Forevermore (2 page)

“Are you,” Emmy-Lou asked as she hopped and wiggled, “gonna make me cookies now?”

“Can’t say for certain. Don’t you worry none, though. I promise I’ll bake up a batch.”

“Big ones?”

“C’mere.” Hope tugged Emmy-Lou close and inspected her hand. “My, you’re a big girl!”

“Un-huh!”

Hope traced her finger around Emmy-Lou’s palm. “Well, a girl your size would probably want a cookie so big it would barely fit in her hand.”

Mrs. Erickson remained by the door. “Emmy-Lou, it’s naptime.
Gehe zum Bett.”

Go to bed
, Hope translated in her mind. Emmy-Lou’s lower lip poked out in a pout. Hope turned her and gave her a nudge.
“Ja,
Emmy-Lou
.”
She searched for the German words for “sleep well.”
“Schlaff gut.”

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
Mrs. Erickson gave her a startled look.

“Only a tad.” Hope held open the screen door. “Just enough to get by in the kitchen. Don’t much matter what the language, a rumbling belly sounds the same.”

Once inside, Mrs. Erickson held Emmy-Lou’s hand and looked a little uncertain.

Hope inhaled deeply. “Mmm-mm. You’re bakin’ bread. If’n you tell me how much longer it needs, I’ll be happy to pull it outta the oven so’s you can take a nap yourself.”

Mrs. Erickson shook her head. “I need no nap. Have some coffee.” She looked away and added, “I will be back with you in a minute.”

While Mrs. Erickson tucked her niece into bed, Hope glanced around the downstairs of the farmhouse. Stairs divided the area in half. A large, sunny parlor with a piano lay to the left of the door. Just beyond it, a door to a small room stood open. Snooping would be wrong, so Hope satisfied her curiosity simply by standing on tiptoe and craning her neck. A rolltop desk and a shelf of books told her Mr. Stauffer must have a lot of book learning.

To her right, a set of matching maple furniture made her breath catch. The washstand, hutch, table and chairs looked so grand, Hope figured even a king would be proud to own them.

Shafts of wheat woven into pretty designs hung on either side of the washstand, and on the adjacent wall a sampler and a framed photograph decorated the wall to one side of the sunny window. The picture captured a blond woman, aglow with love, gazing up at Mr. Stauffer. In contrast to his present worry lines, in the picture he looked completely carefree. A clock hung on the other side of the window. The gleaming brass pendulum ticked the seconds while the hands momentarily clasped together to show the time of five minutes past one.

Beyond that were the kitchen and a door that undoubtedly led to a pantry tucked beneath the stairs. Blue-and-lavender-flowered feed-sack curtains swagged to either side of a window right over a big sink, and coffee stayed warm on a huge Sunshine stove.

Hope headed into the kitchen. Women could be mighty particular about their kitchens, and she’d learned to pay heed to what a lady said. Following directions on the first day invariably put everyone on a good footing. As it was, Mr. Stauffer acted downright unfriendly, and Mrs. Erickson seemed pretty standoffish.
If’n this is where God wants me, all’s I need to provide is a good meal and a little time, and we’ll all get along
.

“Mugs . . . mugs . . .” In the second cupboard she opened, Hope found dishes—white ones with a dainty ring of forgetme-nots along the edge. She took out two cups and went to the stove to fill them. Hearing Mrs. Erickson come down the stairs, she asked, “Should I get cream out of the icebox for you?”

“Nein
. I can get it.”

Hope slid the cups onto the table. “Ma’am, I’m here to help. All I did was sit in the mule cart all morning. I’d count it a favor if you’d let me stretch my legs again by fetching the cream before we have us a sit-down.”

Mrs. Erickson nodded. Her gaze skittered away.

Poor woman was timid. Maybe embarrassed, too, at starting to slow down on account of her big belly.

A chuckle bubbled out of Hope as she lifted the whimsical porcelain creamer. “Never milked me a frog, but this’un’s cute enough, it makes me think ’tis possible.” She set it down on the table and scooted the sugar closer to Mrs. Erickson. “Reckon gettin’ sugar and cream from a frog’s loads better’n gettin’ warts.”

“I . . . I suppose so.” A hesitant smile crossed Mrs. Erickson’s face.

Hope slid into a chair and took a sip from her cup. “Oh, you make a fine cup of coffee. I like putting eggshells in with the grinds to take out the bitterness. What do
you
do?”

“Eggshells.”

