by Cathy Marie Hake, Lynn A. Coleman, Mary Davis, Susan Page Davis
He hasn’t troubled us at all. Lorelei’s words echoed back in her shocked mind as she stared in horror at the porch when she and Mama got home. I spoke too soon.
“Mercy, mercy!” Mama blotted her forehead with her hanky. “Will you look at that!”
“I am.” The two words caught in her throat and came out in a strangled croak.
“That just proves it.”
Lorelei bowed her head in defeat. She and Mama would have to find somewhere else to live—but where?
“God provides our every need.” Mama smiled. “That old porch—you are slender, and it doesn’t mind you, but it’s started to creak and groan under my feet. I was nervous to use the front door anymore.” Nimble as a mountain goat, she climbed the three makeshift steps, crossed the storm window “porch,” and opened the front door.
“Mama, be careful.”
Mama turned around. Her eyes twinkled—a rare event these days. “You’re too late to say that, Lori. Come now. Oh, look! We have a message here.”
Lorelei joined her mother in a flash. On the back of a long list of tools and supplies, in a bold scrawl done in pencil, he’d written, “Wood was rotting and dangerous. Be careful. Will finish soon.”
“Isn’t that nice of him?”
“Yes, it is, Mama.”
“What a pity that he didn’t come to church, though.”
It was too late by the time he spotted her. Busy thinking about what more he could do for Mutt, Russell hadn’t paid attention. Monday morning, he went out the front door and nearly knocked over the girl. “Whoa!” He instinctively grabbed her arms to keep her from tumbling backward.
She let out a gasp, then got her footing. Color flooded her cheeks even though he released her. “Excuse me. I brought you this.” She nudged the basket into his arms and stepped back. “Your list … tools and wood and things …” She nervously moistened her lips. “I thought you might want it back.”
He nodded curtly.
“I–I heard a woofing sound when I came the other day. There is a bone for your dog.”
His chin came up. She’s been spying on me.
“Thank you for the firewood and the porch.” She’d inched back toward the steps, and the morning sun glinted on her pale hair and necklace—a very plain, rather small, silver cross. “It is very kind of you to help us, sir.” He gave no reply, so she whispered, “Good-bye.”
As she walked off, Russell stared at her back and felt a bolt of hatred nearly consume him. She’s German.
Chapter 7
As he rode down the path toward town, Russell cast a quick look at the cottage. He’d given his word that he’d repair the porch, and he’d honor it. Then again, he owned the property. He didn’t want anyone living there—especially not the enemy. He sought out the lawyer’s shingle as he rode down Main Street.
“Mr. Diamond.” The attorney reached out to shake hands.
Russell automatically scanned to be sure Mr. Rawlin didn’t have a knife or pistol in his other hand. The notion was ludicrous, but life in the trenches taught a man to be cautious. Satisfied no danger existed, Russell shook hands and refused the proffered seat.
“What can I help you with?”
“I don’t want anyone on my property. Get rid of the renters.”
Mr. Rawlin slowly eased back to lean against his big mahogany desk. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Your great-great-uncle signed a ten-year lease with the Goetz women.”
“Ten years!”
Drumming his fingers on the desktop on either side of his hips, the attorney nodded. “It was old Timothy Newcomb’s idea. I confess, I tried to talk him out of it. Stubborn old man wouldn’t be swayed. He wanted to be sure the women would have a safe haven. I suppose by now you’ve determined they are of German heritage.”
Russell folded his arms across his chest.
Mr. Rawlin heaved a sigh. “I confess, at the start, I wasn’t any happier about it than you are.”
“Then find a way to break the deal.”
The attorney shook his head. “Johann Goetz gave his life for this country. Last year, when the War Board started gearing up for us to enter the Great War, they knew they’d need reliable men who spoke German. Being close to D.C. as we are, they had a few scouts come out and nose around. Johann was a shade older than they wanted—thirty-nine—but they needed him, and he went.”
Russell didn’t move an inch or say a word.
“Gossips whispered plenty. Your great-uncle always had the Gazette mailed to him. It’s featured several articles about the vandalism against Germans in this area. Just north of here, a German was lynched, and the jury found the men who did it innocent. In that same edition, a letter to the editor hinted that Mr. Goetz went off to fight with the Jerries.” He paused. When Russell said nothing, the lawyer continued, “Just about that time, Lorelei came to me and asked to rent the cottage. I didn’t want to, but as a professional I had to set aside my own feelings and serve my client. I contacted him, and he gave me instructions.”
“A decade was extreme.” Russell scowled at him.
“I thought so, too, but that’s what your uncle specified. He was worried someone might take a mind to smash up her place like they have others.”
“From the looks of things, no one bothers them at all.”
“Perhaps because they moved out of town. Problems happen—especially here along the coast where folks have lost their sons at sea even before we got sucked into the war.”
Russell had heard of such events. He thought of the star flag in the cottage window. But anyone could put that up. It doesn’t actually prove their man was fighting with the Americans.
“Most of the gossip stopped when posthumous awards arrived for Mr. Goetz,” Rawlin continued. “Your uncle figured it’s been hard on those women and that they deserved better.”
The star stitched on the flag in the window was gold. Russell couldn’t argue with what he’d been told. If anything, he owed that widow and her daughter some help—it was a soldier’s duty to see to a fallen comrade’s family.
“The bank is expecting you to come by and put your signature on file.” Clearly, the attorney chose not to press the issue of his renters any further. “The inheritance is in your name, and you can draw on it as you see fit.” He glanced down at the papers in front of himself and read the latest bank balance.
Russell stared at the papers in shock. Dad told me I’d have enough to live on. He didn’t tell me I’d be rich. Ten men couldn’t squander that much money in their lifetimes.
“I took the liberty of opening an account for you at Sanders’ Mercantile so you can get supplies. Did you require anything else?”
“No.” Russell started to walk out. He stopped at the door and turned. “The house needs to be reroofed immediately. Do you recommend anyone?”
“Want it done cheap, or want it done right?”
“Right.” Even if he hadn’t inherited a fortune, he would have given that answer, but the fact that the lawyer even bothered to ask the question seemed bizarre.
Rawlin jerked his thumb toward the north. “Pinkus Bayley. Gray house with the red shutters. Don’t let his age fool you. He used to be a shipwright. He can gather the best men in short order. Let him buy the supplies—he’ll get a better deal.”
“Thanks.”
The livery had hitches for his team and a sound-looking buckboard. The man in charge sat on a stool, showing a couple of strapping teens how to splice rope. “Don’t suppose you got any work out there at your place, do you?” one of the youngsters asked.
“My boys are hard workers,” the livery owner added.
Russell didn’t want people all over his place. Then again, he’d have the crew doing the roofing. I might as well get it all over at once and be done with it. “My stable’s a wreck. Needs a thorough cleaning.”
The younger lad’s voice cracked and went up several notes. “We’re used to mucking out stables. You came to the right place to hire yourself some workers.”
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p; “Show up tomorrow—two hours after daybreak. I’ll pay you two bucks a day apiece.” Russell watched how their eyes lit up. “For that kind of money, I expect you to be men—not boys who need directions.”
“We can do it!”
“Fine. I’ve got things to see to here in town. My horses could stand for some decent feed—corn and oats. I’ll be about two hours, so take care of them now, then have them hitched and ready to go.”
At the feed store, Russell arranged for corn, oats, and hay to be delivered at the end of the week. By then, the stable would be ready to hold the supplies.
Next, Russell stopped by the post office and mailed a letter to his mother. He’d taken pains to write more than the fact that he’d arrived at the mansion. After two paragraphs, he’d included as much as he could concoct, then signed, “Love, Russell.” It wouldn’t win a prize, but it fulfilled his promise. He hoped it would settle Mama’s fears.
By the time he reached the diner, Russell’s leg ached abominably. He slid into a seat and ignored the assessing looks of others by staring sightlessly at the menu. It would be like every other menu nowadays—featuring so-called patriotic dishes like victory burgers and liberty cabbage, and a reminder about meatless Mondays and wheatless Wednesdays.
