The Cherry Harvest (14 page)

I've learned you have BLACKED OUT working in the orchard, and worse, you've let them into the house. Did you forget that I'm fighting these BLACKED OUT? I have spared you details, but BLACKED OUT. These are dangerous men and I am afraid for you and Kate, and Father too. If I were there, this would not happen. Please write and tell me it isn't true
.

 

Ben

“Josie,” Kate whispered. “I told her about Karl.”

“Josie! Of course.” Mother's anger filled the air. “She's trying to pull him away from us, don't you see? That cunning little—”

“I don't think that Josie—”

“No. You don't think. That's the problem with you, Kate. You
live in a make-believe world. Well, this is real.” Her voice rose. “This is your brother, fighting for us. Needing to know that we support him. Needing to know that we're safe. Now he'll worry. He'll be distracted . . .”

KATE FOUND JOSIE SITTING
on the end of the dock, a fishing pole in her hand. Josie turned at Kate's approach.

“Why?” Kate shouted, walking forward.

Josie set her pole down and stood. “Why what?”

“Why did you tell Ben about the prisoners?”

“He needed to know. Why didn't your mother tell him?”

“Mother didn't want him to worry. She wanted to protect him. And besides, it's none of your business.”

“My daddy says it
is
our business. It's bad enough that there are war criminals outside with guards, but letting them into your house, encouraging them to get so close, it can put us all in danger . . .”

“But why tell Ben?”

“Your mother listens to him.”

Not anymore, Kate thought. “You don't know Karl. He would never . . . and Mother, you can't imagine how this has upset her.” Kate's eyes watered.
My fault
.

“Ben and I tell each other everything.”

“You don't have to tell him what's none of your business. None of your damn business!”

“Don't swear at me,” Josie said softly.

“Oh, so now I suppose you're going to tell Ben I swore at you.” Kate turned her back on her friend and stomped off the dock. She remembered the letter in her pocket. No, Josie would tell Ben about Clay's party, and he'd tell Mother. No, I can't tell her anything, ever again.

“Kate . . .” Josie called. “Kate, don't leave! I didn't do anything wrong . . .”

Eyes stinging, Kate ignored Josie, running across the lawn and through the woods to the channel.

APPROACHING THE CLEARING
in front of the house, Kate froze at the sight of Mother standing with the twelve-gauge shotgun at her shoulder, pointed toward the woods.
A prisoner?
Kate's eyes followed to where it aimed.

Bam!

A flock of grouse scattered, save one unfortunate bird that plopped onto the grass.

“Good shot, Mother!” Kate hoped this would be a happy distraction from Ben's letter.

But Mother merely glanced her way, then walked to the edge of the woods and picked up the bird by its feet. A big one, bigger than a chicken.

Following Mother into the kitchen, Kate longed to turn her mood around. “Can I help?”

Her back to Kate, Mother lit the stove and put a pot of water on the burner to soften the bird's skin and loosen its feathers.

Kate found yesterday's newspaper and opened it across the table. She put a kitchen towel on top to absorb the water.

Mother was silent until she pulled the bird from the pot and laid it on the towel. “Ben has no idea how bad things are. I've kept it from him so he wouldn't worry. And now—”

“I'm sorry . . .” Kate braced for what would come.

“For starters, you give up your math lessons. Karl will no longer come to the house. And you'll tell Josie so she tells Ben. Understand?” She began tugging feathers from the bird's breast.

Kate put her head back to keep the tears from falling. “But I need Karl's help to . . .”

Mother leveled her eyes at Kate. “That's more important than Ben's life?”

“Let's write to Ben. We'll do it together,” Kate said. “We'll tell him what it was like before but we don't have to worry any longer because of the PWs. He'll understand. He'll understand if it comes from both of us. Okay?”

Kate cringed as Mother yanked away another handful of feathers. Then another. After some time, Mother looked up and wiped her forehead with her arm. “Get a pencil and paper and we'll see what we can do.”

Kate hurried off, relieved that Mother was including her in the response.

ONCE THE BIRD WAS IN THE OVEN
, Charlotte sharpened a pencil and opened a box of stationery. Kate sat across from her, drumming her fingers on the kitchen table, drumming on Charlotte's nerves. Charlotte wished she hadn't agreed to a joint letter.

Kate began, “Maybe we should start with—”

“I think I need to do this myself,” Charlotte said. “If you don't mind.”

Kate looked hurt.

Charlotte put a hand on her daughter's arm. “We could each write a letter. Our argument would be stronger if he heard from us separately, don't you think?”

“I guess.” Kate stood.

“How about if you go to the garden and choose vegetables for supper?”

Once Kate had left, Charlotte could think more clearly. She gazed at the kitchen window, imagining Ben walking up to the back porch just as he had thousands of times before. What would she say to him if he were sitting across from her now?

