Waiting for Summer's Return (8 page)

She stood for a moment, deciding at which grave to place the flowers. Her gaze roved from Rodney’s down to little Tillie’s. Rodney’s mound had lost its new appearance with the passing of weeks, but Tillie’s grassless mound, so much smaller, seemed as new as the day she had been covered. Tears stung Summer’s eyes as she looked at that tiny hill and imagined the sweet child lying beneath the hard sod.

The wind stirred the flowers; their scent filled Summer’s nostrils. She buried her nose in their depths, inhaling, savoring, remembering. Deliberately she conjured a picture of each child: Vincent with a book in his hands, his eyes alight with pleasure; Rose pushing a needle through her embroidery hoop, her little brow furrowed and tongue touching her upper lip; Tod chasing fireflies, his endearing giggle filling the air; and Tillie asleep in her bed with her curling lashes throwing a shadow across her rosy cheeks. Always young, always hers, Mr. Ollenburger had said. She willed the memories to never fade.

After a long while she placed the jar between the graves of Rose and Tod, centered amongst her children. Of all the children, Rose would appreciate them most. The little girl had openly admired the wildflowers as their wagon lumbered across the land.

Summer tamped the ground around the jar to insure it wouldn’t tip, then she turned back to the wagon. Mr. Ollenburger stood beside it, waiting. The sun touched his face, making his eyes appear even deeper in hue, and within their depths Summer recognized the sympathy that pooled there whenever he looked at her.

She allowed him to assist her back into the wagon, and he encouraged the oxen with a firm command. When they were well down the lane, she finally spoke. “Thank you for allowing me to visit the graves.”

He cleared his throat, sending her a brief sidelong glance. “You are welcome. You tell me when again you want to come. I will bring you.”

A gust of wind slapped her face, reminding Summer of the coming winter. Visits to the graves wouldn’t be possible much longer. She had better visit often while she could. Observing Mr. Ollenburger’s slouched position on the bouncing seat, she recalled he had no grave to visit when he missed his wife. That must be even more difficult. At least she had a place to go, to mourn and remember.

How did he manage to be so at peace with the loss of his wife? He gave credit to God, which Summer didn’t understand. Surely Mr. Ollenburger had prayed for his wife, yet she had died. How could a God who ignored pleas for help give comfort? She sighed. The faith she thought she’d possessed in Boston certainly paled when compared with that of Mr. Ollenburger.

“I would like to speak to you about Thomas.”

She jumped and clutched her heart.

His thick brows came down. “I am sorry if I frighten you.”

“It-it isn’t you.” She pressed her hands into her lap to steady their trembling. “So often I am lost in thought, not anticipating anyone talking. Then, when you speak with your deep voice … it startles me. Please don’t apologize.”

“You are thinking of your family.” The words were a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“You will think of them often. I will try to give warning when I am about to blurt out loudness.”

“Blurt out loudly. Loudness is a noun; loudly is an adverb that describes how you blurt.” She slapped a hand to her mouth. What was she thinking? He’d made it clear she was his son’s teacher—not his!

He scowled but repeated, “Blurt out loudly.” He cleared his throat, his fingers twisting the whip. “Now … about Thomas.”

But the wagon turned the last curve that led to town. He released a sigh. “We will talk when home we drive. What things do you need?”

Summer consulted her list. “I need paper, envelopes, postage stamps, a pen and ink, material for dresses …” Next on the list was underclothes. Heat filled her cheeks.

Mr. Ollenburger didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “I will take you to Nickels’ store. It has all things you said except the stamps.”

“Thank you.” Summer slipped the list back into her reticule.

He stopped the oxen in front of Nickels’ Dry Goods, where the little camel coat still hung in the window. It served as a reminder of Summer’s loss, and she froze momentarily, her fingers curled around the wooden seat. When she saw Mr. Ollenburger reaching to help her down, she made herself place her hands in his. He guided her onto the boardwalk and opened the door for her.

When she stepped inside, he paused in the doorway. “How long will you need?”

“Half an hour at most.”

