Promises: Star's Bakery (The Baker Girl Book 2)
Page 18
Excerpt: Bradley Farm, Book 1
Prologue
────
New Hampshire, 1850
THE WOMAN LAY DYING on the white bloodstained sheets. Sweat rolled off her body from the stifling summer heat and her labors of childbirth. A new born baby lay screeching on her breast. The man, tears streaming down onto his bloodstained shirt, his forehead bent to his hands clutched the woman’s hand. A hint of lavender potpourri laced with pink rose petals scattered in a crystal bowl, her favorite, sat forgotten on the bedside table.
“Cut the cord,” she whispered. “I showed you. The scissors we sterilized this morning ... get the scissors. You can do it.”
The man rose, gently releasing her hand to the sheet, shaky legs carried him across the braided rug to a small pine table covered with a piece of white lace. He picked up the cold, steel scissors and returned to the bed. The woman rolled the baby to its side revealing the cord tethering the infant to her.
“Cut it. You can do it,” she whispered, a whisper weaker than the last.
The man cut the cord as she had instructed days before.
“Good. Now put the baby in the basket. As we planned … in case …
The man gently lifted the screaming baby laying it in the basket on a soft blanket, tucking another downy blanket, at the tiny feet, up under the quivering chin. With the blanket around the baby’s body, as in the womb, the crying stopped.
The woman turned her head watching the man care for their baby. The man’s eyes shifted to the pine, hooded cradle, he had lovingly built, placed against the whitewashed walls traced with shadows from the flickering candle. But, the woman was dying, so the baby would not lie in the cradle.
The man looked away from the empty cradle to the woman, a sob catching in his throat.
“It’s still night.” Fresh tears sprang from her eyes. “Take the basket to the church, inside the door. You know … the path we walked in the middle of the night to be sure the church door would be unlocked. Go now, and then come back to me.”
“I can’t. I can’t leave you.” His voice choking as he struggled to form the words.
“Yes, you can. Go.”
The man lifted the basket, bent over the woman, softly kissed her parched lips. “I can’t live without you.”
“Yes, you can. You are strong.”
“I … I love you my beautiful, beautiful lady.”
“And I love you, my darling.”
The man turned to the hall pausing at the maple chest of drawers, the charcoal etching of a couple in an ebony frame. Tearing his eyes away he stepped out onto the landing of the staircase leading down to the front door of the farmhouse.
“I love you, Marshall,” she cried out.
His feet struck the first stair tread … then the next, the next.
The hinges creaked as the man opened the door. Warm humid air enveloped him. Breathing in, expelling a sigh, he pulled the door shut behind him, disappearing into the night, carrying the basket, leaving the farmhouse in the shadows of the moon, disappearing as the woman’s head slumped to the side, her eyes fluttering shut for the last time.
Part I
Chapter 1
────
Halloween, 1969
RAGGEDY ANN SAT on the top row of the bleachers in the high school’s gymnasium. Orange and black crepe paper streamers twisted into garlands were draped from one ceiling girder to the next. A mirrored ball, hanging from the ceiling, slowly turned with the rising heat from the students vigorously dancing the Frug, an offshoot of the Twist.
Costumes assembled from miniskirts as well as a scattering of the latest craze, long bohemian skirts, were worn by girls looking adoringly into their partner’s eyes. The hippie era, born during the Woodstock Music and Art Festival last April, was embraced and embellished in this small high school on the outskirts of Exeter, New Hampshire.
A three-tiered set of bleachers on one side of the gym held groups of three or more girls who preferred to sit out the dance, or weren’t asked to dance, or just wanted to be bystanders, or by boys too shy to ask a girl to dance.
Fruit punch and sugar cookies decorated with black and orange piped icing, were lined up on folding tables in the wide hallway outside the gym. Napkins with pumpkins, skull and crossbones, or ghosts, fanned out around the punch bowl. Mothers and fathers, undercover chaperones, helped with the refreshments. The Halloween dance was the first of many events planned for the students celebrating their senior year.
Raggedy Ann, Jane O’Neill, fingered the white bow at the end of her red braid. Her fiery hair complemented her costume—white lace trimmed apron over a navy blue, short-sleeved cotton dress that graced the top of a pair of red and white striped knee highs. Raggedy Ann sat alone on one end of the bleachers, toes of her black Mary Jane’s turned in, her free hand gripping the edge of the bleacher. Her gaze was fixed on the band. A five-piece student group formed by Daniel Bradley. Last year, a leap year, Jane was going to ask Danny to be her date at the school’s Sadie Hawkins dance. But when she bumped into him after English class, she suddenly became tongue tied cutting the conversation short, and ran to her next class.