Hope smiled. “Now, how’d you like that? No wonder I thunk yours tasted so good. I noticed that stove there. Mighty fine one. Big reservoir shore must come in handy.”

“It does not burn so hot as a wood stove, but I like it.”

“Me too! Baking takes a few minutes longer, but the biscuits won’t burn as quick if you get busy with something else.” Hope took a sip of coffee. “I saw the coal bin. If’n you tell me where you keep your coal, I’ll fill it up.”

Mrs. Erickson glanced at the clock and started to rise.

“Betcha the bread’s ready.” Hope hopped up and motioned her to sit back down. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to horn in, but it seems to me that there’s gonna be plenty ’nuff for us to do. Might as well have you save up your strength whilst I work out my wiggles.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Hope coaxed information from Mrs. Erickson. When they’d decided on what to make for supper, Hope asked, “How many do we cook for?”

“There will be Jakob, Phineas, Emmy-Lou, you, and me.”

So that’s her husband’s name. I wondered where he was
.
Oddsounding name
. Hope repeated it to commit it to memory.

“Phineas.”

“My brother’s farmhand.” Mrs. Erickson stuck her spoon into her coffee cup and stirred, even though she’d already swallowed all but the last mouthful. “He sleeps in a room in the barn, but he eats with us here.”

Something’s a-goin’ on and she don’t want me to know. Well, I don’t gotta know. She’ll tell me when she’s good and ready
. Hope decided to change the topic. “That Emmy-Lou, she’s a comely child. Her hair puts me in a mind of duck down. Is it just as soft?”

Relief flashed in Mrs. Erickson’s eyes. She nodded.

“How old is she?”

“Four. Almost five.” When Hope nodded encouragement, Mrs. Erickson hesitantly added, “They cut her hair when she had the fever.”

“Long hair drains a sick gal’s vital energy.” Hope straightened her apron. “Lopping it off probably saved her life.”

Mrs. Erickson bobbed her head—a tiny jerk of a movement.

Either this lady’s painfully shy, or she don’t want to get too friendly in case they decide not to keep me on. Well, won’t be the first time I had to prove myself
. “If’n you don’t mind, I’d shorely like to bake up a batch of cookies for her. Young’uns have a habit of taking a thought and turnin’ it into a promise.”

“We can do that.”

“Mrs. Erickson, ma’am, do you mind me askin’ on whether you can read?”

“Yes.” Hastily she tacked on, “I’m sorry. I don’t mind you asking. Yes, I read.”

“Dandy! Then, how about me gettin’ the lay of the kitchen whilst you read them recommendin’ letters?”

Hope refilled Mrs. Erickson’s coffee cup, then mixed up a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies. As she dropped spoonfuls of cookie dough onto the baking sheet, she asked, “Do y’all have a springhouse?”
Blop
.

“What do you need?”

“That cream’s about gone, and so’s the butter.”
Blop
. “Reckoned I’d go fetch some.”
Blop
. “What with Emmy-Lou nappin’ ”—
blop
—“I’m shore you”—
blop—
“don’t want her”—
blop
—“wakin’ up to a stranger.”
Blop
.

“You do that so fast!”

Hope grinned. “You know the sayin’, ‘Strike while the oven’s hot.’ ”

“Iron.” The woman barely mumbled the request and couldn’t even look Hope in the eye as she made it.

“I’d be glad to iron.” She popped the cookies into the oven, banged the flatiron on the stove, and asked again, “So where’s that springhouse?”

Jakob’s gait slowed as he walked past the garden. Dark pockmarks in the soil abounded where weeds once thrived— freshly tilled spots that accused him of not having seen to the garden as he ought. Oh, he’d had every intention of weeding the garden, but urgent things kept popping up. So had weeds.

A few items fluttered out on the clothesline—even though it wasn’t laundry day.

Knocking some of the earth off his boots on the edge of the lowest porch step, Jakob wrinkled his nose. Vinegar. Odd. Unsettling, even. As he approached the door, the scent made sense. Someone had cleaned the windows. He corrected himself. Window. Only the one to the left of the door had been cleaned. Dust still coated the right one.

He spied Miss Ladley through the clean window. Standing in profile to him, she ironed Annie’s Sunday-best dress. She’d been wearing a straw hat earlier—a battered one that hid her hair. In fact, if she hadn’t cut holes for the mule’s ears in the other hat, she should have traded the beast and worn the better one. At any rate, he could see her hair now. The color of ripe wheat and braided to resemble the same, her hair was pinned in a large circle around the back of her head, and dozens of small wisps coiled around her face and nape.

