Wanted: A Family (4 page)

Callie giggled. “Do I have any mail?”

“Nothing today. Nothing that is, except a question.” She motioned her closer. “I heard Elise Langley's staying with you.”

“She is.”

“Good.” Mrs. Thompson's brown eyes warmed with interest. “My nephew Albert and his wife, Sally, would love to have that baby if Elise is looking for a good home for it.”

“I believe Elise plans to keep her baby.”

Marlene's shoulders sagged. “Well, if she changes her mind, ask her to talk to Sally.”

“I will.”

Callie knew the Thompsons and their desperate desire for a child. They would make wonderful parents. Callie doubted that Elise would consider such an arrangement. Yet her heart ached for the Thompsons. Why did some women long to have a child, yet remained barren, while others conceived babies with no interest in or means of caring for them?

What circumstances had led Jacob Smith's mother to put her son in an orphanage? Or perhaps she had been forced to give up her child, as Elise's father was trying to do.

If Callie had questions, she could only imagine Mr. Smith's desire for answers. Could that be the reason he'd come to Peaceful? She sighed. Why was she getting involved with this man's life? He'd only bring her grief.

 

A block down, Callie entered Mitchell's Mercantile. The cavernous room held every utensil, tool, canned good, fresh-baked good and ready-made article of clothing imaginable. She dreaded running into her father-in-law. Yet, if she shopped elsewhere, the news would get back to him. She glanced around. No Commodore. No customers. Callie breathed a sigh of relief.

Since Martin's death, her father-in-law had badgered her to move in with him and Dorothy, and Callie suspected he wanted her and her baby to fill the void in their lives after losing Martin. She understood that, but the vehemence of his insistence unnerved her. Did something beside grief motivate him?

At a table piled with an assortment of tiny garments and fabric for making blankets and diapers, Callie plucked a white gown from the stack. Silky ribbons closed the
neckline, cuffs and hemline, every detail precious. She couldn't imagine caring for an infant small enough to wear this. But in four months, she would. Would she even know how to be a good mother? What if the baby got sick? Or—

No, she refused to worry. Just because her parents and Martin had died tragically didn't mean disaster lurked around every corner. Countless women had children and managed fine.

But alone?

She knew very few who'd handled that responsibility without a husband. She laid a hand on her abdomen.
Please, God, keep my baby safe. Help me be a good mother.

If only she could talk to her mother, to ask advice, to share the specifics of motherhood. Her throat clogged. She didn't have her mother, but she did have a mother-in-law and the ladies at church to advise her. She'd have support.

As she fingered the soft blanket, visualizing cuddling her baby swathed in its folds, filling her arms and her heart with a family of her own, tension drained out of her.

“Small, aren't they?” Commodore's gentle, almost reverent voice startled her. “Takes me back to Martin's arrival.”

Surprised by this sentimental side of Commodore, Callie met his moist gaze and smiled. “From the pictures I've seen, Martin was a beautiful baby.”

“Sure was. And strong. Why, he held up his head that first week.” His voice sounded gruff, thick with emotion. “If you want material to make our grandbaby anything, I'll, ah, wrap it up.” He shifted. “No charge. Get some dresses, too.”

“Thank you. That's most generous.” Callie had no idea
how she'd manage it, but somehow she'd find a way. “I'll work here on Saturdays to repay you.”

“Nonsense. We want to help. We still have Martin's crib, high chair, baby carriage. Dorothy saved everything he touched.”

Commodore's effort to build a bridge between them softened Callie's wariness. “I could put the crib in the small bedroom.”

His gaze hardened. “If you'd move in with us, we'd see to your and the baby's every need.”

At the familiar argument, a constant sting between them, Callie sighed. Could she make Commodore understand? She had to try. She took a fortifying breath. “I need a place of my own to raise my child and make a life. Not to shut you and Dorothy out, but to have my own traditions, my own routines.”

“You can do all that at our place. Why are you being stubborn? You used to be reasonable, someone we could talk to.” He exhaled impatiently. “Why not be honest? All you can think about is housing that Langley girl.”

“That's part of it, but not all. I wish you could understand.”

“I understand, all right.” He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “You'd rather remain in a house that caused Martin's death than move in with us. My son would want you and his baby with us.”

As if Commodore had known Martin's mind. They'd been at odds for years. Fighting to control her emotions, Callie inspected several baby things.

“Commodore, I appreciate your concern about the house, but I want to assure you I'll be fine.” She forced a smile. “I know the house's every flaw and will be careful.”

“I can't stomach the sight of it.” Commodore's tone was harsh, condemning. “If not for that eyesore, my son would
be alive today, not laid out in Walnut Grove Cemetery. But no,
you
had to have this house. Nothing but that monstrosity would do.”

Callie wrapped her arms around herself. Did he blame the house for Martin's death? Or was he dancing around the fact that he blamed her? “I'm heartsick about Martin's fall, his death.” A sob tore from her throat. “But leaving my house won't bring him back. Nothing we do will bring him back.”

