Carol Ritten Smith (7 page)

When she handed it to him, Mr. Glower placed the hat securely on his head and straightened it precisely. As he climbed into his buggy, he said, “I’m afraid, Miss Patterson, I’m leaving with a rather poor impression of you and your students.”

That’s not all you’re leaving with,
she thought with satisfaction as Glower snapped the reins and drove away.

“How did it go?” Tom asked, watching the buggy diminish in the distance.

“Miserably.”

“Figures. When he told me he was the school inspector, I knew he’d be a son of a bi — I mean — he’d be difficult to deal with. Don’t worry. He may act like he’s important, but the school trustees have the final say in what happens in our school.”

It surprised her to realize he was trying to make her feel better about the fiasco. And it finally dawned on her why the blacksmith had barged into her classroom just before lunch. If she hadn’t been so set on putting him in his place, she would have had prior warning and time to prepare the students.

Beth turned to him, humbled in the face of his kindness. “Mr. Carver, I owe you an apology.”

Tom folded and stuffed the inspector’s payment into his shirt pocket. “What for?” He crossed his arms and waited.

She could see he wasn’t going to make this easy. “For coming to warn me earlier.”

“Warn you?”

“You know, about the inspector.”

Tom chuckled. “Do you really think I would come all the way over here just to warn you about him? Miss Patterson, you’d best get back to teaching. Like you said, you don’t get paid to visit.” He walked away, leaving Beth standing by herself.

Deny it all he wanted. She knew the truth. At least she thought she did.

A few days before the box social, Abigail Craig carried a plateful of goodies covered with a clean tea towel to the smithy. Tom was at the drill press with his back to her. The donkey engine powering the overhead crankshaft, which in turn powered the drill, generated a deafening noise. Attempting to call him would be futile, so she sat on a stool in the back corner and waited.

Tom held up a two-foot length of iron and checked the hole he’d just drilled. Satisfied, he reached over and closed the regulator on the engine. Even after the racket ceased, his eardrums still vibrated. He turned and saw Abigail smiling at him. “Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s not surprising. I brought you some chocolate squares, if you’ve time to stop.” She lifted a corner of the tea towel.

Tom didn’t need to see the squares to know he wanted one. “I’ll make time.” He threw off his leather apron, gave his hands a quick rinse in a tub of water and then dragged over another stool. He leaned in for a better whiff. “Hmm, they smell good!” He popped a whole one in his mouth, chewed for a minute and then said, working his words around his mouthful, “Taste good too.” He reached for second one.

Abigail beamed. “I added peppermint oil.”

“That’s what I thought. Thanks.” He bent forward and gave her a peck on the cheek. There was no doubt she spoiled him. Whether he deserved it or not was debatable. Ever since the night that she’d introduced the idea of leaving — was that already more than a month ago? — Tom had been wrestling with his heart and conscience. His conscience said “marry her,” but his heart wouldn’t let him. And that troubled Tom tremendously. Abigail was a comely woman with a pleasant demeanor. She was an excellent cook, and a satisfying lover — everything a man could want. But after searching his heart, he knew he didn’t love her enough to want to spend the rest of his life with her.

But how could he end the relationship without breaking her heart?

Their Friday evenings together were different now. He continued having suppers with her — what single man wouldn’t want a sumptuous supper once a week — but he deliberately found excuses to avoid intimacy with her. He said he was too tired after swinging a sledge all day, or he was sore from shoeing horses. These things had never stopped him before, so he made light of it saying he must be getting old, to which Abigail reminded him jokingly that thirty-five was hardly old. But there were occasions when he saw puzzlement or hurt in her eyes and he wondered if it wouldn’t be better, kinder, to end the relationship quickly and get the pain over with.

“You’re frowning, Tom. Is something the matter?”

He quickly shook his head and smiled. “I banged my leg earlier and it still throbs once in a while,” he lied.

“Would another square take your mind off it?”

“That it might.” He reached for one but Abby yanked the plate away.

“That’s too bad. The only way you can have another one is if you buy my lunch at the box social.”

“Oh, I see. That’s what this visit is all about.” Each fall, the ladies of Whistle Creek organized a box social with the proceeds used to buy candy and small gifts to be given out at the Christmas concert. “When is it?” he asked.

