by Cathy Marie Hake, Lynn A. Coleman, Mary Davis, Susan Page Davis
He didn’t want to deal with others, so instead of following the curving dirt road, he cut across a spread that once must have been a well-kept lawn. He could see stables in the distance off another fork in the road, but ahead loomed the old Newcomb house.
Russell halted the horses near a clump of overgrown shrubs and studied the house. He listened intently for any sounds of inhabitants and heard none. Not a single track or footprint marred the earth. Satisfied the place hadn’t been approached from this direction, he tethered the geldings and reconnoitered on foot.
He continued to scan the ground for signs of footprints and the windows for faces or moving curtains. Several of the windows were cracked. A few panes were missing entirely. What glass remained intact looked murky with age-old, undisturbed dust. Good. No one’s been here.
Water would be his most basic need, so he strode down a weed-encrusted cobblestone path to a well. Someone had wisely fitted a cover over the well for safety’s sake. Russell nodded approvingly. He dragged it to the side, looked about for a rope and bucket, and realized neither was present. Inhaling deeply, he could smell the sweet, damp aroma of fresh water. He flipped a small stone in and heard a satisfying splash.
Russell made his way to the front of the house and allowed himself to look up and assess the architecture. It must have once been a graceful place—a large antebellum mansion meant for rearing a big family. It would accommodate sizable crowds, and from family stories he’d heard, the Newcombs had done considerable entertaining.
The roof lacked a plethora of shingles, warning Russell the inside undoubtedly suffered water damage. Some of the upper story’s windows were cracked; a few were even missing. The ground-floor windows had been boarded up, and sections of clapboard on the seaward side of the house looked thoroughly rotten. The veranda sagged here and there.
It looks like I feel.
Dad had told him his great-uncle had found refuge here after the ravages of the War Between the States. It can be my hideaway now, too. There’s plenty of work to be done, and it doesn’t matter how long it takes.
Russell trod carefully—not just because of his leg, but because the steps and veranda sported broken or missing planks. He curled his hands around a gray, weathered board and yanked. Nails squealed, and the piece pulled free. After that, he pried two more slashes of wood free and revealed a leaded-glass window. Russell rubbed dirt from the panes and peered inside.
Cloth lay over a lump he presumed to be a piece of furniture, looking like a gray-shrouded ghost. This had to be the foyer. How did I imagine I’d find refuge in this desolate old place?
Russell plotted a course across the veranda and yanked several boards down from across the front door. Whoever had driven the nails in had meant them to stay. It took considerable effort to clear the door. When revealed, the entrance boasted a matching pair of panels that bore elegant carvings of dogwood blossoms. The doors showed no evidence of a lock, but Russell still expected significant resistance when he simultaneously twisted and pushed both door handles. To his great surprise, though, the doors groaned loudly then swung open with ease.
Russell forced himself not to press against the doorway, to pan across the foyer with his rifle. The fact that he didn’t have his rifle had a lot to do with why he refrained from the action. The habits he’d developed to survive had become ingrained. Russell wondered if he’d ever get over feeling the need to exercise such extreme vigilance. He entered the house, then closed the doors behind himself.
And promptly sneezed.
The sound echoed up the great wooden staircase, into all of the rooms, then died out. Dust, inches thick, covered every surface in sight. Not a footprint marred the floors; no handprints disturbed the stair rails or doorsills. Enveloped in nothing but dust and silence, Russell closed his eyes and let his shoulders slump. At least he’d found the solitude he craved.
“It’s beautiful,” Mama said in a hushed voice as she looked at the nearly finished window on Lorelei’s worktable.
Lorelei painstakingly rubbed one of the hand-painted segments with a soft cotton rag. She’d spent hours on that one piece because the angel’s wings needed to convey the shelter of God’s provision of protection. “I’m happy with the way it turned out.”
“Your papa would be so proud.”
Lorelei ached as she heard the tears in her mother’s voice. The pain of losing him was still fresh. “It makes me feel close to him, working on these windows. I sent him a sketch of this one in my last letter.”
