The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (18 page)

T
en minutes
later, Grace flew down the sidewalk toward home. Her heart felt light as
whipped cream. Mrs. Kinner had still been too weak to climb the staircase and
show Grace her “geranium room.” But she’d said that, if Grace returned a few
days later, she surely would have the strength to do it then.

“A
perfect paper
again.” The now-familiar voice sounded very near. Almost halfway home, Grace
swiveled her head to look behind her. Sure enough, Paulie was there, just two
steps behind her.

“Thought you
were gonna join the chess team,” Grace commented. “Weren’t sign-ups today?”

Paulie quickened
his pace to catch up with her. “Yes, but I found out that they practice three
times a week after school.”

“So?” Grace
asked, then wished that she hadn’t been quite so blunt.

“So, you think
I’m going to miss walking you home three times a week just so I can move a few
pieces of ivory around on a gameboard?” Paulie questioned, raising his
eyebrows.

I’m more
important to him than joining the chess club!
Grace reddened
at his words and her thoughts. Why did she have to have such light skin? If her
skin was a nice olive tone like Papa’s, these infuriating blushes wouldn’t show
up so strikingly!

“Oh, good job on
your perfect paper, by the way,” she said, desperate to change the subject.

“Perfect paper?”
He sounded surprised.

She was sure she
hadn’t misheard him. “Didn’t you say that you had another perfect paper? Right
when you came up behind me?”

The confusion on
his face cleared, and he grinned. “Yes, I have another perfect paper, but it
doesn’t have my name on it.” He held out a sheet of paper in his right hand.

Grace glanced
over at it and saw her own name swirling in neat cursive at the top. “That’s
the math test we got back today. How come you have mine?”

“You dropped it
a little ways back,” Paulie explained, offering it to her. “So I guess the onus
is on me: Good job, Grace. I think you were the only one in the class who got a
perfect score. That test was hard!” He shook his head wonderingly.

Grace shrugged,
embarrassed at receiving his unabashed praise. She looked off to the side of
the road, watching the postman make his final deliveries for the day.

“What, does your
daddy crack the academic whip?”

Startled, Grace
stopped in her tracks, her lungs out of air. Was he serious? Did Paulie have
any
idea how things at her home really stood? She figured not – hoped desperately
not – and squirmed inside, trying to make up a somewhat-truthful answer without
giving anything dreadful away. Anything about cottages and burning trash and
scraping the bottom of the barrel so hard that your fingernails hurt from the
splinters under them.

But Paulie
winked. “I’m only kidding you, Grace. I bet your parents are swell. It’s
you
who’s the perfectionist, right?”

What did you say
to that? Sucking in the crisp autumn air, Grace merely gave another shrug instead
of trying to figure out how to verbally respond. Why
did
she strive so
hard to get perfect scores when no one at home cared if she failed or passed?

Because then I
am worth something.

The thought
sprang into her mind without warning, vivid and scalding. Its very unsought
suddenness declared its veracity. And then, just as quickly, its light faded
and Grace focused on her conversation with Paulie.

“I’m stopping to
see Mrs. Kinner,” Grace told Paulie as they came to the white gate.

Just then, the
screen door on the front of the house opened. Grace saw Mrs. Kinner, dressed in
a pale-pink housecoat, standing at the threshold. “Grace!” she called, waving.
“I’ve been watching for you. Do you have time to come in and see my geraniums
today?”

So Mrs. Kinner
hadn’t forgotten! Chest tight with excitement, Grace nodded. “Yes! I’m coming.”

“You want to
come, too, Paulie?” Mrs. Kinner asked, smiling at him.

Grace looked at
Paulie, half-hoping that he’d say no. She kind of wanted to meet the special
geraniums without him distracting her.

To her relief,
Paulie shook his head. “Naw, but thanks, Mrs. K. I promised Dad that I’d give
the lawn one last haircut this year.” Grinning, he handed Grace back her books.
“Thanks for letting me walk you home, Grace. See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Grace
echoed. Their eyes locked for just a moment before Grace swung away, feeling
the red creep up her neck. Her feet carried her up the path to the Kinners’
porch steps, where Mrs. Kinner greeted her by extending both of her hands and
clasping Grace’s.

“Grace, Grace,
it is good to see you,” Mrs. Kinner exclaimed. She gave Grace a smile as honest
as lemonade is sweet. “Now,” she said, and the hint of anticipation that entered
her voice thrilled Grace, “are you ready to see my geraniums?”