He nodded. “I will leave the wagon here and will be back.” He closed the door. Summer watched his tall frame move past the windows. She suddenly felt very alone.

8

T
WO WOMEN
—one older, one fairly young—in plain dresses and bonnets stood near the fabrics, their curious faces aimed in Summer’s direction. When she moved toward the bolts of cloth, both women skittered to the counter. They whispered in German to the man behind the counter. Summer raised her chin and ignored them even as her heart pounded and hands shook. Their low-voiced conversation continued as she selected a bolt of good quality black muslin, thread, and a packet of needles.

She walked to the counter, her feet echoing hollowly on the planked floor, and placed the items at the end of the tall wooden countertop. The conversation immediately ceased. “I need eight yards of the muslin,” she told the clerk. She turned her back without waiting for an answer.

Her chest felt tight. Although she could understand nothing of what was being said, she knew the women discussed her. And she didn’t like it. How she wished Mr. Ollenburger had remained with her. Would these women behave so rudely if she were in the presence of that “bear of a man,” a man the doctor said held the respect of the town?

She found paper, a pen, and an inkpot, but the selection of clothing was minimal at best. Shoes, stockings, and some children’s items, but nothing of a personal nature for a woman. She had no desire to ask the location of such items with those two prune-faced women watching and whispering. Ordering from a catalog seemed her safest choice. Until she could order underclothes, she would have to continue to wash out her things each night as she’d been doing.

She selected a small tin washtub to replace the bucket she had borrowed from Mr. Ollenburger’s barn. Picking up two chunky bars of soap from a shelf near the washtubs, she placed them inside the tub along with a new hairbrush and hairpins.

While she shopped, the clerk measured and cut the muslin, the snip of scissors an intrusion in the hushed atmosphere of the store. Her arms laden, Summer crossed to the counter, where the two women continued to stare unabashedly at her.

“Frau?”
The older of the pair addressed Summer.

Summer looked at her, noticing the clerk’s eyebrows quirk as his hands stilled in their task of folding the length of muslin. “Yes?”

The woman moved forward one step, her palm pressed to the counter as if to gather courage. “On miller Peter Ollenburger’s place you are staying?”

Summer raised her chin a notch. Although she didn’t see that this was their business, her silence would only create more questions. “I am providing tutoring for his son. Surely you’re aware of his injury which keeps him from school?”

The two women exchanged glances, and the younger one gave a knowing nod. The older turned back to Summer. She pointed across the street. “You could not stay there, in the hotel?”

Summer took a deep breath. It seemed the doctor’s indication that Mr. Ollenburger’s reputation in town would protect her was incorrect. A cold sweat broke out across her back and shoulders as she faced the accusatory looks on these women’s faces. “I could, but it would require Mr. Ollenburger to transport me each day. This would be inconvenient for him. Consequently, I have been given the privilege of residing in the
shariah
on his property.”

Summer used her best Boston voice and poise—learned from observing her sister-in-law, who could cause the haughtiest of women to cower—although inwardly she trembled from rage and humiliation. How dare these women question her morals?

The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “If unable you are to pay a hotel bill, there is an orphans’ home near Hillsboro, on other side of the Cottonwood River.”

The younger woman stepped forward. “Allowed to stay at the orphans’ home are also destitute adults.”

Oh, how rude! Summer clenched her jaw as angry words fought for release. Destitute? These women saw her as destitute? Widowed? Yes. Homeless? Yes, that, too. But not destitute. She would make her own purchases here today. “I assure you there is no need for you to be concerned about my financial state.” She raised her reticule. “I have funds to provide for myself. I have
chosen
to reside in the Ollenburgers’
shariah
. I have
chosen
to assist young Thomas in his studies. And
I
will choose at what time to change this arrangement.”

The power Summer felt at that moment astounded her. Although a part of her wished to hide behind the apple barrel, her anger held her erect, giving her the courage to meet these adversaries without cringing. How she wished she had found this burst of angry courage when faced with the interference of Rodney’s parents. Perhaps she would not have been forced to flee Boston and their critical disapproval.

