How many people know Mrs. MacDonald’s story and still judge her by dollar signs? My invitation may have been presumptuous, but I don’t think so. After all, their smiles blossomed.
Oh, the fried chicken was remarkable. I must learn to make this country dish.
I might ask Aunt over for tea. Should I? Or shouldn’t I? Helen and Kirsten as well. Given time maybe their smiles will blossom again too.
SEPTEMBER 17, 1880
My time at the Birch farm, what can I say? To them it seems the god of the soil is to be worshipped and loved despite Truth and God above? They are an odd lot.
I do rightfully own this small acreage. No guilt besieges me whatsoever. This place, this strange, unused wedding gift to Mother and her first husband can’t have been overly loved or valued if it sat here derelict for nearly forty years. A home for spiders and graveyard for opossums and other critters. What makes me worse than those creeping creatures? Am I not more valuable? Don’t I deserve a place to rest my head?
I sat at my table, filling Mother’s old teapot with freshly cut zinnias. A soft breeze is coming through the window and I feel that everything ought to be right in this world because this single moment is so good, so soothing. Can’t the Birch’s sense it? Aren’t they profoundly aware of the abundance of land at their disposal? The wealth of family that lives around them and supports them?
Kate Birch knows, yet is drawn away from her home at the same time. She came to me with a look of relief on her face, as though she’d finally found at last a kindred spirit. A niggling feeling comes over me—that our friendship has riled up the family. Charles is still friendly, but I rarely see him, so busy is everyone with the harvest.
I wonder if I am being unfair to think that my friendship with Kate could possibly cause division within yet another family.
When I see Kate, the day is brighter. We laugh. She exudes a joy that rarely disappears.
Except on certain occasions, when her grannie comes to the door and shouts for her for some unknown chore. So bossy in her expectations. Or when her mother, who has still not bothered for an introduction, waits at the garden’s edge for Kate to draw near, not willing to come to us. To me.
And then my imagination goes wandering. Why did Mr. Birch choose mother’s farm instead of his own? Why is he buried on Uncle’s property instead of theirs? All secrets won’t be told by that old trunk. Nor his sketchbook.
These unspoken memories aren’t mine to understand or forgive. But I am curious about those letters. Still tucked away. I’ve shunned them, thinking of Father—a sort of betrayal should I peek. Those two men are together in Heaven now, I suppose. As brothers. Besides, Father was there for Mother, to pick up her broken pieces. They had a family. A life. Me. And before all that, Mr. Birch and their children, who no doubt delighted them as little Ruby and Toliver did my heart.
Speaking of Toliver, I saw him in town the other day. He’d grown an inch or two, and strutted proudly in a pair of new overalls. The tall man he was with picked him up by the back suspender and tossed him high in the air before catching him. Toliver’s squeals of joy blended with the man’s deep, rich laughter. A petite woman joined them, her market basket on her arm. She pulled out an apple and handed it to him. He giggled again as he grasped the edge of the woman’s apron with one hand and held the apple with the other. I lifted my hand to wave, but he didn’t see me. They climbed into their parked wagon and drove away, out of town. Heading home...
Lad wagged his tail, begging for his daily chunk of ham. I believe I shall fetch those letters. It’s time.
JAMES COULDN’T SLEEP. He’d been there when Jenny received the letter from Dorothy. Watched her scan the words and toss them like trash into the cook stove flames. What had she written? Jenny’s blank expression told nothing.
Burning a letter was a dreadful thing to do. As though living words were forced to an early death, the sender unloved. He cherished every missive he’d ever received. Only two he’d burned, for good reason. To keep the truth hidden. But he’d rewritten those for Dorothy—to fill in the gaps her heart and mind longed to understand. Unless she’d burned them too, they yet lived.
He’d write a letter himself. To Dorothy. He hoped she wouldn’t mind.
