The Marriage Bed (22 page)

She retied her laces and looked around the kitchen.

"Can I use those cherries?" she asked, pointing to the bowl at the edge of the counter. "I want to make a sample for Charlie."

Bess patted her on the back and pinched Josie's cheek. "If you'll make two," she answered.

"You, my dear, are on a diet. I'll make you something that isn't pure lard and sugar."

"But I like lard and sugar," Bess whined. "And your cherry pie,"

"Think of my cherry pies as quarters,'' Livvy said, imagining herself getting rich on her baking skills.

"You can't eat quarters," Bess said glumly, making a sad face at Josie. "Can you, cutie?"

But Livvy had more to worry about than Bess's appetite. After rolling up her sleeves, she reached for the cherries and brought the bowl to the table. "You want to help me?" she asked Josie, who nodded exuberantly.

"All right, then," she said, pushing all thoughts of Spencer Williamson to the back of her mind. She would make the best darn pies Charlie Zephin had ever tasted. She would sell a million of them, this summer alone. She could make little ones for the fairgrounds and pies for two for picnics. . . .

"You want to have supper with Uncle Spencer in the field tonight?" she asked Josie. She supposed she could make an extra pie. She wouldn't want to cheat the children. And it wouldn't hurt to remind him what he'd lost.

It wasn't a matter of conceit, but of honesty, that set the smile on Olivia's face as she headed off to town with the best cherry pie ever produced in Door County snugly resting in the basket that swung from her arm. She'd won the blue ribbon at the county fair nearly every year since she was eleven, and women had even offered to pay for her secret to such a shiny and delicious glaze.

She knew better than to tell them. Not only would that let everyone make pies as good as hers, but the fact that she used sour milk, and that she'd discovered the trick by accident, didn't make her pies sound half as appealing as they looked.

It hadn't occurred to her that Mr. Makeridge might be at the mercantile. She hadn't seen him since they had all come back in Mr. Zephin's wagon together. But there he was, a dark bruise painting his chin, sitting on a stool by the edge of the counter, intently writing what appeared to be a letter. Seeing him with pen in hand reminded her that she would have to write to Julian and let him know that she and the children were now residing at Sacotte Farm. Maybe there was a chance he could send along a little money for the children's upkeep, not that she would ever suggest such a thing.

It pained her even to consider it, but she had to think of Remy and Bess's needs. And there was no reason that Spencer ought to be made to pay. They weren't his children, after all. And they weren't really Remy's problem. After all, he hadn't agreed to care for them. No, the children were her responsibility alone. And when she thought about it, that was exactly the way she wanted it.

"Mrs. Williamson!" Mr. Makeridge said when he looked up and discovered her standing in the doorway. He looked down at the letter he was writing. "Like speaking of the devil! Not, of course, that you are anything but an angel. And even lovelier than when I saw you last."

"Olivia," Emma Zephin said, coming out from the back room with a stack of boxes. "I didn't hear you come in. Oh, and here's that darling little one. What's her name again?"

"That one must be Josie," Mr. Makeridge answered before Olivia could get the words out. She was struck speechless by Emma's appearance. Unless she was mistaken, Emma was wearing rouge! And her hair was done up in some puffed-out style that looked like she got her head stuck in a paper wasps' nest.

"Yes," she said, not remembering telling Mr. Makeridge about the children on their trip, but convinced she must have. The truth was, she didn't remember much about the trip beyond chocolate-covered cherries and a head that felt like a woodpecker had tried to make a home in it. "Josephina, this is Miss Zephin and Mr. Makeridge."

Emma leaned down toward Josie, who backed away in terror. Despite her getting comfortable with Livvy, she still was easily frightened by strangers. Even Bess, who was the most natural of mothers, set Josie on edge. Emma sent her into fits of hysteria.

"Children usually like me," Emma assured Mr. Makeridge. To Josie she held out a string of rock candy. "Here. This should sweeten your disposition. That's what my mother always said to me. Not," she said turning to Mr. Makeridge again, "that it ever needed sweetening. I am a very cheerful person. I always have been."

"Just so," he agreed.

"Not as cheerful as you've been the last two days," Charlie Zephin said, appearing from the far corner of the store where he must have been rearranging older goods. The front of his apron was covered with dust and he swiped at it, giving his daughter a dissatisfied look.

