Hidden Places
Authors: Lynn Austin
Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #Historical, #General, #Religious, #ebook, #book
Books by
Lynn Austin
FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS
All She Ever Wanted
Eve’s Daughters
Hidden Places
A Proper Pursuit
Though Waters Roar
Until We Reach Home
Wings of Refuge
A Woman’s Place
R
EFINER’S
F
IRE
Candle in the Darkness
Fire by Night
A Light to My Path
C
HRONICLES OF THE
K
INGS
Gods and Kings
Song of Redemption
The Strength of His Hand
Faith of My Fathers
Among the Gods
Hidden Places
Copyright © 2001
Lynn Austin
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-2197-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Austin, Lynn N.
Hidden places / by Lynn N. Austin.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-7642-2197-3 (pbk.)
1. Depressions—Fiction. 2. Orchards—Fiction 3. Widows— Fiction. I. Title.
PS3551.U839 H54 2001
813'.54—dc21 2001002252
With heartfelt thanks to my
faithful fellow writers:
Florence Anglin, Joy Bocanegra,
Cleo Lampos, and Jane Rubietta
and to
Charlotte and GeorgeGatchell
Gatchell Apple Farm, St. Joseph, MI
and to
Tom and Laurel McGrath
for introducing me to Winky
LYNN AUSTIN has authored several works of fiction, including
Eve’s Daughters,
winner of the Silver Angel Award, and the CHRONICLES OF THE KING series. In addition to writing, Lynn is a popular speaker at conferences, retreats, and various church and school events. She and her husband have three children and make their home in Illinois.
‘‘In the life of each of us...
there is a place,
remote and islanded,
and given to endless regret
or secret happiness.’’
—Sarah Orne Jewett
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wyatt Orchards
November 1930
T
hey say everybody has a guardian angel watching out for them, but I’d never needed one half as badly as I did after Frank Wyatt died. Frank was my father-in-law, the last remaining Wyatt man in the whole clan.
My husband’s Aunt Betty put the idea of a guardian angel into my head. She said she’d pray for one to come and help me out. The last time I’d given any thought to angels was years earlier in a Sunday school class in one of the many whistle-stop towns my daddy and I passed through in our travels. Daddy always made sure I went to church if we happened upon one on a Sunday morning. That Sunday I was in a Methodist church somewhere in Missouri when the little old white-haired Sunday school teacher said we should always entertain strangers because you never knew if one of them just might be an angel. That’s the way she put it— ‘‘entertain’’ them. She made me think I had to juggle balls or do a high-wire act for them, and I wondered what on earth that little old teacher could possibly do that was entertaining, as bent and wrinkled as she was.
So after we laid Frank Wyatt to rest in the family plot beside his wife and two sons, I began hoping God would answer Aunt Betty’s prayers soon and that an angel really would show up to help me out. I’d worry about entertaining him once he got here.
‘‘What are you going to do now, Eliza?’’
That’s what everybody kept asking me after the funeral, and I hardly knew what to say. What they were really asking was ‘‘How’s a scrawny young thing like you, with three little kids to raise, ever going to run a big outfit like Wyatt Orchards?’’ Especially since I never even stepped one foot on a farm until ten years ago. Of course, they didn’t know about my past—no one in Deer Springs knew, not even my poor dead husband, Sam. I was too ashamed to tell anybody. But people wondered how I was going to manage, just the same. My neighbor, Alvin Greer, was one of them.
‘‘What’re you planning to do, Mrs. Wyatt, now that Frank is dead?’’
I filled his coffee cup and handed it to him without answering. Couldn’t he see that I’d buried my father-in-law scarcely an hour ago and that my house was still filled with all the neighbors who had come to pay their last respects and that I didn’t even have time to think? I guess not, because Mr. Greer wouldn’t let up.
‘‘Do you have someone in mind to take over Wyatt Orchards for you, come springtime?’’ he asked.
I filled another cup and offered it to Reverend Dill, who stood in the serving line behind Mr. Greer. I tried not to let my hands shake too much. I’d learned a long time ago that if you don’t answer right away, most people get antsy and begin filling up the silence themselves, usually by offering you a piece of their own advice. This time Reverend Dill spoke up first.
‘‘Do you have family close by we could send for, Mrs. Wyatt? I don’t believe I ever heard tell where your people are from, exactly.’’
‘‘You take cream in that, Reverend?’’ I asked, offering him the pitcher and ignoring his question.
He shook his head. ‘‘No, thanks. I take mine black. You’re not from Deer Springs originally, are you?’’
‘‘No. I’m not.’’ I made myself busy with straightening a pile of teaspoons and checking to see if the sugar bowl needed filling. It was none of his business who my people were or where I came from. This rambling farmhouse with the well-worn furniture and faded wallpaper was my home now and had been for ten years. My three children and I had a right to live here—with or without Frank Wyatt and his son Sam.
‘‘Of course, there’s no chance you could ever sell this place with the country sunk in a depression like it is,’’ the reverend added. ‘‘The banks have no money to lend.’’
‘‘Well, she can’t run the orchard by herself!’’ Mr. Greer sounded huffy.
I took a step back, trying to excuse myself by pretending the coffeepot needed refilling. Let the two of them argue about my future if it interested them so much. But my husband’s Aunt Betty blocked my escape. Her fingers clamped onto my arm like they were wired with clothespin springs.
‘‘You’re ignoring those busybodies on purpose, aren’t you, Toots?’’ she whispered. ‘‘I do the same thing. If you act dumb, then people think you really are dumb, and they leave you alone.’’
Aunt Betty reminded me of a pet parakeet. Her nose stuck out just like a parakeet’s beak and she darted all around like a happy little bird wherever she went. She was tiny and plump. Her fluffy gray head barely reached to my chin, and I was not much taller than a schoolgirl myself. Unlike all the drab old crows in town, Aunt Betty dressed in brightly colored clothing like some rare tropical bird, never caring what the occasion was. Today she wore a flowery summer shift, lacy white gloves, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, as if she were on her way to a Fourth of July picnic, not her brother-in-law’s funeral on a raw November day. I’ve seen her walking her one-eyed dog down the road wearing a bright pink bathrobe and slippers, and I’ve seen her roaming through the orchard in a man’s tweed suit and trousers, too. Sam had always called her ‘‘Aunt Batty’’ behind her back.
‘‘She has a few bats in her belfry,’’
he would say, and he’d twirl his finger beside his head like the spring of a cuckoo clock. My father-in-law had given me strict orders to steer clear of her.
‘‘It’s nobody’s business but yours who you are and where your kin’s from,’’ Aunt Betty said as she finally unclasped her fingers from my arm. She had a huge straw purse slung over one arm, and she hummed ‘‘Joy to the World’’ as she picked her way around the dining room table, wrapping a chicken leg, two dill pickles, and a slab of spice cake in paper napkins and stuffing them inside her bag. ‘‘For later,’’ she explained with a grin. Grease and pickle juice stained the tips of her white gloves.