Dear Ben,

I'm sorry you had to find out about the German prisoners from someone else. I didn't want to worry you
.

I have not told you how things are here at home, but since the war began the migrant workers have found better jobs than picking fruit. For a year we've been living off the goodness of the community. With the prisoners, we can have a harvest and finally pay off our debts
.

About that PW who tutors Kate—

Charlotte held the pencil in the air, poised to write the name.
Karl
. No, Ben would think that too familiar. Because it
was
too familiar.

She stood and picked up a paring knife and sharpened her pencil. How odd to be defending a prisoner.

A tap on the window frame startled her. Karl peering in through the screen, deep dimples in his smiling cheeks. He held up a bunch of violets. “I found them near to the forest.”

Charlotte was beginning to find his guttural accent endearing. She went to the back hall and opened the door. When she accepted the flowers, his hand touched hers. A fleeting touch, but the tingling lingered.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Does Miss Kate have papers for me?”

“No” was all she could say.

“I'll come tomorrow.”

Surely he must smell the bird roasting in the oven. Maybe she should invite him to supper.

“Yes. Yes, come tomorrow.”

He gave a slight bow. Charlotte watched him walk away, his broad shoulders, confident stride.

Charlotte put the violets into a small vase and placed it in front of
her on the table. She touched her hand where he had touched it. She should have invited him for supper.

After some time, she picked up the pencil.

He doesn't support Hitler. He's a good man, a gentleman, a math professor, educated in England, you can hear it in his voice. You know how important it is for Kate to go to the university
.

The university! How foolish that sounded in the face of what Ben must be going through. What could she say that would make him accept all this when she herself had a hard time accepting it?

Kate came in with a basket of garden greens. “It smells so good in here!” She put the greens on the counter. “Where did the violets come from?”

Charlotte quickly wrote a last line and signed the letter, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope. She hadn't written anything Kate didn't already know. And yet . . . “Could you please take this to the barbershop for tomorrow's mail?”

Kate held out her hand. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him the truth.”

Kate hesitated, as if waiting for more, but when Charlotte stood and turned to the stove, Kate left with the letter.

THOMAS MARVELED
at the homey aroma of roasting game. After washing at the sink, he stood over the butcher block and carved the bird.

Once they were seated, Thomas noticed the violets. “Nice touch, Kate.”

“I didn't pick them.”

“Karl brought them,” Charlotte said.

“Karl?” Thomas's eyes focused hard on hers.

“To celebrate summer,” she added. “For us.”

“Ah, yes.” He took up his pipe. “I recall Karl said that his mother loved flowers. And he thought you would too.”

His mother!
Charlotte stiffened. But when she touched that place on her hand again, it felt like a burn.

KATE PULLED THE FABRIC
from the bottom of her closet and snuck it down the hall. The day was warm, and the sewing room was musty from being closed off for so long. Dead bugs lay along the windowsills, and when Kate pulled up the blinds, dust motes floated in the yellow afternoon light. She sneezed and opened the windows to let in the fresh summer air.

The cutting table was strewn with pieces of floral-printed flour sack from Mother's last project, a square dancing skirt. Kate recalled Mother's pleasure in creating new outfits, back before the war, when there were potlucks and square dances, charity events for the school and the hospital. But now she wore the same old housedresses—cotton in summer, wool in winter—day after day.

Kate opened a drawer and hid her bundles under a pile of fabric scraps Mother had once collected for making a quilt. She grabbed some odd ends and dusted the cutting table, the windowsills, the full-length mirror that rocked in its oak stand, the dressmaker form, the cabinet filled with patterns, and finally, the Singer itself.

Mother had taught Kate to sew, and Mrs. J had encouraged her
from an early age with fun projects—puppets and dolls, then doll clothes, and finally patterns that Kate could use for designing her own outfits. It was a creative endeavor that took Kate away from tedious chores. That was what she liked about it. Whenever Kate sat with a book, Mother would find something practical for her to do. “Idle hands . . .” she'd say. But when Kate was sewing, Mother left her alone. With only the friendly hum of the Singer, Kate's mind could roam into her own fantasy world.

Kate slid onto the cane-back chair and rocked her foot on the treadle, testing it. When the needle buzzed up and down, the table thrummed against the floor. Would they hear it in the parlor below? Kate couldn't take that chance.

Through the window, Kate saw Mother carrying a basket of wash to the clothesline in the side yard. “Hello, Mother,” she called down. “Do you have anything that needs mending?”

Mother looked up, smiling. “Why, yes, I do. Check my sewing basket in the parlor.”

Within an hour, Kate had sewn patches on the elbows of two of Father's work shirts, mended the hem of one of Mother's dresses, fixed the torn seam of a blouse, and patched a bedsheet. To keep up the pretense, she left a few things in the basket to work on later.