The clerk crept behind the counter. “Please total my purchases,” Summer told him. “I do have other stops to make, and Mr. Ollenburger will be calling for me soon. I don’t wish to inconvenience him by making him wait for me.”

The two women stood with gaping mouths, but Summer was sure she saw the clerk’s lips twitch. He kept his eyes averted as he figured her bill on a pad of paper. She paid for her purchases, then turned toward the door. “Which direction to the post office? I must post a letter to my parents-in-law, informing them of my decision to remain in Gaeddert.”

The clerk pointed mutely to the east. Summer swept from the store, her chin held high. Once outside, she wilted against the building. Then, hearing the door open behind her, she straightened and sent a glowering look over her shoulder at the two women. They sent looks back that were equally scathing before scuttling down the boardwalk in the opposite direction of Summer, their heads together and tongues wagging.

Summer sighed. The women’s ill reception made it clear she was unwelcome in this town. But her love for her children outweighed the unease those two women had caused. As long as Mr. Ollenburger was willing to allow her to stay on his property, she would remain. She started toward the post office.

Peter opened the door to the barbershop and had to halt as
Frau
Schmidt and her daughter Malinda stormed past. The older woman spotted him and paused in her stride long enough to purse her lips in disapproval before grabbing Malinda’s elbow and propelling her on down the boardwalk. The women’s shoes clacked in an angry tempo.

What about his appearance had been displeasing to them? Before his haircut and trim, maybe the woman would have had reason to scowl in his direction. He needed to make this trip more often than he did—the mirror had almost frightened him when he had glimpsed his ragged image this morning. But now he looked presentable.

Shrugging, he walked to Nickels’. He called a greeting to Nick as he entered. “
Guten morgen
. Here I am to pick up
Frau
Steadman. She is ready?”

“Her things are ready,” Nick responded in German as he pointed to a variety of items on the end of the counter. “She asked the direction to the post office.”

“I will wait for her here, then.”

Nick sucked in his lips. “So what
Frau
Schmidt said is true? The woman is living at your place?”

Peter pulled his brows downward. The tone used by Nick made his heart pound in uneasiness. “
Ja,
the woman is staying in my
shariah
. My boy is getting lessons from her while he mends.”

“Did I hear she is a widow woman?” Nick asked as he swept a rag across the countertop. He did not meet Peter’s gaze.

Peter felt his neck hair prickle. “She is a woman with principles, and you know I am a godly man.”

“I would not question that, Peter,” he said, his shoulders rising in a shrug. “But others …”

“The hens are clucking?”

Nick’s simple nod confirmed Peter’s words.

Peter felt his chest tighten. That explained the cool reception he had received on the boardwalk a few minutes ago. “Was the woman badly treated by
Frau
Schmidt?”

Red appeared across Nick’s cheeks. His dusting continued with nervous energy. “They suggested she go to live in the hotel or the orphans’ home in Hillsboro.”

The pressure in Peter’s chest increased.

“Now, you cannot take
Frau
Schmidt too much to heart.” Nick threw the rag beneath the counter. “You know she is a busybody.”

“
Ja,
a noisy busybody. If she is saying this here, she is saying it elsewhere, too. And you know others will listen.”

“Will you take the woman back to the hotel?” Nick’s eyes were wide.

Peter would not allow one or two busybodies to dictate his actions. This town knew Peter was an honorable man, and they would need to trust him. “I promised the woman a home on my property for as long as she wants it. I will not go back on my word.” Nick nodded but worry appeared in his face. “I hope you will not be brought before council.”

Peter rubbed his lips together. He had not thought of that.
Frau
Schmidt’s clucking might result in council action. If brought before the council of church on the suspicion of immoral behavior, what would he say? His clumsy tongue would no doubt trip over itself if asked questions.
Mein Gott, I will need your presence if before council I must go
. Yet he had nothing to hide. Both Thomas and
Grossmutter
could verify that nothing untoward took place in his home.

