by Janette Oke
Soberly Belinda rehung the dress in the closet and pulled out another one. But she was even more shocked as she studied it. One after the other, she assessed each dress left in her closet. There really isn’t a fit one in the lot was her judgment.
What do Kate and Abbie wear? Belinda found herself asking. Do they really look as . . . as old-fashioned as this? Have I just not noticed it before?
Belinda pictured Kate at their family dinner last night. Yes, Kate did dress very simply, in country frocks much like Marty wore. Belinda had never given it a thought before—but they were dreary and out-of-fashion, though not any different from what the other women in the community wore.
Now, Abbie usually wears brighter things—dresses with a bit more taste and style, Belinda reflected. But even Abbie, though thought of as one of the best-dressed young women in their town, was not what the ladies of Boston would have considered fashionable by any standard.
Belinda had never been conscious of fashion before living in Boston, and even during her time there, she had been unaware that she had developed an eye for style.
The thought upset her. Am I getting proud and . . . and stuffy? she asked herself impatiently, and she pulled the blue frock from her closet and tossed it on her bed.
It’s a perfectly good dress, she scolded herself. It’s certainly more suitable for farm wear than anything I brought with me. She slipped her frilly nightdress over her head and put on the simple frock before she could change her mind.
The dress still fit . . . after a fashion. Belinda noticed with chagrin that it didn’t quite fit like it had before. Though she had not gained weight over the past few years, the dress was a bit snug in places. Belinda fretted and pulled, but there was no give. At last she tied up the sash, adjusted the collar, and proceeded down the stairs.
Marty was in the kitchen at the big black stove. The room already felt hot to Belinda, and it was just early morning. Whatever will it be like by nightfall? she found herself wondering. The early fall weather could still be very warm during the day.
“My, you look nice,” Marty beamed at Belinda. She knew Marty enjoyed seeing her back in her old flowered blue calico. Belinda didn’t trust herself to comment. She feared her voice might give away her true feelings about the wardrobe upstairs.
“I’ll be right back,” she informed her mother and set out down the path at the back of the house. It had been a long time since she had used an outside facility, and she found it strangely disagreeable.
When she returned, Marty was dishing up a platter of scrambled eggs and farm sausage. “Pa said to call him in as soon as you were up,” Marty informed Belinda. “Would you like to call ’im? He’s at the spring.”
Belinda nodded, looking forward to a quick morning walk to the spring. It had always been one of her favorite spots—just as it had been her mother’s. She nodded again and turned to leave.
“Tell ’im everything is ready,” Marty called after her, and Belinda took it as a signal that she was to hurry.
It really wasn’t far to the spring, but she ran anyway. She would have enjoyed a leisurely walk so she could smell the fall flowers and enjoy the colors of the leaves. She would walk the path again later—many times, perhaps—and enjoy the smells and the colors to her heart’s content.
Just as Marty had said, Clark was there, raking fallen leaves from the crystal water.
“Pa,” Belinda called, out of breath, “Mama says breakfast is ready.”
Clark looked up from his task.
“My, don’t ya look bright and pretty,” he responded. Belinda just smiled. Both Clark and Marty seemed to prefer having their little girl back.
“Sleep well?” asked Clark as he set aside the rake.
Belinda wished he hadn’t asked. “Well . . .” She hesitated. “It took a long time for me to drop off,” she admitted, then quickly added when she saw worry in Clark’s eyes, “Guess I was just too excited.”
Clark nodded. “A lot happened in one short day,” he agreed.
They walked to the house, Belinda almost running to keep up with the long strides of her pa. “My,” she joked, “how fast did you walk when you had two good legs?”
Clark chuckled. “Not much faster, I ’spect. I figured as how I wouldn’t let the loss of a limb slow me down any more’n I could help.”
“Well, it sure hasn’t,” panted Belinda.
Clark slowed down a bit. “I was jest thinkin’ as I was cleanin’ the spring,” he said slowly, “of thet boy Drew.”
Belinda’s eyes flickered toward her father. She felt the color strangely rise in her cheeks.
“Ya ever hear from ’im?” asked Clark.
Belinda shook her head.
“He was over a while back,” Clark went on. “Called on yer ma an’ me.”
Belinda looked at her father, and she could feel her eyes widen with her questions. “He’s home?” she asked softly.
“Was. Ain’t no more. He was jest visitin’ his ma fer a spell. His pa passed on, ya know.”
“No,” said Belinda. “No . . . I didn’t know that. What happened?”
“Not sure. Some said heart. It was sudden like.”
“I’m sorry,” Belinda responded, her voice not more than a whisper.
“Yeah, it was a shame. A real shame. An’ as far as we know, him not ever makin’ any move toward the church’s teaching, either. The missus, now, she comes regular like. Been comin’ the last two years. Took a stand about her faith in front of the whole congregation. Really somethin’, her bein’ sech a quiet, sensitive soul.”
“What about the . . . the younger boy?” asked Belinda. “The one who was going to school?”
“Sidney?”
“Yes . . . I’d forgotten his name.”
“He’s still with his ma. Works in town at the feed mill. Rides home every night. Folks say he had his heart set on going fer more education—but he hasn’t gone, least not yet.”
They were nearing the house. Belinda hadn’t asked the questions she really wanted to ask. What about Drew? Is he still following the Lord? Did he ever become a lawyer as he’d dreamed? Will he ever come back . . . home? Has he . . . has he married? But Belinda asked none of them. Instead she said, “I’ll bet Drew’s ma was glad to have him home.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, she sure was, all right. Sid said thet it was real hard fer her to let ’im go again.”
Clark held the door for Belinda and she passed into the big farm kitchen. On the table a steaming plate of pancakes sent waves of warmth upward. The scrambled eggs and sausage, along with the coffee already poured and waiting beside their plates, added to the delicious breakfast smells.
Hurriedly father and daughter washed for breakfast, using the corner washstand and the big blue basin. Belinda had not shared a towel for ages and it was a rather unfamiliar experience for her now.
Turning again to the heavily laden table, she looked at the syrups, the jams, the jellies. Then her gaze went back to the pancakes and the egg platter. How in the world will I manage such a breakfast? Does Mama really expect me to eat like a farmhand? Belinda had become used to scones or tea biscuits or, at the most, a muffin with fruit . . . and now. . . ? She crossed to her plate.
“Ya want some porridge to start with?” asked Marty, adding quickly, “It’s yer favorite.”
To start with? echoed Belinda silently. Oh my!
“A . . . a very small helping, please,” smiled Belinda. “I . . . I haven’t done anything to work up an appetite yet.”
Clark smiled. “Well, we’ll right that quick enough,” he joked. “I got some hay thet needs forkin’ this mornin’.”
Belinda just smiled and bowed her head for the table grace.
After breakfast they had their family devotions together as they’d always done for as long as Belinda could remember. It was wonderful to hear her father read Scripture again. His voice trembled with emotion as he read the stories that to some had become commonplace. Belinda loved to hear him
read. He had always made the Bible come alive for her.
It was Marty’s turn for the morning prayer, and Belinda’s thoughts traveled across the country with her as she presented each one of her children and grandchildren to her Lord, asking for His guidance and protection for another day. It was a lengthy prayer. Clark and Marty never hurried their morning devotions.
Afterward Clark pushed back from the table and reached for his hat. Marty waved Belinda aside as she rose to clear the table.
“Now, I want you to jest take the day and git reacquainted with yer home,” Marty told her.
“But I’m not that rushed for time,” Belinda objected. “I’m to be here for six weeks. I can certainly help with the dishes and—”
“No, no,” argued Marty. “I’ve nothin’ else to do this mornin’. You jest run along.”
Belinda at last agreed. “I guess I’ll go back to the spring, then, and finish the raking,” she told Marty. “Pa wasn’t quite done when I called him for breakfast.”
