The Cherry Harvest (13 page)

RAIN BEAT AGAINST THE HOOD
of Kate's yellow slicker as she steered her bicycle along the slippery pavement. A wash of green meadow to her left, deep woods to her right. She passed the ice cream stand, the Moravian church, the weathered wooden sign leading down to the boat launch. Up ahead was Turtle Bay. Not quite noon. It had been three weeks since she'd mailed her letter to Clay.

When she arrived at the candy-cane pole in front of the barbershop, Kate set her bicycle against the white clapboard building and hurried up the steps to the covered porch. Inside, she threw back her hood and headed to the woodstove where Roger, a yellow Labrador sort of mongrel, lay warming himself.

Holding her cold hands over the center of warmth, Kate closed her eyes and let the fragrance of cedar envelop her. Then she bent to pet Roger. He lay back at her approach and exposed his tummy for her to rub. “You silly mutt,” she said, scratching his tummy.

Old Man Berger looked up from behind the big chair where he was clipping Mr. Beal's thinning hair. “Howdy, Missy Kate.”

The barber was a certified postal officer, and his shop was the
town's gathering place. A familiar group of old men sat about in cracked leather chairs, smoking pipes, rustling pages of the
Door County Advocate
and the
Green Bay Press Gazette
. The RCA played in the background, a swing number. They nodded her way. “Morning, Kate.” For weeks they'd been celebrating the capture of Rome, then the landing at Normandy. Today they were talking about Assisi.

Kate came to check for mail nearly every day now, embarrassed in front of these men at the lack of response, as if they knew why she was here. A jilted lover. Was that what she was?

“How's your mother?” Mr. Krause asked.

“Fine, thank you.”

“You know,” he continued, addressing the others, “I think this girl is looking more and more like Charlotte every day.”

Kate winced as eyes fixed on her, men smiling, exchanging glances. Kate caught the sharp scent of aftershave Mr. Berger was patting onto Mr. Beal's cheeks.

“Got a couple of letters for you, Missy,” the barber said, wiping his doughy hands on the white cotton apron stretched over his round belly.

Kate's heart leapt, but then she had to wait. She waited while Old Man Berger unsnapped his customer's smock, while Mr. Beal fiddled in his pocket for a few coins, while the barber went behind the counter, opened the cash register, and dropped coins into their proper compartments.

Mr. Mueller stood and climbed into the big barber's throne. “Just a shave today.”

“My letters?” Kate was nearly breathless.

“Ah.” Old Man Berger opened a cupboard drawer to retrieve two envelopes. “One's for your mother”—he handed her an envelope that looked like so many others Ben had sent—“but this here, this one's mighty fancy.” He gave her a wink.

It was a cream-colored, linen-textured envelope with a fine blue script addressed to Miss Kate Christiansen. The postmark was
Washington, DC.
Clay!
Kate slipped her finger under the flap and gently, slowly, moved it along the edge—the very edge Clay must have licked—down to the rounded point and back up the other side. She opened the flap and slid out the folded page.

The men were watching her. She ducked out to the covered porch.

Dear Kate,

Your most welcome note has made its way from my father's office to our residence here in Georgetown
.

I apologize for leaving without a word, but politics called my father away, all of us away, no time to say good-bye. Please know that I have thought often of our evening together, how lovely you looked and, even more, how genuine you are, rare and unique. Unafraid. You inspired me to face up to my own challenge. I'll explain when I see you
.

I will be returning to Door County to host a Fourth of July wingding. I would be delighted if you could join us. It will be a casual day of games. Bring a swimsuit. I see us gliding in a canoe in the moonlight
.

Yours truly,

Clay

Kate spun around. “Rare” . . . “unique” . . . “lovely” . . . oh! And he could have written “sincerely,” but instead he wrote “yours truly”!

That was when she noticed the second letter. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Christiansen. That was odd. Ben typically sent letters to all three of them—Mother, Father, and Kate. What secret does he have for Mother? Resisting the temptation to open it, she slipped it into her slicker pocket along with the letter from Clay.
Clay!

The rain had stopped and the world smelled fresh and clean. A
fragment of rainbow crossed the sky, pointing right to Clay's house. She danced down the steps and breathed in the spring air. Feeling like the leading lady, she sang out, “Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day . . .” She pushed her bicycle past the feed store and the shuttered Dew Drop Inn and the fragrant bakery and the butcher shop. She began forming a response.
“I was thrilled to receive . . .” No, no, no. Let him know I'm interested, but not
too
interested
. “Imply other options,” Josie would say.

Kate's mind drifted to Gatsby parties on the lawn, picturing herself among elegant people, elegant conversation, elegant clothes. She stopped.
What will I wear?
The other girls would surely be showing off the latest chic styles.

Kate pushed her bicycle across the street to Schwarz's Drug Store and peered through the window at the magazine rack.
Vogue
. She had a few coins in her pocket, not enough to buy a magazine, but enough for a cherry soda. Inside, she picked up a copy of
Vogue
and sat at the counter and ordered a soda. It was the big summer issue, introducing the latest designs in linen skirts and slacks and pedal pushers and midi-blouses and . . .
yes!
She stared at a photo of Ginger Rogers in short tap pants, cinched in at the waist, cut and flared at the thigh.
That's it! Josie tells me I have nice legs. Mrs. J will help me
. Kate cast a guilty glimpse around the room—no one was watching—then tore the photo from the magazine and tucked it into her pocket.

“Mrs. J” was Ellie Jensen, owner of the dry goods store. Kate left her slicker outside on her bicycle and brushed herself off before entering.

“Good morning, Charlotte. Oh, I'm sorry. Kate! You certainly take after your mother!”

“Hello, Mrs. J.” Kate sauntered over to the fabric corner.

“Are you planning a sewing project?”

