A Family Arrangement

by Gabrielle Meyer

  Charlotte knelt in front of them, looking over Robert and Martin as if trying to memorize every detail of their faces. “Hello. I’m your aunt Charlotte.”

  Martin buried his face into Abram’s pant leg and Robert took a step closer to his side.

  “Where are your manners, Martin?” Abram asked. “Say hello to your aunt.”

  “Hello,” Martin said quietly.

  “Hello,” Charlotte said. “Your mother told me all about you in her letters.”

  “This is Robert.” Abram indicated his oldest son. He touched Robert’s shoulder, and when the boy looked up at him, Abram raised his hand and took Charlotte’s in a handshake.

  Charlotte paused for a moment and Abram caught her look of surprise.

  He swallowed. “I want him to learn his manners whether he can hear or not.”

  Charlotte slowly removed her hand from Abram’s and extended it to Robert.

  Robert looked at her offered hand and then shook his head and stepped behind Abram.

  Charlotte lowered her hand. “I wish I could tell him who I am.” She paused. “Maybe I can.” She opened her reticule and took out a thin metal case.

  Robert peeked from behind Abram and watched her closely.

  Charlotte unlocked a clasp on the metal square and opened the object. It was a daguerreotype.

  She turned it for Robert to see.

  Abram glimpsed a picture of two young women sitting side by side, their arms linked. He looked up at Charlotte. “Is that you and Susanne?”

  Charlotte nodded. “It was taken about six months before—” She paused and finally looked at Abram. “Before she left Iowa City.”

  Charlotte knelt before Robert and pointed to Susanne’s picture.

  Robert took a tentative step away from Abram and put his hand on the picture. “Mama,” he said in his nasally voice.

  Charlotte nodded vigorously and then looked at Mrs. Ayers helplessly. “Is there some sign for ‘mother’? Something that we can teach him?”

  Mrs. Ayers held up her hands. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know any sign language. We’ve taught him some basic signs that we created, such as touching his mouth when he’s hungry, but we are at a loss to communicate further.”

  “There has to be some way we can learn and teach him sign language,” Charlotte said. She looked back at Robert. “Mama.” She spoke slowly, pointing to Susanne’s image. Next she pointed to her likeness and then to her chest. “Charlotte,” she said, again slowly, as if she wanted him to somehow read her lips.

  Robert looked from the picture to his aunt and back to the picture.

  “Does he understand?” Charlotte asked Abram.

  Abram shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Charlotte allowed Robert to take the picture out of her hands and her face filled with a longing that made Abram’s heart ache.

  He quickly put his hand on the baby’s chest. “This is George.”

  She looked up at George and stood straight. “The other two look like you. George looks more like Susanne.”

  “I think he looks like you,” Mrs. Ayers said. “He has your eyes.”

  “Do you think?” Charlotte asked, a sense of hope in her gaze.

  George looked at Charlotte with his deep brown eyes and a smile dimpled his chubby cheeks. He reached for Charlotte.

  “Oh, my!” She took him in her arms and offered a surprised giggle.

  The sound made Abram lift his brows. A giggle? It suited her.

  Charlotte snuggled George close, closing her eyes as she placed her cheek against his soft hair.

  Realization dawned on Abram. These were Charlotte’s only living relatives. She had no one else.

  “Mrs. Ayers,” Abram said, clearing his throat. “Miss Lee has agreed to stay on as my housekeeper for the time being. I plan to take the children home with me this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Ayers smiled. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  “We’re going home, Papa?” Martin asked.

  Abram nodded.

  “Is Mama there?”

  The question felt like a kick in his gut and he had to speak around the wedge of emotion clogging his throat. “Mama’s in Heaven, remember?”

  Martin dropped his chin to his chest and Abram made the mistake of looking up at Charlotte. She still cuddled George but pain glinted in her eyes.

  It was hard enough shouldering his grief and that of his children—could he also shoulder the grief of Susanne’s sister?

  It was a task he was willing to take if it meant having his boys at home.

  Chapter Four

  It would be hours before the sun rose on another cold November morning, and hours before the boys woke up expecting breakfast. Charlotte sat at the kitchen table, a kerosene lamp making a small halo of light for her to work by. She held Abram’s best trousers in one hand, a needle and thread in the other. Last night, after everyone had gone to bed, she had washed his clothing and set it out to dry.

  The potbelly stove radiated heat and boiled the pot of coffee percolating on the burner. Susanne’s irons sat next to the coffee, drawing heat from the fire beneath.

  “Are you always an early riser?”

  Charlotte jumped at the sound of Abram’s voice. He stood in the doorway wearing the clothes he’d had on yesterday, his hair a mess and his beard just as shaggy as before.

  She snipped the loose thread and set the pants on the table to be ironed. His sudden appearance left her heart pounding a bit too hard. “Yes.”

  “Are those my clothes?” His sleepy eyes grew wide and he took one pant leg in hand. “They look brand-new, Charlotte. I don’t know what to say.”

  She slipped the needle and thread into her sewing basket. “You don’t need to say anything. I’m only doing my job.”

