A Hearth in Candlewood

by Delia Parr

  Shocked—yet helpless to restore the sense of order she had fought to maintain in this store for so many years—she managed her way to the counter, where she anchored herself with her back to the other shoppers. Ignoring their hushed whispers, she glanced at the numerous trinkets that littered the top of the counter, resisted the urge to sweep them away so the counter would be as neat as she had once kept it, and waited for Mr. Atkins to appear.

  When he emerged from behind the very same curtain she had hung to separate the front of the store from a storage area and a staircase that led to the living quarters on the second and third floors, she nearly gasped. The young man, barely thirty and still single, could no longer boast the good looks that had inspired many a young woman in Candlewood to set her cap for the handsome newcomer. A bruise marred his right cheek. A row of black stitches held a cut on his forehead closed, and a white cotton sling held his left arm against his body. He walked with the slow gait of a man three times his age.

  From what she could see, he looked like a man who bore the brunt of a nasty fight, rather than a disagreement with a pair of elderly matrons. As he approached her carrying a small box, she saw the bruises on his face had already started to yellow and the skin around the stitches was puckered to the point the stitches would have to be removed soon.

  Emma then remembered what the sheriff had said about the trouble Mr. Atkins had had last week with shoplifters. She was relieved that his most troubling injuries had been inflicted long before this morning and fought hard to meet his gaze instead of focusing on his wounds or the sling he wore.

  He acknowledged her presence with a curt nod and set the box he had been carrying onto the counter.

  ‘‘I wonder if I might trouble you for a moment of your time?’’ she ventured.

  He swallowed hard. ‘‘I rather expected you would come. No, that’s not true. In point of fact, I expected your lawyer,’’ he said before turning his attention to one of his customers. ‘‘I found the hairbrush you wanted, Mrs. Simmons. I’ll leave it here until you finish shopping,’’ he suggested before turning back to meet Emma’s gaze.

  The whispers stopped and the shop grew very still. She moistened her lips and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘‘I wonder if I might impose on your goodwill and suggest we meet privately, as a courtesy?’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure I want to tackle the stairs again to go back up to my quarters. If you wouldn’t mind, I can talk with you in the barter room in the back, but only for a few moments. As you might consider, I don’t like leaving the store unattended for very long.’’ A man of average stature, he motioned with his good arm for her to join him behind the counter.

  Relieved, she rounded the end of the counter and followed him down well-worn floorboards behind the counter, beyond the curtain, and past wooden crates and barrels that lined either side of the passageway that led to the barter room. Each step, each familiar sight and smell, evoked one memory after another but also stirred not a single urge to turn back time so she could reclaim the life she had once known as owner of the General Store, despite her recent troubles. She also had no regret she had had three sons but no daughter to continue the tradition of passing down the store from mother to daughter.

  He stepped aside to let her enter the barter room first. As she suspected, the windowless room itself was nearly empty and smelled musty. Several worn canvas aprons hung from pegs on the wall. Shelves lining the walls held more dust and cobwebs than goods traded for store merchandise, a clear indication that the town’s economy had shifted from trade to cash.

  ‘‘This room used to be chock-full,’’ she noted. ‘‘It appears you might be better served with this area converted to serve another purpose,’’ she suggested as she turned about.

  He was standing just inside and to the right of the doorway, leaving a clear path of exit for her. His gaze clouded but not with the flash of resentment she had seen the first time she had offered him suggestions about how to operate the store.

  Now closer to him, she saw that lines of fatigue etched his features. His eyes, streaked red, appeared dry from lack of sleep, and his clothes hung on his frame. He pressed the edge of his hand against his brow, closed his eyes for a moment before he let his hand drop, and cleared his throat. ‘‘Should I convert the barter room before or after the four hours of sleep I manage to get every night or before or after I have the full use of my arm again?’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry. I’m certain it’s quite difficult operating the store on your own, let alone managing as you are.’’

  He raised his hand as if to touch the stitches on his forehead, then let his hand drop. ‘‘It’s a challenge, that’s true enough.’’ He lowered his gaze for a moment. When he looked at her again, his dark eyes were troubled, as if he were reliving the brawl the sheriff had mentioned. ‘‘I assume you’ve come to resolve the . . . the incident that occurred here this morning?’’

