Roses for Mama Page 11

  The three mourners who stood close to the graveside made quite a contrast. Carter towered above the other two. He was dressed in a fine dark suit. His broad shoulders wore it well and his head was bowed just enough to show proper respect for the man who had been his father, but whom he had never known. The two little men who stood beside him wore the same suits they had worn for funerals over many years. The garments were faded and wrinkled—much like the two who wore them. But the faces of the two little gentlemen were etched with genuine grief. Charlie stopped to brush away a tear now and then, unaffected by the crowd of observers.

  There wasn’t much the Reverend Merrifield could say in comfort to the bereaved, so he spoke to those who remained behind.

  “I go to prepare a place for you,” he quoted and then lifted his eyes to the neighbors.

  “Friends—Christ spoke those words—and so we know them to be true. He has gone to prepare a place for us—for each one of us. But for us to take advantage of His goodness—we must prepare our hearts for that place.

  “Have you considered what you must do? Christ will keep His word. The place will be prepared and waiting. It will be ready when you depart this world—if you also have made preparations.

  “God has told us in His Word what we must do to prepare. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.’ Repent—turn from your wickedness and unto God. Ask God to forgive those wrongs—those sins of the past—and to give you a clean heart—clean thoughts, clean actions—so that you might be prepared for the place He has prepared. Accept the forgiveness of God through the death of His Son, and be baptized in faith.”

  As the sermon continued, Angela stole a look at the crowd of neighbors all around the graveside. How many of them might need to hear the words being spoken? Had she really been concerned about their eternal destinies—or had she been too busy caring for her family? Mama would have found the time—I know she would have, Angela thought. I must be careful so I don’t get too taken up with duties that I forget people.

  Angela glanced again at the three menfolk at the grave. Carter stood respectfully, yet locked away. Angela could not read his thoughts or feelings. Charlie mourned openly. Poor little Charlie. The long illness of his boss and friend had almost done him in. Gus looked uncomfortable, as if he wished the parson would hurry. His hand supported Charlie by holding his elbow. It was touching to see the two elderly, wizened little men sharing their grief in such a manner.

  ———

  “What will you do now?” Angela asked Charlie and Gus.

  She had bundled up a few loaves of fresh bread in a clean kitchen towel and taken them across the field. She sat in the big kitchen. Now that Gus had been freed to return to his regular duties, he had scrubbed and polished until everything shone again.

  “I guess I jest go back to my cookin’,” said Gus lightly.

  “And you?” asked Angela turning to Charlie. “Will you be riding again?”

  Charlie shook his head slowly. “I’m too old for ridin’. Got no yen to be back out in the sun and the snow. My bones ache and the old breaks give me a twinge now and then. I guess I’ll just find me a little shack somewhere and sit and rock.”

  Angela smiled. If anyone deserved to sit and rock, she felt Charlie did.

  “Why do you need a shack? There’s plenty of room here.”

  “Thet’s what I been tellin’ ’im,” cut in Gus. “No reason I can see fer ’im to be lookin’ fer another place. No reason.”

  Charlie shook his head.

  “I ain’t no use to nobody here anymore,” he insisted. “Ain’t gonna sit around an’ jest get in the way.”

  “Why don’t you come live with us?” Angela asked so suddenly that she surprised even herself.

  Charlie looked up quickly to see if he had heard her right.

  “We can make room,” Angela continued, her mind busily trying to work out her plan.

  Charlie was shaking his head slowly.

  “Sure we can,” she said. “I’ll speak to Thomas. We’d love to have you—all of us would.”

  “No-o-o,” spoke Charlie, but Angela was sure the idea appealed to him.

  “We have a nice wide veranda that Papa built—”

  “Nothing wrong with your place,” cut in Charlie. “It’s me. I ain’t good for nothin’ anymore.”

  “Of course you are. Don’t say that. You are still worn out from your long ordeal, but you’ll get your strength back again. Just wait and see. And if—if you don’t—then—then we’d still like to have you.”

  Charlie reached out a calloused hand and patted Angela’s soft young one. “You are kind, girlie—jest like yer mama. But thet arrangement wouldn’t work.”

  “Will you at least think about it?” insisted Angela.

  Charlie chuckled. “Think about it! Shucks, I’ll dream about it.”

  Angela left feeling that with Charlie dreaming and her praying, surely something would work out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Caller

  Carter caught Angela unexpectedly with his first call, and she had to excuse herself and go to her room to change and repair her hair. While she was gone, Thomas and Carter exchanged views on the weather, the year’s crops, and the coming winter.

  Angela returned to the kitchen quickly, and Carter turned his full attention to her.

  She wanted to ask him about Charlie—but she dared not. After all, it really was none of her affair. Still, it seemed that after all his years of service to Carter’s father, Charlie was due some sort of consideration.

  They spent the evening in light conversation. Angela was tempted to have Thomas lay a fire in the parlor so they wouldn’t have to spend all their time in the kitchen, but she withheld the suggestion. She decided to assess the situation to see if Carter was really calling on her or just paying a neighborly visit.

  He was so smooth, so proper, so elegant in his plaid jacket with velvet lapels and his diamond stick-pin that Angela could not believe he could actually be interested in a simple girl like her.

  Yet his eyes, his shared laughter, his absolute attentiveness—all stated that indeed he was interested. It was a puzzle to Angela—a puzzle that sent her pulse racing.

  “How soon may I come again?” he asked, his eyes teasing her as she saw him to the door. Not “may I come again” or “would you mind?” but “how soon?” Angela held her breath in a little gasp and looked up into the dark eyes.

  “Well, I—I—” Then she smiled and tipped her head slightly, answering in a joking mood. “April?”

  “I would never last until April,” he said, his eyes looking seriously into hers.

  “Then perhaps we could make it a bit sooner,” she responded.

  “How does Friday night sound?”

  “This Friday night? This is Tuesday—that is only—”

  “Three long, long days,” he finished for her.

  Angela took a deep breath and nodded, a smile playing softly about her lips. “Friday night will be fine,” she said in little more than a whisper.

  He nodded and turned to go, replacing his dark Stetson as he stepped out into the chill of the night.

  Angela closed the door and leaned against it. She wondered if Thomas had heard the conversation.

  “I’m going up to bed,” Thomas announced.

  Angela realized that to Thomas, Carter’s call was little more than a neighborly visit.

  “Thomas, Carter is coming again on—on Friday night.”

  Thomas looked up, his eyes filled with surprise.

  “I was wondering—could we—could we have a fire in the parlor? That way—should the rest of you like—like to read—or—or whatever—in the kitchen, we won’t be in one another’s way.”

  There! She had stated her case clearly enough. She was being courted. She needed a bit of privacy. She fixed her eyes on Thomas, her blood pounding through her veins.

  Thomas stood quietly, just looking at her; then he reached a hand to the chair in front of
him and pushed it back against the table. His eyes looked down at the kitchen floor as though he were studying something. Then he swallowed. Angela could see his Adam’s apple work up and down. At last he spoke.

  “Is this what you want?”

  “Why, y-yes. I—I guess it is.”

  “You’re sure that he shares your standards? Your faith?”

  “He goes to our church—almost every Sunday.”

  “Angela—it is more than going to church on Sunday. You know that.”

  She nodded. It was her turn to swallow. She twisted her hands. There were so many things about Carter that seemed so—so perfect. But she wasn’t sure—not quite sure—if he actually shared her faith.

  She lifted her head resolutely. “If I find that he doesn’t, I can stop seeing him,” she said.

  “I hear it isn’t always that easy,” replied Thomas.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Hazel Conroy said that about her Fred. I hear that he’s already forbidden her to attend services.”

  That piece of news was a shock to Angela. “But Carter goes to services,” she reminded her brother.

  “So did Fred,” Thomas answered soberly.

  Angela remembered that it had been so.

  “And—and what about Thane?” asked Thomas pointedly.

  “Thane?”

  “Thane most always comes on Friday night. Have you forgotten?”

  “He can still come,” she answered. “You and he can play checkers or something and—and I’ll fix lunch for all of us.”

  Thomas looked at Angela with unbelieving eyes, shook his head sadly, then turned to the stairs.

  Angela knew something was wrong. Thomas never turned his back and walked away from her. She wished to call out to him, but she closed her lips firmly. He was acting foolishly. There was no reason for him to be so upset about Carter coming to call. After all, she was an adult. She could choose her own friends.

  Angela stiffened her back and lifted her chin, but she could do little about the tears that insisted on slipping out from under her long lashes.

  She recalled her feelings of fear and jealousy when Thomas had seemed to enjoy the attention showered on him by Trudie. Maybe he felt the same way now. But Angela would never leave the family. Thomas should know that. He had nothing to worry about.

  ———

  Carter did call on Friday night. Thane did not. Angela missed seeing him, but quickly pushed all thoughts of him from her mind and gave her full attention to Carter.

  Thomas started the fire in the parlor fireplace as Angela had requested and he also must have told the children that Angela was not to be disturbed, for no one came near the parlor door.

  Angela prodded Carter gently with leading questions, hoping that he would disclose his beliefs about God. But either he did not understand her meaning or was skillful in evasion, for she never did get a satisfactory answer.

  Perhaps another time, she told herself and allowed the conversation to turn to other things.

  He told her about his mother. He told her of the home where he had grown up and described it so well that Angela could almost smell the sweet honeysuckle and hear the katydids.

  “It must have been hard for you to leave all that,” she sympathized.

  “On the contrary,” said Carter. “I was quite bored with it all. I wanted to come west when I was about fifteen, but Mother would not hear of it. I toyed with the idea for years before I finally found the resolve to actually do it. Mother was dead set against it, you see. At first I hoped I could change her mind. But that didn’t work. Finally we had a big quarrel. I’m sorry it had to happen in that way—but I’m not one bit sorry I came.”

  He reached down to take the small hand that rested on the sofa between them, and Angela flushed slightly. Courting was all new to her, and she was not good at knowing what to say and how to say it. She was quite sure Trudie would have had a ready response—and would have invited another compliment. But Angela sat tongue-tied.

