Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (30 page)

“You like the work, then?”

“I do. It’s… predictable. That’s very helpful.” She paused. “It’s been hard getting used to regulating my own time instead of having bells do it for me. I’m surprised how much I miss them. Vestal and Grace. Agnes and the others.” She shook her head. “Owen never let me go visiting. It’s very strange to say it, but I had more friends in prison than I ever had in Dawson County. In fact, when it comes right down to it, you were my only friend there.” She smiled at him. “You’ve always been what Mamie calls a grace note.”

“A rather out-of-tune one at times.”

“I didn’t make it easy.” She reached for her teacup. “Your turn.”

“There’s nothing much to tell. I don’t belong out West. I like it here. Although”—he laughed—“for a while I thought I’d made a terrible mistake. But things are picking up.” He told her about the old woman from church and how his consulting with her—in French—had resulted in an unexpected number of referrals. “Really, her main illness was loneliness. I prescribed some powders to help elevate her mood and told her she had to ‘take the air’ on a daily basis. She seems to think I’ve worked a miracle.”

Liberty jumped down and, proceeding across the braided rug, began to nose about Rose’s quilt. Jane shooed her off it, explaining as she did so, “It’s for Rose. I—I wanted her to know I never forgot…. I was always thinking of her. Even when I was away.” She paused. “I don’t know how to handle that yet. I think about it all the time. It seems like I should know what to do, but… it’s a muddle.” She swallowed. “So many things are like that right now.” “Let me help you.”

His voice had changed. She met his gaze. Something flickered. Something that set her heart to racing. He held his hand out to her. She took it.

“It’s too soon, and I know that. You need time, and Rose has to come first. That’s as it should be.” He kissed the back of her hand. “And now I should go.”

She rose to walk him to the door.

He descended the stairs, then called back up to her. “I should probably warn you. I’m not staying away any longer.” She nodded. “Good.”

I
’m Rose Prescott.” Rose bent down to scoop up Zeus. Shushing him, she stood, peering through the screen door at the man standing on her front porch, a white envelope in his hand. Something about him seemed familiar, but try as she would, Rose couldn’t decide what it was.

The stranger smiled. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He removed his hat.

Zeus growled low in his throat. Nothing about the well-groomed hair, the square jaw, the way the stranger looked her in the eye with those gray-green eyes said anything but honesty and goodness. Still, Rose didn’t unhook the screen door. She shook her head. “Should I?”

“I suppose not. You were young the last time we saw each other.” He brushed his hand across the brim of the hat, absentmindedly shaping it as he spoke. “I’m Max. Max Zimmer. I knew you when you lived in Plum Creek.” He shook his head. “And here you are, about to have a birthday and looking so grown-up.” He held the envelope out. “I’m delivering something for your mother.”

Rose’s heart thumped. Her throat went dry. “You knew… my mother?”

The stranger nodded. “I had a medical practice in Plum Creek.”

Rose hesitated. How did he know her birthday was coming up? And why would he come all the way from Plum Creek just to deliver a letter? If he knew where Rose lived, why not just mail it? It didn’t make sense. “I’m Rose Prescott, but my mother… “She shook her head. “You’ve made a mistake.” She stepped back and started to close the door.

The stranger spoke quickly. “Your father’s name was Thomas. You don’t remember him because he died when you were very young. Your mother remarried, and you called Owen Marquis,
Papa.”

Rose swallowed. Her mouth went dry. She stared at the letter.

“Please, Rose. I know this is something of a shock to you, but if you’ll only open and read it, I don’t think you’ll be sorry.”

Rose’s voice wavered. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you should leave now.” She reached for the inner door, but for some reason she didn’t shut it in the stranger’s face.

He looked away for a moment. His expression changed. He clenched his jaw. Finally, he took a deep breath. “Please, Rose. I don’t mean you any harm. Just read the letter.” He held it up. “My name really is Dr. Max Zimmer. I knew you when you were a child, and I mean you no harm. Dr. Bowen knew me. We’d planned to have him help us meet you, but—“

“Dr. Bowen passed on.”

“Yes, I know. He had wonderful things to say about you. And your aunt Flora. I’m sure she had her reasons for letting you believe a lie, but your mother’s a friend of mine, and whatever you’ve heard—she isn’t dead.”

“If what you’re saying is true, then why are you here with a letter? And where’s my mother?” Even as she said the words, Rose remembered the newspaper article that had so frightened Mrs. Partain.

The man glanced toward a buggy out at the street. “She’s there. Waiting. She wanted you to have a minute to decide whether or not you’d see her today.”

Rose’s knees went weak. She grasped the edge of the door as she looked toward the street. Other than a blue calico skirt, one gloved hand was all that was visible of the woman hiding in the buggy. Rose shook her head. “I don’t—I don’t know who you are, or what your game is, but—“

“There’s no game,” the stranger insisted. “She’s been… away. She’s living in Lincoln, now, and her fondest wish is to see you again. To make up the lost years. Won’t you at least read the letter?”

