by Cathy Marie Hake, Lynn A. Coleman, Mary Davis, Susan Page Davis
“Of course not.”
“I was thinking, if the injury wasn’t a physical one—if his mind or spirit was hurt—we would still love him.”
“So you are thinking this soldier man hiding in that old house might bear an unseen wound. Though the sheriff’s warning seems prudent, your heart tells you otherwise.”
Lorelei smiled. “Oh, Mama, I was hoping you’d understand.”
“This isn’t something you decide without prayer. While you make sandwiches, I’ll read the Bible. We can pray and talk about it during lunch.”
Papa had always read the Bible and said family prayers at the close of supper. When he’d shipped overseas, Mama had reasoned that France was six hours ahead of Virginia, so if they had their devotions at lunch, it would be at the same time Papa was. That way, they’d all read the same chapters and worship together as a family.
Mama started reading from the second chapter of Nehemiah:
Wherefore the king said unto me, Why is thy countenance sad, seeing thou art not sick? this is nothing else but sorrow of heart. Then I was very sore afraid, and said unto the king, Let the king live for ever: why should not my countenance be sad, when the city, the place of my fathers’ sepulchres, lieth waste, and the gates thereof are consumed with fire? Then the king said unto me, For what dost thou make request? So I prayed to the God of heaven. And I said unto the king, If it please the king, and if thy servant have found favour in thy sight, that thou wouldest send me unto Judah, unto the city of my fathers’ sepulchres, that I may build it.
Lorelei drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mama, those verses—they never really meant anything to me before. This time, they jump out. If this man has a sorrow of the heart, I want to help.”
Resting her hand on the thin pages of the open Bible, Mama fell silent.
Lorelei wanted to plead her case. The verses spoke so clearly to her of a man who had suffered and needed to find a safe home again. Still, the decision wasn’t hers to make—at least, not alone. Whatever they did, Mama needed to feel at peace, too. Mind racing, Lorelei thought of things she could say that might convince her mother to agree to befriend the stranger. Failing that, she thought of people in town Mama might stay with if she felt scared.
The knife cut through the bread at a slant, creating uneven slices that told of her impatience. Mayonnaise. Lettuce and tomatoes fresh from the garden. Some salami. It took only seconds to make lunch, but in that time, Lorelei prepared an argument worthy of being heard by the Supreme Court. She turned back to her mother.
“Don’t,” Mama said softly. “I know what you want, Lori, but this is not about what we want; it is about what God would have us do.”
Lorelei let out a guilty laugh. “You’re right. Still, Mama, there can’t be anything wrong with leaving a little food for him.”
“How do you know he’s hungry?”
“There hasn’t been any smoke from the chimney or stovepipe.”
“So you are imagining this soldier is going without his daily bread?” Mama shook her head. “Lorelei, if you feed him, you encourage him to stay.”
“He’s not a stray cat!” Lorelei set the plates on the table and let out a short laugh. “It’s too bad he’s not. Have you seen how many field mice we’ve had around here?”
“Deer, rabbits, gophers …” Mama gazed out the window. “They’re going to eat up half of my garden.”
“He’s living up there and hasn’t stolen a single thing from the garden, Mama. Did you notice? It would have been so easy for him to help himself—especially at night.”
“If you weren’t so talented at making such beautiful windows, I would say your time is wasted here and you should stay in town and sell things. You could make a poor man buy a wallet!”
Lorelei laughed guiltily. “Okay. So let’s pray and eat.”
They stretched their hands across the table to meet in the middle. Mama’s hands felt cool, slightly rough, and reassuring. Even so, Lorelei missed Papa’s big strong hands turning their grasp into a triangle.
“Heiliger Vater in Himmel,” Mama began. She always prayed in German.
Holy Father in heaven. The rest of the prayer poured forth, but Lorelei clung to the very first words. War had robbed her of her beloved earthly father, but he’d taught her to rely on her heavenly Father—and that brought solace in times like this.
