Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (33 page)

Mamie hiccuped as she turned away from the window. Tears gathered. “Why couldn’t I just let things be? I made a fool of myself talking about love, and now I’ve lost a good friend.” Tears slid down her cheeks as she murmured her misery to God. “What did I expect the poor man to do? Be waiting on bended knee when I came back to work on Monday? I probably frightened the daylights out of him. No
wonder
he’s been avoiding me.” She hiccuped again as she slumped down into the rocking chair. “Why couldn’t I have just let well enough alone?”

Miserable, Mamie stared around her at the room that had always been her refuge. A rocker, a soft quilt, and God’s Word. This evening it felt almost barren. She looked at the Bible again.
I just don’t feel like it tonight, Lord. You understand, don’t You?
Just allowing the thought caused a pang of regret. She couldn’t let personal disappointment have this much power, could she? No. She would not. But what to read?

Thinking about love led her to the familiar passage in 1 Corinthians.
“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels
…
and have not charity…”
As Mamie read, she began to beg for help.
Keep me from being a clanging cymbal, Lord. Help me to continue to be patient and kind. I’m sorry I sought my own. Help me to look out for Martin’s good.

She would do that. With God’s help, she would take herself in hand and stop her nonsensical mooning about. She would humble herself and apologize, and Martin would understand. And even if he couldn’t understand, he would try. He had to, because if things didn’t get put right between them, she was going to have to quit her job. It was just too painful to be around Martin without the warmth of friendship she’d grown to love as she grew to love Martin. Taking a deep breath, Mamie leaned her head against the back of the rocker and closed her eyes.

Help me know what to say. I will humble myself. Help me know how to do it. Please give my friend back. He doesn’t have to love me, but please, Lord… let him be my friend.

She’d just dozed off when a knock sounded at the apartment door. Rising, Mamie pulled a shawl about her shoulders and went to the door.
Martin. With
…
roses?
Robbed of words, Mamie stared up at him.

He bobbed his head. “I know you said you like wildflowers best, but October’s just not good for wildflowers. So I rode into town, and I just thought—“

“They’re lovely.” Mamie invited him inside, grateful when he accepted.

“I guess you’ve wondered what became of me.”

Oh dear.
She wasn’t ready to be put in her place, but if this was the Lord’s way of answering her prayer, she would manage. Somehow. “I believe I know what became of you,” Mamie said, taking the bouquet and heading into the kitchen in search of a vase.

“You… do?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“I made a fool of myself with all that talk of—” She broke off. Concentrated on arranging the flowers in the vase. “I’m sorry.”

“You are? You mean—” He gulped. “You want to take back what you said.” It wasn’t a question.

Mamie looked up at him. He was blushing. He glanced behind him toward the apartment door, looking like he was ready to flee.

“What I want—most sincerely—is to prevent that romantic nonsense I blurted out from standing in the way of our friendship. If you’re willing.” Mamie swallowed. “I’ve missed you… terribly.” She set the vase of flowers on the dining table.

“You have?” He seemed honestly surprised.

“Well, of course I have. You’re a dear, dear man and—”
There you go again. More romantic nonsense.
Taking a deep breath, Mamie began again. “We’ve been good friends, haven’t we? Goodness, you saved my life. You’ve helped me get the female department organized and—well—I just hate thinking I’ve lost…” She took a deep breath. Shook her head.

“You haven’t. I’ve been—I haven’t known quite how to act, is all.” He cleared his throat. “I’m just not used to getting attention from such a fine woman as you, Mamie. At least not
nice
attention.”

Mamie smiled. “Well then, that just goes to show how foolish women can be.” She retreated back into the kitchen. “I’ve a pot of soup on if you can stay for supper.” She turned her back on the dining room to retrieve spoons and bowls. When she turned back around, Martin, his face crimson, had gotten down on one knee. At first Mamie thought the poor man was having an attack of some kind. He sputtered and bobbed and started to speak, then stopped. Finally, Mamie realized what was happening. Her heart fluttered. She set the bowls and spoons down on the table and waited, her hands folded.

“I… uh. I haven’t thought about much else besides what you said.” He swallowed. “And it wasn’t nonsense. I just… I… I mean… I’m…” He shrugged and hung his head as he whispered more to the floor than to Mamie. “Nobody’s ever wanted me, Mamie. My own ma left me on the steps at a church. They took me to a foundling home.” He looked up at her. “I know I’m a sorry sight. But you said—and I was hoping… maybe.” He shrugged. “I was wondering if you’d think about… maybe… marrying me?”

Mamie hiccuped as she bent down to cradle his misshapen face in her hands. She looked into his eyes and said, “You dear, dear, man. I thought you’d
never
ask.”

Poor Mrs. Partain had been in steady decline all summer long, and no one knew it better than Rose. Whether it was because Rose was one of the few people who treated the old woman with sincere kindness, or because Rose reminded Mrs. Partain of the married daughter who ignored her, or just because Rose was right there next door, whatever the reason, on days when Rose settled on the porch swing to read, more often than not at some point Mrs. Partain ended up sitting next to her. Some days Rose read to her. Some days the old woman grabbed the book away so she could read it for herself. Some days she worried about the imaginary “them” who threatened her safety, and on others she seemed content.

As summer faded into fall, Rose began to notice that less of what Mrs. Partain said made sense. It grew more difficult to know how to have a conversation. Rose didn’t want to be rude, but how did a person answer a question like, “Did you remember to have Fluffy feed the owls in the attic last night?” Finally, midway through October, Mrs. Partain’s married daughter, Hermione, arrived to—as she put it when she spoke to Aunt Flora—“take things in hand.”