“This Saturday.”

“Gee, I’m busy that day.”

“Fibber,” she admonished. “You haven’t missed a box social yet. You like food too much.”

“Especially yours.”

“If you want, I could tell you how my lunch will be wrapped.”

“Abigail!” He pretended to be shocked. “That would be cheating. You wouldn’t want me to compromise your principles, would you?”

Her eyes shadowed slightly. “I think it’s a little too late to be worried about that.”

Damn. Guilt stabbed Tom’s gut. She was right. He’d been so unfair to her, their liaison subjecting her to gossip. He needed to stop seeing her. But he couldn’t do it now. With most of the community attending the box social, breaking up just before the event would only give the gossipmongers more to talk about and Abigail had suffered enough from their sharp tongues.

No, their break-up would have to wait.

Feeling somewhat relieved the inevitable was postponed, Tom turned the conversation to something lighter. “I hear that Lewie Hanks will be at the social. I bet you’d enjoy sharing lunch with him.”

“Lewie Hanks. Isn’t he that bachelor who’s opposed to bath water?”

“Oh, he’s not opposed to it, so long as he’s not in it.”

She grinned, following his jovial lead. “And I hear that Miranda Parsons will be there. Maybe you’re hoping to bid on her lunch instead of mine.”

The thought of sharing lunch with that floozy nearly turned his stomach. And if Hanks
did
buy Abigail’s lunch — well, he just couldn’t let that happen. “You know what? I think we’d better cheat. Describe your lunch and give me details.”

“It will be large, and wrapped with pink and white polka dotted paper.”

“Pink and white dots. Got it.”

“And tied with — ”

“Yoo-hoo, Tom. You in here, Tom?” It was Davy.

Abigail immediately tensed.

“Sorry, Abby,” Tom whispered. He could see that she was displeased by the boy’s untimely appearance. “He comes nearly every day after school.”

“You in here, Tom?” Davy called again.

“In the back.”

Tom made the necessary introductions. “Abigail, this is Davy Patterson, youngest brother to the new schoolteacher. Davy, this is Mrs. Craig, a very good friend of mine.”

“Are you the Widow Craig who sews?”

Abigail forced a tight-lipped smile. Tom knew she hated being called that. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m a friend of Tom’s too.”

“Yes, Tom told me.” There was an undeniable coolness to her voice.

“Listen, Davy,” Tom said, “would you put some more coal in the forge? I’m talking with Mrs. Craig.”

But Abigail stood. “I’d better go. You have lots to do. See you Friday night?”

“I wish I could, but if I’m taking Saturday off, I’d better work late.”

She seemed disappointed. “I understand.”

• • •

The day of the social, Beth ticked off the items on her list as she filled the box. Satisfied that everything was packed, she wrote her name on a slip of paper, making certain to sign
Patterson
. She needn’t have worried. Accustomed to hearing herself called Miss Patterson at school all day, she seldom even thought of signing Parkerson now. Only once, when they had first moved to Whistle Creek, had she blundered, but quickly caught her mistake before anyone noticed. She merely changed the ‘rk’ in Parkerson to ‘tt’ in Patterson.

She set the paper carefully atop the packed food. Mindful to keep the box upright, she wrapped it and then stood back and eyed her lunch, pleased with the results. Once the box was opened, the buyer would pair up with her and they would enjoy the lunch together. She got butterflies just thinking about who he might be.

When Davy exited the boys’ bedroom, Beth’s heart warmed at the sight of him shining like a polished penny.

“Who are you?” she asked as she set the lunch aside.

He looked perplexed. “Davy.”

“No, you’re not. Davy has a rooster-tail poking straight up right here.” Beth tapped her finger gently on her brother’s head. “And let me see those fingernails. Ah ha! That proves it! The Davy I know always has dirty nails.”

Davy giggled at his sister’s teasing.

“There’s only one way to tell.” She poked him under his arm and in his ribs until he was laughing hysterically.

“Why, mercy, it is you, Davy! I never would have believed it! You look so spit polished.”

“So does Bill.”

“Does he?” she asked, eyes bright. That was a switch. Dressing up for Bill usually meant making certain his socks matched.