Then she closed the door to the hall, closing herself in the sewing room, and lifted one of her bundles from its hiding place—a fine cotton fabric the color of her skin—and smoothed it out on the cutting table. She opened the Butterick pattern for the camisole and pinned tissue pieces to the cloth.

The adjustable dressmaker form was set to her mother's proportions. Kate measured it before changing it to her own measurements, then pinned the pieces around it. Once she had sewn them together and added a lacy edging, she took off her blouse and bra and pulled on the spaghetti-strap camisole.

Turning this way and that, the girl in the mirror looked quite alluring. Kate swayed and swooned before her reflection, trying out
poses for Clay. She laughed and hurried to her room to hang the camisole in the back of the closet, next to Peggy's party dress.

Kate wished she could share her feelings about Clay with Josie, but she never wanted to see that girl again. Such a blabbermouth! Peggy would be a better friend. Kate had planned to return Peggy's dress to her at the party, but now she thought of a better idea. She would arrange a separate meeting, where she could ask Peggy about Clay. Peggy would be her new confidante.

Kate hadn't given
Forever Amber
to Josie after all. Instead, she was reading it herself, eagerly opening the library book each night to pore over daring love scenes. “She was warm and drowsy, marvelously content, and glad with every fibre of her being that it had happened. It seemed that until this moment she had been only half alive.”

If only she could experience that with Clay! She trembled at the thought. Where she may once have been fearful of sex, Kate couldn't help but long for the thrilling intimacy that Amber enjoyed.
But no, how could she do that! But yes, if only!

OVER THE ENSUING WEEK
, Kate made the sheer celadon blouse, the silk brocade tap pants, and a dancing skirt that spun up on her thighs when she twirled, showing off the silk lining that matched her blouse. She was starting on the jacket, the most difficult of the pieces, when she heard the door opening. She turned, hiding the fabric behind her.

“Well, you're a busy girl,” Mother said. “What have you got there?” She came into the room and spied the brocade.

“I felt like sewing . . . and I wanted to surprise you.”

“Oh?” Mother raised an eyebrow.

“I've nearly finished the mending.” Kate indicated the things folded on the cutting table. “I can come down and iron . . .”

“I like seeing you interested in homemaking.” Mother stood in the doorway as if wanting a conversation.

“I forgot how much fun it is to sew.” Kate kept her fingers on her work so Mother would see she wanted to keep going.

“I'll leave you, then.”

Now Kate would have to make something for Mother. At least there was plenty of drapery fabric.

As she pumped the foot treadle and pushed the brocade through the Singer, Kate wondered if she should tell Mother and Father about Clay, about the party. No, they'd want to meet him, meet his family. Impossible.

The party was to start at four in the afternoon and would surely go late into the evening. She'd need an excuse to be out so late.

KATE FOUND JOSIE SITTING
on the dock in the shade of the lighthouse reading one of those tell-all magazines. It had been more than a week since their argument about the letter.

“Josie,” Kate called out as she approached, waving.

Josie jumped to her feet and hugged Kate. “I'm so so glad you came back. I missed you. I really really did.”

Josie looked pretty in a blue summer dress. She had pulled her dark hair into pigtails, a look that emphasized her heart-shaped face and wide eyes.
She's going to be my sister-in-law. We need to trust each other
.

“You wanted to show me those pictures of wedding dresses?”

“Oh yes! Wait here.” Josie ran toward the house.

It was a hot day, bugs buzzing lazy in the air, the lake glassy calm. Waiting, Kate sat on the edge of the dock and dangled her bare feet in the water. A dragonfly glittered before her, alighted on the dock for a moment, then floated off into the sky. A slight breeze ruffled the surface of the lake. Three water beetles the size of black beans circled a wooden dock post. A small fish swam into view. Kate kicked her feet. “You better watch out, little beans.”

Josie returned carrying a stack of
The Bride's Magazine
s and
sat next to Kate. She had dog-eared the pages with dresses she liked most. Slinky silks, frothy chiffons, formal satins.

“Look at this!” Josie cooed, then read the caption: “‘The Forget-Me-Not Bride, designed by Kathryn Kuhn.' Oh! ‘Snowy pure silk marquisette, lightly traced with embroidered blue forget-me-nots. To be treasured for generations. Made to order. Bridal Salon.'” Her eyes shone. “I want this one!”

Kate peered at the ordering information. Josie would have to send her measurements to the Jay Thorpe Gown Showroom at 24 West 57th Street in Manhattan. “But look at that price!” Kate poked the page. “Six hundred and fifty dollars!” That was enough to pay for four years of tuition and books and room and board . . . and maybe a house too!

“I don't care. I want it.”

“For just one day? That's a shameful waste of money!”