  “No. You went above and beyond your job.” He studied her, as if gauging whether or not she had done it out of kindness or duty. “Either way, thank you.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes but simply nodded and closed her sewing box.

  He rubbed his beard for a moment and then walked over to the stove, where he closed his eyes and inhaled. “There’s nothing like waking up to the smell of coffee. Before you came, I was the one who made it every morning.”

  “Even when Susanne was alive?”

  Abram glanced over his shoulder with a knowing smile. “Unlike you, Susanne was not an early riser.”

  Charlotte smiled to herself. How could she forget? She had practically dragged her sister out of bed every morning of her life...until she had eloped with Abram.

  A stilted silence fell between them.

  Abram reached for a speckled mug as Charlotte stood and took a clean towel from the drying rope she’d strung over the stove the night before. She folded it on the table, laid Abram’s pants on top, then hooked a wooden handle to one of the heavy irons and lifted it off the stove.

  “Would you like me to do that?” Abram reached for the iron, his hand covering Charlotte’s on the handle. “Susanne’s arms used to get tired when she ironed.”

  Charlotte didn’t let go, too stunned to move. She was so used to taking care of herself, the thought of someone else easing her burden made her feel helpless, which she tried to avoid at all cost. “That won’t be necessary.” She gently tugged the iron out of his grasp. “My arms are strong from my seamstress work.”

  Abram awkwardly turned to the stove and filled his mug. He walked around her and took a seat at the table.

  She swallowed and glanced at him, her insides feeling a bit shaky with him watching her. “I’ll have breakfast ready within the hour. I imagine you have work to do in the barn and then you’ll want to get an early start.”

  He took a slow sip of his coffee, apparently in no rush. “The men should
be up soon to take care of the animals.” He paused. “I actually came down early to make a request.”

  She ran the hot iron over the first pant leg. “Oh?”

  “I could use a haircut before I go.”

  Charlotte stopped ironing. “You want me to cut your hair?”

  “Would you?”

  She had cut her father’s hair, after her mama passed away, but she had never touched the head of another man, not even Thomas’s. Somehow it felt...intimate. “I don’t know—”

  “I haven’t had a cut since Susanne died.” He put his hand to his head and tugged on a long strand for emphasis. “I want to make a good impression in St. Anthony—and I’m afraid George might be scared of me with all this hair.”

  “You do look a bit like a bear.”

  He smiled at her and she returned the gesture. It was the first time they had ever shared a lighthearted moment.

  Their smiles disappeared, as if they had the same thought at the same time.

  “The boys’ hair is in need of a trim, too,” Abram said quickly, toying with the handle of his mug. “Do you think you could add it to your list of duties?”

  Speaking of the boys reminded her of the idea she wanted to discuss with Abram.

  “I have a request of my own.”

  He took a sip of his coffee and looked at her over the rim of his mug. When he set it down he let out a contented sigh. “This is good coffee, Charlotte.”

  His compliment made her blush, though she couldn’t understand why. She turned from him and set the cool iron on the stove, unhooked the handle and then hooked it to the other hot iron waiting. Maybe her cheeks were warm from the stove.

  “What kind of request?” he asked, taking another sip of coffee.

  She cleared her throat and set to work on the other pant leg. “This past year, two men began a school for the deaf in Iowa City. I read an article in the Iowa City Reporter about their school. It sounds very promising.”

  Abram set down his mug. “What are you getting at?”

  “I believe Robert is too young to attend, but someday I hope to send him there—”

  “Of course I want the best for Robert, but I think the best is to be had here, at home.”

  “And I think he needs an education.”

  “I would never deny him an education.”

  She stopped her work. “How will he get it, if you don’t send him?”

  “He’ll get it right here, when we have a school.”

  “But how will a teacher communicate with him?” Helplessness weighed down her shoulders. “How will we communicate with him? He must be terribly frustrated and alone right now.”

  Abram ran his hands through his hair. “We’ll learn sign language.”

  “How will we do that?”

  “We’ll make it up if we have to.”

  Charlotte set the iron on the stove. “Wouldn’t it make sense to teach him the same signs they use at the school in Iowa City? Maybe they have a sign language book. I’ll ask them to send one if they do.”

  “That’s fine—but I have no desire to send my son away. I’ll find a teacher who uses sign language if I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him here.”

  “Like build your town?”

  “Exactly.” He indicated his head with a bit of frustration. “Will you cut my hair now?”

  She exhaled an exasperated breath. “Only if you shave your beard.”

  “Why do you always have conditions and counteroffers?”

  She crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Why are you so stubborn?”

  “I don’t want to shave my beard when it’s getting cold. My face is liable to freeze if I don’t have a beard.”

  “I’ll knit you a scarf.”

  “Why don’t you like the beard?”

  Why not, indeed? Was it because a small part of her wanted to see if he was still as handsome as he had been the night of the Fireman’s Ball? The thought sent heat coursing through her—heat of embarrassment and guilt. She shouldn’t think that way about her sister’s widower. “You can trim it, can’t you?”

