More Than a Dream (28 page)
That evening after everyone else was in bed, Ingeborg wrote to Thorliff.
August 10, 1895
Dear Thorliff,
I have such sad news to tell you.
She described what had happened the day before, tears blotting the ink in several places.
We buried him today next to his father and mother. The sight of those three graves is almost more than I can bear. While I know he is with our Lord—if I didn’t have that to comfort me, I don’t know how I would go on—I still ache for those of us left behind. It was almost like losing a son of my own, and that is beyond imagining. Tonight I am thankful that Agnes went first so that she doesn’t have to bear this too.
She stopped to blow her nose and continued.
The bull is here in the corral. Your father prevented Knute from shooting the poor creature.
I haven’t heard from you in some time, so I hope and pray that all is going well. Won’t be long now till it’s harvest time. Swen was planning on going along with the threshing crew, so now I know Hamre will go. Andrew wants a chance to go, but someone has to stay here to help with the work. Some good news. George McBride and Ilse were married at the end of last month. It took us by surprise when they so quickly decided to marry, but there were signs of a romance blooming. Such a rush, but we finished their wedding quilt in time. Onkel Olaf made them a lovely oak bed and trunk. They received so many nice gifts, including several hens and a rooster. George is becoming very adept at doing things around the farm. They are living in Tante Kaaren’s soddy, so Hamre is back with us. He never says anything, but I know he was sweet on Ilse at one time too. I wouldn’t be surprised if sometime he heads west to go fishing out in the Pacific Ocean. He hears about the fishing fleets, and I can see his interest, in spite of that face of his that shows so little.
I do not think Astrid and I will come visit this year, no matter how much we want to. I just get a feeling I should not be gone, and now that harvest is about to start, my leaving is impossible. We should have come earlier, but the summer has gone by so fast. I wish you could come home even just long enough for me to see your dear face. I am sorry this is such a sad letter.
Love from your mother.
She signed her name and sighed again. Such a time this was for sighing. If only she could convince Anji to go ahead with the wedding. Everyone needed something to lift the heaviness. Much as she hated to admit it, she did especially.
Northfield, Minnesota
‘‘You finally look rested again.’’ Thorliff stood poised with his croquet mallet, looking indeed like a formidable opponent.
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Bjorklund, for those kind words.’’ Elizabeth fought back a yawn that would put the lie to his words. ‘‘Don’t you know it is impolite to comment on a woman’s health?’’
Or the
lack thereof?
She’d slept round the clock for two days and then half of this one. And the only reason the purple half moons didn’t show beneath her eyes was because she’d powdered them after lying with cool cucumber slices in place for half an hour. Again she fought a yawn. Gracious, he would think her most impolite after her gentle reminder on his behalf.
She eyed the croquet wickets, wishing she hadn’t taken him up on his challenge. ‘‘I get the feeling you’ve been practicing while I was gone.’’
‘‘I needed to become a worthy opponent.’’ He put his foot on his wooden ball that snuggled against hers and swung his mallet. Her ball headed for the lilac hedge as if it might keep going clear through and on to the river about a quarter mile away.
She could just see the red stripe when it finally stopped. ‘‘That really wasn’t very nice, you know.’’
‘‘Ah, but so very satisfying. Your father taught me well.’’
‘‘He should have warned me. After all, I am his daughter.’’
‘‘And how often have you done the same to him?’’
‘‘Beyond counting.’’
‘‘You can shoot from five feet this side of the hedge. Your father said that is the normal next play.’’
‘‘Thank you, kind sir.’’ Passing him on her way to the ball, she glanced up to see his incredibly wonderful blue eyes dancing at her. Had his eyes become more blue over the summer? And why was her neck feeling warm? Wishing she had a fan in spite of the cooling breeze, she dug her ball out of the hedge and hammered it back to the playing field. It flew past the wickets, past the beginning post, and rolled to a stop by the wrought-iron chaise lounge under the oak tree. Six more inches and it would not have been playable—again.
‘‘Would you like to call a truce and enjoy the ginger ale Cook is bringing out?’’
