Carla Kelly (22 page)

Della also remembered Brother Hood's blessing and decided to be kind, particularly since she probably didn't have a choice in the matter. “Your escort is appreciated,” she told them, touched to her heart.

Theirs was a quiet walk to the Wasatch Store that evening. The Frenchman's initial burst of solicitude was followed by amazing shyness. His German friend was no more loose-tongued. Surprising even herself, Della kept up a mild chatter about her school day and about the little boy who wasn't planning to read out loud until he was taller than the broom. It was enough conversation to carry the three of them down the hill and into the library, where the two men went immediately to the newspaper table.

Della was not surprised that few children came to the library that night. She knew her class was drawing, and she suspected Israel and Miss Clayson had given their own assignments. She half hoped that Owen Davis would drop by to look at the newest Merthyr Tydfil paper. He didn't. Half of her was relieved and the other half worried that he might be embarrassed to see her. Neither half gave her much comfort.

As it was, she had ample time to draw her own picture for Samuel Auerbach, thinking she would send it along with the others that they chose. She was no artist, and heaven knows she was the smallest cog possible in the well-oiled machinery that was Auerbach's. Still, even a department store owner would recognize the lady in wildly curly hair who was ringing up a purchase for a gentleman in Menswear and stashing another sheet of “magic paper” behind the counter.

She looked up to see Levi Jones, book in hand, staring down at her drawing.

“I had a summer job working in the menswear department at Auerbach's Department Store in Salt Lake,” she explained as she checked out his book. “That's where I got the paper your Myfanwy is probably drawing on right now. It's that sheet of stiff paper found inside ready-made shirts. I saved the thin cardboard and bought crayons with my first week's salary.”

He gave her a puzzled look, and she understood two things with perfect clarity—Levi Jones had probably never worn a manufactured shirt in his life, and he must be wondering why someone named Anders needed a summer job.

“Brother Jones, I'm a poor member of the Anders clan,” she said, suddenly ready to answer the question this polite man would never dream of asking. Maybe they all needed to know. “I'm part of the Anders family tree that has to work, same as you do.”

He digested that but still shook his head. “Maybe they should have taken better care of you.”

Maybe they should
, she thought, struck by another fact: The Welsh with their welcoming ways would never have treated her like Aunt Caroline, not in a million years. It was going to be an evening of revelations—epiphanies, as her more worldly professors at university would have said. Through some unlooked-for miracle, she had fallen among good people.

“I'm no artist,” she admitted, keeping her voice low, although she suspected every man was listening.

“Oh, I don't know.” He pointed to her little figure with the curly black hair. “I would know that was you in a roomful of paintings.
You
really sold shirts?” he asked, as though he still couldn't quite believe it.

“And socks, suspenders, collars, and other things a lady never mentions,” she whispered back.

He threw back his head to laugh, then remembered he was in a library and closed his mouth, his dark eyes merry. He gave her a courtly bow and left the library.

The clock was striking nine o'clock when Owen Davis came in. At first she wondered if he had waited for the last minute because he was afraid she would be angry with him. She decided to err on the side of charity; he had probably waited until Angharad was asleep, whatever his business.

He stood by the newspaper table until the other library patrons left, except for her self-proclaimed escorts.
I owe Brother Davis an apology
, Della thought.

The French boarder came closer. “Miss Anders, should we wait for you?”

“Yes, please do,” Della said as she stood up. “I'll be down directly. You might … you might just wait belowstairs.”
No need for everyone to hear me apologize
, she thought.

“We walk her home,” the German explained to Owen, distinctly proprietary. “She shouldn't walk by herself here.”

“I agree,” Owen said. “Would you let me walk her home tonight?”

The Frenchman and German looked at each other, then at Della.

“He can walk me home, just this once,” she told them.

They left, but not without a backward glance that Owen seemed to have no trouble interpreting.

“If ever two men wished me to the underworld …” he remarked. “And I don't mean a mine! Sister An—”

“I'm so sorry I was rude,” Della interrupted, talking fast in her embarrassment. “I didn't expect a calling to be a secretary in the ward choir.” She took a deep breath. “Why? Choirs don't need secretaries.”

If she thought that would bother him, she was wrong.

“Ours does. It's because of Eisteddfod.” He straightened up the newspaper. “I'm interrupting you here. I can explain Eisteddfod to you on the walk home.” He seemed to know what she was thinking. “Angharad is asleep. She specifically wanted me to talk to you about her drawing. I didn't come here to make you apologize.”

She thought about that frank statement as she extinguished the lamps. He stood by her desk, looking at her drawing. “I saw Levi Jones as I was walking here. He told me about your summer job.”

“In almost three months, I accumulated a respectable stash of thin cardboard and bought crayons,” she told him as she closed the door, knowing Clarence Nix would lock it later.