He might as well be thrusting a hot coal at her face. Rose took a step back. She opened her mouth to order him away, but no words came out. Her heart pounded. Angry tears began to spill down her cheeks. All she could think of was to get away from that unwelcome letter, the stranger holding it, and the woman in the buggy. With a last glance toward the street, Rose closed the door. She felt dizzy. Sick to her stomach. The room receded into a gray fog as she pressed her back to the door and slid to the floor.

Max didn’t pull away from Flora’s house right away. Instead, he climbed up beside Jane and reached for her hand.

“We should go,” she said, patting his hand in an awkward way that warded him off.

“No. We should wait. She might change her mind.”

Jane shook her head. Her voice wavered. “This was a mistake. I should have talked to Flora first. She might have been willing to help me explain.” She cleared her throat.

“Explain what? That you’ve spent years of your life protecting the daughter
she
tried to steal away?” He looked back at the house. “At least you can have the peace of mind knowing she can’t try to pack up and disappear. Rose knows you’re alive, now, and she’s old enough to decide what she wants to do about it.”

“Right now,” Jane said, her voice breaking, “she doesn’t want to do anything. She just wants me to go away.” She took a wavering breath. “Please, Max. I can’t just sit here waiting.”

“At least let me take the quilt up to the house.” When Jane hesitated, he turned to look at her. “I don’t pretend to know how this is all going to work out, but you poured a lot of love into that quilt. Give her a chance to see it. To remember you.”

“Flora could find it first and throw it out.” She closed her eyes. “But maybe… maybe you’re right.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t know that I want it lurking in my apartment now, anyway.”

Max tucked the note Rose had refused beneath the string tying the quilt box closed, then carried it across the road and up onto the porch. He could hear the little black dog yapping inside, but there was no sign of Rose. She had to be in there, though. Watching. Leaving the box on the porch swing, he hurried back to Jane.

When he climbed up beside her the second time, the look on her face made him want to gather her in his arms. Instead, he gathered up the reins and urged the horse into a smart trot. They really hadn’t needed the rig just to make their way here from the station, but now that things had gone the way they had, Max was glad they could take a drive instead of just slogging back to the train station.

Dog… barking
…
whining
…
licking my face…
Rose regained consciousness with a start. When she opened her eyes, she was face-to-face with Zeus. The dog licked her nose and yapped. Wagging its tail, it backed away, spun in a circle, and yapped again. The second Rose sat up, he leaped into her lap, then bounded back to the floor and, dancing on his hind legs, scratched at the door.

“All right, Zeus, all right.” With a groan, Rose got to her feet. Before opening the door, she peered through the lace curtain mounted over the oval glass. The buggy was gone. Rose opened the door just far enough to let Zeus out in the fenced front yard. He scampered across the porch and tore across the grass and around to the side he always used to relieve himself, but instead of doing so and coming back, he began to bark again. Rose sighed. Called his name. He came to the steps, but refused to come in. Instead, he did his “I’ve got something cornered, and you have to come see” spin-about and then charged back around the corner of the house. If it was Mrs. Partain’s new cat, they’d never hear the end of it.

Rose opened the door a little wider. No sign of the buggy. Zeus barked louder. A cat yowled. With a sigh, she stepped out onto the porch. Someone had left a pasteboard box on the swing. A box… tied with string… an envelope tucked beneath the string. Ignoring the package, she descended the stairs and hurried around the house. Scooping Zeus up, she shooed the cat out of the yard. She’d just stepped up on the porch when she heard Aunt Flora call her name.

Spinning ‘round, Rose saw her hurrying toward the house, her hand holding onto her bonnet, her right hand clutching the ever-present handkerchief. When Rose glanced at the box on the swing, the stranger’s words came back.
She’s living in Lincoln.
Somewhere deep inside, in a place Rose had successfully ignored for years, the questions she’d stored flickered. And for some reason she didn’t take time to understand, she set the dog down and snatched up the box.

Taking advantage of the fact that Aunt Flora wasn’t quite tall enough to see over the hedge that ran inside the picket fence, Rose hurried inside and up the stairs, where she slid the box beneath her bed. Back downstairs, she scurried into the kitchen and poured a glass of lemonade, and just as Aunt Flora opened the door with a question as to why on earth Rose had left the dog in the yard, Rose was handing her a glass of lemonade.

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing,” Aunt Flora said, and before she could complain about Rose’s leaving the dog where he might escape through the gate, Rose was entertaining her with an imaginative rendition of the dog’s encounter with Mrs. Partain’s cranky new cat.

“Did you know,” Max said, as he drove the buggy past the station and toward the edge of town, “that tears are precious to God?” When Jane didn’t answer, he went on. “Reverend Irwin mentioned it in last Sunday morning’s service. His text was ‘Jesus wept.’ The reverend said it’s ridiculous for people to think that tears are a sign of weakness. They are, according to him, gifts that express empathy, compassion, and caring—things that make human beings unique. He also said that God treasures them. He referenced a verse in the Psalms that says God Himself collects our tears and that they are ever before Him.”