Page 3 of The Gift of Seeds
Hester touched the beautiful rose pattern.After my next payday….
She could dip into her savings and buy everything she needed now. But her frugality wouldn’t allow her to deplete her hoarded funds. After so many years of anticipation, she could wait six more months.
Even more important to her were the little packets of seeds and pits, with their contents labeled in her neat copperplate, tucked among the linens. In this past year, she’d been collecting from Mrs. Ransome’s garden, as well as from Lovie’s.
That reminded her. She had autumn flower seeds to collect—columbines, her favorite, along with marigolds and mums. She rose, her leg muscles protesting from her cramped position on the floor.
Wasting time daydreaming, Matron Holtz would have scolded her. But without her daydreams, life, with the endless servitude, would be far too bleak.
After haulingbuckets of water for the plants in his garden needing more moisture and spending all afternoon chopping wood, Dale Marsden finally allowed himself to retreat to the kitchen in the back of his home in Sweetwater Springs. His arms ached, but he felt satisfied his winter preparations were well in hand.
Through the windows on three sides, golden autumn light flooded the room. Quietly, Dale hummed a nonsense tune while arranging his mums, marigolds, and the fall leaves he’d gathered into arrangements. He tucked the flowers and leaves into two Mason jars and a crystal vase he’d inherited from his paternal great-grandmother. She’d bequeathed the heirloom to him, along with most of her small fortune, rather than his female relatives because she knew how much he enjoyed flowers and, from a young age, encouraged his love of gardening. Using Great-Grandma Ada’s vase always brought fond memories of her gentle guidance, so different from the rest of the domineering women in his family.
Here and there, Dale snipped off a leaf or prodded a flower into a different space. His hum changed to the tune of ‘She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.’ Realizing what he was doing, he stopped, his stomach tightening, only to relax and remind himself that his mother wasn’t here to chide him using her I’m-holding-onto-my patience-for-having-to-remind-him-to-be-quiet-for-the-hundredth-time voice, along with her don’t-make-me-get-out-my-whip expression.
He let out a deep breath, took another inhale, and then resumed humming, although at a purposely louder volume, enjoying the freedom to just act as he wanted. Feeling quitein charity with himself, he stepped back to admire the arrangements, and then reached out to tweak one leafy twig and switch the places of two different sized mums.
A knock at the front door chased away Dale’s sense of well-being.Who could that possibly be?His stomach tightened, and he took a deep breath, reminding himself that his family wouldn’t travel for days to show up unannounced to visit their most scorned member.I left home twenty-three years ago, and the unexpected thought of facing them still unnerves me.
He hurried out of the kitchen and down the hall, opening the door to find Reverend Joshua Norton and his father-in-law, Andre Bellaire, both looking solemn. The men wore fine black coats and bowlers, appearing too elegantly dressed for a normal call. Behind them on the street, he could see the Bellaire coach, with their Negro driver, Sam, perched on the seat.
At least, they aren’t my family.The thought made the tension in Dale’s stomach ease somewhat. “Reverend Joshua, Mr. Bellaire, what a surprise,” he stammered.
“Mr. Marsden,” Reverend Joshua said in a formal tone. “If we could impose on your time for a few minutes?”
“Is everything all right in town?” he asked anxiously, referring to the robbery which happened two weeks ago at the Harvest Festival and the posse who’d ridden after them. Dale had overheard the gossip on his latest trip to the mercantile.
“Fine, Fine.” Mr. Bellaire waved in a reassuring motion. “The wicked fiends are captured. Two of our men wounded, but—” his voice thickened “—the Good Lord be thanked, they will make a complete recovery. Everyone else has returned to a heroes’ welcome.”
“Or heroine, in the case of our Sheriff Granger,” Reverend Joshua teased. “Who, by the way, is newly married to our town blacksmith.”
Dale had only exchanged an occasional nod with Sheriff Granger. The penetrating glances from her cool gray eyes made him uneasy. Stepping back to open the door wider, he allowed them inside.
He knew these two men better than anyone else in Sweetwater Springs except for Joshua’s parents, the elder Reverend Norton and his wife. The latter couple dutifully paid him a yearly pastoral visit, despite having seen him in church for years. While they sipped tea and ate the cookies Mary Norton brought, the three would make stilted conversation, until Dale relaxed in the couple’s gentle warmth and their discussion flowed—or flowed as much as his shyness allowed.
The men entered, removing their bowlers. Their expensive, well-cut black suits made him feel positively shabby. Although he liked Reverend Joshua, whose vivid blue eyes and ascetic features echoed his father’s, Dale felt more comfortable in the presence of the elder Reverend Norton. The older minister’s clothing—at least, prior to Joshua moving to Sweetwater Springs—had been shabbier than Dale’s.
After years of his mother forcing him to dress the way she wanted, Dale relished comfort instead of style. Although he had plenty of good clothes, while at home, he preferred to wear soft garments worn from years of use and many washings.
Andre Bellaire, a wealthy Southerner and newer resident of the town, had graying auburn hair. His hazel eyes were often alight with whatever person or plan caught his interest. Several times, he’d persuaded Dale to visit his conservatory to see his roses. The two discussed the plans the philanthropist had for the expansive garden of his new mansion, as well as the land he’d bought for a park that would surround a yet-to-be-built library.
Dale gestured toward the open door of the parlor. “Would you like tea?” He silently gave thanks that he’d recently resupplied his stash of tea, sugar, and milk.
“No need to bother. We’ll only be a moment.” Reverend Joshua strode into the room, followed by his father-in-law. Still standing, he glanced out the side window where, next door, James Smith’s log cabin could be seen. “Now, I’m afraid, for the distressing news we’ve come to impart.” He took a breath. “Your neighbor, Mr. Smith, was killed yesterday in a logging accident.”
Dale stepped back as if struck. He didn’t know the man well, since Smith lived at the logging camp a majority of the time. But they’d been neighbors for ten years.
He’d given Smith an apple sapling that would bear sweet, crisp fruit in the years to come. The man had let out a rare chuckle and promised him a pie in return, although he said his sister would do the baking when she came to live with him, else the dessert would be inedible.
Just last spring after the ground thawed and both were digging up their garden plots, they’d worked together to add six inches to the low rock wall between their properties.
As the exertion warmed their bodies, their mutual reserve began to melt, and they’d chatted a bit about what they were planting. But Smith, who wouldn’t be home long enough to tend a garden, only dug in root vegetables.
Greatly daring, Dale had spoken up, encouraging Smith to plant more and volunteering to water while the man was away at the logging camp, as well as pull the worst of the weeds. But Smith hadn’t wanted his neighbor to feel obligated, and Dale couldn’t find the right words to tell the younger man that he’d enjoy the endeavor.Next year, he’d told himself.Next year, I’ll explain.
Remorse swept over him.Now next year will never come.“Mr. Smith was a good man—a good neighbor,” Dale said sparingly, not sure his shock and guilt would allow him to say more.
“We’ll be having a gravesite service tomorrow if you’d like to attend.”
