A Log Cabin Christmas (26 page)

“I need to rest now,” Mary said.

“Agreed,” he said. He smiled shyly, adding, “Just one more thing.” He grabbed the broom and swept again to make sure no glass remained caught on the puncheon floor and then wiped the pine with a damp cloth. Mary wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a man on his knees with a wash rag. No, she was sure of it; she never had. When he finished, she opened the door to the back room, and Lacy came bounding out, sniffing at Mary’s bandage then lifting her front paws onto Richard’s top boots as he stood.

“It’s all fine.” He patted the dog then looked at Mary. “Except for your mistress. I’ll put the sign on the door saying you’re closed today if you’d like. Or if you trust me, I could come back and begin putting things together and help your customers, too. It might give me a better idea of your stock.”

Mary sighed. She couldn’t afford to put things on hold. “Yes. I will need help at least for a time. There’s a cart and harness in the shed out back. It’s covered, fortunately.” For the past year, she’d been working on the cart herself, making drawers for buttons and needles, allowing shelves for books of cloth. She had the heavy, round, scissors sharpener attached to the bottom that could be removed and set up outside a patron’s home. Mary was glad the roads would be drying up soon and her new partner wouldn’t get bogged down in the mud. She’d be bogged down in this store, though. She couldn’t even sweep the floor with one hand, could she?

She heard a familiar patter on the shake roof, and Mary looked up, holding her right hand above her waist with her left to keep it from throbbing, which it did when she forgot and put it at her side. She guessed she’d have to use that sling for a while.

“I could have sworn we had sun, and now it’s pouring,” Richard said.

“It’ll let up soon, and we’ll have our sun breaks,” she told him. “Little gifts to remind us that there is always sunshine after a rain.” And soon her hand would heal, too, but not soon enough. She’d need his sales more than ever now with a doctor bill she hadn’t anticipated. Laird would insist on paying it, but that would obligate her to him—and she wanted that less than a bill. Or worse, he’d come by more often offering to “help her out” if she didn’t let him pay. She’d have to find a way to deal with that.

“I’ll make a big circle around the region and keep track of purchases our customers make so we can follow up the next time I swing by,” Richard said. Mary liked that he already said “our” customers. “Tug their memories about what they might be running out of since they didn’t buy it last time.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mary told him. She sat on the plank chair Dale had made.

“Let’s put the sling on,” Richard said.

“Well, all right.” She knew it would help. His long fingers—musician’s hands—lifted her wounded palm, and she felt the tenderness of his care like sunlight kissing the rain. He slipped the cloth triangle around her neck, and she could feel his breath on her cheek. Her steady heart took flight. “I’m … I’m … thank you. And for your good idea of keeping ledgers for each customer to anticipate what they might need.”

He beamed. “I clerked for the army. North,” he said. “Keeping track’s easy for me. By the way, I got a good look at the Smith’s store. Smells of fresh lumber all right, and shelves are already stocked.” Mary frowned. “But you’ve a much better supply of sewing things,” he said. “I’ll put the order in and return, and if you’re up to it, we can choose what bolts of cotton you want to put into the cart for sales. You know who’s out there and what they’ll be interested in. And don’t you worry over the doctor bill. My thread sent your jar careening; I’ll take a smaller percentage from the cart sales until that bill is paid.”

Mary nodded and headed into the back room, listening for the door to close when Richard left. She lay down on the rope mattress, Lacy beside her. She could rest with this plan in place, and she didn’t mind accepting his suggestion as a way to pay for the doctor. That would take Laird out of the equation.
Thank You, God
, she prayed as she slipped off to sleep,
for tending to details even if gleaned from the shards of a broken jar
.

T
here’s Nelia Williams and her spinster sister, Ruthie. Nelia’s a fine seamstress,” Mary told Richard, “but I don’t think Ruthie sews much. She’s great with horses, though, and works leather in the winter.” Four days had passed, and in the interim Mary had rested her hand on a pillow while Richard tended the store, loading the cart during sun breaks and letting Laird Lawson know all was under control each time he came by talking about the busy activity at Smith’s new store, raving about the pickle barrel and the little potbelly stove Smith installed instead of the sooty old cat-and-clay fireplace that warmed Mary’s logs or the big brick one at Cooley & Company. Mary put on her best face for Laird, assuring him that competition was the American way and good for business. The town’s fathers suggested that with the sawmill and Moyer’s Sash & Door Factory open now, she ought to abandon the old log store and build a new clapboard one. Modernize, they advised; find a better location, they offered; look more prosperous, they concluded. Now Mr. Smith had done just that.

But she and Dale had built this cabin together, chinking the logs themselves using pine needles, dried grass, and clay from the bank of the Calapooia River flowing beside them. Together she and her husband had served the good people of Brownsville. They’d done so for five years until Dale had taken sick with smallpox and died.

Many in the region had succumbed to the epidemic in 1863, and Mary thought it a miracle that she had not. But after Dale died, she’d wished for months that she’d gone with him. Being surrounded by the logs squared at the end by his hands, watching the sunlight filter through the isinglass windows he’d made himself kept Dale close to her heart. Why, she’d even used the froe to split logs into boards for shingles and door planks. They’d put their sweat and soul into the log home and business. She couldn’t imagine ever leaving it.