“I'm thinking of shorts and a blouse—”

“I have some lovely polished cotton. You'd be good in baby blue, pink—”

“Is there any chance . . . do you know where I might find silk?”

“Silk is for parachutes, Kate. You know that.”

“Yes, I just thought—”

Mrs. J put a finger to her lips. “A special event?” She whispered conspiratorially, though there was no one to hear.

Kate nodded.

“Well, then, if you don't mind a used fabric, a woman brought in silk brocade draperies yesterday to trade for wool crepe. She should have turned it in, but . . .” She led Kate to the back room and opened a trunk and pulled out yards of forest green brocade. She laid out the silk on a long cutting table. Kate ran her hand across the rich fabric.

Next, Mrs. J unfolded drapery sheers of celadon green, a fine complement to the darker fabric. “The color is light and young.” She pulled a corner of fabric across Kate's arm. “Perfect against your pale skin. Just the thing for the blouse . . .”

“But it's nearly transparent!”

“Of course you'll wear a camisole underneath.”

“Of course.” Kate's heart raced. She could see it too.

“A new boyfriend?”

Kate cheeks went hot.

“I can keep a secret.”

Kate did want Mrs. J's advice. “I would like to be in style for a party. Yes, maybe a new boy. I don't know yet.”

“Hmm . . . well, you'll need a matching skirt, or—”

“Tap pants.” Kate pulled out the photo of Ginger Rogers.

“Tap pants! Quite risqué,” she said, a serious look. “These would be fabulous on you, but . . . well, I wouldn't have expected—”

“Maybe I've changed.” Kate grinned.

“Ah.” Mrs. J smiled. “The dark green silk brocade would be becoming with your complexion. Is it an afternoon party, or evening?”

“Afternoon and evening both.”

“Dancing?”

Kate nodded.

“Well, then, you'll need a dancing skirt too.”

“A dancing skirt. Yes, that's just what I need!”

Mrs. J looked Kate up and down. “How about a knee-length swing skirt? It'll flip up when you dance to show off your long legs.” She gave a wink. “You'll be the envy of the county.”

The bell above the door jangled. Mrs. Schmidt came into the store. Mrs. J threw a piece of muslin over the drapes, put a finger to her lips, and went out to greet the other woman. Mrs. Schmidt bought a spool of thread and soon left.

Mrs. J came back. “If you're going to be outside, a sweater would be nice.”

A sweater would be perfect, but Kate didn't have time to knit a matching sweater before the party. “That would take too long.”

“How about a short jacket?”

“Yes, I could make a jacket.”

Mrs. J pulled the fabric across the cutting table, measuring it between brass tacks. One yard, two yards, three yards. “Nearly eight yards. Certainly enough to make whatever you'd like.” She turned away from the table. “Let's take a look at the patterns.”

Leading Kate down the aisle, Mrs. J said, “Tell me about this boy. Would I know him? Is he from one of the farms?”

Kate lowered her voice, as if there were others to hear. “His family has a summer home just up the lake from us.”

“An out-of-towner?”

Kate nodded.

Mrs. J stopped, mid-aisle. Her face suddenly serious. “You have a good head on your shoulders, Kate. I trust you'll be careful. A local boy is one thing, but these out-of-town boys, they're often fishing for a summer fling. And then they leave you alone, or worse. You know what I mean?” She patted her tummy.

“He's not like that.” Kate felt the blush coming. “Besides, there will be lots of other guests. You don't have to worry about me.”

“I hope not.”

At the pattern counter, Mrs. J rifled through drawers and pulled patterns out for Kate to examine—blouses, camisoles, skirts, jackets. She fiddled with the groupings. “How about this combination? I'll have to special-order the pattern for tap pants. Not something I get much call for.”

Kate scanned the pattern covers, imagining how glamorous she would look. Patterns, fabric, buttons, zippers, thread. She bit her lip. “How much will all this be?”

“Hmm.” Mrs. J appeared to be thinking. “Can you spare two of your rabbits?”

Two rabbits!
Maybe she should bargain for only part of it, just enough fabric for the shorts and blouse and camisole, and leave the rest.

“And you'll need some pink nail polish, lipstick, a light perfume. I can have those for you as well.” After a pause, Mrs. J added, “And perhaps a pair of peep-toe wedge sandals? I'll see if I can order them in a forest green.”

Matching sandals and pink toenails! “I'll bring the rabbits tomorrow. But . . .” she hesitated. “Please don't tell anyone.”

“Of course your mother knows.”

“Not yet. I . . . I'm going to surprise her with my outfit. I want to tell her myself.”

Mrs. J winked. “It's our secret.”

RIDING HOME THROUGH THE ORCHARD
was like entering an enchanted fairyland. The clouds had broken and the late-afternoon sun glistened on the green fruit, sparkling like emeralds. Off through the trees, Kate spied Father working with the men, weeding, preparing for the harvest. Her heart swelled with happiness. When Father looked her way, she waved, and he waved back.

And there was Mother in the garden. “Letter from Ben,” Kate called.

Inside, she set Ben's letter on the kitchen table and hurried up to her room. After reading Clay's letter three more times—
I have to show Josie!—
she raced downstairs.

Mother stood in the kitchen, Ben's letter in hand. Something was wrong.

“Mother?”

Mother stared at Kate, pain in her eyes. “I don't understand.”

Ben!
Kate's scalp bristled with fear. “What happened?”

“It's about the prisoners. Did you write to him about the prisoners? And Karl—”

“What about Karl?”

“Coming into the house to tutor you. Did you tell him?”

“No, I haven't written anything about the prisoners. What is it?”

Mother put a hand over her mouth and handed the letter to Kate.

“Mother,” it began. Not “Dear Mother” or “Dearest Mother.” Just “Mother.”