As women went, she was ordinary enough—neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, pretty nor homely. Upon meeting her, he’d absently noticed the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and the directness in her hazel gaze. The former made her look young; the latter lent an air of maturity. Jakob rubbed the back of his neck. He’d talk with his sister and ask how the day had gone. Annie needed help, but she didn’t need anyone prodding her or prying into things.

Pulling his gaze from the woman, Jakob opened the door. The mouth-watering aroma of meat and potatoes filled the house. Miss Ladley glanced at him from the other side of the ironing board and motioned toward the washstand. “Do y’all like your water cool after a hot day, or warmed up a mite?”

“It’s fine the way it is.” He hung his hat on the peg by the door, then paused at the washstand and went through his usual ablutions—but it felt odd, having a strange woman in the kitchen while he did so.

“Your daughter’s out on the back veranda with her auntie. Soon as your hired hand comes in, I’ll put supper on the table.”

“All right.” He walked past her, through the kitchen. Ever since Naomi died, he’d stopped coming through the back door at suppertime. It grieved him too much to come in and not see her standing by the stove. She’d always stop her humming just long enough to welcome him. Eight jars sat back by the sink—each filled with string beans. Who bothered to can only eight jars? It made no more sense than only one clean window. Brooding, he shoved open the back door.

“Daddy!” Emmy-Lou sprang into his arms. “I’ve been good! Will you take me to see Milky and the kitties now?”

“After supper.” He pressed a kiss on her forehead and turned toward his sister. “Annie?”

Annie continued to whirl the hand crank on the Daisy paddlewheel butter churn. It was a light chore, to be sure, but he still frowned. Annie was fragile, and he didn’t want her working so much. She cast a glance toward the house and whispered, “Her letters—they all praise her. Lavishly praise her. Twenty-three of them, and I read them all. Do you remember Lionel Volkner?”

He nodded. “Leopold’s oldest brother.”

“One recommendation is from him. He said he’s never seen a woman work harder.”

“Is that so?” Lionel Volkner was a man of few words, and most of them were harsh.

“Daddy?” Completely oblivious to how her father and aunt had been whispering, Emmy-Lou said loudly, “She baked me big, big, big cookies. Do I getta eat one while we see the kitties?”

“Have you already eaten one?”

Emmy-Lou wrinkled her nose and turned to Annie. “I didn’t.

Did I?”

“We all shared one after you woke up from your nap.”

The door opened. Miss Ladley laughed. “Milk and cookie then, and after supper, Emmy-Lou wants Milky and a cookie again.”

Emmy-Lou giggled as she galloped to the door. “That was funny. You could see Milky with me and have your own cookie.”

“We’ll see. Your pa worked hard all day. First off, we’ve gotta feed him.” She’d leaned down to talk to Emmy-Lou, but now Miss Ladley straightened up. “Lookee here, Emmy-Lou!” She took the butter churn from Annie. “Your auntie done went and churned butter, and she made you buttermilk to go with your supper. Wasn’t that nice of her?”

“Uh-huh!”

Pulling herself out of the chair, Annie reached for the churn. “I’m sorry I took so long. I should have had that butter rinsed and pressed by now.”

Before he could say anything, Miss Ladley responded. “Weren’t no hurry. And cream can be stubborn. It takes a notion how long it wants you to churn afore it gives up the butter. What say I rinse and press this whilst you help your niece spruce up and get to the table?”

Jakob held the door open. Miss Ladley waited until Annie and Emmy-Lou entered, then slid past him and went directly to work. As he pulled the door shut, something caught his eye: Annie’s dress, his white shirt, and Emmy-Lou’s tiny dress—their Sunday-best clothes—freshly ironed and ready to be carried upstairs. Jakob’s initial rush of gratitude changed to astonishment as he looked a little higher to see how she’d managed to hang the clothes. That crazy woman created a peg by wedging a table knife between the top of the pantry door and lintel.

One hand barely closed around the hangers before the other yanked out the knife. Almost desperately, he studied the spot and reassured himself she hadn’t damaged the wood or paint. Perfect. The knife hadn’t marred it at all. He’d painted the kitchen one Thursday as a surprise when Naomi went to market. He’d worked like a madman to get it all done before she returned, and the memory of her delight washed over him in a bittersweet wave.

“Daddy’s got the clothes.”

“Ain’t that nice of you to take the clothes upstairs, Mr. Stauffer?” The tin pitcher tinkled as Miss Ladley poured the buttermilk into it. “ ’Tis always grand to see a family that pitches in and helps out.”