK ACROSS THE BAY, Charlotte tied the boat to the dock and stopped for a moment to gaze up at the house. To others it might look like any old farmhouse—traditional two-story, white clapboard—but to Charlotte it was beautiful. It was home.

  Built in the 1860s, the Christiansen homestead sat on a knoll that rose up from the shore, and now the early sun shone golden on the wide front porch where honeysuckle vines blossomed. A bench swing hung from the rafters, and next to it was the wooden rocking chair Ben had made for her.

  Charlotte hefted Marta’s burlap sacks from the boat and carried them up the stone walk. On the porch she gave the rocker a little push to set it going.

  Inside, the front rooms—living room on the right, dining room on the left—were bright with morning sun. All was in order.

  Charlotte carried the sacks down the hall, set them on the kitchen table, and peered out the back door to the orchard. That was what drew her, Thomas’s cherry orchard. It extended across sixty acres of flat, fertile soil, ninety trees to the acre, 5,400 trees in all.

  Thomas had grown up here, and his father before him. Now Charlotte had lived here longer than she’d lived on the dairy farm down near Kewaunee. There she had learned about animals from her father and housekeeping from her mother. But what she enjoyed most was the vegetable garden—the dark rich scent of the earth, the miracle of seeds, and the feel of the cool soil on her bare feet when she ran between the rows, her cotton pinafore kicking up in the breeze.

  Mama had served as cook and housemaid for the Romanos, the family that owned the dairy where Pa was foreman. Every evening, after an early supper, Charlotte helped her mother serve the Romanos and their dinner guests. Charlotte liked to peek in on them eating the vegetables she had nurtured—salad greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, beets, squash. They all cooed over young Charlotte—“Did you really grow these beans yourself? Oh, such a pretty child!” Then they’d turn away and go on discussing their grown-up things.

  That is, until Mama served them pie. That was what everyone liked best, Mama’s pies—strawberry, blueberry, and rhubarb in the summer; apple and pumpkin in the fall; and finally, minced meat at Christmas. The secret’s in the dough, Mama told her. So Charlotte watched and listened and learned until Mama let her make the pies herself.

  Charlotte was fifteen when the Romano boys took a calf to the state fair and invite
d Charlotte to ride along with her pies. She didn’t win a prize that time, but people who tasted the pies wanted more.

  The blue ribbon came later, the year she met Thomas. She was seventeen; he was twenty. “Your apple pie tastes like coming home,” he said. He was tall and lean with a pleasant face, and his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. She was glad she had worn her baby-blue sundress.

  After another taste, he said, “How many pies do you have left?” He spoke in a quiet, thoughtful way.

  “Only three.” She smiled from under her lashes and pushed a strand of white-blond hair behind an ear.

  He pulled a leather wallet from his pocket. “I’ll buy them all.” He paused. “If you’ll tell me your name.”

  Heat spread to her cheeks. He winked and said,

  There is a garden in her face,

  Where roses and white lilies show;

  A heavenly paradise is that place,

  Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow.

  “Charlotte,” she finally whispered.

  “Charlotte.” He closed his eyes as if savoring a favorite dish, and said,

  Werther had a love for Charlotte

  Such as words could never utter;

  Would you know how first he met her?

  She was cutting bread and butter.

  What’s he talking about? “Who’s Werther?”

  He chuckled. “Just a fictional fellow in a poem by Thackeray.”

  Thackeray? How was she to respond to that?

  “Pleased to meet you, Charlotte.” He held out his hand, long fingers like a piano player, light touch. A mellow fragrance of cherry tobacco. “My name’s Thomas. Thomas Christiansen.”

  He wore a freshly pressed linen shirt, beige linen trousers, and fine leather shoes. He looked a bit askew—his jacket slung over a shoulder, his shoes dusty—but given the quality of his clothes and his educated manner, she judged him prosperous.

  “I don’t know many poems,” she said. She didn’t want to tell him she thought poems silly, all those nursery rhymes about someone named Jack—Jack Be Nimble, Jack and Jill, Jack Sprat, Little Jack Horner. Her mind raced forward until she recalled one about Tommy and the words flew from her lips: