Hidden Dreams

by Darlene Franklin

  Without saying a word, she knelt beside him and motioned for him to drop his hand from the crank. Twisting just so, she laid her head against the grille and smiled as the first quivering rumblings of the engine made themselves known. The engine coughed, revved a few seconds, and Wallace wondered if this tiny dynamo might get it started after all.

  Then it coughed, sputtered and stopped. Mary Anne tinkered with it a few more minutes, without success. She stood, her hand at the middle of her back. “We almost had it.”

  “There’s a pretty good mechanic in town.” Wallace rested one foot on the bumper, wondering how she had managed that much when he had failed. “He’s closed for the rest of the day, but he can look at it tomorrow.”

  Mary Anne turned a bright smile in his direction and popped the hood open. “I’ll take a look-see. Maybe I can figure out what is keeping the engine from turning over. It sounds like the alternator.”

  Wallace agreed, but he didn’t have the know-how to fix it.

  “At least it’s not leaking oil.” Mary Anne had already looked under the car. “That could be dangerous.” Stretching on tiptoe, she bent over the engine and poked around. “It is the alternator, but I don’t have any equipment to fix it. Maybe your mechanic friend can do that.”

  Alternator, bumper, tires—how much would the repairs cost? Mary Anne talked like money wasn’t an issue. That didn’t surprise him; anyone who could afford a Victoria coupe had money to spare. Enough money to tempt them into bad ways, Aunt Flo would have said.

  His aunt worked hard to minimize any special treatment of students based on a family’s financial status. Some of the girls with more money shared freely. Others hoarded every penny for themselves. Which kind would Mary Anne be? “Mary Anne” didn’t sound like a rich girl’s name. He had known a Mariam and a Mariel and several Maries. The only Mary Anne he had known was a distant cousin from his mother’s side of the family.

  By the time Wallace dragged his attention back to the Mary Anne in front of him, she had closed the hood of his truck and opened her coupe’s hood instead. “Not much internal damage, from what I can see.” Her voice echoed against the metal. She withdrew, not even the sweep of her almost-white hair able to hide the contentment on her face. “Although I do need to attend to an oil leak.”

  Closing the hood, she ran her hands over the spot where the truck had connected with her car. “Your truck is better off than my car, but I’m sorry about the damage.” Sincerity glinted in her blue eyes. “The road was so deserted, I didn’t give any thought to meeting another car on the bridge.”

  Wallace blew out his breath. Her irresponsible driving still irked him, but how could he stay angry when she apologized so prettily? “The important thing is that you are healing. Don’t worry about my truck. I can take care of most of it myself.” He couldn’t believe he had allowed a woman to mess with his car.

  A faint smile crossed Mary Anne’s lips, as though she had read his mind. “Please let me do something to repay you for all the trouble I’ve put you through.” Her eyes sought the floor momentarily, as if searching for something. “I would like to see the place where the accident happened.”

  Deep inside, Wallace debated the wisdom of her request. A lot of women he knew would shrink from driving into the same darkness that had ended so poorly the last time. But Mary Anne said that she wanted to see the bridge. “If you want to go right now, we can ride in the Model T.” He nodded in the direction of the family car.

  Scooting around the front to the passenger’s side, she made sitting down an art form, as graceful as dance moves to music. He slid in beside her. “I haven’t had a ride in an old Betty for a while.” She patted the car at the use of a nickname. Throwing her head back on the seat, she leaned her arm on the right arm rest. “I’ve missed driving.”

  At that he laughed. “It’s only two miles away. We could even walk.” A part of him hoped she would agree.

  * * *

  Mary Anne’s mind scrambled. How far was two miles? In the city, they counted distance in terms of blocks. She had heard somewhere that twelve blocks equaled one mile, but back in New York, the length of the blocks differed whether they were headed north and south or east and west.

  Two of anything shouldn’t be all that far. They were unlikely to run into strangers, and she had sensible flats on her feet. “Let’s do it.”