  She held tight to the keepsakes in her pocket and fingered the rough edges of the canvas cut from Jonas’s work apron. ‘‘I have.’’

  After drawing a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. ‘‘You once offered to assist me if I needed advice about operating the General Store,’’ he said and ran his hand through his sandy hair. ‘‘As I recall, I responded rather abruptly in the negative.’’

  She raised a brow. ‘‘You were impudent and rude.’’

  He flinched. ‘‘I was warned you were not a woman to waste words.’’

  ‘‘Only on occasion,’’ she admitted, dismissing thoughts of her encounter only yesterday with Mr. Langhorne, as well as her meeting with her lawyer earlier. Her curiosity about Mr. Atkins grew, and she wondered if he might be establishing an opening for compromise whereby he might drop his complaint in exchange for her business advice. ‘‘May I assume you’ve changed your mind about asking for my help with the store?’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘If I hadn’t put every coin I owned into purchasing the General Store, I would pack a bag, leave, and let the vultures feast on the contents of the store until they picked it clean.’’

  ‘‘You’re that disappointed?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ he countered. His cheeks reddened. ‘‘I’ve been that angry. I work as hard as a man can work. My head barely hits the pillows before the sun brings another day of endless work. I don’t bother most days to stop for much of a meal because I don’t have the time or the know-how to make one. I exist on so little sleep, I can barely tend to one customer while another walks out the door without paying.’’

  He paused and drew in a long breath. ‘‘What little hold I had on my temper is gone. I suppose my mother was right. My temper has been my undoing. Nevertheless, I cannot and will not make light of the matter. What happened here today with Widow Garrett and Widow Leonard was unconscionable. I should have known better than to leap to conclusions. I do know better. It’s just that I . . . I’m so frustrated and so angry. . . .’’

  His distress unleashed compassion that rushed from her heart and washed away her surprise at his willingness to take full responsibility for the misunderstanding, as well as her previous impression of him. ‘‘You’ve forgotten that sometimes people simply make mistakes,’’ she suggested. ‘‘You’ve been so consumed with making a living for yourself that you forgot that it’s the way you live that matters most, not how much or how little you make. You’ve forgotten the most important rule a shopkeeper must follow.’’

  He looked up. ‘‘Which is?’’

  ‘‘To remember to treat your customers with the respect and dignity they deserve. Most customers are good, honest, hardworking folks. That’s not to say there aren’t others whose goal is to cheat you out of collecting your due—there are—just as there are ways a wise shopkeeper can devise to keep his losses to a minimum.’’

  Concerned she might have let the conversation drift too far away from the purpose of her visit, she locked her gaze with his. ‘‘How are you planning to set things right? You are planning to do that, aren�
��t you, Mr. Atkins?’’

  His eyes widened. ‘‘Of course. I had planned to see the sheriff to withdraw my complaint as soon as I closed up for the day. I would have gone earlier, but I had no one to mind the store. I’m not sure if it’s possible, and I wouldn’t blame them for being cross with me, but I’d like to do something, anything, to make amends to both Widow Garrett and Widow Leonard.’’

  ‘‘To see to it that word spreads so you won’t lose more customers to the threat of your temper?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ he argued. ‘‘To do what’s right. No matter what I do, I don’t think I’ll ever get the image of those poor women sitting in a jail cell out of my mind.’’

  She caught a grin before it spread beyond the corners of her mouth. ‘‘Actually, at this moment I believe they’re having dinner with Sheriff North and his family at his home. Regardless, I’m not certain it’s for me to say what you should do. You might want to ask them directly,’’ she suggested.

  He nodded. ‘‘Of course, but—’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe it would take you that much time. I’d be happy to tend to your customers while you’re gone. Is the cashbox still on the middle shelf behind the counter?’’ she asked. She removed her bonnet, hung it on a peg, and donned a work apron without waiting for him to reply.

  He handed her a key he retrieved from his pocket. ‘‘The account book is there, too.’’