"Mr. Zephin," Olivia said, glad that Josie had quieted and was now sucking happily onEmma's gift. "I've come to discuss a proposition with you."

Mr. Zephin smiled and exchanged a look with Mr. Makeridge that made Livvy decidedly uncomfortable. "Are you propositioning me, Mrs. Williamson?" he asked, apparently having difficulty keeping a straight face.

"You know that I have the best cherries in all of Door County . . ." she began, but Charlie and Mr. Makeridge's laughter stopped her. She looked cjuestioningly at each man, and they sobered quickly. "Well, I suppose Bess has the best cherries, but I ..."

They were having trouble maintaining any dignity at all, obviously enjoying the privacy of their little joke. Ordinarily she would ask Spencer when she got home what in the world she had said that was so funny, but those days were gone. Perhaps she could ask Remy. Emma stood looking from one man to the other, apparently as baffled as she.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Zephin said, wiping his eyes. "Something we were talking about before just came over me. You were telling me about how good your cherries are?"

This time he struggled to keep a straight face and had to bite on his lip to manage it.

"I'm offering you my cherries," she said, putting the basket on the counter and lifting the corners of the napkin in which the pie was wrapped. Mr. Makeridge virtually fell off his stool and, holding his sides, passed through the curtain into the back room. Charlie had turned his back on her and was righting unsuccessfully to get hold of himself.

"Do you want a sample or not?" she demanded. Two grown men and they were guffawing like six-year-olds who had just discovered a new word they weren't supposed to know.

"I do" came the choked response from behind the curtain where Mr. Makeridge was obviously having a good laugh at her expense.

"I don't know what it is I've said that has you men so amused," Livvy said, doing her best imitation of a disappointed schoolmarm, "but I am offering you the chance of a lifetime."

Mr. Zephin couldn't make his lips stop quivering. "I don't doubt that you are," he agreed.

"My cherry goods are the best in town, probably in the whole county, and I'm offering to sell them to you so that you can offer them to the public. You know that if people know they're mine, there isn't a person in Maple Stand who won't want them."

That seemed to be the last straw. Charlie smashed up against the shelves, sending canned goods flying in every direction. From the back room it was clear that Mr. Makeridge was having the same fits as Mr. Zephin.

"Let me get this clear," Emma said, pointedly ignoring her father. "You want us to sell your pies for you here in the store?"

"And my preserves," Livvy added, grateful to find a rational voice amid the hysteria.

"And this pie is a sample?" Emma fingered the edges of the pie on the counter. The flaky crust broke off in her hand.

"Yes," Livvy said.

"How does Mr. Williamson feel about this, Olivia?" Charlie asked, finally gaining control over his tongue. "Last time I asked you to bake some of these for the store, that husband of yours said he hadn't married you so that you could feed half of Maple Stand and they could go get themselves wives if they wanted cherries of their own.

A howl came from the behind the curtain. Livvy was getting a pretty good idea about what the secret word was and what it meant.

"Mr. Williamson is no longer a concern," she said quite seriously. Then she added, with all the brazenness she could summon, "My cherries are no longer his problem."

There was a moment of stunned silence in the mercantile, punctuated only by Josie's sucking sounds, and then a somber Mr. Makeridge came out from the storeroom. "Well," he said looking at Livvy as though she were as appetizing as her pies, "I'd like to sample some."

Emma looked at Mr. Makeridge and then at Livvy before agreeing to get sonie plates. "I've an idea," she said. "Why don't Waylon and I go on upstairs and have some of your pie with our lunch. Papa can tend the store and have a piece down here. Then, if we like it, we'll let you know."

"You'll like it," Livvy said. No one had ever eaten her pie and been disappointed.

"I'm sure I will," Mr. Makeridge said. "But only a fraction as much as the baker."

"Doesn't he have a way with words?" Emma asked, picking up the pie and directing Mr. Makeridge to follow her.

"Won't you join us, Mrs. Williamson?" he asked. Emma turned and shook her head, signaling to Olivia that she should say no.

Accordingly, Livvy said, "I've got to get this little one home," and lifted Josie to her hip.

"I could come out to the farm and let you know about the pies," Charlie said. "That way I could be sure that Mr. Williamson is in agreement. Last thing I want is your husband hopping mad at me."