Russell froze as he heard footsteps on the veranda. They were tentative. Because someone is sneaking up on me? No. The weight is too slight, the shoes heeled. If the woman is scared, why would she bother to come here?
He heard her next few steps, and realization dawned. She tested each step she took before putting her full weight on it—wisely checking to see if the rotting boards were safe. The footsteps finally stopped, only to be replaced with three uncertain knocks on the door.
He’d hoped the sheriff’s warning would be sufficient. Clearly, someone had ignored it and decided to get snoopy. Folks were like that, but Russell didn’t want to be around anyone. He refused to go answer the door. He stood stock-still and waited until he heard the woman leave the veranda. A wry smile twisted his mouth. She made faster time on her retreat. More likely, she was scared of him rather than it simply being a matter of her retracing her steps so she’d use the boards she knew to be safe.
He quietly crossed the parlor and drew back the very edge of the heavy draperies. From that vantage point, he could see the lissome blond sauntering back down the road. Her flour sack dress swayed with each step, swishing gently from side to side in a uniquely feminine way. Odd, how many little things he’d forgotten while living in the muddy trenches with men.
About twenty feet from the house, she turned around and gave a fleeting look at the porch. A smile chased across her face; then she looked up at the upstairs windows. Her smile faltered, but Russell felt a stab of relief that she didn’t sense where he stood. He didn’t want any connection to anyone.
“Go home, Buttercup,” he whispered. “You don’t belong here.”
As if she heard him, she whirled around and walked out of sight.
He’d been going from room to room, trying to decide which projects needed immediate attention and what could wait. He’d been up on the roof. The whole thing needed to be stripped down to the base and completely reboarded and reshingled. Russell couldn’t haul the wood up and do the work alone, and he didn’t want to have to deal with others, which led him to the dismaying conclusion that he’d need to hire others to come do the task.
While in town, he’d go ahead and purchase supplies for several other repairs. In fact, he’d buy a buckboard. By loading it high, Russell reckoned he’d be able to stock up on enough that he’d be able to avoid making several trips.
Last night, as he fell asleep, he’d already made a mental list of half a dozen items he needed. Upon awakening and walking around, he’d added to that list until he needed to actually write down everything. Tomorrow or the next day, he’d grit his teeth and ride in.
For now, he’d leave the parlor and library as they stood. Due to the way the wind blew off the ocean and their intact windows, those two rooms had the least amount of grime in them. Russell took a quick peek under the heavy sailcloth at an ornate set of nesting tables. Once the rest of the room was restored, these would make a nice addition to the furniture.
Then again, so little furniture remained that he’d have to be satisfied with what was on hand unless he went to town to shop for more or made it himself.
Russell chewed on the tip of the pencil, then scrawled on the paper, “boards for porch.” He couldn’t risk someone falling through the disintegrating planks. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to do that as a first project, but given the curiosity factor of his neighbor and the sheriff, he didn’t have much choice.
In the meantime, he’d go ahead and shore up the existing porch for safety’s sake. A fistful of nails, his hammer, and the boards he’d ripped from the windows would do the trick. Russell opened the front door and stopped cold.<
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A small basket sat there, a rust-colored gingham cloth covering its contents.
Russell wanted to ignore it. If he accepted a neighbor’s gift, he’d end up having to interact and be sociable. The thought curdled his stomach. He stepped over the basket and avoided looking at it again as he assessed the planks. As he scanned the boards and visually measured their lengths and condition, the basket kept coming back in view.
Seeing it was bad enough; smelling it was worse. The aroma of fresh-baked bread sneaked past the cloth covering and tempted him to eat his fill. Russell swallowed and turned away. One nail. Two. Three. He banged each in place and lied to himself with each of them. I don’t want bread. I don’t. Not a bite.
He sat back on his heels and studied the porch a bit more. The first week I was in Buttonhole, your mama stopped by with a big old basket of corn bread, chicken stew, jam, and applesauce. His father told that story often enough. Mama was famous for her baskets. Russell had grown up watching her cook far too much, then slip extra loaves of bread, jars of soup and jam, vegetables, and cookies into her baskets and set out to deliver them to whomever she fancied might need them.