  She slipped the key into her apron pocket. ‘‘If there’s time, I might make a few changes in the store that you might find helpful.’’

  He nodded again. ‘‘Anything. Change anything at all. And I’d still be grateful if you could suggest something I might take with me to give Widow Garrett and Widow Leonard.’’

  She took a step, stopped, and retrieved the key, which she handed back to him. When he furrowed his brow, she shrugged her shoulders. ‘‘Assuming you’re serious about taking something with you to help make amends, I think you might want to get some coins from the cashbox before you leave.’’

  ‘‘Are you suggesting I . . . I pay them? Like I was paying some sort of fine?’’

  She chuckled, thinking there might be more than one reason why this man was still single. ‘‘My dear Mr. Atkins, I don’t believe money ever tugged the strings of forgiveness in a woman’s heart. I passed by a millinery shop on my way here. I’m thinking that perhaps a new bonnet. . . ?’’

  He grimaced. ‘‘You want me . . . you expect me to go into the millinery and pick out a . . . a lady’s bonnet?’’

  ‘‘Not one. Two. One for Widow Garrett and one for Widow Leonard. I’m sure the shopkeeper will be able to guide your selections.’’

  She took his good arm and escorted him back toward the front of the store. ‘‘One sure way to guarantee that gossipmongers, as well as the rest of your customers, notice your apology is to have both women parading about in fancy new bonnets the milliner will no doubt tell everyone were purchased by you. It might even be a good idea to escort the ladies home to Hill House before you come back to the store,’’ she suggested, fully aware that he would have to escort them the full length of Main Street to get them back to Hill House.

  When he slowed his pace, she patted his shoulder. ‘‘On the other hand, you might want to see your visit to the millinery store as taking the first step toward humility.’’

  ‘‘I’m quite certain there will be many more,’’ he murmured.

  ‘‘Indeed,’’ she whispered and waited while he opened the cashbox. She had lived with Mother Garrett for enough years to know that her heart was a forgiving one and she would very likely accept this young man’s apology—eventually. She did not know Widow Leonard very well yet but suspected she would be just as forgiving.

  He closed the cashbox and handed her back the key. ‘‘Before I take my leave, do you have any further suggestions?’’

  ‘‘Only one,’’ she murmured and offered him a smile. ‘‘Just be sure to tell them both I’ll be home for supper.’’

  11

  EMMA TRUDGED HOME TO HILL HOUSE just before twilight. Her shoes pinched her feet and her bonnet rubbed against the lump on the back of her head. Her skirts were dusted with grime and grit. Since she had skipped dinner, her stomach growled when she dared to think of food. When she finally approached the gate in the wrought iron fence that enclosed the front yard, she could not decide whether to collapse on one of the porch chairs or use what little energy she had left to manage her way to the kitchen for supper.

  A good whiff of Mother Garrett’s vegetable soup, a favorite of her youngest son, Mark, who now lived in Albany with his wife and two little ones, tempted her past the porch chairs and into the house. When she draped her bonnet on the hat rack, she spied herself in the mirror, but she was too tired to care that her blue eyes were streaked with weariness or that her chin was smudged with dirt to do more than rub it clean with her fingers. After smoothing her hair, she followed the sound of animated conversation that led her to the kitchen, took one step inside, and burst into a fit of giggles that had her leaning on the doorjamb for support.

  Straight ahead, Reverend Glenn sat at his customary place at the head of the table. At the end closest to her, a bowl of soup and a plate piled high with bread sat waiting for her. In between, sitting at opposite places on either side of the table, was a vision that was pure ridiculousness.

  She cupped her hand to her mouth, but she could not stop the giggles.

  Mother Garrett looked up at her and sniffed. ‘‘We were just about ready to start without you. Liesel and Ditty took their suppers out to the gazebo. Reverend Glenn already said grace, so you’ll have to say your own. Assuming you can compose yourself.’’

  ‘‘Y-yes. I . . . I will,’’ Emma stammered and looked away, only to find herself staring at Widow Leonard, which inspired yet another round of giggles. ‘‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’’ she managed and wiped the tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘‘I think I’ve worked myself a mile past pure exhaustion.’’