Josie continued to read: “‘The bride's diamond necklace, by Cartier.'”

“Oh, Josie!” Kate reached over and turned the page.

Josie turned a few more pages until Kate stopped her. “How about this one?” She pointed to a dress with a sleeveless shirred silk bodice and a slender floor-length skirt with layers of ribbony silk like silver feathers that trailed on the floor behind. So elegant! Kate imagined herself in that very dress, Clay at her side . . .

“That would be hard to dance in,” Josie said. “I want to
dance
at my wedding.” She turned the page and sighed. “I want the Forget-Me-Not dress.” She flipped back to the dog-eared page and gazed fixedly at the dress as though staring hard enough might make it appear.

“It's so expensive, Josie—”

Josie looked up with a sudden smile and clapped her hands. “Kate,
you
know how to sew. You can help me make the one I want. We could send to New York for the pattern. We'll do it together. After all, we're going to be sisters!” Josie put an arm through Kate's and looked into her eyes. “Would you be my bridesmaid?”

Kate gave Josie's arm a squeeze. “I would be honored.”

“You'll help me with the dress?”

“Of course,” Kate said.

The two friends sat silent for a while, gazing out over the big lake. Bits of white clouds floated overhead. A freighter slid into view, slipping slowly along the horizon.

Kate splashed her feet in the water, waiting long enough before speaking. “I'd like you to help me with something as well.”

“Oh yes. I want to.”

“It's a secret.”

Josie's eyes lit up. “I promise I won't tell.”

“Especially Ben.”

“Cross my heart.”

WHILE MOTHER SCRAMBLED EGGS
with parsley fresh from the garden, Kate set the table for supper.

“Josie's having a Fourth of July party,” Kate said, as casually as she could manage.

“I don't like that girl. Writing to Ben . . .”

“She didn't know you hadn't told him about the prisoners. You and Ben are so close, she assumed . . . She's so sorry.” Kate searched for something to say in Josie's favor, but she came up short. “It will be in the afternoon, and into the evening. It's a Tuesday.” That didn't matter, but it was something to say.

“Is it a family event? Parents included? I'm really not interested in visiting those people—”

“You don't have to go. Only Josie's friends.”

“Just girls, then. Of course, all the boys her age are away,” Mother mused. “Who else is she inviting?”

Kate picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the mushroom soup. “It would be rude to ask, don't you think?” After a pause, she added, “I think we shouldn't tell anyone else. Other girls might feel left out. Where did you find these mushrooms?”

“Under the crabapple trees in the woods—you know the place.” Mother wiped her hands on her apron. “Can you taste the herbs? I put basil and dill in the broth. What do you think?”

“Mmm. Delicious.” After a pause, Kate said. “So I can go to Josie's party?”

“Well, I suppose your father could take you to the island in the boat. How long will it go on? You know he likes to be in bed by nine.”

Kate's heart beat fast. She certainly wouldn't want to leave the party before nine, and how would she get back to the island anyway? “That won't be necessary. Josie will pick me up and bring me back in her father's motorboat.”

“You'll need to be home before dark.”

Before dark! Kate hadn't thought that far ahead. Would Clay drive her home? Was she Clay's date, or merely one of the guests? She'd have to figure that out later. “Josie has it all arranged.”

Mother frowned. “What does she have arranged?”

This wasn't going well. Kate took another taste of the mushroom soup. “Oh, this is so good!”

“Kate.” Mother faced her, hands on hips. “I don't want you two girls out on the lake alone in the dark.”

“Josie's father will be there. You don't need to worry.”

Mother spooned eggs onto the dinner plates. “I'll speak with your father about this.”

“I need to let Josie know by tomorrow so she can plan.”

“Tomorrow?” Mother laughed. “If she must know tomorrow, then tell her no. If she can wait, your father and I will decide.”

Kate suppressed a groan. She would have to make something extra special for Mother.

ONCE KATE HAD FINISHED
making her jacket, she changed the form back to Mother's size and rifled through the drawers of patterns. She found one for a slim, sleeveless sheath dress. It wouldn't
be difficult. Within a few days, Kate had tailored the dress from the leftover green silk brocade and lined it with the sheerer celadon.

When Mother was out in the garden, Kate gathered her new things—shorts, blouse, skirt, camisole, jacket—and Mother's dress, and scurried down to the kitchen. She heated the flatiron on the stove, keeping an eye on Mother through the window as she ironed each item. Once the garments were free of wrinkles, she put them on hangers and ran upstairs to hide them in her closet.

THE EVENING BEFORE THE PARTY
, a fresh sweet evening, Kate followed the scent of cherry tobacco to the parlor. Father sat in the green wingback chair with his pipe, reading a book. Mother sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath her, darning a sock. Bing Crosby was crooning from the radio, “Moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair . . .”