Page 25 of The Gift of Seeds
Bringing in wood, although necessary, was Hester’s most disliked household task. Imagining spiders and mice and other creepy-crawlies living in the pile made her so nervous, she always squinted her eyes to narrow slits to see as little as possible and grabbed whatever she needed from on top.
Today, though, something about the placement of the wood caught Hester’s attention, and she paused to figure out what bothered her. She realized that the height of the stack hadn’t varied, which, after living here for two months, should be considerably diminished.
What? Who? How?Her thoughts flitted over her scant acquaintances. If Frey Foster wasn’t in Minnesota with Grace and Braga, he’d be the suspect on the top of her list. Mr. Bellaire or any of the Nortons or Sam would have knocked on the door and told her about the wood delivery.
Too curious to allow the cold to drive her inside, Hester walked over to where she vaguely remembered seeing fat, round sections of tree trunks resting on planks. She frowned at the space. Even, mostly buried under snow, she knew more should be there.
Someone is chopping them for me.
She quarter-turned to peer at the house next door but saw no sign of a watcher in the windows. Somehow, Mr. Marsden must have found a way, probably sneaking over when she went to town.
Hester glanced down at Lucy, who gave her a conspiratorial doggy grin and proud tail wag. “Some watchdog you are.”
She looked back at the Marsden house, not knowing if she wanted to see the man or not.
“Well,” she said aloud. “Well, I never!”Never what? Never had anyone who was practically a stranger do something so kind? Never thought that her neighbor would bestir himself? Never thought that I’d feel beholden to someone I’ve pretty much shunned?
Shame flushed through her.And here I’ve been faulting him for not being more neighborly. Yet, what kind of neighbor have I been? I could have been friendlier instead of holding myself back.
In St. Louis, she’d always had Lovie and her family and hadn’t needed anyone else. Her duties and her dreams of a future with her brother blinded her to the loneliness of the present. And when she had the opportunity to start over, she’d clung to her reserve instead of meeting the challenge.
The people in this town have been nothing but kind and welcoming, and I’ve repaid them with distance. My loneliness is my own fault.
I must do better.
By way of thanks, Hester knew she could drop off a plate of oatmeal cookies next door. Lovie’s menfolk devoured her desserts, so Mr. Marsden should enjoy them.
But cookies didn’t seem like enough to acknowledge the great service he’d rendered.
A whiff of an apple-scented memory surfaced. How about theapfelstrudel?Under Mrs. Holtz’s supervision, the orphans made the Christmas confection for themselves and to give the long, rolled pastries to their benefactors as presents. Suddenly, she could taste the thin, flakey, outer crust wrapped around the sweet, spiced apple and raisin filling and cloaked in paper-thin layers of pastry.
Thinking through the list of needed ingredients, Hester realized she’d have to make a quick visit to town. She’d almost used up her stores of sugar and cinnamon. She didn’t have golden raisins because they were more expensive than the brown ones.
Glancing up at the purpling sky on the horizon, Hester could tell, if she hurried, she’d have time to get there and back.Best warm up first and heat the two stone handwarmers for my pockets.She hesitated, knowing she’d fight the bitter cold the whole way there and back.
Hester squared her shoulders.No more feeling sorry for myself.
Dale thoughthimself ten times a fool for braving the trip into town on such a freezing day. But once a year at Christmas time, in memory of his beloved great-grandmother, he shopped at Sugarplum Dreams for two boxes ofpetit fours—her favorite sweets.
He would drop off a large box at the parsonage as his contribution to the Christmas Eve party held at the hotel, which he never attended. And he’d take one box of four squares home with him. He’d eat two of the treats after the Christmas Eve service, and the other two on Christmas day, blessing the memory of the only woman in his family who’d ever loved and been kind to him.
Entering the sweetshop, he relished the warmth inside and inhaled the sweet scent of candy and baked goods, with a hint of pine from the small tree on a table in front of the window and the boughs on the windowsills, threaded with gold and red ribbons. The six tables were empty of patrons. But a line of adults and children, their excitement palpable, stood in front of the glass counter, which displayed an array of temptations.
Julia Ritter stood behind the counter, a cheerful smile on her round face, green eyes sparkling, her black hair mostly covered by a head scarf. A white apron embroidered with holly leaves and berries covered her serviceable brown dress. Greeting the patrons, she chatted with them about their Christmas plans, while her hands deftly wrapped or boxed their orders.
In the corner, a round, ceramic stove appeared somewhat like a white wedding cake with green trim and copper doors for the fireboxes. The stove looked European, and he didn’t recall seeing it last year. But the contraption sure putout a lot of heat, making him wonder if he should buy one for upstairs.
After loosening his scarf and unbuttoning his coat, Dale pulled the stones, cool now, from his pockets, unwrapped the rags encasing them, and strode over to set them on the highcircular stove lip, next to a row of others. He stuffed the rags back into his pockets.
His gaze on the pastry selection, Dale joined the line before he realized a gaggle of girl children of stair-stepping ages waited before him. Blonde ones, he could tell by the braids spilling from underneath their knitted hats, like his sisters. His stomach tightened in old fear.
They’d obviously just come from school, for the oldest carried several books bound by a leather strap.
Mrs. Ritter looked up and saw him, flashing a quick smile and nod before giving her attention back to the next customer.
Too late to sneak away.Dale caught the ridiculous thought and straightened. He wasn’t an abused child, needing to hide to keep himself safe. Shoving down the dark memories, he looked away from the children. But he couldn’t help hearing their conversation as they debated which treats to buy and feeling drawn to sneak wary glances their way.
One favored peppermint sticks, another chocolate fudge, and a third the petite custard pies. The oldest seemed set on gingerbread, and he had a feeling she’d win. From listening, he soon figured out their names in age order: Inga, Elsabe, Krista, Marta.