  Carter studied the small hand he held in both of his own. “How do you keep them so soft—when you work so hard?” he asked.

  Angela was flustered again. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer the question or if it was just a flattering remark. She let it go.

  “You should have someone waiting on you—rather than you doing all of the caring for others,” he continued.

  “I—I like to care for others,” she stammered.

  “I know you do.” His eyes held hers. She knew he was paying her tribute. “You are the most sincerely selfless little creature I have ever met. Any man would be honored to get such tender care.”

  Angela wasn’t sure she understood the full meaning of his words, but she was sure he intended them as a verbal caress. She withdrew her hand slowly and took a deep breath. “Perhaps I should see to refreshments,” she offered, rising before he could object.

  She was surprised when she reached the kitchen to discover the lateness of the hour. There was no one at the table or in the big chair beside the stove.

  “Oh my!” she exclaimed. “They must all be in bed. I wonder if they had their milk and cookies?”

  Angela took her time in preparing the serving tray and arranging the coffee cups. She needed to calm her nerves and to think soberly.

  By the time she returned to the parlor, she was in control again. She took over the role of hostess easily and efficiently. She was even charming, without being forward.

  After his third cup of coffee, Carter withdrew his pocket watch and looked shocked as he read the time.

  “My word!” he exclaimed. “Where have the hours gone? You see the effect you have on me, Angela. I lose all track of time and place.”

  “It has gone quickly, but we had much to talk about,” Angela said as she began to gather the lunch things and place them back on the tray.

  “Yes,” agreed Carter, his eyes serious as they studied her. “We have had. And so much more that we haven’t yet discussed. I’m afraid I will have to insist that you allow me more of your time, sweet Angela.” His eyes and voice were teasing again. Angela felt that she knew better how to respond when he was in a light mood.

  “Well—maybe just a teeny, weeny bit of time,” she said, indicating a small amount with her thumb and finger. She laughed softly and he smiled his slow, deliberate smile.

  “And when might that teeny, weeny bit be available?” he asked her.

  “Well—”

  “And please don’t tell me April,” he said with a mock groan.

  “What would you like me to say?” asked Angela coyly.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  She hoped he was teasing again.

  “Saturday evening is always family time,” she answered quickly.

  “Could I take you to dinner on Sunday—somewhere? Where does one go for a fancy dinner around here?”

  “One does not go for a fancy dinner around here,” Angela laughed. “One could get a beef and potato meal at the hotel. But not on Sunday. And not me. I always prepare a special dinner for the family on Sunday.”

  She didn’t tell him about their game and the Memory Book.

  “See!” he pointed out. “It is like I said. You are always more concerned about others than you are about yourself.”

  “But I—”

  He reached out to lay the tip of his finger on her lips, and she stopped protesting mid-sentence.

  “When may I see you again?” he asked. “I really don’t want to wait very long.”

  Angela raised a hand to remove his finger from her lips. His hand closed quickly over her own. She felt confused—crowded—unable to think straight. “Why don’t we talk about it on Sunday—after church?” she suggested.

  He seemed disappointed, but he accepted her arrangement.

  “Until Sunday then,” he confirmed and reached for the hat he had left lying on the sofa table.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Will

  Angela decided tha
t Carter could call again on Tuesday. She felt it was a bit soon, but she could not turn down his pleading dark eyes.

  They also had another caller on Monday. Charlie braved the weather to make his way across the field.

  He sipped coffee, savored chocolate cake, and talked of neighborhood events until after the three younger children had been sent to bed. Then with just Thomas and Angela sharing the table, he brought up what he had really come to talk about.

  “They read the will today.”

  For a moment Angela did not catch the meaning of his words.

  “Mr. Stratton was wise to have drawn a will,” commented Thomas, and Angela understood.

  Charlie nodded.

  They sat in silence for a minute. Thomas and Angela both sensed there was more on Charlie’s mind.

  “It held some surprises?” prompted Thomas.

  “It did.”

  Charlie pulled a yellowed envelope from his pocket. On the front in scrawling handwriting was the name of Karl Peterson.

  “Papa!” said Angela in surprise.

  Charlie nodded.

  “But Papa has been gone for—” began Angela.

  “The boss must have written this letter before yer pa died—an’ then forgot about it bein’ in thet drawer with his will,” responded Charlie.

  Thomas took the envelope and turned it over and over in his hands.

  “Why don’t you open it?” advised Charlie.

  Thomas carefully tore a corner off the envelope and slit the edge. He withdrew a short letter in the same scrawling script that appeared on the envelope.

  “Dear Karl,” Thomas read aloud. “I might not have been much of a neighbor over the years. I’ve been bitter about many things, but I see now that much of it was my own doing. If anything should unexpectedly happen to me, I just wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking on what you said. It does make a lot of sense. I don’t know which way I will decide, but you have done your part. I admire a man with guts enough to speak his mind on what he believes.”

  It was signed simply, “Carter.”