After that fateful day, Danny had sought her out in the school library. Danny’s mind was always spinning from one thing to the next, thinking about what he wanted to do with his life on the farm—learn new ways to help his dad with the land. While he was quick to grasp the plays as quarterback and captain of the football team, and quick to perform his duties on the farm, it seemed he never had enough time to study for his classes. The A he wanted to achieve remained elusive, so he settled for Bs and even an occasional C. He was horrified when he got a D in math. Something had to be done. Fearing failure of any kind, he set a high-bar for himself, a bar that always seemed just out of reach.
Jane O’Neill was known for her straight As, so he decided to approach her, ask her to help him with his studies.
Stammering at his unexpected request she said.
Surprising his parents with an A in math on his next report card, he expanded his request for tutoring from the perky redhead. Now, at the Halloween dance, he decided he wanted to spend more time with Jane and not just in the library.
It was time for the musicians to take a break. The band laid down their instruments and headed out of the gym for the punch bowl and cookies. Jane watched Danny follow the group to the door but when he looked up, saw her, he changed direction.
Priscilla, everyone called her Cilla, caught his arm, engaging him in conversation. Cilla was Jane’s best friend because Cilla declared it so, wheedling Jane’s help to pass her English finals. However, if Jane was going to be truthful, Jane didn’t care much for her best friend. Cilla was bossy, didn’t care about school, and was boy crazy. On every count, Jane was none of these things.
Jane, elbows on her knees, cupped her cheeks and watched the pair. Jane always felt that Danny preferred pretty Priscilla and wished she had Cilla’s silky blond hair instead of her mop of red. Maybe then Danny would talk to her instead of Cilla. Jane’s heart was heavy whenever she saw Danny talking to any girl. She knew it was dumb but she couldn’t help it.
Raggedy Ann watched Danny walk away from Cilla, leaving her with her hands on her hips and a sour look on her face. Danny walked along the front row of the bleachers, looked up and smiled as he mounted the bleachers.
“Hi, Jane.”
“Hi … hi, Danny.”
“Are you having fun?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of my band, well, kinda my band?”
“You’re wonderful … ah, the band is wonderful. I like your pirate costume. Does the moustache tickle?”
“A little. I had to take the skull and crossbones hat off. Kept falling over my eyes.”
“How did you learn to play so many instruments? I mean, the harmonica, the guitar, flute…
“My grandfather. He even played the horn, the drums … mom laid down the law. No drums for me. Too much racket
she said.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I guess I inherited the genes from my father’s side. Mom doesn’t play anything. She says, ‘someone has to work around here,’” Danny said mimicking his mother’s voice.
“I play the piano … a little. Not professional like you play your instruments.”
“Jane, after the group starts up again, I can slip away for a song. Would you like to dance?”
“Oh, I don’t … I can’t … dance very well …
“No problem. I have heavy shoes on,” he said picking up her hand. A smile spread across his tanned face, tanned from the hours spent on the football field.
Jane scrunched her brows. “What…
“In case you step on my toes.” Danny laughed. “I see the guys coming back. After three numbers I’ll look for you up here. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Danny dropped her hand and hurried back to the band. He lifted his guitar, tapped his toe, strummed a bar and then the four other boys joined in—drums, keyboard and two more guitars.
Jane hurried out of the gym to the girl’s restroom. Cilla on Jane’s heels burst through the door after her. “You looked pretty chummy with Danny Bradley. Of course, he talked to me first. I can’t believe it. Did you ask him to dance?”
“He asked me. I wouldn’t have …
“Well, next time I see him leave the band I’m going to ask him to dance. You back off.”
Jane didn’t tell her best friend that Danny had already asked her to dance and that he’d find her. Drying her hands, Jane left for the refreshments. Picking up a cookie, a chaperone smiled at her, handing her a napkin. “Having a good time, Jane?”
Jane smiled. “I am, thank you.”
“You make a perfect Raggedy Ann with your red pigtails.”
“Thanks.”
Jane climbed to the top of the bleachers, sat in the same place where Danny had found her before. I wonder if he meant it. Dance with me?
The kids were dancing fast, arms and legs flailing about dancing the Chicken, another dance craze spawned by the Twist.
Her heart seized when Danny said something to the boy holding a guitar next to him. They nodded to each other and he left the band. He looked up at her in the bleachers, smiled, and began walking toward her. Jane could see Cilla hurrying from the opposite direction to catch him, but Danny was already climbing the bleachers, walking along the third-row plank to her. “Will you dance with me, Jane?” He stood towering over her, offering her his hand.