M
rs. Kinner still
felt very weak. Grace could tell by the way her hostess’ hand gripped the
doorframe as she held the screen door open for Grace to pass by her. Was it too
much to ask of the woman? She’d told Grace that she kept the geraniums
upstairs, and as much as Grace longed to glimpse the scarlet blooms again – and
up close, for the first time – she didn’t know if it was right to ask Mrs.
Kinner to brave what might be a long flight of stairs.

“Are you sure
that you’re not too sick, ma’am?” she said before stepping into the house. She
didn’t want to ask the personal question but felt conscience-stricken if she
refrained. She glanced up into Mrs. Kinner’s face, expecting to see her own
hesitancy reflected there.

But though a
shadow of pain flitted across Mrs. Kinner’s countenance, a smile of joy more
authentic than Grace had ever seen came with it. “I’ve been waiting to show you
my geraniums all week, Grace; ever since you stopped by my porch. The Lord God
has been very good to me with this operation, and I’m healing, slowly but
surely. Now come inside, dear,” she urged, and Grace obeyed, her heart lifting
as if she really was a canary like Ben often called her.

The first thing Grace
noticed was the bowl of apples sitting in the middle of the table. Not that
apples were an uncommon sight in autumnal New England, but Mrs. Kinner had
arranged the fruit carefully in such a way that pleased the love of beauty that
Grace hadn’t known she’d possessed. The Golden Delicious apples nestled near
the chubby Macs, picking up the color of each other. Then, Grace’s eyes turned
to the embroidered placemats, neatly lined up at each of the four chairs. The
stitched flowers and vines complemented the crocheting both on the placemats and,
Grace noticed, on the window curtains. The kitchen itself shone with
cleanliness but in a way that made Grace feel happy and peaceful there, rather
than rigid and uncomfortable.

“Come along this
way,” Mrs. Kinner invited her, moving toward the opening that seemed to lead
into the parlor. Grace followed her, glancing this way and that, first at the
long bookshelves lining the parlor, then at the glass-faced cabinet filled with
a collection of teacups.

The stairway
jutted out into the parlor, and Grace trailed behind Mrs. Kinner as they
climbed to the second floor very slowly. Mrs. Kinner wore ballet-style house slippers,
nearly soundless, but Grace’s flappy saddle shoes threatened to make a slapping
noise with each narrow, tall step. Hoping against hope that Mrs. Kinner
wouldn’t notice if they did, she curled her toes to decrease that likelihood
and moved up the staircase like a wooden soldier.

At the landing,
Mrs. Kinner stopped for a long moment, eyes closed, just breathing. Unsure if
she should offer help (but what kind of help could she give?), Grace stood
silently. A step up from the landing, the short hallway provided the mooring
for several dark-wooded closed doors. If Mrs. Kinner hadn’t accompanied her, Grace
would have found the upstairs a little spooky.

Finally, Mrs.
Kinner opened her eyes and gave Grace a quiet smile. “This way,” she said and
stepped across the worn carpeting to one of the closed doors.

The knob turned
easily, though the hinges squeaked as Mrs. Kinner pushed it open. Grace felt
her nostrils awaken as an unfamiliar spicy scent met them at the threshold.

Mrs. Kinner
smiled. “That’s the scent of geraniums, Grace. I don’t think a person can
forget it once she smells it.”

They stepped
into the light-filled room, and Grace let her eyes rove from the large windows
facing the west to the piano perched in the room’s center and, finally, to the
long table near the windows. There the baskets of geraniums sat.

Where were their
scarlet flowers? Suddenly, Grace felt ill. She stepped closer and saw that
someone – Mrs. Kinner? – had cut the stalks to a savage stubbiness; not a bloom
remained. Gone was the beauty she had so hoped to see.

She couldn’t
help it. Speechless, she threw a look of deep betrayal at Mrs. Kinner.

“Why, what is
it, Grace?” Mrs. Kinner asked, obviously confused. “Is something the matter?”

Somehow, Grace
forced herself to find her tongue. “The geraniums… They’re dead…” She could say
no more. Silly though she knew it must seem, the loss of the flowers – no,
their ruin – struck her deeply. Her chest grew tight; she feared that she might
cry. Unwilling to permit her tears to fall in front of Mrs. Kinner, Grace
turned toward the door, desperate to leave and find a place to weep by herself.