“What is Miss William’s preference, wool or cotton?” Richard asked.

“Nelia tends to use wool for quilts and such, so we’ll need a heavy thread for them with good, thick needles even though she can sew twelve stitches to the inch, or so they’ve told me.”

Richard whistled. “That’s mighty fine stitching,” he said. “Maybe we should carry eyeglasses. They might have eyestrain from such detailed work. Or maybe something for headaches.”

“I believe you’re right, Mr. Taylor,” Mary said. She wondered how he’d finesse them into buying eyeglasses without offending them. Everyone knew eyeglasses were for the elderly or weak. Mary pushed her own eyeglasses up on her nose. She’d worn glasses since she was a child. “Cotton, too, though. Good cotton material,” Mary continued. She liked talking with Richard about her inventory. He nodded enthusiastically and smiled at her often without carrying any obligation the way Laird’s smiles did. They might carry something else, but Mary didn’t want to think of that. She was in business with this man, nothing more.

Richard made notes in a ledger book.

“What about quilt patterns?” he said. “I know you’re not a quilter, but—”

“I have patterns here,” she said and rose to find them. “I know the women exchange block patterns, but these are new,” she told him. “It’s a Bible quilt-block book. The squares have names like Garden of Eden, Jacob’s Ladder, Job’s Tear. Oh, and look at this one, Storm at Sea. It’ll require a sharp scissors to get those curves right.”

Richard said, “Even though the design has no rounded curves, it looks like it does from the placement and size of the triangles.”

“Really?” Mary said. “There aren’t any curved pieces?” She was amazed, but then she had a hard time even seeing the squares in the pattern until Richard ran his finger around the edges of the triangular pieces, his hand over her fingers as he traced the pieces making the curved design. Mary felt a tingle at her wound, though his hand covered her left one, not the wounded palm. The tingling wasn’t unpleasant, more of a surprise. She let his hand linger, felt the slightest callous and the greater warmth of his hand over hers.

She cleared her throat, pulled her hand out. “Storm at Sea. Quite turbulent,” she said as she tried to figure what to do with her hand. Why was she so fidgety all of a sudden?

“Bessie Thompson, over by Amelia, she’ll buy thread,” Mary said collecting her wits. “Abigail Schultz outside of Lebanon will. Her father’s the blacksmith there. She looks after him. She’s a widow, like me. Oh, and Matilda Kaliska. Now there’s a seamstress! Her wedding dresses of satin and silk could win over New York if she had a way to get them there. Maybe when the train comes to Brownsville, the world will widen for Matilda.” Mary told him of several more women who came into her store—or used to—that she thought would be amenable to having a handsome man bring wares right to their cabins.

“You leave it to me,” Richard said. “I’ll convince them to reach beyond scrapsfor quilts, to invest in good cotton with whole colors and pieces made with a mix of Hoyle’s Wave or brown serpentine stripes. You have a good selection, Mary. Better than at either Smith’s or Cooley & Company.”

“Thank you.” Her face grew warm at the compliment. “I’ve done as well as I could, but someone who knows material and thread as you do will expand on that. I do believe our partnership is off to a very good start.”

“We’re off to a very good start indeed,” he told her. She wondered if the twinkle in his eye emphasized only a business transaction. Foolishly, she hoped it didn’t.

Mary’s hand throbbed, and she found even dressing took more time and energy than she’d ever imagined. Richard had performed a number of tasks that eased her day, and with him gone, she was truly discovering how difficult it was to have the use of only one hand. Even if Richard was successful with his outlying sales, a venture he’d been off on for more than two weeks now, she had to do something to bring customers into the store and perhaps have a little help as well. Brushing off her one dress because she needed help washing clothes could only go on for so long.

Flower seeds had arrived, but she needed a way to let people know they were here. Richard loved a woman who sewed. She wondered if he liked a woman who gardened? “That’s so silly of me,” Mary told the dog. “Why worry about what Mr. Taylor likes one whit? But he did look flummoxed after he traced the quilt block with my fingers.” The thought renewed the tingling in her palm. “Maybe he felt too … oh, for heaven’s sake.” She was acting like a schoolgirl.

Mary moved her thoughts back to work. She wished they had a newspaper in town so she could place an advertisement. She decided to post a notice at the church. Surely the growing of flowers was an act of faith. One planted a seed unseen beneath the sod and waited for it to grow and bloom. It was a metaphor of hope. She’d have to close the store while she went to speak to the pastor, missing customers who might be coming in. Her log-cabin store was the first commercial establishment on this side of the river. When ferry passengers approached, she hoped they’d come in before crossing over to the other establishments. But today, she had to take the risk and close up so she could talk to the Presbyterian pastor. Besides, she wanted to survey the competition.

With her left hand, she turned the key, and Lacy trotted beside her as she boarded the ferry, crossed the Calapooia, and headed toward the church.