Smiling, she put her hand in his, and followed him down the bleachers.
On the dance floor, Danny picked up her hand, put his arm around her waist, smiled into her green eyes as he led her to the slow music.
Jane had never been held the way Danny was holding her. Close. So close she caught the scent of his cologne.
“Would you like to go to the movies next Saturday?” he asked his cheek against her cheek.
She didn’t answer.
He leaned away, looked down into her big eyes, red pigtails framing her face as she lifted her eyes to share his gaze. “Sure. I’d like to. Thanks for asking.”
“I’ll pick you up, if that’s okay with your folks. You let me know if it’s okay. I’ll call. Hold on a second. Here,” he said pulling a piece of paper from his pants pocket along with a stub of a pencil. “Here’s my number.” Danny tore the slip of paper in half handing her both pieces. “You write your number. I’ll call you, but in case you want to call me, you’ll have my number too. I think the evening show starts at seven. Tell your folks I’ll have you home by ten o’clock. That will give us time to have a soda. Okay?”
DANNY ASKED HER to dance once more, and then it was time to leave. Her father would be waiting and she didn’t want to get a lecture on promptness. The band began packing up their instruments. Jane saw Danny slip his harmonica into his pocket as she turned away, felt his eyes following her to the outside exit, following her as she pushed the bar on the heavy gym door.
A blast of cold air hit her face but she didn’t notice. Her body was still warm from Danny’s arms holding her as they danced. Mr. O’Neill propped open the car door and Jane slipped in beside him.
Reality hit her. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She yanked the door shut and her father pulled away from the curb, turning out of the long school driveway onto the street.
Glancing at his daughter, he asked, “Have fun?”
‘I’m an idiot. Idiot. Idiot,” she whispered.
“Jane, you are not an idiot. What happened?”
What should she say? She didn’t want to stir up trouble … telling him, even hinting that she liked a boy. Not any boy. Daniel Bradley, the captain of the football team.
“Did you dance?”
“Oh, yes. Three times.”
“And…
“And Daniel Bradley asked me to the movies on Saturday. Said he’d pick me up if it’s alright with you and Mother.”
“We met Mr. and Mrs. Bradley at a parent-teacher conference last spring. Stuffy man. Runs a farm. Horse farm, I think he said. Races horses. Word has it he loses more than he wins. Check if it’s alright with your mother. You have to be back by ten.”
Jane let the subject drop. Her father seemed intent on the road and she was going to leave it that way. I’m such a dunce. I barely said a word. I’m sure he’ll find me after class on Monday with some excuse to cancel his invitation.
“Just remember, don’t get tied up with a boy. You’re going to college. And, we may be moving by next spring … definitely by summer. My company is making plans to expand and they want me to head up the accounting group. Big promotion for me.”
“Moving? Where?”
“Los Angeles.”
No. No. No. Raggedy Ann’s eyes bulged as she stared out the side window, tall trees silhouetted in the moon whizzing in and out of sight, mocking her. She couldn’t breathe. My senior year? Danny asked me to dance tonight. Maybe he won’t cancel the movie date. I can’t move away now.
MONDAY’S CLASSES DRAGGED. Cilla asked her several times if she was okay. Was she sick?
Danny didn’t cancel.
On Friday, after English, Danny sidled up to her walking down the hall. Here it comes, she thought. The big, SORRY, I didn’t really mean to ask you to the movies.
“Everything okay for the movies tomorrow? Your mom and dad … okay with my picking you up?”
“Yes, they’re fine. They met your parents last spring.”
“Great. I checked what’s playing—Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, or Hello Dolly with Barbra Streisand. Thought maybe you’d like a musical—singing, dancing.” He smiled at her as he said it.
He wasn’t cancelling. Jane stopped short, looked up at the handsome captain of the football team, his black wavy hair circling his ears. “Danny, that is incredibly sweet of you. I love Streisand, but I think Butch Cassidy would be great. It’s had rave reviews.”
“Butch Cassidy it is. Pick you up at 7:00 tomorrow night. How did you do on that English exam?”
“Perfect score. A plus.”
“I think I’d better coerce you into being my tutor in English as well as math. Tomorrow.”
Jane smiled after him. “Tomorrow.”
The article on dating in the Teen Magazine she read at the soda fountain last Sunday afternoon had paid off. The author suggested making a list of things to talk about on a date, subjects to untie a shy girl’s tongue.
…
TO CONTINUE READING Bradley Farm
GRAB A COPY ON AMAZON.
CLICK THE COVER
r: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share