  He rubbed his beard, as if sad to see it go. “I suppose I could give it a little trim. I’ll go get my comb and shears.”

  While he was gone, Charlotte quickly ironed his shirt and folded it next to the trousers.

  Abram returned, set the comb and shears on the table, and then began to unbutton his shirt.

  Charlotte put up her hands, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking off my shirt.”

  “Why?”

  “I always took off my shirt when Susanne cut my hair.”

  She shook her head quickly and grabbed the towel from the table. “Please keep your clothes on and put this around your shoulders. I have no interest in seeing you without your shirt.”

  His blue eyes twinkled with mischief and Charlotte was reminded of how charming he had been when he’d courted Susanne.

  He sat at the table and set the towel on his broad shoulders with a chuckle.

  Maybe it wasn’t just his good looks that had attracted her sister to him.

  Charlotte forced the thoughts from her mind and stepped up to the job. Her hands hovered over his head. Father’s hair had been thin and greasy. Abram’s hair was thick and wavy. It looked as if he had washed it recently, too.

  She took a deep breath and ran the comb through his hair. She allowed her fingers to slip through the thick waves and assess how she wanted to cut them.

  He sighed and his shoulders relaxed.

  Charlotte paused, aware of how her touch had just affected him.

  “Nothing too short,” he said. “I like to keep a bit of insulation on top.”

  She picked up the shears, and with a quick snip, the first lock of hair fell to the floor.

  Charlotte worked for several minutes, combing and cutting until she was satisfied. When she was finally finished, she stepped back and admired her work.

  “Well?” He turned his head this way and that. “What do you think?”

  “I think your beard looks even worse now.”

  He grinned and stood, holding the towel so the hair clippings stayed inside the fabric.

  “Here—” she reached for the towel “—I’ll take care of that.”

  “Then I’ll go see what I can do about my beard.” He grabbed his clean clothes and left the kitchen.

  After she swept and threw the cuttings outside for the birds, Charlotte came back into the kitchen and began to make scrambled eggs and sausage for breakfast. Everyone would soon be awake and they’d want to be fed.

  She set the table for seven—recalling that she would not be serving Harry at her table. If he couldn’t come down for Sunday breakfast, she wouldn’t serve him the rest of the week. He could take a plate to the barn.

  The door opened and Charlotte turned from the hot stove.

  There, standing in the doorway, was a handsome stranger—or so she thought for a brief moment. Abram looked like a new man. He had kept his beard but trimmed it close to his face. He wore his clean pants and shirt, tucked in, and had wet his hair and combed it into submission.

  He smiled and the effect was stunning.

  “I look that good?” he teased.

  The room suddenly felt overly warm. She realized she was staring and wanted to spin back to the sizzling sausages, but if she didn’t acknowledge his transformation, she suspected he would tease her incessantly. “You look fine.”

  He cocked a brow and swaggered into the room. “Just fine?”

  At that, she did turn back to the stove, taking a deep breath to steady her thoughts. “Where will the men sleep while you’re away?”

  “The men?”

  She looked back at h
im—she couldn’t help it. “Yes.”

  He raised his hand to stroke his beard, but finding it gone, he rested his hand on his chest instead. “Why can’t the men sleep in the house?”

  “It wouldn’t be decent.”

  “But it’s decent when I’m here?”

  “As my sister’s husband, you’re an acceptable chaperone. With you gone, tongues could wag.”

  “What tongues?” He looked around, a bit bewildered. “No one is close enough to care.”

  “I care.” She flipped the sausages one at a time with a fork. “They’ll need to sleep in the barn or somewhere else while you’re gone.”

  “I doubt they’ll like that idea.”

  “That may be so—”

  The door opened and Harry and Milt walked into the kitchen.

  Harry ignored Charlotte, while Milt nodded a halfhearted greeting. They both stopped when they caught sight of Abram.

  “What’d she do to you?” Harry asked, his eyes filled with horror.

  Abram touched his jaw and paused. “I thought I’d get cleaned up to go to St. Anthony.”

  Harry shook his head and exited the house, Milt behind him.

  “I don’t think Harry will be happy with the idea of sleeping in the barn,” Abram said.

  Charlotte indicated a plate sitting on the cupboard counter. “He can eat out there, too.”

  Abram groaned. “Maybe I’ll take him with me to St. Anthony. Let the two of you cool off a bit.”

  Charlotte glanced outside, where Harry and Milt were entering the barn. Harry appeared to be just as stubborn as her. She doubted either one would cool off soon.

  * * *

  Abram stepped into the office of Cheney Milling Operation and inhaled the familiar scent of pine. The office stood on the eastern banks of the Mississippi at St. Anthony Falls, where dozens of men had built sawmills on wooden stilts in the water. Numerous mills crowded the piers and sawed thousands of feet of lumber a day. Mill owners were bringing in a fortune as the population increased, making St. Paul, St. Anthony and Stillwater thriving towns.

  Over the years several prospective investors had traveled through Little Falls and longed to harness the power at the largest waterfall north of St. Anthony, but Abram had said no. One of those men had been Liam Cheney, owner of a successful sawmill here in St. Anthony.