But Mrs. Kinner
caught her by the arm with a gentle hand. “Grace, no. You don’t understand.”

Grace hesitated,
her thoughts so tangled with distress. She’d been unable to keep the tears at
bay, so she impatiently brushed her fingers across her eyes before turning to
face Mrs. Kinner. The woman’s voice was so kind, so quiet. Despite her grief,
her feelings of betrayal, Grace couldn’t just rush out on Mr. Kinner’s wife.

Mrs. Kinner’s
beautiful hazel eyes looked right into Grace’s light ones. She seemed to be hiding
nothing. “Grace, I always cut the geraniums down after I bring them inside for
the winter. That’s how you make geraniums grow well. They need a time of
cutting back, of pruning, so that they become stronger for the next year.”

Dazed by this
revelation, Grace stared past Mrs. Kinner, her gaze on the plants. “The red
flowers… will come back?” she dared to ask, lips trembling.

“Yes,” Mrs.
Kinner smiled. “Next spring, they’ll be new again. They will stay in this cool room
all winter, and then I’ll bring them out in the springtime. They’ll be hanging
in my baskets by May, Grace. And you are very welcome to come and check on them
any time you’d like to, all winter.”

Suddenly feeling
rather foolish, Grace nodded and blinked away the remaining tears.
She must
think I’m a real dolt!

But Mrs.
Kinner’s face showed no sign of that. With the same warmhearted expression, she
asked, “Now that you’ve seen my geranium room, would you like a snack before
you go home? I have fresh oatmeal cookies just out of the oven.”

Almost before
she realized it, Grace nodded again. In less than five-minutes time, she and
Mrs. Kinner sat at the kitchen table, sharing cookies and milk.

T
he cold water
felt good on his skin. Paulie gave one more splash to his face and then wiped it
with the bleached hand towel. He’d already mowed the lawn; now he had an hour
to go before supper. Might as well crack open his math book. His class had a
huge test coming up in two weeks, and Paulie knew that he was nowhere near ready
for it.

Pulling his
button-up shirt back on, he sighed. Funny, as the son of a doctor, you’d think
he’d be good at math.
Well, you don’t stink at it, Paulie. You just don’t
get perfect scores.

Like Grace
Picoletti did.

As his fingers
nimbly fastened the white buttons, Paulie’s face broke into a grin. He had an
idea.

Quite a swell
idea, actually.

“G
race, you milked
that cow yet?”

Mama’s voice,
full of its usual irritation and weariness, called out the door as Grace
hurried up the back walkway. Hearing it, Grace’s stomach twisted into a knot.
I
stayed too long at Mrs. Kinner’s house.
She broke into a run and reached
the screen door in two seconds flat. Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the
rusty door and entered the kitchen. She hoped that she could grab the milking
bucket without Mama noticing.

But no such luck
could be Grace’s today. Broom in hand, Mama stood facing the back door,
eyebrows furrowed like she’d heard that a storm was coming. “Hi, Mama,” Grace
gulped. She avoided Mama’s eyes as she set her schoolbooks down on the table
and picked up the milk bucket.

“So you didn’t
milk her yet?” Mama stated rather than asked. “Where under heaven have you been
since school let out?”

“Nowhere, Mama,”
Grace replied, fear freezing her thoughts. Then, realizing that she’d have to
confess another lie to the priest if she didn’t elaborate, she forced out, “A
lady asked me if I wanted to come inside and see her flowers. That’s all.”
Tense, she waited for Mama’s response.

But Mama just
harrumphed. “Flowers,” she muttered. “She goes to see flowers while I’m here
working my tailbone off so that she can keep going to school.”

“Mama, it only
took a little while. I’m sorry that I’m late…” The words stumbled out as Grace
felt the guilt rise. Mama
did
look so worn-out, standing there with her
hair in bedraggled strands around her saggy cheeks.

“As if I don’t
have enough stress what with your father… Oh, never mind. Just milk the cow, Grace,
and stop giving me your silly excuses,” Mama muttered, her ragged broom
scraping the floor again. “I can’t wait until you’re old enough to quit that
school, anyway. Least then you can earn a little money with a job or something.”

Quit…

At that moment,
surrounded by the hollow, dark cheerlessness, Grace longed for the bright peace
of the Kinner home – more than she had wished for anything else in her whole
life.

