“Woodrow!” Cassie says, and she’s crying, too.
“Clarence,” I whisper. But who cares what his name is?
He’s there, and he’s safe, and he’s rubbing his torn ear on the mystery plants.
“He’s rubbing his face in catnip,” Joey says. “Cats love it.”
Catnip!
We go closer and the cat looks at us a little suspiciously.
“Don’t you remember me?” Cassie bends down and puts her hand out.
Maybe he does remember, or maybe it’s the catnip. But he lets her run her hand over his head.
I don’t try. Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, it’s enough to see that he’s gained a little weight. Poor mice, maybe, poor birds. But still, he’s alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I go to sleep every night worrying about the rent. I dream about it and wake up thinking about it.
We eat those gray beans three times a day. We sit there staring at the ceiling so we don’t have to look at them and holding our noses so we don’t have to smell them. But even more important, we live on the fish Joey catches.
The sun is hot as I pat the plants in my garden. I have to thank the grain man for his generosity. I walk to the stream and plunk myself all the way down in the water, feeling the coolness of my soaked skirt against my legs.
I think about the house. How did it become so dear to me? Everything is wrong with it. No, not everything. It has a family now. I swallow. Almost a family. If only Pop were here. And Miss Mitzi, with her white straw hat and a rose pinned to her collar.
I crane my neck to look up at the willows, and spot a house wren that has a huge song for such a small bird. How soothing to watch him, then to run my fingers through the ferns, which crowd each other now. Some of them have wide leaves; others are thin as knives. Which ones does Anton’s mother send down to the florists in the city?
I wonder.
I stand and squeeze the water out of my hem. And then I splash through the stream toward Anton’s.
I’m going to find out.
Dear Miss Mitzi,
I’ve discovered something. It’s as good as the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Well, almost.
Anton’s mother sells ferns to what she calls the ritzy flower shops in New York. She says this area is a gold mine of ferns, and that I can do it, too. She’s going to tell me how.
I’m off to work at the grain store, for boxes and waxed paper. No time to write more.
I love you, Miss Mitzi.
Rachel
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Cassie is painting. Everything in sight is turning gold. I’d like to tell her it was a mistake to let Xenia in for a visit. Gold hoofprints trot from one end of the hall to the other. For once, Cassie is furious at her. “That’s it!” she says. “Back to the barn.”
I go into the kitchen and pump water onto a rag. Back in the hall, I dab at the wet paint. Some of it comes up; some doesn’t.
Cassie’s staring at me. “Thanks, Rachel. Thanks.”
I nod, surprised at myself, but glad about it.
She’s on to something else. “We can’t sleep in the living room anymore. It’s a terrible habit, as if animals sleep there.”
Joey and I grin at each other. We don’t remind her that Xenia actually did sleep there. Instead, we drag the mattresses back upstairs, then the pillows.
But Cassie’s not finished. The dust flies from one room to another, then out the door. And a day later she appears at breakfast with rag curlers poking out all over her head. “Clean yourselves up, please,” she says. “We have to go to town today.”
“Not me,” Joey says.
“I tried to tell you two, but you didn’t pay one bit of attention.”
Joey supplies fish for Clarence-Woodrow every day. The cat is still mean, but he’s ours, and I love him even though his disposition is appalling.
I love that word.
Cassie points a fork at us. “You won’t be sorry.”
I’ll be sorry; I know it. That long walk to town. No shoes that fit. “What are you talking about?”
“I will never ask you to do one more thing for the rest of your lives.” And then she says something strange. “I know you said we should do everything on our own—”
“And we are, almost,” I say.
“But I thought you were wrong. I thought we needed help.”
Impossible. Who knows what she’s talking about?
“All right, we’ll go with you,” I say.
Joey looks at the ceiling. “I guess.”
She pulls at one of her curlers, then goes upstairs to find something else to clean or paint.
Joey shrugs at me.
After lunch, we wend our way to town. When Pop gets home, we’ll take the truck. I’ll never walk so far again for the rest of my life.
In front of me Cassie’s curls are enormous, sticking out all over her head. She plunks herself down on the bench in front of the real estate office.
I spent yesterday afternoon at the grain store. I traded three hours of work for boxes and paper. Anton’s mother, Mrs. Freeman, is going to show me how to cut the ferns and send them. She’s also going to lend me the money for postage.
I didn’t want her to do that, but she said it was no bother, none at all.
I sit on the bench next to Cassie, my eyes closing against the sun and against Mr. Grimm, who is sitting in the window two inches away from me. “What are we doing here?” I ask Cassie, hardly moving my lips.
