Page 37 of The Gift of Seeds
She took the book with a smile and light in her eyes. As she profusely thanked him, Dale felt his chest expand. Talking to a lady hadn’t been so difficult, after all. Actually, he’d rather enjoyed the conversation with Miss Collier.
He cast another glance out the window at the woman playing with the dog.Maybe I can work up the nerve to call upon Miss Smith.
I wonder if she’s attending the holiday party.
While in the back yard,something shifted for Hester. Not right away. At first, she could throw the stick to the dog and laugh at Lucy’s antics. But all that time, the wood pile rebuked her. The uncut rounds, barely noticeable bumps under the new-fallen snow, and the stacked wood under the crude shed, brought out all her doubts and inadequacies.
Even though the image of her with an axe made her cringe, shecouldlearn how to dismantle those big sections of tree trunks into manageable firewood. After all, she was strong from laboring all her life. But the idea of chopping her own wood seemed too physically daunting.And I’ll have to find someone to teach me.Her thoughts slid away from asking her neighbor.
If I’m to live this life, I’ll need to toughen up.
I’ll need to step out and weave myself into this community for support.
The question is, if I can.
After loading her arms with wood, she called to Lucy to go inside. Once she’d filled the wood box, shed her outerwear, and toweled off the dog, she went to the kitchen to check on the dough, which looked much the same as when she’d left it.
As Hester moved about the kitchen area, she gave an angled glance out the windows and saw a small sleigh pulled by black Falabellas parked in front of the Marsden house. She stepped sideways for a better look, her nose almost pressed against the cold glass.
That must be the team belonging to Mr. Bellaire. I wonder what he’s doing at Mr. Marsden’s?
For a brief, childlike moment, she debated sneaking out to give the miniature horses some carrots.But with my tracksthrough the thick snow, I’d give myself away. And what if Mr. Bellaire came out while I was feeding them? I could hardly refuse another offer for a drive because I’d revealed my interest.
Despite her little girl longing to go pet the Falabellas, Hester made herself turn aside. An hour had passed, so the dough was ready. Unfortunately, the good memories she’d deliberately focused on earlier now escaped her.
Resolutely, Hester spread Jimmy’s sheet across two thirds of the table, smoothing the surface. She inhaled the scent of apples and cinnamon, waiting in the bowls on the other side of the table, and ran a finger over the cross stitching of the roughly mended tear.How I would have teased him about this.She could imagine their banter as if it was real:
“Jimmy! What are these Xs? I know Matron Holtz taught you boys how to mend rips and sew on buttons. You should have held the edges together on the underside of the sheet and neatly moved the needle lengthwise.” Hester made needle and sewing motions in the air.
By scooping her into a bear hug that lifted her off her feet and squeezed the breath out of her, Jimmy stopped her teasing scold. “Hess, Hess, Hess, he chided with mock solemnity. “That’s what I have a sister for.”
For a brief moment, the warmth of his hug was so real, Hester did stop breathing. But reality slapped her with grief. She drew a shuddering breath.Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Almost blindly, and fighting to keep back tears, Hester added wood to the fires in the stove and the fireplace. She rolled up her sleeves to above her elbows and thoroughly washed and dried her hands and arms. She dusted flour over her arms and the front and back of her hands, making sure her knuckles were coated.
Picking up the dough, she began to stretch out the ball. After she had a flat circle, about the size of a dinner plate, she slid the backside of her hands underneath, made a half-fist, and began to stretch the dough in several directions.
Or at least she tried to.
Hester was used to makingapfelstrudelwith Lovie. In the orphanage, the children split into groups of two, three, and four, depending on their age and competency level, with each group making their own strudel. The dough needed to be spread into a yard-long, roundish circle, so thin you could read a newspaper through it. Mrs. Holtz always checked to be sure by sliding an actual piece of newsprint underneath.
The less-experienced children worked as a bigger team under the matron’s eagle eye. Hester and Lovie had been so proud when they’d graduated to pulling the dough by themselves.
Now, the edges flopped down, growing heavier. As soon as she’d run a hand over an escaping edge to shore it up, another side seemed to melt over her other arm. The farthest part threatened to break off all together. In her haste to rescue that section, she put a knuckle through the center.
That’s all right, she thought in Mrs. Holtz’s voice.When we layer the dough, no one will know about the holes.
The reassurance worked for the first hole. And for the second. And the third, an actual tear, which she tried to pinch together and, in the process, caused another section to slide over her forearm.
Frustration built inside her chest. But she pressed her lips together and soldiered on.
Then she lunged to rescue one side and poked an elbow through the other.Elbow!Hester wanted to scream from vexation. She hadn’t put an elbow through the dough since she was seven years old.
A ragged piece broke off and oozed to the floor.
Lucy pounced and gobbled it down, looking up expectantly for more.
“Gurrrr!” Helpless anger and grief boiled over. Hester threw the dough onto the table, where it skidded across the sheet, a misshapen blob. She kicked the leg of a chair to push it away from the table and wearily plopped into the seat, breathing as heavily as if she’d wrestled a grizzly bear. She averted her gaze away from the disappointing disaster thatwouldn’tbe strudel and glared at the Christmas tree, as if the decorated pine were responsible for these ill-natured feelings.
