Carla Kelly (36 page)

“We'd better,” she replied. “If someone bought the Davis pie at the auction and died, we would be in trouble, wouldn't we?”

“
He
would be. Not you,” Della pointed out. “Aye, we'll make your pie.” She tried to end her sentence on that Welsh up-lilt, which only made him shake his head and call her a butterbean on his way out the door.

“A butterbean, am I?” Della asked, pleased.

“He calls me that and then he tells me he loves me,” Angharad said, which gave Della food for thought that tasted better than vinegar pie.

Della mailed her thank-you letter and all the letters from her students. With some reservations as she left the Wasatch Store, she wondered if she was relying too heavily on Mr. Auerbach to pick up on her unspoken wish to do more for Mrs. Aho.
These dear people have become my concern
, she thought more than once during the week. Pekka Aho had already told her that he and his mother and his sister had moved into his Uncle Victor's house, since they were no longer eligible for company housing. Since Victor was a bachelor, he had only two small rooms.

She still had to nearly flog herself to volunteer information to Miss Clayson, but the letter forwarded from the district superintendent seemed to have turned some sort of page in the principal's own book of life. Taking Owen's advice, Della had copied the letter she wrote to Mr. Auerbach and showed that to her principal.

“I … I wanted to achieve a balance in my comments about Mrs. Aho,” she told her principal. “If he picked up on it, he might be inclined to help her. If I say too much, he might think I am encroaching. What do you think?”

It was the right question, Della realized later, noting how Miss Clayson's eyes had lit up when Della asked her opinion. She told Dr. Isgreen about their conversation that Saturday night.

“If you include her like that, she might start to see you as an ally, and not a … a …”

“Butterbean?” Della asked, which made him choke on his pie. “That's what Owen Davis calls me.”

“That's it!” He sobered immediately. “Let's hope Mr. Auerbach finds you just interesting enough to want to continue his help.” He gave her hand a brief squeeze. “I find you interesting.”

They walked back to Winter Quarters that night through a light snowfall. He took her hand to steady her when the road seemed slippery and kept her hand even where it didn't.

At Mabli's door, he kissed her cheek as usual. “What pie should I bid on, if I want to share it with you?”

“Pumpkin,” she said and kissed his cheek for the first time.

“Butterbean, indeed,” he said as disappeared in the swirling snow. “I'd never call you that.”

But I like it
, she thought as she closed the door.

It snowed all night, making church the next day a challenge. She and Mabli struggled through the growing drifts, Mabli wishing out loud, not for the first time, that she cooked for a boardinghouse closer to the chapel. By the time sacrament meeting was over that afternoon, a dismaying amount of snow had filled in whatever path they had cut that morning.

“What do we do now?” she asked Richard Evans.

“I put my littlest daughter on my shoulders and break a trail for Martha and assorted offspring,” he joked. “Let Owen give you a hand down to the railroad tracks. The company keeps those clear.”

“The railroad tracks?”

“Aye, miss. Coal has to go through. You'll be using the tracks this winter to get to school. You shouldn't have any trouble finding a willing man to help you up the embankment, when you get where you're going.” Richard smiled at her, his eyes kind. “Just so you know, my dear, you're a source of comment in the Number Four mine. Three-quarters the single men there want to ask you out, but lack courage.”

“I never knew,” she said, her face rosy.

“ ’Tis true.” He nudged her shoulder. “I suspect they're mainly afraid that Miss Clayson will murder them if they do. We hear she went into quite a rage when that mining engineer ran off with Miss Forsyth.”

She could enter into the spirit of the thing. “You have my permission to let drop a little rumor that Miss Anders has no intention of running off with
anyone
in Winter Quarters Canyon. That is, unless they're willing to follow her to a teaching job in Arizona, where it's warm.”

“Actually, some of the men are quite nice. And here is Owen. He'll give you a hand down to the tracks.”

“Aye. Hang onto your hat, Della.”

Without even straining, Owen picked her up and carried her down the snowy slope to the tracks. “You really should put me down,” she protested as he carried her.

“When I get to the tracks, I will,” he assured her. “Della, I load two tons of coal a day with a shovel. You think I can't carry someone—let me judge—who weighs a mere one hundred and twenty pounds?”

“One seventeen,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“I added two pounds for the hat and overcoat,” he said, as he set her down. “And one pound for shoes.” He climbed the slope to retrieve Angharad. With Angharad on his shoulders, they walked along the tracks, Della minding her steps. When they passed the Wasatch Store, Clarence Nix came out waving a telegram.

“Miss Anders, this is for you,” he said, coming gingerly down the snow-covered steps to the rail line.

She wracked her brain for bad news and couldn't think of any. “How bad can it be?” she murmured. She opened the telegram, gasped, and handed it to Owen. As he read it, his expression mirrored hers. “You need to take this to Mrs. Aho! Angharad and I will go with you.”

She took back the telegram from him, thanking Mr. Auerbach in her heart and mind. She read the simple message again:
Does Mrs. Aho speak English? Can you send me one of those posters immediately? I have a plan. Your favorite art dealer, Sam A
.

“I don't understand about Auerbach's,” Owen said as they continued. “It's a department store?”

“ZCMI's competition. Auerbach's has the most wonderful window displays—pilgrims and turkeys at Thanksgiving; Santa and elves at Christmas and a train going around and around a tree; cupids in February; leprechauns in March,” she said. “And you should see the Fourth of July display. Mr. Auerbach has a terrific window dresser.”

“And maybe he wants Mrs. Aho?”

“I have no idea, but I'm hopeful.” She took his arm. “Owen, this is an opportunity.”

He nodded, pleased, if the look on his face was any indication. He stopped and she stopped, since her arm was looped through his now, better for stability, she assured herself. “You're going to make Winter Quarters the best place you can, aren't you?”