Mama hugged her. They huddled close in the workshop, surrounded by a pair of sturdy tables, frames, lead cames, pieces of glass, and assorted tools of the trade. Papa had loved working on church windows, and they both felt surrounded by echoes of his love whenever they were in the workshop.
When Papa had gone to war, they couldn’t afford to stay in town. Rent was too high. Then, too, having a German last name and accent didn’t exactly make them welcome. A friend of Lorelei’s had told them about this cottage. Lorelei had walked out to it that very day, looked over the little cottage, and decided it would suit their needs admirably. As far as she was concerned, the workshop cinched the deal.
She’d found the attorney who handled the property, and he’d gotten special permission from the old man who owned the place to rent it. The rent was ridiculously low, and Lorelei suspected it was a move of compassionate pity; but since the budget looked grim and orders for windows were slow, she’d thanked God and signed the papers for a long-term lease.
She’d worried she’d lose that special feeling of being close to Papa when they moved, but her fears were unfounded. Even Mama, after they’d settled the last soldering rod into place, remarked that it all felt “right.”
“Did you know,” Mama whispered in a tight voice, “after we lost Johann Junior, your papa painted his face for an angel in the church window?”
Lorelei gave her mother a playful squeeze. “Not until he and I went to Richmond to install another window at that church. I saw it and asked Papa why he’d painted my pesky brother as an angel.”
Mama pushed away and clucked her tongue in her special way that she used to try to induce shame.
“You’re not fooling me, Mama. You only make that sound when you know you’ll end up laughing if you talk!”
“Oh, my Lori.” Mama reached up and patted Lorelei’s cheek. “You are God’s gift to me. When the shadows of life fall across my heart, you cast them away with your sunny laugh.”
“Let’s hope my laugh lasts long enough for us to run out and get the sheets off the line. It looks like we’re about to get a spring shower!”
They scampered outside. Lorelei ran ahead while her mother grabbed the wicker laundry basket. By the time Mama met her by the clothesline, she’d gathered the slips and underwear they’d made from carefully bleached flour sacks and pillowcases. Lorelei dumped them into the basket, then started whipping the clothespins off one end of the sheet while Mama dislodged them from the other. Ocean winds were unreliable and often grew brisk enough to sweep any unsecured items right off the line, so they’d learned to secure everything—just in case.
She and Mama had the simple chore down to a quick routine. She matched the two bottom corners while Mama matched the two top ones. They’d snap the sheet, fold it in half lengthwise again, then meet in the middle. Today, as the first sprinkles hit, they dumped that sheet into the basket instead of finishing the folds.
Lorelei laughed as she skidded around the clothesline and yanked the next sheet. Her action sent clothespins pinging into the air like crickets.
“Your Sunday dress! Get it first,” Mama called as she pulled her own Sunday-best black skirt free from the pins.
The skies opened up with a flash shower. They threw the last few items into the basket, each grabbed a handle, and they ran to the house. Mama stared at the basket, then scowled at Lori. “In South Dakota, they would not have storms from the ocean.”
“In South Dakota, they don’t have sunrises o
ver the ocean, either.”
“Hmpf.”
Lorelei pretended Mama’s reaction was to the top layer of laundry that had gotten soggy. “I’ll help you hang up whatever is still damp. I have some twine in the workshop.”
“You will do more on that window. I will hang the clothes.” Mama wrinkled her nose. “I’ll let you do the ironing later while I read the Bible.”
“I ought to have time to do that later this afternoon since God is watering the garden for us.” Lorelei took a few steps closer to the window and tilted her head as if doing so would help her see around a clump of trees. “I thought I saw a man walking a horse.”
“Sweetheart, no one would be out in this rain, walking a horse—riding one, maybe.” Mama raised her hands, palms upward in a who-knows gesture. “But not walking it. If the horse were lame, the man would have stopped back at the Rimmons’ instead of coming up this old road.”