There was enough light at the foot of the stairs to see the question on his expressive face, but Della didn't give him a chance to ask it. “Tell me what Eisteddfod is and why you think you need a secretary.”

He winced. “I know skepticism when I hear it. Eisteddfod is a poetry and singing festival. It's probably been going on in Wales since my relatives worshipped trees. We started our American Eisteddfod three years ago. Last year the competition was in Huntington. The year before in Wales—not that Wales!—in Sanpete County. The first year we held it here, and next June, we'll hold it here again.”

Owen seemed in no hurry, and she couldn't think of any reason to jar him into motion. The night was cool but calm and he said Angharad was asleep.

“Are they all Welsh choirs?” she asked as they strolled along.

“Less so here in America. We sing in English and Welsh.” He stopped so she stopped. “We need a secretary to send out letters informing the choirs and handling any correspondence.”

“There's not a soul in your choir already who couldn't do that,” she pointed out, walking again.

“You're right,” he admitted, surprising her. “I want you in the choir too, because you have a very nice voice. I enjoyed your voice last Sunday when Angharad and I sat in front of you. We sat there on purpose, to spy out your voice.”

“You're honest.”

“Of course. I'm not a bully, though. I'm sorry you felt I was.”

She was silent, concentrating on her steps because the ground was uneven. “I'd rather not talk about it,” she said finally.

“That's your privilege,” he said. He stopped again. “I would never bully a woman. I just can't imagine anyone not wanting to sing with us. And now you're wondering how one man can be so arrogant.”

She shook her head. “I don't know you well, Brother Davis, but I do know this: You're pretty much clear as water and far from arrogant. Now tell me, what was Angharad's concern about the drawing?”
I dare you to unchange that subject
, she thought.

“She had to use a lot of the red color because she wanted to draw the red dragon,” he said. “She wanted me in the picture too, so I helped her. Was that allowed?”

“Of course. Oh, I see. Is she afraid she used too much red, because now the crayon is shorter?”

“Exactly. I told her you probably didn't mind, because that's what colors are for.”

“You tell her I don't mind, and I'll tell her too.”

“I'll wager more little boys used black for the mines.”

“Surely not,” she said. “They're too young, and I wanted
their
summer, not their father's.”

“Don't be too surprised by what you get, then,” he said mildly. “Mining is a family business.”

They walked on in silence. The wagon road was empty now, and lamps went out in homes as they passed them. In another moment, Owen started to sing “Lead, Kindly Light.” Della could have sighed with the pleasure of his voice.

“You sing too,” he said after the first verse.

Della shook her head. He shrugged and sang the second verse. The third verse brought them to Mabli Reese's house. He opened the door for her, then glanced at the boardinghouse.

“Hark there. Your escorts don't trust me.”

Della waved to the Frenchman and the German who stood on the porch. “Good night, sirs!” she called.

She stepped inside. “I believe everyone in this canyon is determined to watch out for me.”

“I believe we are,” Owen said, and it warmed her heart.

Owen seemed to understand her shyness. “It's time someone did look out for you. I hope you'll think about that calling.”

“I told the bishop I would,” she assured him. “I'm going to take a walk on Saturday. It's a good time to think.”

“Don't get lost,” he told her as he went to the door.

“I won't. I just want to take that upper wagon road. I'm no adventurer.”

He stood in the doorway a moment longer. “You
are
an adventurer. You're in Winter Quarters, aren't you? Good night.”

Della closed the door quietly, stood there until he had time to walk away, and then opened it again. Sure enough, he started over on “Lead, Kindly Light.” She hummed the alto line along with him until his voice faded in the distance, perfectly in tune with himself.

hen her students arrived the next morning, Della had propped her drawing against the chalk trough. Riku Kokkola, he of the broken arm, handed her another flower folded from newspaper and stared at her picture.

“You really did work in a big store?” he asked.

“I really did. I sold socks and shirts and cravats.”

His astonishment was as obvious as Levi Jones's last night. “Do you mean men in Salt Lake City do not have wives who knit socks and make for them shirts? What a strange place is this Salt Lake.”

Della laughed. “It's ‘and make shirts for them.’ Do you think people in Salt Lake are strange?”

“Maybe.”

He took his seat, after handing her his drawing and the Rainbow Colors.

“This for you, Just Miss Anders,” Mari told her.

“Oh, it's just …” Della laughed. “Call me Miss Anders, if you please, Mrs. Luoma.”

“You call me Mari, if you please. I am a student here.”

Della glanced down at her drawing and sucked in her breath. The whole panorama of what must be Finland spread before her on a modest sheet of thin cardboard—coastline, water impossibly blue, and birch trees lining the shore. In the foreground, Mari Elvena had drawn a ship's railing and a woman's hands on them.