"I'm back at Sacotte Farm, Mr. Zephin," she said, raising her chin slightly. "You can come out there to pick up the pies if you like. I'll be baking them air day, as I know you are going to want them."

"Olivia?" Emma asked. "Back at Bess and Remy's? Why?"

She opened her mouth, but instead of hearing her own voice, she was grateful to hear Waylon Makeridge's. "I'm sure that's no one's business but her own," he said gently, as if his words were meant to be a soft pat on her back.

Emma looked at her sympathetically. "Then you've given up?" Emma said, and blushed furiously at having uttered her thoughts aloud.

"Yes," Livvy said. "I suppose I have."

Chapter Sixteen

In the five years since Kirsten and the children had died, Spencer had been to the cemetery only when he had to attend the funerals of others. He had exercised great care to avoid the graves of his wife and children, sometimes stepping over the short fence that surrounded the cemetery in his haste to escape.

But this day he walked purposefully toward the high metal archway that signified Maple Stand's only burial ground, going over once again in his head the words he wanted to utter to his precious family. The words had been a long time in coming. In fact, Spencer had never expected to tell Kirsten that he was returning to the world of the living, where he belonged, and locking her and the children within a sacred place in his heart where he would always keep them safe but separate from the life that now beckoned him.

Kirsten had always liked Olivia. And, too, she had liked laughter and love and everything that Olivia had tried to offer him for the last three years. He wasn't seeking Kirsten's approval, though he had no doubt that he would have received it.

He was coming to say good-bye.

While he hadn't seen the graves since the burial, even refusing to attend the placement of the headstones out of some ridiculous fear that once the stones were set, his family would be even more permanently dead then they already were, still he knew where they lay. And so, seeing a small figure, only slightly large than Peter's size, kneeling by their plots startled him so badly that he stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes, trying to blot out the sight.

". . . lucky. I mean, I know that you're dead, and all, and it must seem real dumb to you, but I'd trade places with you in a minute if I could have a papa like yours for a little while."

The boy was pulling out handfuls of grass as he spoke, but Spencer's legs had turned to granite and he could do nothing but listen and watch.

"I saw the birds you carved. They're still up there in your room. It's a nifty room, if you can call it that. I sure do like that bed you used to sleep in."

Spencer watched Neil turn slightly and begin work on Margaret's grave, pulling not clumps of grass, as he had thought, but weeds, piling them carefully between the two small plots,

"It's me again," the boy said quietly. "Your cousin. I thought you'd want to know that Josie, that's your little cousin, remember? Well, she borrowed the doll from your bed, but I put it back. It didn't get dirty or anything and she was real scared about Aunt Liv. So was your pa. Not that he doesn't still love your ma and all, but he loves Aunt Liv, too, and she gave us all a fright.

"Now we're staying at Uncle Remy's. That's your uncle and mine, too. I'm sleeping on the sofa there, just like at your place. The last time I had a bed of my own was before my mama died. There's nothing I mind as much as being privy to all you see sleeping in the parlor. I think maybe you and Peter were lucky to go along with your ma, so that she could still be taking care of you, and all. But I bet you miss your pa . . ."

He stopped and began to gather the weeds in his arms. It was clear that he had done Kirsten's grave first, and he was finished with his work but not his thoughts.

"Your own bed in your own house. To a kid like you it probably doesn't sound like much, but—"

The weeds fell from the boy's hands as he looked up, and he cringed when he saw Spencer standing close enough to have heard his every word. Spencer licked his lips, searching for the right words to say, and tasted a salty tear.

"Thank you," he said from deep within a heart filled with regret. "I guess I should have seen to the weeds myself."

Neil lowered his shoulders cautiously. "I don't mind."

"Have you done it before?" Spencer asked and saw the defensive stance and the fear in his nephew's eyes. "Maybe I owe you more thanks than just for today."

The boy stood silently, throwing an eye toward Peter's grave as if he expected the dead boy to take his part.

"Often? I don't see too many weeds. I'd guess you probably have to come about once a week to keep them looking so nice."

"About," the boy admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"If you'll give me a minute alone with them," Spencer said, gesturing with his head toward the cluster of headstones, "I'll give you a ride back when I'm done."