Lorelei didn’t see anything more. German Americans suffered all sorts of persecution, and the newspaper habitually carried articles denouncing the “Huns.” Since they’d moved out here, no one had bothered them, but Lorelei still felt wary.
“Usually, I am the one who worries,” Mama teased. “I tell you, no one is out there.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Still, Lorelei folded her arms and tried to rub away the shivery feeling that wasn’t from the rain.
Chapter 3
Pure, sweet, clean rain. Russell had just finished walking through the entire house, including the attic, when the spring storm hit. He’d moved from room to room, shutting doors in hopes that the stiff breeze wouldn’t find too many cracks and blow the dust around that had him sneezing repeatedly. He’d have to tackle the chambers one at a time, collecting the worst of the grime before he tried to air out the house. He’d grown up doing a lot of dusting and cleaning for Dad at the emporium; he knew the routine well.
Russell headed for the kitchen, having decided that he could open the large windows and push open the door. The draft ought to race through and blast out a fair bit of the mess. An ancient straw broom in a small closet by the pantry came in handy. He used it to dislodge a pair of massive cobwebs that swagged like fishing nets from the ceiling to the stove and worktable. He’d need somewhere to set his gear, so he whisked off the tabletop and cast aside the broom.
Unsteady due to his healing leg, he loped outside toward the shrubs to fetch the geldings. “Hey, boys.” The large workhorses lifted their heads and snuffled. “You’ve kept busy, haven’t you?” Russell stroked the closest one’s damp withers.
The horses didn’t mind the rain in the least. From the looks of the uneven grasses, they’d satisfied themselves by foraging. “Come on. I have a place in mind for you.” He’d not checked out the stable yet, and Russell refused to keep his mounts there until it was cleared out and held fresh water. The horses obediently walked along as Russell led them to an ivy-covered overhang off the small wing near the kitchen. Half a dozen old, large urns lay there, tipped on their sides. Russell dumped out what little dirt remained in them then set them upright to collect the downpour from the roof. He swiftly unburdened the first horse of the saddle and the second one of the bundles, then went back inside.
The pump in the kitchen needed to be primed, but he rather doubted it would work even then. The gaskets and cups inside must have rotted out long ago. Determined to work through the fiery pain in his leg, Russell dragged a tottering wooden chair toward the cabinets. He dropped heavily onto it then jerked open each drawer and cupboard within reach.
A single plate. A chipped mug. A coffee can filled with mismatched knives and forks … battered pieces. Like me. He gathered them into a pile and left them when he happened along a set of large mixing bowls. Russell swiped the bowls under the water cascading from the roof, then started collecting drinking water in them.
That task accomplished, he recalled other receptacles he’d spotted during his tour. Soon his odd collection of pans, wash pitchers, two slop jars, a metal milk pail, and a battered steel washtub sat in strategic spots throughout the house, catching leaks. It made for an odd symphony of pings, drips, and drumming sounds, but something about it took the edge off his restlessness.
Aware he couldn’t clean the whole place in a single day, Russell decided to focus on the largest bedchamber upstairs. The dust nearly choked him, so he tied a kerchief over his nose and mouth, then yanked the fancy draperies from the rods. He dragged them across the floor to help get rid of a goodly portion of the grit, then dropped them over the banister into a heap on the floor of the foyer. Just that small amount of handling had the fabric disintegrating.
“What am I doing?” His words echoed in the house as he looked down at the billowing dust he’d sent into the air. “I’m not going to find peace here.”
Thunder boomed over the roof.
I have nowhere else to go. May as well make this place habitable. Russell figured he’d do better to shake out a blanket or sheet and hang it over the window. He thought of the sheets he’d seen on the neighbor’s clothesline and felt a pang of envy for how fresh and clean they’d be. He’d be sleeping wrapped in a blanket tonight—much as he had in the trenches.
Russell shook off that awful analogy, surveyed the room, and quickly settled on priorities. He retrieved the broom and used it to sweep down the walls. Cobwebs and dirt banished, the walls looked the same shade as the sky when it went from blue to that first tint of twilight lavender. The floor was, to his relief, sound as could be. It creaked here and there, but that didn’t much matter. He could fill the spots with talcum to solve that paltry irritation.