SEPTEMBER 18, 1880
I finally found bravery enough to read those letters. Mother, at my age and full of dreams and a future with Mr. Birch. Seemed they’d been sweethearts from school days. His letters were full of Tennyson and farm planning advice. Goals he’d hoped to achieve their first year together.
Then I found one letter. The one that told me everything. The heartbreaking words swam before my eyes. Family ties had been cut. He’d been forced to make decisions. His choice to abandon this old cottage and instead make the most of Mother’s farm.
This is a letter I want to destroy, rip to shreds—but maybe I should bury it instead. Let the earth rot away such painful nonsense. How pitiful it is, how childish to hurt another in such a way! Had they truly loved him, had they truly accepted my mother as his bride, had jealousy never strapped them to an ongoing train whose tracks lay in a selfish circle. What choice had they except to protect themselves? No wonder Kate winces, when happiness is her gift!
The remaining letters were full of sweet nonsense. I blush at the thought of them. I buried these, even the horrid one, together in the depths of the trunk.
The lid propped open, I lifted out some of the baby toys, carved smooth except for tiny teeth marks at the ends. I untied the bundle of baby gowns, rather stained with age, but such delicate stitching. So soft. I imagined my young mother at work, as I’d later often seen. Thought of her hand resting across her curved stomach, her face alight as she awaited the birth of her firstborn. And a second and third...
I began to cherish every part of Mother’s too brief life. To appreciate artistic farmer Abraham Birch and the short-lived joy they’d shared.
Thoughts drift as they are wont to do, to Father. How often I inadvertently compare them! What foolishness.
I found an item unexpected. A small box nestled at the bottom of the bundle, inside rested a heart-shaped locket. Large, plain, gold. I pried the hinge, praying it would open, praying this heart unable to break.
No picture enshrined, but words—Thy will be done—the Lord’s prayer. His joy, His pain. His sacrifice, and His victory over death. A precious statement.
Had mother dug out the photograph and replaced grief with acceptance?
I gently snapped the words together and latched the chain around my neck. Not to wear as a weight of Mother’s pain, but a reminder that her heart made room to live again. For Father. For me.
Chapter 36
SEPTEMBER 20, 1880
How many months has it been since I’ve received a letter? I feel as though my friends have forgotten me—or is it I who have forgotten them? It’s true, I do have an old, unanswered stack of correspondence on my desk. How to pen my happenstances and heartaches? Would they understand?
I rode Becky to town today and found one letter waiting. The handwriting stopped me short. Mr. Bleu? The temptation was to tear it open then and there. I waited until home, settled into my rocking chair, to open it.
Surprised by my heart—his heart—reaching out. His words will stay with me forever, I think. I know.
Dear Dorothy,
We haven’t seen each other in a while, but I sincerely hope you are not without friends. If you are, I hope you consider me one.
How is Old Becky? Happy in her new home? I suppose I should come see for myself, feed her an apple or two.
Little Ruby let the news spill that you’d signed over the deed. To tell you the truth, I paid Hammond a visit to confess my doings and wiped the slate clean. As spotless as I could manage. I hoped it would ease your relationship with them. Hammond was certainly humbled and maybe one day his heart will catch up with God’s plain purpose and his hurtful hardness will melt away. One day, you will see the man I’ve known all along. How I’d love for you to mee
t him.
I do wish I could have taken the deed the day you offered it. I felt as though God Himself prevented me. But I see that you have unburdened yourself another way, and so have I. Are you happy about it? Did you really want the farm after all? I would have understood if you were meant to keep it. Helped any way I could.
Please come back to church services. I believe I know why you stay away.
Sincerely,
James
James, not Mr. Bleu.
How shy of him to send this letter and not stop by. I’m glad he did though. I pulled fresh paper and readied my pen to respond right away. Scribbled a few words I probably ought to scratch out.
I needed to wait. Think of what to say, order my thoughts, choose my words carefully. Pray, even.
I stood and stretched. A walk would help.
I saw him in the distance, riding his horse. James. He moved across the field and met another man. Charles Birch. Would’ve been silly for me to flag him down and run towards him like a half-crazed woman. Such a thought!