Marty smiled. “I think thet rakin’ the leaves from the spring is one of yer pa’s favorite tasks,” she said softly. “In the fall he does it every few days. It’s a good thing thet the wind always favors ’im by puttin’ more leaves back in. I think yer pa enjoys the gurgle an’ the talkin’ of the stream. But I don’t think he’ll mind sharin’ the pleasure with you.”
Belinda smiled in answer.
“ ’Course, it’s my favorite spot, too,” Marty admitted. “Always did feel I could do my best thinkin’ there. An’ prayin’,” she added without apology.
Belinda understood. The running water had the same effect on her. She had to admit to herself that she was going to the spring now not so much to rake leaves as to think—to recall.
Thoughtfully she walked down the path again, and when she reached the stream she took up the rake leaning against the tree where Clark had left it. She dipped it dreamily into the clear, clean water, wondering as usual how the stream stayed so sparkling, and pulled a few wayward leaves toward the bank.
So Drew has been home, her thoughts began. It seems such a long, long time since I’ve seen him—such a long time since I’ve even heard anything about him. Why, Drew left when I was only seventeen. I’d almost forgotten that Andrew Simpson existed. Almost! She stopped raking and stared off into the distance.
Yet . . . yet he kissed me . . . once . . . so long ago. We were just children then. I was only sixteen. It was my first kiss. Such a . . . such a tender, childlike kiss. Like one good friend kissing another. And I thought about it . . . day and night . . . for what seemed like forever.
But it’s strange . . . after that kiss, instead of drawing us together, it seemed to drive us apart. Like we both felt embarrassed and didn’t know how our feelings should be handled. We only mumbled greetings when we met and avoided looking at each other.
Belinda flushed even now as she thought about it, and then she smiled openly. We were such . . . such kids, she admitted. Both liking each other, yet afraid to let it show.
She bent to trail her fingers in the icy water. It helped some to state the truth, even to herself. She had never, ever shared with anyone just how much she had really cared for Drew.
Well, I guess he really didn’t feel the same about me was her next thought as she straightened up again, or he surely would have tried to stay in touch—some way.
With a sigh Belinda scooped out another batch of leaves and deposited them on the shore.
But what if . . . what if we were both visiting home at the same time? What if . . . what if we suddenly met on the street in town? Would there be any kind of feeling for each other after all these years? Belinda couldn’t help but wonder.
And then she reminded herself that perhaps Drew was married. She hadn’t asked her father. It certainly seemed that Drew was settled . . . wherever he was now living. He had just come home to visit his ma, her pa had said. That didn’t sound as though he had plans to ever come back to the area.
Belinda stirred restlessly. Maybe thinking back isn’t such a good idea after all. She finished, leaned the rake back up against the tree, and moved on to explore other favorite places of the farm.
EIGHT
Memories
It didn’t take Belinda long to visit all her old farm haunts. The first place she went was to her pa’s barn. She hoisted her skirts and nimbly climbed to the barn loft to check for a new batch of kittens. She would be terribly disappointed if there were none. But after a short search, she discovered their hideaway in a distant corner.
As far as Belinda could tell, there were three in the litter, but they were as wild and unapproachable as young foxes. She never did get anywhere near them, though she tried to coax them to her for a good half hour.
“Now, if I’d been here,” she informed the tabby cat, “I’d have had those kittens of yours licking my fingers and playing in my lap long before their eyes were ever open.”
Looking totally unimpressed, the cat said nothing. She also was too wary to let Belinda near her. The mother herself had likely grown up without being handled, Belinda supposed. She finally gave up and climbed down the ladder.
She then spent some time looking for hidden hens’ nests. She and Amy Jo had always enjoyed this little game, arguing over which one was the better at outguessing the farmyard flock.
Belinda found two nests with a total of eleven eggs. She shook them cautiously to test them, concluding that neither hen had been inclined to “set.” Belinda bundled the eggs in her skirt and took them to the house to Marty.