"I could put the weeds over in the pile," Neil said. "And wait for you there." He looked questioningly at his uncle.

"That'd be real good," Spencer said, running his hand over the boy's tousled head. "I won't be long."

"Take your time," the boy said. "I'll wait." He huddled the dirty clumps against his body and, dropping and picking up bunches at regular intervals, made his way to the far corner of the cemetery.

"The boy had it a little backward," he said quietly to the ground beneath which his little family lay. "He does that a lot. But the fact of the matter is I was the lucky one, not you. I got to know a love so fine that I thought I could never know its like again.

"I think it'll make you all happy to know that I was wrong. Just like when you were here, I had my head in the sand and didn't know how lucky I truly was. But I've got a second chance now. So I've come to say good-bye. All three of you will be in my heart forever. In all I do and all I am, you will be a part. But Livvy taught me something I thought I'd never know.

"I've got room in my heart for more than just the three of you. I've got room for Livvy, and Neil, who you seem to be getting to know, and that little hellion Josie, and even Miss Louisa. And I'll have room for whoever else comes along.

"I love you all."

He stood by the graves another minute, reading the markers for the first time. His name was etched in granite above each of their heads.
Margaret, beloved daughter of Spencer and Kirsten. Peter, beloved son of Spencer and Kirsten. Kirsten Williamson, beloved wife of Spencer, beloved mother of Peter and Margaret.

Beloved they were. Beloved they would always be. They and Livvy and the little boy who stood waiting next to a pile of weeds and wishing for a bed of his own.

"You on your way home?" Spencer asked Neil as he brushed the dirt off the boy's shirt and pulled out a hankie to clean his face.

"I was headed for Uncle Remy's," the boy said sadly.

"You in a rush?"

"No, sir," Neil answered, and looked expectantly at his uncle.

"I got some errands to run and I could use a little advice, if you can keep a secret."

"I'm not overly fond of secrets," Neil admitted, kicking the grass with his work boots. Spencer was surprised he wore the heavy shoes to school, but said nothing about them.

"Wouldn't that depend on the surprise?" he asked.

"I suppose it would."

"So you'll come? I'll drive you out to Sacotte Farm when we're done, okay?"

At the lumberyard, Spencer ordered the finest pine that Mr. Ostend carried. He would have liked to use a better wood, but the paint would hide the knots and his carvings hopefully would make beautiful what otherwise might be ordinary. He kept his plan from Neil for the moment, but it bubbled inside him like a geyser ready to blow.

"What are you building, Uncle Spence?" the boy asked as they made their way from the lumberyard to the mercantile.

"Secret," he answered, the smile on his face so wide it hurt.

At that the boy looked somewhat sullen so Spencer amended his words. "A good secret. A secret you're bound to like."

Neil looked at him suspiciously.

"I'll give you a hint. I'm building four of them, and one is much bigger than the other three."

He could see Neil trying to come up with the answer, but one wasn't presenting itself.

"Okay. One of them would hold twice as many people as the other three."

He knew the minute the possibility occurred to Neil. It was written all over his hopeful face, but the child squelched the thought as quickly as it had come.

"Okay, okay," Spencer said, eager to put the stars back in the child's eyes. "Guess what I'm buying in the mercantile, then."

Neil shrugged. "Nails?"

Spencer nodded vehemently. "And?"

"Sandpaper?"

Again he nodded. "And?"

"Varnish?"

"Well, I thought I might use paint. With paint I could put in some details that would take me an awful long time to carve. Now, here's the part where you come in. You remember I said I needed your advice?"

"Uh-huh."

"But before task, you have to promise me that Aunt Liv will not hear a word of this. Not a word."

"Why?"

"Why?" It was a good question. And the truth was that she'd try to stop him. But once he had them done, once he showed her them and she understood what she and the children all meant to him, and what it was she was throwing away, heck, it would only take a second for her to cave in. And then he'd surely want all of them done and waiting. "Because Aunt Livvy likes surprises, even if you don't."

"It didn't sound like she liked 'em much last night," the boy mumbled, picking at a wood splinter that rose from the railing.

"I'm sorry you heard," Spencer said, and truly meant the words. "But, like I told your aunt, I'm gonna fix everything. Now, can you or can't you keep a secret?"

His curiosity got the better of him. "I can," he said with conviction.