“I’m not a charity case.” He punctuated his rough words with a few bangs of the hammer. The basket jumped.
Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the aroma. Russell argued with himself, hated his weakness, but still leaned back, snatched the wicker handle, and yanked the basket onto his thighs. He swept off the checkered napkin and inhaled. Several slices of bread, a pint jar of jam, an earthenware crock of baked beans, another of coleslaw, and a savory, two-inch-round length of bratwurst filled the basket to overflowing.
His lap was full, but his heart and stomach ached with emptiness. Russell stared at the offering. When he saw the neatly printed label on the jar of jam, he lost the battle. Peach jam. How many hundreds of jars of peach jam had Mama cooked and delivered? She’d done so in her special way—with that gentleness of wanting to be kind to another. The young woman—Buttercup—had done the selfsame thing. That fact slipped past his defenses.
Russell scooted backward until his spine rested against the house, unscrewed the lid, and dipped his finger into the jam.
Russell waited until night fell. He’d kept busy all day, then washed up. Round about midnight, he slipped out of the mansion and approached the small cottage on the edge of the property. At least two hours had passed since the lamps in the cottage had gone out, so he felt certain the women were fast asleep.
He knew two women lived there. The laundry on the line broadcast that fact. He’d also been spying from his attic window. Buttercup lived there—probably with her mother, from the looks of things. A pathetically small woodpile slumped along the back fence, one of the two chimneys lacked a few bricks at the top, and the place needed basic repairs.
Carefully, quietly, Russell walked from his home to the cottage with his arms full. He stacked several logs onto their woodpile and carried a few more to their back porch. He wouldn’t need all that much for himself, and he’d have all summer and autumn to chop more. It was the least he could do as repayment for the food they’d given.
By returning the basket and dishes and leaving wood, he turned their charity into a barter. Satisfied with that arrangement, he turned to go home.
A small whimper stopped him in his tracks.
Chapter 6
Poor girl,” he said as he approached the small form. Fifteen minutes later, Russell carefully peeled his shirt from around the mutt and gently petted her between the ears. Glad he’d cleaned out the stovepipes the day before, Russell started a fire in the stove to provide some radiant heat for the dog and to boil water to cleanse her wounds.
The poor beast looked like she’d been struck by a motorcar. One hind leg and her tail were injured—just how seriously, Russell couldn’t tell. The dog seemed to sense Russell meant to help her. She weakly licked his hand as he finished bathing away the dirt and blood. After dipping a white cotton dishcloth into the boiling water several times, Russell tore it into strips and used them as bandages. It wasn’t until he finished that he let out a rueful laugh.
“You’re going to have a limp just like me. Same leg, even. We’re a sad pair.”
The dog yawned and rested her muzzle on his thigh. Russell stroked her ears. “I guess I’m stuck with you.”
Sunday morning, Lorelei left a basket on the porch of the big house and scurried back down the road. She and Mama needed to hurry so they wouldn’t be late for church. This was the third basket she’d left for the strange soldier.
Both times she’d left baskets, he’d returned them along with doing a chore as payment. They now had plenty of firewood and the well sported a new rope and bucket. Lorelei didn’t want him to think he had to barter for the food they gave, but it was nice to have someone see to the details that slipped her notice or strained her abilities.
Mama came out of the cottage and tucked a hanky into her purse. “Hurry. We don’t want to be late for church.”
“We’ll be on time.”
Mama wrinkled her nose. “I want to be there a little bit early. It’s past time for Sheriff Clem to tell us what he’s found out about the man up at the house.”
“He hasn’t bothered to do anything more, Mama.”
“Unless he benefits, the sheriff lets matters slide.” Mama fell into step with her. “He claims to be busy, but most afternoons, he either sits at the counter at Phoebe’s drinking free coffee, or he goes off to play poker at David McGee’s.”