“Good morning, Pastor Blaine,” she said when she found him setting out flowers in window boxes. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is. April’s my favorite time.” He pulled on his bushy mustache,which hung like a lazy caterpillar over his lip. “Love to see the daffodils popping up.”

“That’s the very reason I stopped by,” Mary said. “I want to place a sign to let the good people of Brownsville know that I have newly arrived flower seeds,” she said.

“Do you now? Well, that’s interesting, as Mr. Smith just asked the same thing of me.”

“He did? Mr. Smith is a Presbyterian?”

“You didn’t see him in church on Sunday last?”

“I guess I didn’t recognize him,” she said.

“Well he’s got access to nurseries in the East with actual starts of marigolds and daisies not to mention a dozen more varieties.”

“Actual starts. When will they arrive, do you know?”

“Already have, and I can tell you that the ladies of the congregation are quite excited about it.”

“I imagine they are.”

“Surprised me. Most of the time people get sent seeds from home. Makes them feel well, like they have a little of what they left behind planted in their yards. But things change.” He pontificated now. “There’s a time to weep and—”

“A time to laugh,” Mary finished though she didn’t feel much like laughing. Instead she walked away. Smith had starts, the pastor said. The blooms would be much further along than on any plants produced by customers planting Mary’s seeds.

She walked to Smith’s store to see what he did have. She wished she hadn’t. The scent of new lumber filled her head as she slowly turned around, her eyes taking in the rich wares finely displayed. Maybe there was something to a clapboard establishment without the logs to remind one of earlier days. This was progress; even she could see that. Near the window were petunias and dahlias growing inside squash halves as though they’d been started a month ago. The seeds may have come from back East, but it was clear Mr. Smith had planted them and had gotten them going right here in Brownsville. His customers wouldn’t care; they’d just be pleased to see them nearly ready to line their paths and fill their window boxes.

But of greatest interest was Smith’s inventory of furniture! Bedsteads and lamps and harvest tables with carved legs stately stood next to parlor tables and copper-lined tobacco stands. People wouldn’t have to imagine what a new dresser would look like when they perused a catalog; they’d be able to see what their purchase would look like, maybe even buy it right off the store floor! She didn’t see much in the way of cloth books or thread, so perhaps she’d be all right, especially with Richard selling far and wide.

A few customers nodded to Mary, the women asking about her hand while looking a little guilty that they were enjoying this newest establishment. Why, Smith was even serving cinnamon rolls. He’d attract women with his flowers and the men with his food. What did that leave her?

Mary had no answer to that question as she rode the ferry across the Calapooia to her comforting log store.

“I told people to come back in a little bit,” Jennifer Mason told Mary. The child waited outside on the log bench, her short legs swinging and bobbing her braids at the same time.

“Thank you for that,” Mary said as she pulled the heavy iron key from the leather cord around her neck. She fumbled with her left hand, and Jennifer jumped up to assist. “My ma is sure happy for those buttons you sent over,” Jennifer said. “And the molasses, too. I thought I’d come by to save Mr. Lawson the trouble of delivering your leavings.” The child was missing her two front teeth, so
Lawson
came out as
Lawthon
. “I’m not so sure he likes children.”

“Oh, he just hasn’t been around them much,” Mary said.

“You haven’t either, but you don’t frown when the baby smacks her messy hand on your forehead.”

The image and Jennifer’s toothless words made Mary smile. “It’s something new to him. Give him a little time,” Mary said. “Thanks for your help with the key. And for advising customers to return. I knew that might happen when I closed.” The thought reminded her of Smith’s foray into flowers, and she got addled all over again.

“Ma told me I’m to help you while your hand is so bad.”

Mary looked at the wiry child and wondered if she could even drag a bag of rice from the storeroom, let alone lift it to fill the pottery. “Tell your mama that’s very kind, but I’m doing fine.”

“I know I don’t look strong, but I am.” The girl flexed her thin arms, showing a bump little larger than a mosquito bite beneath thin calico. “And Ma says you give a gift when you let people help you.”

“But can you drag a fifty-pound sack of rice or flour from the back room?” Mary asked.

The girl stood thoughtful. “No, ma’am. But I can carry it here a bucket at a time. I can keep it filled just fine.”

“How old are you, Jennifer?”

“Eight and a half. How old are you?”

“Thirty,” Mary said.

“That’s a lot of miles,” Jennifer said without smiling.

“Indeed it is.”

“Tell your Mama I accept her offer of your help, Jennifer. You’ve a fine mind and just the right amount of muscle.”

“I can start by getting rid of that old hard candy, Mrs. Bishop.” Mary smiled at the child’s
Mithus Bithop
as she handed her the striped candy the girl pointed at. She and Jennifer would fill a wooden box lined with cheesecloth they could fold over to keep the spiders from dropping in the rice, and that would free up the large stoneware pot for pickles. She could serve pickles with the best of them. When Richard Taylor returned, she’d have him build a bin with a cover for the rice. Or maybe with her direction, she and Jennifer could build it together. She had no idea whether Richard Taylor knew one end of a hammer from the other, but he did know his needles and thread. Right now, that was a detail and a gift from heaven.