I’d like to call the game,
she muttered to herself but instead she turned a brilliant smile on her opponent. ‘‘If you feel the need for refreshment, of course we shall take a break.’’ She thought with longing of the piano waiting for her in the music room. She kept herself from collapsing on the lounger and instead took one of the cast-iron chairs with a rose-patterned cushion. If she were to lie back, that stubborn yawn would have its way, and she would be comatose within moments. Pushing the tray closer to Thorliff, she took a glass with her other hand and held its dripping coolness up to her cheek. Ah, the delight of having ice delivered to the house daily during the summer. She thought back to the heat and humidity of the hospital and lifted her chin to let the coolness of a breeze in the shade of the old oak tree caress her neck.
‘‘What have you heard from your mother? They must be coming pretty soon.’’
Thorliff took a long swallow of his drink and shook his head, his eyebrows arching slightly. He glanced down at his hands, and when he looked up again, his eyes wore a shroud of sadness.
‘‘They aren’t coming. Anji’s brother Swen was gored by a bull and died. Our families are so close, and Swen was like a brother to me. I can’t begin to imagine how they all are handling the sorrow of this.’’ The slump of his shoulders betrayed the weight of grief he carried. ‘‘Some of the other families are having real problems too, so Ma has been taking care of them all. Harvest is going now, and she can’t leave. Too much work to do.’’ He stared at the glass in his two hands, suspended between his knees.
‘‘Oh, Thorliff, I am so sorry. Here we’ve been having such a good time, and I-I had no idea. . . .’’
He raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. ‘‘Yeah, well, that’s life. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’’ He looked across the table to Elizabeth. ‘‘But sometimes it is mighty hard to say, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ ’’
‘‘I know. Sometimes in the operating room when we lose a patient, like when we lost Moira and her baby, I want to scream at the heavens.’’ She held the glass to her cheek again. ‘‘Your mother and I have a lot in common, don’t we?’’
‘‘Ja, you do.’’
‘‘Are you going to go home for a few days?’’
‘‘No, I don’t have the time. Perhaps I’ll go this year at Christmas.’’
‘‘I won’t be here for Christmas.’’ Sadness struck like a lightning bolt, her heart splitting like a mighty oak. Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she wasn’t sure if it was for herself or for the young man sitting near enough that she could touch his hand if she leaned forward. The hands that clasped a cool glass had carried her book satchel, had helped her into the sleigh. Hands that ran the printer and penned marvelous stories. Hands that she wanted to hold in an act of comfort, in the hope that the comfort she so desired to offer would flow from her to him.
The breeze lifted a lock of hair off his forehead. He sighed and drained the glass.
She picked up the pitcher, and when he set his glass on the table, she refilled it. ‘‘There you go.’’ Keeping her gaze locked on his, she gently pushed the plate of cookies closer to his hand. ‘‘Cook will be disappointed if there are any left.’’ Adding to her own glass, she leaned back in her chair, wishing for a fan, grateful he couldn’t hear her heart slowing to a slumberous beat.
She held her glass in hands that shook slightly, making the bottom of it rattle on the heavy glass tabletop. She glanced up to catch him studying her, and her neck heated to burning, making her wish for a fan all the more.
‘‘Warm, is it not?’’
‘‘Ja, it is.’’ His voice had dropped to a whisper.
The breeze chuckled in the oak branches above them. Languor stole from her feet, curled in her middle, and wound its way upward to blossom in her smile.
‘‘Cookie?’’ Thorliff’s voice seemed to come from far away.
She nodded, but her hand failed to obey the prompting of her mind and stayed in her lap.
‘‘Okay, I caught it.’’ Thorliff set her glass on the table. ‘‘And I get the message.’’ He finished his drink and, setting the glass on the tray, picked it up as he stood. ‘‘You quit fighting nature and move to the chaise where you can be comfortable.’’ He pulled her to her feet and over to the chaise lounge. ‘‘This is the perfect place for an afternoon nap. I will see you again this evening at supper.’’