Belinda next chose a favorite book and went to the garden swing. She had intended to read, but with the gentle swaying of the swing, memories of her childhood companions, Amy Jo and Melissa, came to her so strongly she couldn’t concentrate.
Why do things have to change? she asked herself unreasonably. Why couldn’t we have just stayed in our innocence, our childish bliss? But even as she asked, she knew the answer. At the time, they had felt they were growing up way too slowly. Each of them, in her own way, had ached and longed to become an adult. And now her beloved nieces Melissa and Amy Jo were both hundreds of miles away, with homes of their own. And she, Belinda, was here for only a short time—as a visitor. Her duties—her life—lay many miles away, too.
The sad, nostalgic thoughts drove Belinda from the swing. She laid aside the book and wandered to the garden.
Belinda noticed that Marty’s apple trees were bearing well. She could see where Marty had already picked some from this stem and that. Perhaps the apples had been baked in the pies Belinda had enjoyed the evening before.
She passed on to the flowers. The goldenrod glowed brightly in the fall sunshine and the asters lifted proud heads, their colors varied and vibrant. Vibrant, thought Belinda. Vibrant. Amy Jo used that word for just about everything. She’d found it in one of Melissa’s books, and she loved the sound of it. Belinda smiled to herself. It seemed like such a long, long time ago.
That’s what I should have done with my six weeks, she suddenly told herself. I should have gone to see Amy Jo and Melissa.
But even as she thought of it, she knew better. Mama and Pa would never have forgiven me, she decided, if I’d gone out west instead of coming here. Then she admitted, Really, I wouldn’t have liked it, either.
She moved on, admiring Marty’s flowers. They are pretty, she mused, though nothing like Thomas’s tailored flower beds.
What’s the matter with me? Belinda thought crossly. When I’m in Boston, I’m longing for the farm. And when I’m on the farm, I’m secretly longing for Boston. Don’t I fit in anywhere anymore?
The thought was an alarming one—and Belinda had no answer.
She decided to go back to the kitchen. Perhaps her mother would find something for her to do.
“I’ve finished my roaming,” Belinda informed Marty. “I’m ready to be of some use now.”
Marty smiled indulgently at her youngest. “Have things changed?”
Belinda hesitated. Ho
w could she express her feelings? To Marty everything must seem exactly the same.
“Things?” queried Belinda almost sadly as she washed her soiled hands at the big basin. “No, not things. Just . . . just us. People. We change. We’ve all changed, haven’t we, Mama?”
Perhaps Marty did understand. It looked like her eyes were misting briefly with tears. She nodded solemnly at her daughter, and Belinda could see that she, too, was remembering.
“Yeah,” she agreed in little more than a whisper. “Yeah, we change. Life is full of change. Seems only yesterday thet I . . . thet I first entered thet little log house over there . . . the one where we first lived . . . where Clare an’ Kate used to live. Ain’t no one lives there anymore. First yer pa built us this fine house, an’ then Clare built the house yonder fer Kate. Now the little house jest sits there . . . empty and cold. An’ . . . an’ some days . . .” Marty hesitated and took a deep breath. “Some days,” she finally went on, “I think I know jest what thet little house is feelin’.”
Belinda was ready to cry. She hadn’t thought much about how her mother felt. Hadn’t experienced the pain of watching a houseful of children leave one by one. She thought she understood better now.
“But life is like thet,” Marty acknowledged, squaring her shoulders. “One mustn’t stay pinin’ fer the past. Thet don’t change a thing. One must be thankful fer what the present offers—what the future can promise.”
Marty lifted a corner of her apron to dab at her eyes. When she looked back at Belinda she was smiling.
“My,” she said, “I wouldn’t want a one of ’em any different than they turned out to be. Independent! Responsible! Grownup! I look at folks round me, an’ I think how blessed I’ve been. All good children, with keen minds and sturdy bodies. Thet’s a powerful lot to be thankin’ God fer.”