Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel (20 page)

And truly she had reason to be grateful to him for the timely lift home that day of her misery and mortification, and reason to appreciate the sensitivity he had shown in not indulging in meaningless conversation, giving her time to recover herself to some degree.

“You have Nelman’s report card, ya?” Big Tiny asked, bridging the small silence that fell as both of them, perhaps, remembered that other time and the wordless sense of camaraderie that had existed, if only for the moment.

“Yes, of course,” Birdie responded, and she began riffling through the cards still in her hand. “You’ll be glad to know that Nelman did very well academically. As for deportment—well, we need a little work there.” But Birdie smiled slightly as she said it; one might almost have said she dimpled.

“No more clock-winding escapades?” Big Tiny asked.

“You know about that?” Now Birdie was uncomfortable, remembering the chastisement she had meted out—and her subsequent regret.

“Of course,” the big man said. “We—Little Tiny and I—have no one else to talk to, nights when we’re alone. We like good company,” he twinkled, “and good conversation. And so we tell each other everything we can think of. I tell him about his mother and his grandparents back home; he tells me what’s happened at school and what he’s learned that day. That’s how I learned about the Cree.”

Big Tiny was referring, Birdie knew, to their conversation the day he had dropped by after school and they had looked at the map of Saskatchewan together. Looked at the map and talked animatedly about history—with the letter lying like a live thing between them on the desk. Two weeks and a lifetime ago, it seemed to her now.

When Birdie stepped aside and walked toward another group of families just arriving, Big Tiny matched his steps to hers for a time, then turned aside toward his son to share with him the good news from his report card. It seemed good to Birdie, somehow, to walk in his shadow. Comforting.

“Oh, Mrs. Buckley,” she called, seeing that large, sober-faced woman unpacking her box of food. “I have Harold’s report card. Is he here?” Birdie looked around.

“Buck’s gone north to work with his brother in the woods,” Mrs. Buckley said, setting out a plate of sandwiches and covering them with a tea towel. “Left as soon as school was out.”

Birdie couldn’t help the surge of relief this news gave her. She was able to say, generously, “Well, you’ll be happy to know he finished his grade satisfactorily.”

And as she handed over the report card, she mentally washed her hands and—hopefully—rid her mind of the entire miserable affair of the letters.

Her cards all handed out, Birdie’s perambulations around the picnic spot and through the crowd had no further point to them. She faltered momentarily, unsure of herself and her welcome with any of the huddled groups—people seemed to have drifted into pairs, walking and talking together; middle-aged women sitting companionably in the shade; men deep in discussion here and there; young people engaged in games and competitions.

“Miss Wharton!” someone called, apparently noticing her solitary figure and her hesitant manner.

Birdie swung around to see several young women sitting in the grass on a slight rise, like Saskatchewan wild roses, blooming and sweet, watching the ball game and the display of manly ability being enacted before their interested eyes.

“Over here, Miss Wharton.” Someone in the group raised a hand and beckoned.

Gladly Birdie made her way to the group, responded to the nodded and murmured greetings, and took a spot cleared for her between a couple of the girls. Both spoke at once, and Birdie swiveled her head to hear, to smile, to respond.

“I’m Molly Morrison. I’ve met you at church, of course—”

“Of course.”

“And I’m Marfa Polchek, and heaven alone knows how I’m going to get myself up off this ground.” Marfa patted the bulge that indicated she was very near full term with her pregnancy. “And that’s my husband working himself into a lather over there with the children’s three-legged race, not a job he asked for, that’s for sure! Parker Jones has a persuasive way about him! Wouldn’t you say so, Molly?” And Marfa looked teasingly at Molly, to all intents and purposes the choice of Pastor Parker Jones, though no definite announcement had been made.

“I’ve seen you both, of course,” Birdie said, grateful for the friendly gestures, “at certain school gatherings, and at church. But only to say hello, I’m afraid. I guess I have to admit I’m a rather... solitary person. I haven’t made the effort to get acquainted as I should have.” Suddenly Birdie regretted the long, barren winter and the few contacts, mostly people who had dropped by the Bloom home.

“It’s impossible in the winter, so think nothing of it. You’ve done a great job this year, everyone says,” Molly said comfortingly. “And we’re all glad you’ll be staying on. Will you be leaving Bliss for the summer?”

Birdie was into an explanation regarding her lack of close family and, therefore, the need to stay in Bliss for the summer months,
when a couple wandered by, heads close together, faces rather flushed, deep in conversation. Birdie was aware she had lost the attention of her listeners.

“Excuse me,” Marfa said, breaking into Birdie’s explanation, and her face—even to the stranger who was Birdie—was surprised, perhaps shocked, “but that’s...that’s Vonnie.” She spoke in a whisper, though she needn’t have—the young man and woman were oblivious to anyone else. “Vonnie... and... Tom.”

“Strange,” murmured Molly Morrison. “By the way, where’s Ellie today?”

“I haven’t seen her,” Marfa said with a small frown, following the couple with her eyes.

“Well! I can’t let this pass!” she decided. “Two of my best friends, and I’m whispering?”

Marfa raised her voice and called, “Vonnie! Tom!”

With a start, Vonnie Whinnery, the young widow, turned toward the gaggle of girls perched on the grass nearby, paused, and turned her steps toward them. Tom Teasdale, her companion, followed, perhaps reluctantly.

“Hey, you two!” Marfa called out in her friendly fashion. “What’re you so deep in conversation about? And where in the world is Ellie, Tom? I haven’t seen her; didn’t she come?”

Briefly, Tom answered, “Her father’s not well today.”

“Sit down, both of you, and join the conversation. Vonnie—have you met our schoolteacher? Birdie Wharton...”

The young man and woman looked at each other momentarily. Then Vonnie sank gracefully to the grass, while Tom stretched himself out at her feet, leaning on one elbow, plucking at the grass, putting a blade in his mouth and chewing it, occasionally pushing back a stubborn lock of hair that insisted on falling over his forehead, and listening, mainly, to the chatter of the girls.

But when the dinner bell sounded and boys and girls, men and women began converging on the long, loaded tables and Tom sprang to his feet, it was first to Vonnie—then the bulky Marfa—he extended his hand.

And when plates were filled and everyone sought a spot to settle and eat, Vonnie and Tom chose a grassy area separate from the others. And while Vonnie leaned back on her elbows, slim legs extended and ankles crossed in careless and pretty abandon, it was Tom who leaped to his feet, taking their plates to the tables for replenishing and, finally, ice cream and cake.

Birdie, ignorant of the situation, counted them a “couple.” And then wondered why Marfa’s glance was turned so often in their direction and why the sunshine seemed to have fled from her pleasant, sunny face.

Conversation on the way home helped clear up the matter a little.

“Did you see,” Lydia said thoughtfully, jouncing along tiredly but happily, “Tom and Vonnie?”

“I saw,” Herbert said laconically.

“Well, what do you think of it?”

Herbert “ahemmed” a few times, a great habit of his when words wouldn’t come easily. “Ah... well, it’s their business, I guess.”

“But Ellie, Herbert! Ellie Bonney! What’s one to think, anyway!”

Herbert ahemmed again, and the rest of the ride home was accomplished with little else to break the sleepy and satisfied mood of the picnickers.

Home again, Birdie, with a litheness long missing from the aging Herbert and Lydia, jumped from the wagon, turned to the house, and stepped up on the porch, more than ready to get to her room and put a refreshing washcloth to her dusty face. About to reach for the knob, she paused.

Something... something was stuck in the door. Slowly Birdie pulled it free and found herself staring at an envelope. A white envelope with her name on it. Another white envelope.

I
’ve got to stop by and see Ellie on the way home,” Marfa said thoughtfully as she walked with George toward the buggy. His arms were laden with a box of dishes—empty dishes, he noted with disappointment—and Marfa carried the ice-cream freezer, also empty. They, George and Marfa, were not empty; it had been a day of feasting for the people of Bliss.

Before George could answer, Marfa said, her mind obviously veering to the soon-coming event of the birth of their child, “Just think, George. This could be the last time we’ll walk to the buggy... or anywhere... just the two of us.”

Somewhat alarmed, George stopped in his tracks. “Is it the baby? Is it time for the baby?”

“No, silly!” Marfa trilled. “I just mean it’ll be soon now, very soon.”

George, relieved, gave the joyful thought sufficient consideration, then switched to his wife’s earlier statement.

“Why do we haff to go by and see Ellie? Look at the time, sweetheart—chore time! This is not the time to go by and see
anyone, as much as you may haff missed them at the picnic. Even Ellie.”

“I’ve got to, George,” Marfa said, seeing no reason to raise her voice to her beloved, sharpness being something she seldom found occasion to resort to. So much could be handled with patience, thoughtfulness, and kindness. So Marfa believed, and such she had practiced all her life.

George, not quite so placid, not quite so soft-spoken but adoring his dumpling of a wife, tried again, chiding just a little. “Cows need milking; pigs need swilling; chickens—”

“I know, George. But if I don’t see her now, when will I? You’ll be too busy to take me, and you won’t let me drive myself.” Marfa didn’t really mind her husband’s rules and regulations concerning her health at the present time; she thrived on his care and concern.

“But what for?” George asked, setting the box in the buggy and reaching for the freezer. “Are you worried about her dad?”

“Not her dad, no. It’s
that
!” And Marfa’s dark head nodded slightly in the direction of a neighboring buggy: Vonnie, though she had come to the picnic with her parents, was climbing into Tom Teasdale’s buggy.

George whistled soundlessly but said cautiously, “Do you think you might be making a mountain out of a molehill? Aren’t they old friends?”

“It isn’t just the ride, George. Nor the fact that they spent the day together, ate together, seemed absorbed by each other. It’s the... the look on her face! Oh!” she stopped, frustrated, “I can’t put it into words. Unless you knew Vonnie and Tom too, you’d never understand what I mean. I know them both so well, George, and I see...”

Words failed. Marfa—what with weariness and worry—was near tears.

But Marfa was right. Vonnie’s blue eyes, so prone to change—from sympathy to superciliousness and back again, from fun to freezing, from concern to disdain—had glowed and sparkled all day, speaking louder than words. Her slender form, curved in Tom’s direction, swaying toward him, and the numerous light touches
to his arm, his shoulder, his hand, had said volumes to the watching Marfa. Oh, yes, Vonnie’s very artlessness spoke of cunning.

“Hey, hold on!” George said, hurrying to his wife’s side, putting his arms around her no matter who was looking, hugging her close. “Whatever it is you see, or tink you see, it’s not worth gedding upset about.”

“Ellie and Tom,” Marfa sniffed against George’s plaid shirt, “have been special to one another ever since he and his family came to Bliss. Now—now something’s not right. I know it! And why? Something must have happened—”

“But, sweetheart,” George said kindly, the “sweet” coming out as “sveet” in his broken English but no less dear to Marfa for that, “is it any of our business?”

“Everything that matters to Ellie is my business, George Polchek!” Marfa, indignant, was as roused and ruffled as a mother hen. “And I can’t risk anyone but me telling her about what’s been going on today! How can I just go on home and say nothing? She’ll hear it from somebody and wonder why I kept silent!”

With a small grin at her intensity, George loosed his wife and helped her up into the buggy.

“You vin,” he said, climbing in beside her, picking up the reins and clucking to the horse. “But we bedder not waste any time.”