“Have you decided what you want?”
“I’ll have the blue plate special,” he ordered without glancing up. In an attempt to keep from having to strike up a conversation, he pulled the list from his pocket and reviewed it. When the waitress slid a plate of liver and onions in front of him, he winced.
A brawny, middle-aged man swaggered up, grabbed the plate, and shoved it back at the waitress. “That’s not fit for eatin’. Give him meat and ‘taters. Bring me a steak while you’re at it.” He slid into the seat opposite Russell and leaned back with more show than a rodeo pony. “Chester Gimley. Figured you’d be lookin’ to have someone do the work out at that old place. I can do anything you want. Cheap.”
“And I reckon,” the waitress said as she thumped the plate back down in front of Russell, “Mr. Diamond can eat anything he orders. In case you didn’t notice, he’s concentrating on his work.”
“Mind your own business, Myrtle.”
“Gimley?” Russell looked at him, and the stranger’s eyes brightened with greed. “I don’t hold with a man treating a woman with disrespect.”
Gimley went ruddy and blustered, but he didn’t apologize.
Russell deliberately picked up his knife and fork and cut into the revolting slab of liver. He took a big bite, promptly washed it down with his coffee, and realized it didn’t taste any better or worse than anything else he’d had in weeks. He ate because he needed to, but everything got stuck halfway down and had to be washed past the ever-present ball in his throat.
Gimley snorted derisively, shoved away from the table, and stomped off.
Half an hour later, Russell left the diner with his stomach churning. He stopped at the gray house with the red shutters, struck a deal with old Pinkus Bayley to replace the roof, and gladly accepted a glass of bicarbonate before he left.
The mercantile made him suffer a momentary pang of homesickness. Dad’s emporium carried the same wondrous mixture of aromas—briny pickles, sweet, fresh fruit, the tang of new leather goods, and the honest scent of soap. Drawing the list from his pocket, Russell started searching for the items. In a matter of minutes, Mr. Sanders and his daughter, Olivia, were both helping him. It didn’t take long before his order filled the entire counter and formed an appreciable heap on the floor.
Staples, eggs, produce, three one-pound cans of coffee, and a crate overflowing with cans and jars of food sat next to a frying pan, cast iron pots, and a kettle.
“Looks like you’re feeding an army,” Mr. Sanders teased.
Russell ignored the comment and added molasses to the supplies. The beans Buttercup had brought in the first basket had been sweetened a tad with molasses, and he’d had a hankering for more. I can make them for myself. I don’t want her cooking for me.
“I have just the thing for you: Kirby’s Ezee ‘Grasshopper’ vacuum cleaner.” Olivia demonstrated it and added, “It requires no electricity.”
Russell hastily propped it against the icebox. Doing so knocked the Johnson’s Prepared Wax for the floor from atop the stack and created quite a ruckus.
Russell startled at the sound and broke out in a cold sweat. For a few horrible moments, he was in the trenches again, hearing the clatter of equipment. His heart raced, and he kept clutching his fists as he reminded himself that he didn’t need to grab his rifle or knife. Everything within him screamed to retreat, yet Miss Olivia stood there giggling behind her hand while her father unrolled a mattress for his inspection.
The mattress. I need the mattress. I have to get this stuff so I can stay home and not come back for a long time. Russell snatched the dipper from the water bucket and gulped several mouthfuls, then croaked, “The mattress is fine. I’ll take it.”
Folks in the store chattered just like they did back in Dad’s place. Russell knew it was all just neighborly talk—snoopy, helpful, good-natured. Nonetheless, he was on edge. He’d turned down at least half a dozen housekeeping offers and didn’t care what they thought his total bill would come to.
“… sheets, a pillow, and blankets?”
Russell realized Mr. Sanders had asked him a question. He nodded and rasped, “Add it all up and put it on my account. I’ll go fetch my buckboard.” He got out of there as fast as he could limp.