Elizabeth thought perhaps she answered and was sure she heard his departing whistle but couldn’t be confident of anything but the comfort of sleep.
She awoke some time later to Jehoshaphat’s train-loud purr and his front paws kneading her belly. He stared at her through slit eyes, the pink tip of his tongue protruding under his whiskers.
‘‘Ugh, you weigh a ton.’’ She shifted him to lie beside her and stroked his head, making sure to give his ears their fair share as he tilted his head to make it easier for her.
She blinked to clear her eyes and glanced up at the lilac hedge, again feeling that someone had been watching her at the same time as the branches moved—and not from the breeze.
‘‘What? Who’s there?’’ She shot up, sending the cat leaping to the flagstones at their feet. Her skin crawled, but did she really have any proof someone had been there? Most likely it was children from the house two doors down, but surely they would have answered, with a giggle if nothing else. ‘‘Some watch cat you are.’’ She scooped up the well-fed gold-and-white cat and, with another glance over her shoulder, headed for the house. The tranquility of the backyard had vanished in the rustle of lilac branches.
‘‘You all right?’’ Cook paused, the knife that had been smoothing frosting on a three-layer cake hovering above the delicacy.
‘‘Just felt like someone was watching me.’’ She shivered and let her cat leap to the floor. ‘‘Sometimes I wish we had a dog.’’
‘‘Must have been those rascals down the street. They’ve been very obstreperous the closer they come to school starting.’’
Elizabeth kept herself from smiling at the unusual word spoken in Cook’s still recognizably Norwegian accent. She inhaled the familiar scents of freshly baked cake, vinegar and spices from the pickles made just that morning, and now the ginger from the refreshing drink and the faint smell of vanilla from the morning’s cookie dough.
‘‘It smells heavenly in here.’’
‘‘Thank you. Looked like you had a good lie-down out there.’’
‘‘I can’t get over how I fall asleep every time I sit down. How embarrassing. Thorliff slammed me into the lilacs even.’’ She thought back to retrieving the ball from the hedge. She’d not felt any sense of being watched then. ‘‘Think I’ll go play the piano for a while. I’ve been needing music like a duck needs water.’’
‘‘You need some refreshment first?’’ Cook nodded toward the cookie jar she’d kept full ever since Thorliff became part of the newspaper staff.
‘‘No thanks.’’ Elizabeth made her way to the grand piano, the lid raised and the keyboard uncovered as if it had newly dressed itself in anticipation of her arrival. She sat down on the bench and, starting at the right, finger danced her way down the keyboard, reveling in the notes that fed her spirit. She played chords for a bit, then meandered into her favorites of Bach and Debussy, hymns and popular tunes, whatever pleased her fancy. Eyes closed, she swayed to the waltzes and let the music knit her raveled edges back together again.
When Annabelle came in the front door, she stopped in the music room before going upstairs to freshen up. ‘‘Oh, how this house has needed your playing. Even the walls are applauding.’’
Elizabeth let her hands drift to a stop, resting them in her lap. ‘‘Thank you, Mother. How were things at the office?’’
‘‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoy my time down there. Wait until you see the accounts. And we have so many new subscribers since we started sending the paper out in the mail. We’ve hired the Hansen girl to come in and fold for the mail delivery as it has gotten to be too much for Thorliff and your father. There’s talk of even going to twice a week. Now, wouldn’t that be something?’’
Elizabeth lowered her eyelashes so she could contain the humor that pleaded for release. Such enthusiasm in her mother’s voice and for the newspaper no less.
‘‘I even write some of the news now, like the obituaries and the church events.’’
Elizabeth kept her mouth from dropping open but almost had to use her hand to snap her chin back in place. ‘‘You are writing?’’
Annabelle tapped her with the point of her parasol. ‘‘You know I’ve been an avid letter writer for years. This is just one more thing to add to my repertoire. It has refreshed my spelling and punctuation. I had no idea I could learn to write so fast. Your father can be a real taskmaster.’’ But her accompanying smile was genuine, not covering a criticism like in the former days when Annabelle’s biting sarcasm was frequently directed at her husband’s business.