  From her seat directly across from Mother Garrett, Widow Leonard smiled, reached up, and patted the pomegranate bonnet she wore. ‘‘The color suits me, don’t you think?’’

  Emma cleared her throat and slipped into her seat. ‘‘It’s delightful.’’

  ‘‘We thought you’d like to see us in our new bonnets. That’s why we didn’t take them off. I suppose we should remove them now,’’ she suggested with a frown.

  ‘‘No, please, leave them on,’’ Emma insisted, unfolding her napkin and spreading it on her lap. After lacing her fingers together, she bowed her head and said grace quickly. After adding a prayer of gratitude that Mr. Atkins’ apology had truly been accepted, she glanced at Widow Leonard again. ‘‘You’re right. The color does suit you. The feather on the brim adds just the right touch.’’

  The elderly widow blushed. ‘‘It’s genuine emu, all the way from Australia. Imagine!’’

  Emma buttered a piece of thick, crusty bread, took a bite, and almost purred before she swallowed it and turned her attention to her mother-in-law. She cocked her head and studied the bonnet she wore. ‘‘I’m not sure what color you’re wearing,’’ she prompted. ‘‘If I look at it one way, it looks yellow. If I look at it another, it’s more green than yellow.’’

  Mother Garrett sniffed again. ‘‘It’s called daffodil. The color is all the rage in bonnets, if you need to know, and this particular bonnet is one of a kind.’’

  Emma leaned forward in her seat and poked her head forward to get a closer look. ‘‘Is that a bird’s nest on the bonnet?’’

  Mother Garrett reached up and gently patted the brim. ‘‘It is, though it’s not real. Neither are the flowers sitting in the nest, of course. Forget-me-nots don’t bloom this time of year.’’

  ‘‘I see,’’ Emma managed, sitting back and starting in on her soup. Maybe if she concentrated on eating, she might not giggle again.

  ‘‘You both look rather stunning in your new bonnets, if I may say so,’’ the minister o
ffered. He buttered a piece of bread and nonchalantly dropped it to the floor, where Butter was waiting. ‘‘I look forward to accompanying you both to services on Sunday, where I suspect you shall make a splendid entrance. I hope the ladies in attendance won’t be so distracted they forget why we’re all there,’’ he cautioned.

  ‘‘The ladies on Main Street today were distracted all to pieces as we strolled home with young Mr. Atkins,’’ Widow Leonard noted with a twinkle in her eye.

  Mother Garrett added a pinch of salt to her soup. ‘‘It’s been a good many years since a head turned when either of us walked by, but I’m not foolish enough to think it was just the bonnets we wore. Given the unfortunate misunderstanding at the General Store today, I’d venture it was our being escorted by Mr. Atkins that had heads spinning and tongues wagging.’’

  She narrowed her gaze and pointed the tip of her spoon at Emma. ‘‘I’d wager that new parcel of land I own that it was your idea to buy us both a new bonnet.’’

  Emma coughed, quickly covered her mouth with her napkin, and nodded slightly toward the minister.

  Mother Garrett’s cheeks blushed pink, and she quickly corrected herself. ‘‘Oh . . . I meant only if I wasn’t a churchgoing woman and I was prone to wagering, which I’m not. Definitely not,’’ she insisted. She shook her head so hard in denial that the bird’s nest flew off of her bonnet and landed smack in the center of Reverend Glenn’s bowl.

  Startled, Reverend Glenn stiffened, and the tips of his overlarge ears turned scarlet.

  Mother Garrett gasped.

  Widow Leonard’s mouth dropped open.

  Emma stared at her companions—the nest of forget-me-nots floating in the soup, the spreading stain on the minister’s shirt— and dissolved into another fit of giggles that passed from one person to the next around the table. She was still giggling when she ladled the nest of flowers from the minister’s soup and carried the soppy decoration to the sink.

  After repeated apologies to the minister, Mother Garrett removed her bonnet and inspected the damage. ‘‘I’m not sure the bonnet has quite the same panache without the ornamentation.’’