He never saw me, though I couldn’t help hoping he’d turn around. Instead, they rode off. Fishing? Courting other girls? Heat rose to my cheeks. I couldn’t deny my feelings.
I shook off the thought and touched the scar he’d mended, this hand that encircles warm cups of tea. I hoped we could share more cups—ones of laughter and friendship. I hoped his fingers would pause there again, not in ministrations, but with a tender, loving touch. I reached for my locket, holding firm to one purpose: God’s will. I’ll never tell a soul my heart on this matter.
Since it was so near, I slipped into the mercantile to purchase more tea and a few more baskets. I seem to never have enough. The locals snicker at my purchases, so little I can do for myself. But I also fill their purses with coin and thank God that I can buy canned fruits and vegetables for the solitary winter ahead.
Lad and I, we don’t eat too much.
I haven’t written James back yet. Must rein in my heart when I do.
JAMES JOINED CHARLES and his family round the large harvest table. Roasted beef, boiled potatoes, steaming gravy—every bounty known to a Kentucky garden within reach. How long had it been since he’d joined another family for fellowship?
A mercy Charles had invited him. They hadn’t known he was coming, but squeezed another chair in with seeming pleasure.
Kate didn’t look happy. Wasn’t that girl always humming a song? What was wrong? Charles bent low to her ear, she nodded. Took his seat nearby.
He wasn’t prepared for what ensued. Thought most of his troubles were over. Did they really believe he’d be on their side? How foolish.
Kate left the table, taking a plate of food. Charles rolled his eyes. James could no longer savor his bites. A storm was coming.
“She ain’t up to no good.”
“That Dorothy Trafton. Like her mother, takes what isn’t hers.”
“Did you see her sneaking around our land the other day?” Heads nodded.
Charles spoke up. “She was out walking with Kate, that’s all.”
“She might get to thinking she has a right to the back section.” He could almost hear Hammond’s voice.
“Shut up, Grem.”
“Well, it says...”
Looks passed and lips clammed. James sat with his hands on his knees, slightly pushed back from the table.
“What does what say, Grem?” Charles queried.
James’ irritation welled up. “Does she have a right to the back section?” His voice sounded loud.
“Naw. Not after all these years.”
“She’ll probably burn that house down. Hate to see it go.”
“If she does, she owes us, I’ll see to that.”
James could stand it no longer. “Just what does she owe you—how much exactly, do you expect from the poor girl?” He scanned the room.
Eyes dashed to him at his unexpected speech. He stood and pulled out his wallet. “What dollar amount will satisfy this family?”
“Put your money away, we don’t have a grudge with you.”
James seethed. “No. I can’t accept that. You evidently care very much about that forgotten sliver. How much you think it’s worth?”
“Can’t put a price on a man’s land.”
James tossed a few hundred on the table. “Take this and say nothing. I don’t want to hear another word, ever. And if I do hear such talk again, I’ll find out what you’ve determined to hide. You should be ashamed.” He strode out.
Charles followed him outside. “I’m so sorry, James. I’ll talk some sense into them. The family never got over Uncle Abe’s death.” He cleared his throat. “Some of us really care about Dorothy.”
“You know, she’s all alone?” The pit of his stomach dropped. Alone, like him.
“There are ways of being alone without being alone.” Charles looked back to the home he’d been born in. “Kate and I will talk to them. Make them see...”
James mounted his horse. “If you can change another’s thinking. Some things only Jesus can cure.”
He had to find her. “Thanks, Charles.” He rode away. He had to find her now. Find her, and be her family.
He made a quick pace to her cottage. Old Becky lay contentedly in her stall. He tied his horse to a nearby post and sped to the door. No answer. He knocked louder, peered in the open window. “Dorothy?”
Why did she not come? He walked around the house, dared to walk in. What if she’s ill? He ran to her room, and a scene came rushing back. How he’d found her, bent over Ruth’s body, inconsolable. How she gripped Ruth’s slack hand. Had nearly been his undoing.