He forced a confidence into his tone that he did not feel. “If brought before council I am, I will tell only the truth. The woman lives in my
shariah
and gives lessons to my boy. That is all. We have done nothing of which to be shamed before man or God.”

Nick leaned across the counter, his lips twitching in sudden amusement. “The woman stood up to
Frau
Schmidt. She claimed she had chosen to live in the
shariah
and would continue to do so.”

Peter’s brows shot up in surprise. Although he knew it would create problems with
Frau
Schmidt, it pleased him that the woman had stood her ground. That showed spunk. She would need spunk to recover from her losses and to face possible censure from the town.

At that moment, the door to the store opened and
Frau
Steadman entered. Her lips were pinched, her face white. She had shown spunk to
Frau
Schmidt, but it had cost her. “
Frau
Steadman, you have finished your errands?” he asked.

She gave a brusque nod.

“You are ready then to return?”

Again, she nodded without speaking. Her stare lit upon the pile of purchases still resting on the counter. She moved to them, touching the washtub with a hand that quivered. She appeared deep in thought, her brow furrowed, her lower lip pulled between her teeth. Peter’s heart began to pound. Would she ask Nick to return these items to the shelf and tell Peter to take her back to the hotel?

She turned to face Nick, and Peter saw determination in her dark eyes. “Sir, I would very much like a teapot and a box of tea leaves. Are these things available?”

Nick bustled around the end of the counter.
“Ja, Frau.”

The woman followed Nick to the small selection of china teapots. Her fingers caressed the roses painted on one pot, and Peter felt certain this was the one she would choose. But then she turned over the price tag hanging from the pot’s handle. He saw her shoulders slump.

“Perhaps a teakettle would be better than a pot.”

Peter heard the regret in her tone. Nick led her to the tin kettles, and she carried one to the counter. From a shelf behind the counter, Nick retrieved a box of tea leaves.

“A half pound of white sugar, too, please.”

Nick measured out the sugar into a small paper bag. She paid for the tea, sugar, and kettle without another word. Her purchasing complete, she stepped out the door onto the boardwalk.

Nick placed the new purchases in the washtub and shoved it across the counter in Peter’s direction.

Peter paused, his gaze drifting to the shelf that held the china teapots. Beside the pots stood dainty cups and saucers with similar painted patterns. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure the woman did not peek in the window, he crossed to the shelf and selected a cup with the same rose design as that on the teapot she had admired. How ridiculous the cup looked when held in his big callused hands. Yet it would suit the woman.

He handed the cup to Nick. “Wrap this and put it within her bundle.”

“A gift, Peter?” Nick’s eyes sparkled.

Peter felt his neck grow hot. “A … payment … for what she endured today with
Frau
Schmidt.”

Nick nodded silently, but his face held a speculative expression as he wrapped the cup and saucer in newspaper and placed them in the washtub. Peter put the tub under his arm and joined the woman on the boardwalk. She stood with her shoulders hunched, her chin low. Peter felt sympathy swell again. She did not deserve scorn from
Frau
Schmidt. He touched her arm. “Come,
Frau
Steadman. Home we will get you.”

She sent him a look that held both hurt and gratitude. “Yes.” Her voice was small. “Thomas and I have much to do today.”

It pleased Peter that she would think of the boy instead of herself. That spoke again of spunk and also a lack of selfishness. He felt certain
Frau
Schmidt and her wagging tongue would not defeat this woman despite her fragile appearance. He could not hold back the smile that tugged at his lips as he thumped to the wagon and placed the tub in the back. When he turned, he found her waiting beside the wagon.

She held out her hands, a silent request for his help in climbing into the wagon. As he assisted her, he noticed that Nick stood in the doorway of the dry goods store, watching them.

Well, he can look,
Peter thought stubbornly.
He will see nothing to criticize
. He settled the woman, then rounded the wagon to climb into his own spot. As Peter urged the oxen to pull the wagon from town, he glimpsed eyes peering at him from behind windows of houses and businesses. Although his neck felt burned, he held his chin high and his shoulders back. They would not see him slink away in shame.