“I hadn't planned to, but why not?” she replied.

He helped her up the slope in Finn Town until one of the Finnish miners noticed them down below and reached his hand to her, towing her up as easily as Owen had carried her down.

Victor Aho's house was crammed with his brother's family now, plus a dog. Angharad went right to Pekka, and Della sat next to Kristina Aho. The widow read the telegram and looked at Della with a question in her eyes.

“Why does he want to see me?”

Della explained about her thank-you letter. “I didn't tell him you were looking for employment, because I didn't want him to think we were demanding anything. We have our pride here.”

“You too?”

“Yes, indeed,” Della replied. “I'm a miner's daughter, remember? There are a lot of things you could do in a department store, Mrs. Aho. With your permission, I'll mail him that poster in the Scofield Bank and—”

Kristina put her hand on Della's arm. “I have a better idea.”

She went to a chest by the window and pulled out two framed pictures, one of bluer-than-blue water flowing in front of a log cabin, and the other of a village square. “There is no place to hang them here. I painted these in Finland, so I would never forget my home. If he can return them …”

“I will make certain he does,” Della said. “This could be our lucky day.”

“I could use a lucky day,” Mrs. Aho said simply.

Della mailed them on her way to school, wishing there was some way to speed them down the snowy canyon on sled runners and onto Samuel Auerbach's desk. “Just put it out of your mind now,” she murmured as she hurried the rest of the way to school, arriving with enough time to tell Miss Clayson what was going on. Propped against his classroom door, Israel Bowman listened, nodding his approval.

“I hope you're not setting her up for a disappointment,” Miss Clayson said.

“If I don't try, nothing will happen,” Della told her emphatically, quite willing to overlook Miss Clayson's familiar frown she knew so well by now. This time, she didn't even have to reach down deep to gather up the courage to speak. “The Ahos need our help.”

There was no mistaking the cloud that came over Miss Clayson's face at those words. “Then try, Miss Anders,” she said. “Do more than I ever did!” She turned on her heel and went into her classroom.

Dismayed, Della looked at Israel, who shrugged. “I've been here three years, and I don't begin to understand Miss Clayson,” he said. He shook his head. “You know something? I don't even know her first name.”

“We should remedy that.”

“You're braver than I am.”

The first order of business on Saturday was to make a pumpkin pie. Since Owen was sleeping off the effects of last night's late shift, Mabli bundled up Angharad and took her niece to the boardinghouse kitchen. Della made two pumpkin pies, letting Angharad decide which looked better. The other one joined the ranks of pies cooling for the noontime dessert.

Under Della's supervision, Angharad rolled out the crust for the vinegar pie. The leftover piecrust became cinnamon and sugar piecrust cookies. Della tied a dishtowel around Angharad's neck as she ate those little bits of pastry heaven no child in the world could resist.

Angharad made the vinegar pie, ready for praise when she cracked the egg without getting shell in the bowl. The pie went in the oven with two apple pies, one of which Mabli was taking to the auction.

“I'll tell you a secret,” Angharad said, when Della took her next door for a wash in the tin tub.

“I like secrets,” Della said, pulling the child's smock dress over her head and testing the water. “In you go. Don't splash, because it's my turn when you're done and I need more water than you do. What's your secret?”

“Da told me that William Goode in Number Four likes Aunt Mabli.”

“Maybe he'll buy her pie and they can eat it together.”

“I don't know,” Angharad said doubtfully. “He's English.”

Della splashed water on Angharad. “You're a snob! Hold still and I'll wash your hair.”

When Angharad was done, dried, dressed, and settled in Della's bed for a nap—the auction would keep her up later than usual, and Owen had insisted—Della closed the kitchen door and took her turn in the tub. She washed her hair, hoping there was enough time for the curly mass to dry before the auction.

She was stepping out when she heard the familiar two knocks, pause, and one knock on the outside door. It opened, and she heard Owen calling for his daughter.

“She's sleeping in my bed,” Della said through the door. She dressed quickly and wrapped a towel around her hair. She decided Owen wouldn't be too shocked to see her. After all, he had been a husband once.

“How do you even manage to get all that hair under a towel?” he asked when she opened the kitchen door. “And how on earth do you comb it?”

“I told you my secret: olive oil.” She saw the carved box in his hand. “That's my payment for the pie?”

“Aye, miss. Is there a pie somewhere?”

“Next door. Angharad made it all. I just supervised. Your honor as a family is entirely safe and you may keep the box.”

“Oh, no. Take it to the Knights at Thanksgiving.”

Owen sat down as she unwrapped the towel around her hair, then dabbed a little olive oil on a wide-toothed comb. He watched with interest as she combed her hair, wincing along with her when she winced at the tangles.

“Drat,” she muttered, as the comb got stuck in her curls.

“Let me try,” he said, standing up and taking the comb from her.

He hummed softly as he pulled the comb through her curls. He did it with more force than she was accustomed to, a man's hands, but he didn't tug on tangles. “This is a challenge,” was all he said.

When he finished, he handed back the comb. “Fun,” he said and went to the door of her room to wake up his daughter. Della sat half asleep, almost lulled into slumber by the feel of strong hands in her hair, yet at the same time, supremely aware of his presence.

Angharad came out of Della's bedroom, rubbing her eyes. “My pie?” she asked when she saw Della.

“Next door. You're a true pastry chef now, Angharad.”

The chef smiled at Della's compliment. “We didn't need you, Da,” she told her father. “I'm sorry, but it's true.”

“I'll bear up under the strain. Let's get your pie and go home.” He nodded to Della. “
Diolch yn fawr
.”

“
 chroeso
,” Della said promptly. “Mabli taught me ‘you're welcome.’ ”