“I know you said I couldn’t ask the grocery man for help, but I had to do something.”
I stare at her.
“We were eating beans,” she said.
“There were wild strawberries.”
“And I’ve been fishing,” Joey says.
She doesn’t answer.
Across the way a train steams into the station. Soot and cinders fly everywhere. Cassie shouts over the noise. “I thought I had to save us.”
What is she talking about?
A hobo scurries across the street, ready to jump on the train. Cassie is still shouting, even though the train has stopped. “I wrote a letter. I brought it to the post office myself. I used my life savings.” She grins a little. “Two cents.”
I put my hand up to my face. When I see who’s getting off the train, I begin to cry and I don’t even try to stop.
Because coming toward us, wearing her best Sunday dress and the blue cloche that matches her eyes, is Miss Mitzi Madden.
“I told her we were in despair over food,” Cassie says. “I didn’t mention the rent. One problem is enough.”
Despair!
Imagine Cassie using such a word.
Miss Mitzi holds out her arms, and somehow there’s room enough for the three of us. And Miss Mitzi is talking, talking.… “I had to get someone to take care of the store. And when that didn’t work out, I stamped my feet, locked the door, and wrote to Cassie to say, ‘Hold your horses, I’m on my way.’ ” She grins at us. “And here I am.”
By this time she’s out of breath, so we hug again, all of us laughing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It’s the first day of summer. We’ve dragged Miss Mitzi from one end of the farm to the other. She loves it, all of it, even Xenia, who tried to eat the hem of her skirt.
We’ve had wonderful meals. Miss Mitzi pulled tons of food from her suitcase, and then we walked to the store, and she bought more. Cassie cooks and cooks.
“This place is truly lovely,” Miss Mitzi keeps saying. “Look at all you’ve done by yourselves. Rachel’s garden, Cassie’s painting, Joey’s rooster.”
There’s a syrupy feeling in my chest. Miss Mitzi always knows the perfect things to say.
Cassie found an old dress for her in the closet, a work dress. Today we go over to Anton’s to help as Mrs. Freeman shows us how to send the ferns down to New York.
Miss Mitzi loves the ferns. “Maybe you’ll sell me a few to take back to my flower shop,” she says.
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As if we wouldn’t give her everything we have!
But what we try to do is keep her with us. We try everything.
Joey spends the afternoons fishing; Miss Mitzi says they’re the best fish she’s ever tasted. She even likes the tomatoes and beans that Cassie throws in with Miss Mitzi’s vegetables.
“And we have plenty of beans,” Cassie says, grinning.
Cassie with a sense of humor! Now that Miss Mitzi is here, she’s not as orange as she used to be.
Cassie has given her gold room to Miss Mitzi. “You can stay here forever,” she says.
But Miss Mitzi shakes her head a little and puts her hand on Cassie’s shoulder.
One day, in my garden, Miss Mitzi bends down and crumbles the rich earth in her fingers. “Gorgeous.”
She waves at Clarence, who is sitting on a rock at the stream. Clarence pretends that he doesn’t see her, or any of us.
I keep telling her how much we want her here. “We’ll eat from the garden all summer. We’ll splash in the stream.” I don’t mention rent. Miss Mitzi would give us all her money; I know that. But I can’t let her do that. I’m sure she doesn’t have much.
Her sky-blue eyes are so sad I have to look away. But my words tumble out. “Xenia will give us milk someday. We’ll have a rooster, and the chickens will give us eggs.”
Still she doesn’t answer.
I put my arms around her. “You love your shop? You can’t bear to leave it?”
Her face is fierce. “Do you think I’d care about that shop for one minute if I could have all of you?”
“Well, then.”
“Your father …” She almost breathes it.
“He cares about you, Miss Mitzi, I know he does.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know it. Not one bit. He’s never really said …”
“But if he had said …”
“Ah, Rachel. Wouldn’t it be heaven to be here? To look up every morning and see Joey’s golden rooster? To gather ferns?”
I’m hardly listening. I keep hearing her say He’s never really said.
“Wait,” I say. “Just wait.”
Inside, I take the stairs two at a time and open Pop’s door. It’s been weeks since I’ve been in there, but it’s still the same: Miss Mitzi’s picture on the dresser, Pop’s letter to her under the doily.
I close my eyes. What might happen, what could happen, what will happen next?
Then I take the picture and the letter downstairs to show Miss Mitzi.
CHAPTER THIRTY
When Miss Mitzi takes the train back to the city, we wave until we can’t see her blue cloche in the window anymore.