"And if I tell a fib in Zephin's, you won't call me on it?"

"But why would you tell a fib?"

The boy had more questions than corn had kernels. "Cause Aunt Liv is in and out of this store pretty regular with her eggs and butter, and somebody might let the cat out of the bag."

It satisfied him, and Spencer held the door open and let the boy walk under his arm and into the mercantile.

"Mr. Williamson," Charlie Zephin said with a quiver in his voice. "Something I can do for you?"

"Here for some nails," Spencer said, looking around and finding that fop who had complimented his wife's anatomy sitting on a stool near the counter. His jaw sported a deep purple bruise, Spencer noted with satisfaction, and he was toying with some pie that sat on a dish on the counter.

Spencer ignored him and told Zephin what he needed in terms of hardware. Then he leaned close to Neil and asked for his advice on paint colors.

"Something appropriate for a little girl and another for a big girl. I was thinking maybe red? And I could carve a heart or two out in the center. What do you think?"

"Red's good," Neil agreed, but Spencer noticed that in his excitement Neil's feet were rising and falling within the confines of boots that Spencer had guessed all along were too big for him.

"And for a boy? About your age, say ... What do you think a boy like that would like?"

"Blue," Neil said without a moment's hesitation. "Deep, deep blue, like Lake Michigan. And a sailboat carved out in the middle, and maybe some waves." He looked hopefully at his uncle.

"And I'll need a gallon of red paint, another gallon of blue, and two gallons of pure white, if you please, Mr. Zephin."

"Yea!" Neil said somewhat loudly, and then looked sheepishly at Spencer.

"It's all right, boy. Shout it from the rafters when you're happy. What does your Aunt Bess always say? Make a joyful noise?"

"I think she means in praise of the Lord," Neil said seriously.

"Heck." Spencer laughed. "I don't think the Lord's all that picky."

"That'll be four dollars and eighteen cents," Charlie said, figuring at the counter with his pencil.

Spencer came forward and got a good look at what still remained in the pan on the counter. If that wasn't one of Livvy's pies that Makeridge had his finger in, Spencer would be a sow's underbelly.

Makeridge pushed his finger around in the gooey filling until he found a cherry. Then, red juice dripping from his fingers, he brought the cherry up toward his mouth, smirking at Spencer as he did.

"Hold it, Makebreath," he said, grabbing him by the wrist. "Isn't that an ant there?" He twisted the man's hand back until Makeridge howled, then he flicked the cherry off the man's finger. "I sure do think that was an ant."

He looked down at what was left of the pie. That brilliant red glaze, those flecks of flaky crust; there was no doubt his wife had made that pie. And the thought that she had made it for Makeridge didn't sit well with him, didn't sit well at all.

"Put it on my tab," Spencer said to Charlie Zephin. He picked up the tin with the remains of his wife's pie and added, "This, too."

Makeridge looked at the mess on his hands and pruned his pretty face. Spencer shot him his most innocent, most irritating smile. In answer, Makeridge stuck the length of his finger into his mouth and slowly withdrew it, sucking the cherry filling from it with relish.

"Gotten yourself into a bit of a mess," Spencer said. "If I were you, I'd wash my hands of the whole thing."

"There'll be more of it tomorrow," Zephin said pointing at the nearly empty pie tin in Spencer's hand as Makeridge left the room holding his hand away from his clean serge suit.

"Good," Spencer said to Zephin through gritted teeth. "I'll take that one, too."

"Oh, I'd expect there'll be more than one," Charlie said rocking on his heels.

"Even better." Then to Neil as well as Charlie he said, "And not a word of this to Olivia."

There were worse things than living on Olivia's cherry pie. After Kirsten had died he'd been left to fend for himself, and even with the occasional meal he shared with Bess and Remy, he knew for a certainty, there were a lot worse things than living on Livvy's pie.

Livvy spent the entire afternoon baking pies, listening to the sounds of a busy household, and pretending that she was happy. She was better at making pies than at pretending, and it was a good thing, too. If she had to live by her ability to lie, she and the children would starve to death.

Not so with Spencer. He had certainly fooled her. She had believed in her heart that he was in pain, but never, not for one moment, did she think that he had wanted her to be in the same kind of pain he was suffering. Now she knew better and she would never forgive his trickery.