G
eoff Kinner
arrived home from school to find his wife on her hands and knees. Her garden
tools at her side, Emmeline’s hands moved skillfully as she pulled out errant
tufts of grass and shook the soil from them. She hadn’t noticed his presence,
and so he stood watching her for several moments, listening to the hymn she
softly sang:

“Neither life
nor death shall ever, from the Lord His children sever; unto them His grace He
showeth, and their sorrows all He knoweth.”

The tears rose
to Geoff’s eyes as his listened. The recent sorrow they’d experienced together
still burned so fresh in his heart. Sometimes he wondered how Emmeline could
move forward seemingly unhampered by the hopelessness he often felt.

The memory of
their child’s loss caused Geoff to think about how fragile his wife’s health
still was. “Should you be out here gardening, Emmeline?” he asked, concerned.

She started,
falling back on her heels, but then smiled when she saw him. “Oh, Geoff,” she
said, “I didn’t see you there. Yes, I’m feeling much better lately, and this
couldn’t wait any longer. It’s November. I had to get these in before the first
hard frost.” She pointed to a small pile of bulbs at her right.

Once Emmeline
made up her mind to do something, nothing outside of a direct command would
have any bearing on her actions. And it was her determination that he loved so
much. “Here, let me help you,” Geoff offered, rolling up his shirt-sleeves.

Emmeline nodded
her agreement, and he felt the ground’s autumnal moisture seep through his
pant-legs as he knelt down beside her. “Show me where you’d like the holes
dug,” he requested, and she pointed out the spots.

Geoff asked her
about the happenings of her day, and Emmeline inquired about his, and they
accomplished the planting quickly. Enjoying the gratification of seeing the job
well-done, Geoff helped his wife to her feet. They stood there for a moment,
looking at the neat circle of plantings around the base of the old weeping
willow.

“I didn’t know
you planned to put bulbs out here,” Geoff remarked. “I would have helped you
get them in the ground earlier in the season.”

Emmeline shook
her head. “I thought of this recently.” She met his eyes. “It’s a remembrance
garden, Geoff.”

He could almost
hear the ticking of his pocket-watch. Compelling his throat to swallow the hard
lump that caught there, Geoff managed, “What do you mean, Emmeline?”

Her expression
asked him to understand. “It’s in remembrance of the baby,” she said, her voice
low, her eyes on the fresh plantings.

Sorrow, crisp as
the leaves littering the ground at their feet, rose in Geoff’s heart. The mere mention
of his little dead child – of the death of their hopes - had done it. Though Geoff
ground his teeth, hardened his jaw, stiffened his shoulders, the tears came
anyway.

Oh, Lord, I
wanted to be strong for Emmeline,
his mind cried out as his chest began
to shake with silent weeping. Since the day of Emmeline’s surgery, he had not
cried, determined to resign himself to God’s will, hard though it was, resolved
to display not a chink in his armor… at least, until he could repair it.

But he had
failed. Through the cloak of grief, Geoff felt Emmeline’s arms encircling him,
quiet and soothing.
She would have made such a good mother.
Why? Why?
Why?
The cries no longer merely revolved in his heart and brain but
ricocheted toward the heavens.

But there was no
answer. If rending his garments could have forced a response, lashing his body,
begging, he would have done it. Yet he knew in his heart that none of those
actions would compel an answer from God’s lips. Only the song of the wren,
sharp and clear and high, rang out through the rustling trees.

“It is a garden
of hope as well,” Emmeline whispered, her hands still on his ribs. “In the
spring, these bulbs – so dead as they seem – will rise to life.”

He wiped the
back of his hand roughly over his eyes. “Hope… Hope of what, Emmy? Certainly
not that God will answer our prayers for a child. Surely even you can see that
His answer is no.” He paused, then numbly continued, “And so we must simply
submit.”

She didn’t
answer for a long time. Geoff was about to turn from the tree and go inside the
house when Emmeline finally murmured, “We hope in Him. Don’t you think, Geoff,
that perhaps – just perhaps – He answers all sincere prayers with a yes, but we
might not see His answer in this life? Or that His yes might appear different
than the way that we expected it to look?”

Perhaps…
Perhaps, she was right. Confusion – and the desire to believe - and even anger
fought hard for control in Geoff’s heart. He didn’t speak or move for long
moments.

At last, he
shrugged. “I don’t know, Emmeline. I just… just don’t know.” He kissed her
hair, right where it met the skin at her temple. That she would know his
despondency had nothing to do with her!

She leaned
against him, returning the kiss to his jawbone. “I love you, Geoff, darling.”