Aunt Flora called Hermione “a dynamo,” even as she expressed some doubt as to Hermione’s method of child-rearing. After all, Aunt Flora said, children should be children. Hermione seemed to consider her three boys as her personal labor force. At seven, nine, and eleven years old, the boys spent the first two weeks of their stay in Nebraska City weeding, scrubbing, and sorting through the contents of what their mother called “that horror of a cluttered mess endangering Mother’s health.”

Rose did notice that, in regards to Mrs. Partain, some things improved right away. The old woman now smelled of rosewater and soap instead of… something else. She stopped wearing too much rouge and the odd collections of mismatched garments. While the improvement was obvious, so was the fact that both Mrs. Partain’s penchant for bangles and her smile seemed to disappear at about the same. When asked why she felt sad, the old woman sighed. “Oh, well… you know.” And so they sat on the porch swing, and Rose held Mrs. Partain’s hand while, just on the other side of the fence, carpets were beaten, bedding aired, and floors scrubbed.

As the work slowed and Hermione began to give “the boys” more time to themselves, they began to get into trouble. First, they targeted Zeus with their slingshots. When Aunt Flora bustled over and “had words” with Hermione, the boys presented written apologies and an offer to do chores for Aunt Flora. They washed windows and weeded the rose beds and ended up lunching on the back porch, savoring Aunt Flora’s home-baked gingersnaps.

One afternoon shortly after the reconciliation, Hermione asked Rose to “keep an eye on the boys” while she “took Mother to the doctor for an evaluation.” That afternoon, the three boys introduced Rose to a fantastical world that made her deeply regret she didn’t have any brothers. Sporting battered cowboy hats discovered in their grandmother’s attic, they played “cattle rustler” and “train robber.” Rose came up with the idea of turning barrels on their sides and tying ropes to the back porch railing to create horses, and momentarily forgot her mature status as an almost-fifteen-year-old in favor of riding the trail with Billy the Kid, Jesse James, and Sheriff Cody.

When it came time for the inevitable gunfight, “the Kid” disappeared inside his grandmother’s house for a moment, returning with a pair of broken pistols. Rose reached for one, expecting to be a deputy to Sheriff Cody. But the boys insisted she be the captured “bonnet.” Sheriff Cody—Rose suspected he had a crush on her—seemed bent on a dramatic rescue scene.

After another ride into imaginary canyons, Jesse James grabbed her and dragged her into a cave—or Mrs. Partain’s back porch, depending on one’s ability to imagine. When Jesse growled, “Yer—gonna—come—with—me—er’else,” Sheriff Cody answered the call and came to the rescue, brandishing a broken pistol and shouting, “Stop that! Let her go! I won’t let you hurt her!”

Something felt… odd. Rose blinked. The front door of the house slammed. Hermione and Mrs. Partain returning? Whatever the source, something about that sound and the sheriff’s shouted words combined with the view of his brandishing a broken gun transcended the moment.

Reality faded. Stop that! Let her go! I won’t let you hurt her!

Rose frowned. No longer was there a broken gun in a boy’s hand. No longer was the sound just a screen door slamming closed. A flash of light accompanied a loud bang. The words echoed. The gun… was in Rose’s hand. Not the pretend sheriff’s—not Mother’s, either. In
Rose’s.

She heard Mother’s voice. “It’s all right, Rose. Mama’s taking you to bed. You’ve had a bad dream. That’s all it is. Do you hear me, honey? You’ve had a nightmare. You remember that.
It’s just a dream.
Mama will take care of everything. You stay here in bed. Everything will be all right. Mama will see to it. It was just a dream.”

The color seeped out of the world. Rose blinked. Looked from the sheriff to Jesse James and toward Aunt Flora’s house… and crumpled.

Rose didn’t open her eyes right away. Instead, she lay still while flashes of light glimmered against the dark veil behind her closed eyes. When the buzzing sound in the background proved to be voices, she listened just enough to realize that whoever was talking wasn’t close by.

She took a deep breath, and the faint scent of lavender and lemon oil calmed her racing pulse. She opened her eyes just enough to realize she was in her own bed, the dark walnut footboard silhouetted in the golden glow of the lamp on her dressing table. She glanced toward the door, listening to the conversation taking place just outside in the hall.

“I gave her something to calm her. She’ll likely sleep the night through. Are you certain she hasn’t shown any signs of illness?”

Aunt Flora sounded weary. Rose could imagine her shaking her head as she spoke. “Other than some bad dreams the last few weeks, there’s been nothing. They seemed to have stopped. She was playing with those boys, and she just fainted away. Mrs. Partain’s daughter witnessed it. She said one minute Rose was being rescued from an imaginary horse thief, and the next she was on the ground.”

“Let her rest. If she’s hungry, offer toast and tea. I’ll stop by again in the morning.” Obviously, Aunt Flora had summoned the doctor. After prescribing toast and tea, he asked, “Is there a history of anything like this in the family?”

Aunt Flora sounded afraid when she answered. “Her father died when Rose was four years old. His heart, they thought. There was no warning.”

“And her mother?”

“Healthy, as far as I know.”

“She’s still living?”

Aunt Flora must have pulled the doctor away from the door, because Rose couldn’t hear the answer to that question. She didn’t need to hear it, though. She knew the answer. Mother had been in prison. Aunt Flora had
pretended
she was dead, but Mother wasn’t dead. She’d been in prison. She been in prison, but she hadn’t done wrong.
Ever.
She’d never hurt anyone. In fact, she’d done everything she could to protect Rose. Always.