Nothing but a perfectly-made bed. He slowed, feeling as though he’d entered a sacred space. He didn’t belong. He backed into the living area and turned around at her desk. Saw his letter laying there, wide open. Beside it, a few sentences penned...
“Dear James,
Dear, dear James. How can I miss what we’ve never had? But I do...
His heart thumped faster than his legs could run. He had to find her. He cantered down every road. Hightailed it to town. Checked the mercantile, Reverend Meade’s—even rode all the way out to Cedar Gate. Did no one know her whereabouts?
Philip hopped on his horse and went on his own search, leaving a porch-full of worried folks behind.
“Bring her back to us!” Mrs. MacDonald shouted.
James rode back to his house, just in case, then doubled back to hers. Still empty. Old Becky, alone in her stable.
Kate showed up, basket across her arm, question in her eyes. “Isn’t she home?”
James took his hat off and threw up a hand. “Can’t find her anywhere.”
“I’ll leave this food on the table. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” She gave a reassuring nod. “My family, Mr. Bleu, I love them, but sometimes I wish we weren’t related.”
He nodded and mounted his horse again. “Got any ideas?”
“Oh—sometimes she walks to the church. She likes to be there when it’s empty.”
The church. “Thank you!” His horse was tired. He took off with as much speed as he dared. Never mind that. They’d walk slowly home. Please be there.
He drew close, heart hammering. That dog of hers lazed at the open doorway. Lad panted a greeting, wagged his tail. He only heard her song. Dorothy’s voice, high and sweet, filled the silence. One of Ruth’s songs. He might have stood to listen, but he couldn’t wait. He had to know.
He stepped inside. Evening sun poured through the windows, but she sat in a cool, shadowy place at the altar. Singing her song like a lullaby, her face lifted to the plain cross on the wall. A long aisle between them...
His heart thrummed, his throat closed. He moved onward, one hand out—as though he might need to steady himself on a pew at any moment. She turned slightly and caught her breath. Stopped singing altogether, bit her lip, watching him with her innocent gaze. Those eyes.
He eased down beside her, words clogged down deep in his heart.
He held out his hand instead. Suspended between them for a moment as her gaze reached out for his. She slowly, shyly put her hand in his. Home. He had no more doubts.
“I couldn’t find you.” He cradled her open palm, stroking the scar. “Been looking everywhere. Was worried...”
“Is there an emergency? Is Uncle...”
“No. Hammond is Hammond.”
Her eyes drooped down, gazing at their hands. He gently lifted her chin, her eyes flicked to his. How to give himself? His marred countenance, his imperfect soul? Now or never. He grew dizzy.
She trembled, a tear threatened.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered. He shook, his stomach churned.
She obeyed. Willingly, sweetly. Fear and terror rose, then disappeared when her chin tilted upward. His hands cupped her precious face and he dared to press his lips against hers.
SEPTEMBER 20, EVENING
How could I know how God would answer the void in my life? That lonesome, aching place. Like Pilgrim, I needed the foot of the cross and a steep hill to toss that unsettled, shifting burden down. All the letting go I had to do—my parents, my family, my land— the still, quiet waiting I’d come to expect, day in, day out. Nothing compared to the gift I am to receive now.
I savor the memory of my hand in James’s. Hope holds my heart. Before we left the altar, he promised himself to me. I did the same.
If Lad hadn’t begun barking, we might not have separated. My heart thumps at the thought.
I softly stroked the scar down his handsome face. He needed to know that I cherish him. All of him. Next time, he won’t need me to close my eyes.
Finding my home here in Paris, Kentucky, in the heart of my James—how downright unexpected.
He explained what he’d heard at the Birch’s, on our long walk back home. Asked me what I wanted to do—no longer fearing my choices, I sensed his trust. For the moment, I could only gaze into his deep, dark eyes. Humor flicked in one corner of his mouth.
Of Needles and Haystacks Page 25