By the time we get back to the house, it’s late afternoon. In the mailbox are two letters. One is from Bensen’s Florists, Park Avenue, New York City. It has the fern money, not enough to pay every bit of the rent and the interest, but much more than half. They write that they want more ferns to use in their arrangements.
We’re getting there. Somehow, the real estate man will just have to give us a few more days. I may have to beg.
But, ah, the next letter is from Pop. Dollar bills with their large gold seals fall out of the envelope, enough for Mr. Grimm! And the greatest news. Pop will be home in days. Watch for me, he writes. You’ll see me coming up over the hill.
Cassie and I dance around Joey, laughing and crying at the same time. Through my blurred eyes, I see tears on Joey’s cheeks. “We’ve done it,” I say.
“With a little help,” Cassie says.
“The house is ours,” I say. “This beautiful falling-apart house. We’ll pay Mr. Grimm on time.” And we begin to laugh again and the three of us are holding hands.
“But isn’t Pop in trouble?” Cassie says with glee in her voice.
That was the biggest surprise of Miss Mitzi’s visit. “Hmmpf,” she said when she read the letter. She narrowed her eyes. “He could have saved me all this sadness. Wouldn’t you think he’d have told me that he wanted me to come? Wouldn’t you think he would have let me decide whether I wanted to take a chance on this old place?”
She smiled at us. “You know what I would have said.”
The next day, she threw her clothes into her suitcase. She jammed her blue cloche over her dark curls.
“You’re leaving?” we asked, the three of us at once.
“Don’t go back to the city!” I said.
“Please …,” Cassie said.
“Don’t worry,” said Miss Mitzi. “I’m just going to close up the shop and pack my things. Business has been terrible, anyway. I’ll be back here by the time your father gets home, to give him a piece of my mind.”
The three of us let out our breath.
“And …” She holds up one finger and gives us her light-up-the-world smile. “If all else fails, I can always sleep in the barn with Xenia.”
* * *
We’ve eaten our way through the jars of green beans. There’s only one left. We hear someone whistle.
“Is that—” Joey jumps up.
“Pop.” Cassie picks up the last jar and tosses it out the back door. “I will never eat beans again.”
Pop!
I’m out the door ahead of the other two, around the side of the house to the front. Pop is coming up the front path. He looks worn and tired, much thinner than when he left, but his smile is huge.
We meet halfway, all of us with our arms out.
“Home,” he says, holding us.
Inside, we talk, one louder than the other. Everyone has something to say.
And then we get to the Miss Mitzi part. We tell Pop what we think, what Miss Mitzi thinks.
And he says he thinks exactly the way we all do.
Dear Miss Mitzi,
This is the last time I will ever write to you. I don’t even have to mail it, because you’ll be here this afternoon. I’ll just leave it on the table for you.
It’s certainly the last time I’ll ever call you Miss Mitzi, because once you and Pop are married next Saturday, everything will be different.
In the meantime, I went to the goat lady, who is also the teacher. I told her every single bit about the books. She walked me back to the school and let me borrow three books. Three. (I lent her my Rebecca book. She said she’d love to read it again.)
She’s keeping her fingers crossed that school will begin again this fall.
Things are really looking up. Pop is going to work part-time at the bank. You and I will write letters to the rest of the world, and garden, and fix the house.
And we’ll sell ferns … millions of ferns.
I must tell you, I will never forget Colfax Street, but everything I truly love will be here now. Cassie and Joey. Pop. School, maybe. And even Clarence. We’ll never know how Clarence survived the winter, but he’s—what’s that word?—resourceful. Yes, he’s a resourceful guy, that cat. He likes to do things on his own.
I keep saying to myself, Miss Mitzi will be our new mother.
It’s gratifying, all of it.
Simply gratifying.
All my love,
Rachel
PATRICIA REILLY GIFF is the author of many beloved books for children, including the Kids of the Polk Street School books, the Friends and Amigos books, and the Polka Dot Private Eye books. Several of her novels for older readers have been chosen as ALA-ALSC Notable Children’s Books and ALA-YALSA Best Books for Young Adults. They include The Gift of the Pirate Queen; All the Way Home; Water Street; Nory Ryan’s Song, a Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators Golden Kite Honor Book for Fiction; and the Newbery Honor Books Lily’s Crossing and Pictures of Hollis Woods. Lily’s Crossing was also chosen as a Boston Globe–Horn Book Honor Book. Her books for younger readers in the Zigzag Kids series are Number One Kid, Big Whopper, Flying Feet, and Star Time. Her most recent books for older readers include Storyteller, Wild Girl, and Eleven. Patricia Reilly Giff lives in Connecticut.
Visit her on the Web at PatriciaReillyGiff.com.
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