Lorelei laughed. “I suppose we ought to be glad he’s coming to church. Perhaps his heart will be touched.”
“Maybe we can ask Mr. Rawlin about the house.” Mama walked around one side of a mud puddle while Lorelei went around the other. “He’s in charge of the property. When we wanted to rent the cottage, we had to work with him.”
Lorelei nodded. Mr. Rawlin had taken care of the matter—even though she’d suspected he didn’t want to lease to them. “Maybe he could rent the place to the soldier. It would be a fair trade if he could stay there for all of the cleaning and repairs he’s doing.”
Mama stopped. A stricken look chased across her face. “We ought to have invited him to come to worship with us.”
“I did, Mama. I slipped a note in with the basket on Friday.”
“I’ll be back soon.” Russell petted the dog as he spoke. She’d lapped up half of the can of beef broth. “They’ve gone off to church, so I’ll slip down to the cottage. I’ll be back before you know it.”
The unbandaged tip of her tail wagged weakly on the kitchen floor. Russell didn’t know exactly what to do for her, but he’d applied the first aid he’d been taught and hoped it would be enough to let the dog heal.
Russell had wanted the women to leave for church, and he’d hoped it would be late enough in the morning that the ground would have dried from any dew. Ever since he’d returned home, Russell couldn’t stomach the smell of morning-damp earth. Rain didn’t bother him: It carried a sweetness to it that helped. But he’d spent too many frigid predawn hours in the trenches with the loamy smell of dirt overpowering him.
He stepped outside and breathed through his mouth to minimize his sense of smell. Okay. It’s okay. He let out a sigh of relief, then hefted a few scrap lengths of planking over his shoulder and grabbed a small crate containing nails, a hammer, folding measuring stick, pencil, and saw. On the way to the cottage, he managed to stumble twice due to his weak leg. Anger welled up. Though no one had witnessed his awkwardness, Russell still hated it and all it brought back. He went to the front of the cottage and dumped the boards with a satisfying clatter.
Then he saw it: the flag in the front window. The background was white, just like the draperies, which is why he hadn’t seen it from far off. In the center was a star—but not the blue one that proclaimed the family had a son, brother, or father at war. This one featured a gold star carefully stitched over that blue one—a heartbreaking testament that their man wouldn’t be coming
home.
Russell stood and stared at the flag. Fury welled up. He took another look at the small porch and went into a frenzy, completely shattering the warped boards and dismantling the entire structure. As soon as he pried the last board free, he stared at the mess he’d created. What was supposed to have been the simple replacement of a few boards had resulted in this galling destruction. He’d been enraged at the loss these women had suffered, but his actions had only caused more problems. He let out a long, deep sigh.
He couldn’t very well go into town on Sunday and buy boards, but tomorrow he’d be able to get the lumber to do the job. Then again, he didn’t dare leave the porch as it was. He searched about for wood.
A stack of storm windows lay on the leeward side of a fair-sized workshop. Russell selected those with the sturdiest wood and carried them to the front door. By setting them in place, he created a temporary walkway. Anxious to leave before they returned from church, he left a note under the front door.
“Miss Goetz, I need to speak with you for a moment.” Mr. Rawlin looked at her steadily as his wife bustled away to claim their youngsters from Sunday school.
“Oh, good.” She slipped out of the pew, into the aisle. Mr. Rawlin invariably discussed matters out of earshot. She figured as an attorney, he had to guard his tongue and weigh his words more carefully. That being the case, she waited to mention anything about the stranger staying at the house until they got outside.
“The sheriff mentioned someone’s living up at the big house,” Mr. Rawlin said.
“Yes. He’s fixing things up and cleaning.”
The attorney nodded sagely. “Makes perfect sense. He’s undoubtedly the new owner. The old one died, and I contacted his heir—a great-great-nephew.” He smoothed his tie. “He’s a good man—a war hero. I’m sure you and your mother will be safe.”
“Thank you. He hasn’t troubled us at all.”