  “Are you sure?” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and swung his legs out.

  “Yes. Let me get my coat, though.”

  Wallie walked with her to the house and up the stairs.

  “I don’t need a chaperone.”

  He grinned. “My room is in the attic. As long as we’re going out, I’m going to grab my book.”

  Mary Anne scratched her head. He couldn’t walk and read at the same time, could he? The image of a man with his nose buried in a book, maneuvering his way up and over curbs and through foot traffic on busy city blocks tickled her sense of the absurd. She had seen a few people like that, tourists too busy reading a travel guide to actually enjoy the visit. Wallie was no tourist, so she wondered what book he would bring.

  She removed her coat from the wardrobe and stared at the boots sitting in the corner. From her window she had glimpsed a few patches of snow. They could encounter snow or mud, or both, so she exchanged her flats for her boots. The thought of a good walk raised her spirits. Since she’d bought her car back in New York, she hadn’t walked anywhere.

  Wallie had changed into a warm jacket as well, a notebook peeking out of a large side pocket. He glanced at her boots. “Good choice. And I brought you this. It might get cold out there.” He handed her a red knit hat.

  The head covering reminded her of a favorite hat and scarf set from her childhood. She skipped down the stairs ahead of him, eager to get under the open sky and fresh air.

  They paused by the kitchen on the way out. “We’re going to the bridge, but we’ll be back before meal time.”

  He grabbed a canteen and filled it with water. “In case we work up a thirst.” His whistle pierced the air. The walk gave Mary Anne her first opportunity to see beyond the farmyard. A fence surrounded a good-size plot, resembling the victory gardens that had sprung up around her neighborhood during the Great War. She had enjoyed working with the women of the neighborhood, digging in the dirt. Maybe she could do the same thing here if she stayed long enough.

  What was she thinking? She needed to leave Maple Notch as soon as possible. If she stayed long enough to plant a garden, she might want to stay until harvest. Even if Canada wasn’t her goal, no one, no matter how generous their hospitality, wanted a guest to move in permanently.

  Past the yard, they walked beside a rough-hewn fence that looked as weathered as the barn. She ran her hand along the top rail, feeling the knobs and knots. Fields lay to the right and left of the road, extending into the distance. Did the Tuttles own all of this land? She couldn’t imagine it. “Does all this belong to your family?”

  “I’m afraid it does.” Wallie’s laughter sounded a bit rueful. “Tuttles have lived here through good times and bad since before the Revolutionary War.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Up ahead, near where the bridge crosses the river, one of my ancestors lived in a cave and kept on farming the land by night, to keep it safe from Tory opposition.” He flashed a grin at her. “Unfortunately, her beau’s father was a Tory.”

  “But they got together in the end?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they lived happily ever after?” she teased. The way Wallie told the story suggested the couple had made a go of it.

  “Yes, but then their son almost lost the land during the Year of No Summer.”

  “The what?”

  “People around here call 1816 the Year of No Summer. Every single month there was a killing frost and sometimes even snow. He owed money t
o the bank, so he needed a good crop that year. He figured a way to make his crops grow in spite of the frost. He burned out the stumps, and it kept the ground warm.” Another grin lifted his face. “And along the way he fell in love with the banker’s daughter.”

  That brought a chuckle from Mary Anne. “So your family has been farming here for over a hundred fifty years.”

  “Not exactly.” Wallie shrugged. “My grandmother was a teacher. She opened a female seminary in Maple Notch, and my grandfather was the town constable. But then my father moved back out to the farm and started growing crops again.”

  “So who took over after he died?”

  The carefree joy disappeared from Wallie’s face before he forced another smile. “Howard married Clarinda about that time. They came out to the farm. I stayed out here during the summers, and at the school during the school year.”

  He pointed to a fenced-in area a little higher than the field. “There’s the cemetery up ahead. I often stop to visit when I’m on foot.”

  “Let’s go, then.” Mary Anne found the trail leading from the road and took off without waiting for an answer.

  Wallie trotted to catch up with her.

  A moment later, he had stopped moving, and she walked back. While he stood as straight as a board and quiet as a tree, his hand flew over a page in his notebook. His pencil filled the page with the wing.... foot....beak...of a goose. This Vermont farmer was an artist?

  Not wanting to disturb his concentration, she watched without speaking, fascinated as his fingers added the grass and plant of the nest peeking out beneath the downy underbelly of the goose. He shaded in two eggs.

  Mary Anne had seen kittens born but never newborn birds. The baby sparrows and robins she had spotted were on the verge of flying and independence.

  Standing on tiptoe, hoping to catch sight of the sitting mother for herself, Mary Anne stumbled a bit, disturbing the peace. Another goose ran at them, wings spread, hissing like a snake. Scared, she jumped back.

  “That’s our cue. He wants us to leave his family alone.” Wallie flicked his wrist to check his watch. “If we’re going to make it to the bridge and back by suppertime, we’d best be on our way.”

  Mary Anne threw a last glance over her shoulder, still entranced by the pair of geese. Perhaps another time she could beg Clarinda for stale bread or biscuits and return. In the city people were warned against feeding ducks, but she had seen another little girl feeding a duck and wanted to share that experience. Now was her opportunity. Maybe she’d even get to watch the goslings grow.

  With a final glance, she trotted after Wallie. Her boots splashed through mud and other unpleasant things underfoot. He waited for her at the end of the lane, elbow leaning on the fence rail as if he had been there all day. He grinned at her approach. “What took you so long?”

  She pretended to take him seriously, walking past him, headed toward the bridge. “I stopped to look at the geese. What are you waiting for, Wallie?”

  He caught up with her in one long stride. “Call me Wallace, please. Wallie is a childish nickname.”

  That drew laughter from Mary Anne. Strange, how “Mary Anne” felt like a nickname since she had been calling herself “Marabelle” for the past year. “Wallace.” She drew the name out, trying it on her tongue. Both names suited the man beside her, part farmer, part student. “Those sketches you were drawing of the birds were good.” Her attempts at art resembled stick figures, unless sewing counted. She had embroidered a few things that hung in the apartment that had been her home with Daddy.

  Things she had left behind, along with almost everything else she had ever owned. Maybe here in the Maple Notch of Wallace’s drawings, a place vibrant with life and peace, she would find a better home.

  Maybe if she stayed here long enough, she’d even find life and peace for her own.

  Chapter 5

  Mary Anne liked his drawing. The only other people to say so were his family, except his brother-in-law who tended to snort at such foolishness. An editor had paid Wallace an advance so he could complete the project, with drawings and text, about the native wildlife and plants of northern Vermont. That interest drove Wallace into the fields and woods at every opportunity.

  Until now, he had never let a stranger, except the editor, see his strange hobby, and Mary Anne liked it.

  “Thank you.” His voice sounded as light as his heart, and his feet sped him forward to the old bridge, the courting bridge, or the kissing bridge, as the people of the town called it. What would Mary Anne think of the planks in the wall that broadcast a couple’s intentions to wed?

  As light as his feet were dancing, Wallace could have closed the distance to the bridge in a short time. But Mary Anne lingered so long that they might have to turn back before ever reaching their destination. “It’s so pretty here.” She swept the horizon with waving arms.

  “You should see it in the fall.” Maybe she would. Or would she be like the geese, heading south before winter struck in its fury?

  With every bump and rock on the road familiar to him, Wallace knew when they neared their destination. “I see it!” Mary Anne splashed ahead, heedless of the puddles, and Wallace sprinted to keep up with her.

  “Is that a cave I see down there?” She halted at the entrance to the bridge, studying the river bank as if delaying her stepping on the boards.

  “Yes.” Another time he might show her the cave and tell her more of his family’s history.

  The sunshine cast Mary Anne’s figure into a dark shadow on the floorboards. She poked her head in cautiously. “Is it safe for pedestrians? What if a car heads this way?”

  “They can squeeze by if you cling to the wall.” Wallace meant to be funny, but the terror on her face testified to his failure. “Yes, we’re safe. In the unlikely event a car heads this way, we can retreat to the trusses. Plenty of room.”

  Moving one cautious foot in front of the other, she walked forward as if trying to drink in the bridge with all five senses. In the dim interior of the bridge, with only an occasional strip of light where the roof boards had separated, she wouldn’t be able see well. The smells of a century of history had burrowed themselves into the structure. Wood, horses and even gasoline were part of the mixture now.

  Their boots made soft noises while they crossed the span. As they approached the center, he touched her arm. “Stop. There’s something I want to show you.”

  She allowed him to lead her to the side. “Reach up and touch the wall right here.” He indicated the plank in question.

  Standing on tiptoe, she found the same spot and tilted her head back to study it. “There’s something written there but I can’t tell what it says.”

  “Carved initials. They’ve been up there so long that they’re almost invisible. But I can tell you what they say.”

  “This is where I’m supposed to ask, ‘What do they say?’”

  From Wallace’s limited experience with girls, they loved the story. “They’re the very first initials carved on the board. Back before there even was a bridge across the Bumblebee. They say J.T. and S.R.”

  “J.T.—as in Tuttle?”

  Wallace grinned. “My grandfather’s grandfather. When old Josiah proposed to Sally Reid during the middle of the Revolutionary War, he carved their initials on a tree. Then that tree ended up as part of the bridge.”

  “How sweet.” Mary Anne ran her hands over the board, exploring the other carvings. “There must be dozens of them carved up here now.”

  “Hundreds, more like.” Wallace pointed to a different plank with more recent carvings. “That’s my parents—1900.”

  Squinting, she studied the wall. “The turn of the century.”

  He nodded. “A new century was a good time to start a new life together, that’s what Ma used to say.” He added words he had never u
sed before. “Someday I hope to add my initials to the bridge.”

  She reached out and squeezed his hand, and Wallace’s dream expanded to fill every nook and cranny of his heart.

  * * *

  “Wallie? Is that you?”

  The magic of the carved initials faded to its proper place, and Mary Anne dropped Wallace’s hand at the sound of Winnie’s voice. Boys and girls in New York did the same kind of thing, scratching their names on poles, bricks and painted walls.

  Not that she would ever carve her initials into anything. A good thing Winnie showed up when she did, before Mary Anne’s impulsive action suggested something to Wallace other than gratitude and even, perhaps, friendship.

  Winnie trotted to the center of the bridge, two dark braids bouncing against her coat. “You’re showing her the Kissing Wall.”

  Heat flooded Mary Anne’s face at that observation, and she thought she saw color on Wallace’s cheeks.

  Winnie didn’t react to their discomfort. Flinging herself against the wall, she threw her arms high overhead. “And here stands Winifred Tuttle, the Junior National Skating champion.” She pirouetted and glided across the floor to the center, where she brought her hands over her head and posed.

  “You’re heading for the mill again.” Wallace’s mouth quirked into an expression between a scowl and a smile.

  “Of course! How else will I ever be a national champion like Frank Sawtelle?”

  Ice skates hung over Winnie’s left shoulder, and Mary Anne remembered how much Wallace said she enjoying skating. Frank Sawtelle must be her idol.

  “Come on ahead. We’re heading back to the house anyhow.”

  “Okay.” Twisting and turning like she was on the ice, Winnie whistled a tune.

  Mary Anne’s head bobbed in time to the music. “‘When the red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin’ along.’” She finished the song, singing the lyrics made famous by Al Jolson. Winnie turned and glided and flew backward in a series of movements that she probably had rehearsed on the ice countless times.