Russell limped about, using the water collected from the leaks to sluice off the bedroom floor. He quickly swept out the tiled upstairs washroom and bathtub, then used the next round of water to do a cursory wash down of that room, too.
Clothes damp from rainwater and sweat, Russell sat on the old tub’s edge. At least no one is here to witness how weak I am. The notion of being out of shape stuck in his craw. Tall, broad-shouldered, and well-muscled, he’d never been limited. I refuse to give in now. He shoved away from the tub and left the room, his uneven gait ringing like a never-ending taunt on the tiled floor.
He braced himself in the door to the hallway. This is my haven? This? Supposedly Uncle Timothy found contentment here, but I can’t see how. Maybe he was just better at fooling folks into thinking he was at peace. He left it behind as empty and forgotten as a snake leaves its old skin.
Russell’s leg ached abominably, but he refused to acknowledge it. He headed for the kitchen, opened the door, and saw the horses contentedly drinking out of the urn. He stuck his hands out into the rain, scrubbed his face, and turned back toward the house. Mom had slipped in some of those little tablets she considered to be cure-alls. He shook two of the Bayer aspirin into his palm, shuddered at the bitter taste, and washed them down with rainwater.
Hungry, Russell unwrapped the last two slices of bread Mom had sent along. He had canned provisions, as well, but for now, he didn’t much care what he ate. No matter what he put in his mouth, it all tasted like sawdust. Even Mom’s famous peach jam failed to give him any pleasure.
Russell looked about the kitchen and let out a deep sigh. This old place was a filthy hulk. His survey of the structure showed the roof and veranda needed immediate and extensive attention, but the rest of the house was fairly sound.
He didn’t dare try to start a fire in one of the fireplaces or the stove. Even if there weren’t nests in the flues or stovepipe, he didn’t have much in the way of usable fuel. Then, too, the wooden structure was dry as could be. One spark, and the whole place would become a torch. He’d need to varnish, paint, and polish the place from top to bottom to protect it.
Time. It would take time—not just days or weeks, but months. That was okay with him. He had the time. He needed the time. Even after I restore every last inch of this old house, I’m not sure I’ll find this place to be a refuge.
The drumming a
nd pinging in the pots called him back to action. Using the broom as a cane of sorts, he grabbed his baggage and limped back upstairs. The water went into the tub; then he set the pans back in place to catch more.
Russell ventured back into one of the smaller bedrooms. Gritting his teeth against a wave of pain, he leaned against the doorframe and rested a moment. He bent forward, kneaded his thigh to break a cramp, and grunted as he straightened up.
After knocking his way through gargantuan cobwebs, Russell pulled out a dismantled metal bed frame and dragged the parts to his bedchamber where he put the pieces back together. A bedroom door lay across the springs. He sat on it. “Rock hard,” he groused. “You’d think they’d have left at least one decent mattress behind.”
He’d worn himself out. Russell unrolled both thick wool blankets, used them to form a mattress, then pulled a jacket over himself for a cover. He stared out the window at the rain and realized it was only midafternoon.
Unaccustomed to being unwell, he’d pushed himself all morning in an effort to tamp down any memories or thoughts. Now he’d pay for it. The rest of the day and night stretched ahead, and he had nothing to occupy his hands. Against his will, his mind started heading down the tormenting paths he’d worked so hard to avoid.
“Mama, I’m sure someone is up at the big house.”
“You said that yesterday, and then the Rimmons’ boy came by, looking for their cow.”
Lorelei shrugged. “I know.”
“So why are you so jumpy? Do you feel we are not safe out here, away from the town?”
“I wouldn’t have rented the cottage if I thought we weren’t going to be safe, Mama.”
Mama bobbed her head in agreement. She sliced cabbage into thin ribbons—some to be coleslaw, the rest to become sauerkraut. She snorted. “Besides, no one would come here to make trouble. That old house is a wreck, and we’re too poor to rob.”