But Davy was right. When Bill came into the room, Beth eyed her brother appreciatively. It had been too long since she’d seen him in good clothes. Heavens, he was even wearing a tie!

“You look handsome, Bill,” Davy exclaimed.

“Shut up, twerp,” Bill warned, though obviously pleased his groomed appearance had not gone unnoticed. “You ready, Beth?”

“Yes.” She carefully placed her wrapped lunch inside a larger box so no one would see which lunch she brought. “Let’s go.”

“What stinks?” Davy asked.

Bill gave Davy a shove. “It’s cologne and it don’t stink.”

Cologne?
Beth wondered where Bill found the money, wishing she had some perfume for herself. Then she had an idea.

“You two go on ahead. I’ll catch up in a few minutes.” She set the boxed lunch on the table and quickly opened the cupboard, withdrew the small bottle of vanilla and dabbed a few drops behind each ear. For good measure, she dabbed some more at the base of her neck. She grabbed the lunch again and caught up to the boys before they reached the school. They were arguing.

“What’s the matter, now?”

“I want to eat with Bill.”

“And I said no!” Bill retorted.

Davy kicked at a thistle. “But why not?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

“You can eat with me today, Davy,” Beth stated firmly, thwarting any further dispute. If Bill had gone to the trouble of wrestling with a tie and putting on cologne, then someone had caught his eye. Beth was pretty certain that that someone was Annaleese Hewn. Davy would just get in their way.

Several people were already in the school, standing around in clusters, visiting. The students’ desks had been pushed to the side, some stacked precariously one upon the other and looking about as stable as a one of Davy’s card houses. At the front of the classroom, Beth’s desk had been curtained off, allowing the women to secretly deposit their lunches. Beth lifted her lunch from the large protective box and set hers among the others, relieved to find it looked very similar to the other wrapped lunches.

Suddenly she remembered she hadn’t packed any cutlery. Racing back to the house, she grabbed the necessary utensils and stuffed them in the large pocket of her skirt. She had just returned to the school when someone called her name.

“Miss Patterson, wait.” It was Penelope Pickard, running ahead of her family carrying something large. Perched upon her head was that ridiculous feathered hat.

Immediately the memory of being caught in the maple tree came barging into Beth’s mind, but she shoved it aside. There was no way she would let that unfortunate moment ruin this day.

“Would you please take this in for mother?” Penelope thrust a large lunch wrapped in a blanket like an oversized baby into Beth’s arms. “I have to go to the privy.”

“Oh, of course. Away you go then.” She watched her dash to the facility out back. Beth smiled sadly, acknowledging the girl’s bladder problem. Before and since the school inspector’s visit, Penelope had had several accidents in the classroom.

Down the road a hundred yards, the remaining Pickard children straggled behind their parents, Jonah riding drag. With that many mouths to feed, no wonder this lunch is so enormous, Beth thought. Before her arms were pulled from their sockets, she decided to take it inside.

“Oh here, Miss Patterson, please allow me to take dat from ew.” It was Lars Anderstom. “Dis lunch is too heavy for a little voooman such as ew, I tink.”

Beth smiled generously at the Norwegian. She’d met him a few times before, usually at Betner’s General Store. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. She imagined that they were the color of a deep Norwegian fjord and every time he looked at her, she felt she might drown in their depths. But Lars was shy and didn’t often meet her gaze. Today he seemed to be looking at her right ear.

Beth tucked the blanket around the lunch. “It’s not too heavy,” she lied, shifting the cumbersome lunch to her other arm. “How was your harvest?” she asked, leaning ever so slightly to the right to center herself in his view.

“Ah, da harvest vas gewd.”

She liked the way he spoke. His accent had a sing song quality to it.

“And yewr teaching? Dat is going vell?”

“Yes,” Beth answered as her arm started to go numb. “The children are wonderful.”

Lars nodded.

One more minute and Beth would have no feeling at all in her arm. “I’d better put this inside now,” she said reluctantly, wishing she could get one more gaze into those blue pools of his, but Lars had moved to open the door.

“Maybe you’ll buy my lunch and we can continue our conversation?” She blushed slightly, never having been so bold with a man before. Oh, but it would be wonderful to sit across from him as they ate!