Lorelei hoed the garden and watched the road. He’d taken both horses and headed toward town. She wanted to ask her neighbor a favor, and it had taken her hours to build up her courage after he’d scared her this morning. She heard the trundling sound of a wagon and the jingle of harnesses before he came into view.
As she wiped her hands on a rag, Lorelei went to stand in the middle of the road. Mr. Diamond looked about as cheerful as a thundercloud when he pulled the team to a stop.
“Mr. Diamond, I have a favor I’d like to ask of you.” When he made no reply, Lorelei wrapped her arms about her waist and forged on. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Mama and I garden. We’ve planted a Victory Garden—like they have in England—and many folks in town buy our produce. I wanted to ask you to let me sharecrop a tiny section of your land.”
“I’ll think about it.”
His reply surprised her. She’d braced herself for a flat refusal and dared to hope for agreement. Never once had she thought he might delay making a decision. Lorelei blinked at him for a moment, then tucked a wind-whipped strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”
He stared off to the side. His eyes carried a haunted look, and the set of his jaw didn’t invite further conversation. In fact, the raspy quality to his voice made it sound as if he rarely spoke.
Lorelei sidled off the path and watched as he nickered and the handsome pair of geldings set the buckboard in motion. She’d wanted to intercept him without Mama overhearing the request. Worried as she was about money, Mama would get her hopes up or be in a dither that the neighbor would deduce their finances were strained. This way, Mama wouldn’t know a thing if he refused them.
Lorelei went back to the garden and picked up the hoe. She carried it to a small shed, then washed up at the pump and went back to the workshop.
Mama was sweeping the workroom floor. Lorelei stooped, held the dustpan, and smiled at the tinkling sound as all of the tiny bits hit the thin steel. “In my fanciful moments, I imagine that’s what the angels’ laughter sounds like.”
Mama smoothed her hair. “Ah, my Lori. It takes so little to make you happy.”
“You’re the one who taught me to count my blessings.” She rose and dumped the sweepings into the wastebasket as she began to sing:
Count your blessings, name them one by one;
Count your blessings, see what God hath done;
Count your blessings, name them one by one;
Count your many blessings, see what God hat
h done.
Mama had joined in on the last two lines. Afterward, she brushed away a tear. “Du bist mein Segen, Lorelei.”
“You’re my blessing, too, Mama.”
“It would be nice to have the blessing of more orders.” Mama fiddled with the last remaining order slip on the board.
“Papa always said, ‘God will provide.’ He’d want us to have faith.”
“Yes, he would.” Mama tugged a hanky out of her sleeve and wiped her cheeks. “I will take some lettuce and cabbage into town tomorrow. It will buy more flour for us.”
“See? God provides.”
Sleep didn’t come easily or well for Russell. Even on his new mattress, he’d jerk awake and reach for his rifle. He’d rolled out of bed before dawn and made a pot of coffee. As he finished the last sip, wagons rolled up.
I told them not to come until two hours after daybreak. Irritated, Russell thumped down his empty mug and went outside.
“She’s a beauty,” Pinkus Bayley said as he admired the old house. “We’ll have her looking grand as can be in no time at all.”
“Warn your men that the veranda is rotting in places and they’ll need to test their footing. I don’t want anyone breaking a leg.”
“Hear that, men?” Pinkus clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Russell estimated it was more out of eagerness to begin than from a need to warm them. “Even from here, I can see you’re right. We’ll take it clear down to the joists and put up all new slats, felt, tar paper, and shingles.”
“I’ll set a water bucket and dipper here for the men.”
“Jim-dandy idea.” Pinkus turned back to his men. “Daniel, go check out the chimneys to be sure they’re sound. Jake and Ed, I want you to scythe the grass over yonder. We’ll dump the old shingles and rotten wood there. We’ll have us a bonfire when the job’s finished.”
The liveryman’s sons rode up together on a swaybacked mare. Can’t anyone in this town follow directions or tell time? Russell took them over to the stable and pulled open one of the creaky, weathered doors.