Her nagging had cost Martin his life. If only Callie had asked someone with experience to replace the shingles, instead of fussing about the cost, about yet another bill they couldn't pay.

Perhaps living with Martin's parents would be her penance. But she couldn't cope under Commodore's accusing eyes. Decrepit or not, she had to keep the house, the one place where she felt at home. The one place she could recreate the family she'd lost.

And fulfill the promise she'd made to Nell. The promise she'd made to God to provide for unwed mothers.

“Commodore, please. Martin saw our home as a perfect place to raise our children.”

“It hardly makes sense for Dorothy and me to rattle around in that big house of ours, while your place drains you dry. From where I stand, you're going to lose it anyway.”

His words tore through Callie and ricocheted in her chest. How would she provide for Elise and two babies, once they arrived? “I've got to go.” She whirled toward the door.

If God wanted her to give Elise a home and others like
her, He'd show her a way to handle the expense, just as He'd brought her a carpenter to make the repairs.

It would all work out.

She was sure of it.

S
porting a new haircut and a surly attitude toward the barber who'd shorn him like a spring lamb, Jake returned to demolishing the porch. Elise's father had bombarded him with questions. No doubt suspicious of a newcomer. Or, if Jake chose to think the best of people, perhaps Langley merely was making conversation.

In any case, Jake admitted that he was renovating the Mitchell place and had met the barber's daughter. Neither spoke of Elise's condition, though obviously her father had her on his mind. He'd had the gall to suggest that Callie Mitchell had persuaded his daughter to move in with her. Jake had leaped to her defense, raising Langley's ire. The man used his scissors to emphasize his points. Jake was fortunate to still be in possession of his ears.

Mrs. Mitchell opened the screen door. “Do you need the fruit jar refilled?”

Did this woman never stop thinking of others? “I'd appreciate it.” He carried the jar to her, promptly getting lost in the depths of her dazzling blue-green eyes.

“Did Mr. Langley say anything about Elise?”

“He's not happy she's living here.”

Her eyes dimmed. “I know.”

An urge to teach Langley a thing or two for upsetting Mrs. Mitchell this way gripped Jake. But what did he know about being a father? About dealing with an unwed daughter in a family way?

“Yoo-hoo! Callie!” A twig of a woman, white hair frizzing around her face like a windblown cloud, lurched up the walk pulling a loaded wagon, impressive for someone surely approaching eighty.

“Mildred, whatever are you toting in that wagon?”

“Memories, dear. Births, deaths and everything in between.” The lady's hand swept the stacks of newspapers and scrapbooks crammed to overflowing. “Some of this memorabilia dates back to the town's beginnings.”

“That's nice but…I don't understand why you're bringing all that here.”

“You will as soon as I explain.” She tilted her head toward Jake. “You're that fellow who stopped at my place looking for work. I'd have hired you, but I'm not sure of my plans for the house.” Jake nodded.

“It's about time you got help, Callie, before this house falls down around your ears. Not an easy way to get them pierced.” She gave an unladylike snort.

“Mr. Smith's already replaced the roof shingles.”

“Ah, a hard worker
and
easy on the eyes.” The woman winked. “I may be old as dirt, but I can still appreciate a good-looking man. Not why I wed my dear husband, but I enjoyed that handsome face of his more than dessert after a meal.”

At Mrs. Uland's perusal, Jake's neck heated. The feisty older woman merely grinned, as if enjoying his discomfort.

“This old Victorian sat empty too long. All it needs is someone who cares like Callie here and someone with the
know-how to give it life.” Her approving gaze rested on Jake. “Appears that's you, Mr. Smith.”

“Sitting empty isn't good for a house,” he said.

“Sitting in an empty house isn't good for a person, either.” Mrs. Uland laughed. “I'm not in mine, more than I have to be.”

He motioned to the wagon. “Let me help with that.”

“Oh, a knight in shining armor.” She wagged a knobby finger. “Just keep your nose out of them. Took me hours to get those issues in order of publication.”

“They're safe with me.” His mind raced like a hound dog after a fox. The information in this wagon could possibly unlock his birth mother's identity. If he examined these newspapers, he might find his birth announcement.

“I'm not following you,” Mrs. Mitchell said, looking slightly dazed.

“Of course, you're not, dear. If you have time for tea, I'll explain.”

“I do.”

Jake scooped up an armload of newspapers. “Where do you want these?”

From the flicker of dismay in Callie Mitchell's eyes, she didn't want them anywhere, but she didn't let on. “Follow me,” she said, gathering the scrapbooks, then taking the older woman's arm. “Watch your step, Mildred.”

They picked their way across the dilapidated porch. “A strong man around the place comes in mighty handy.” She lowered her voice, but not so low that Jake couldn't hear. “Maybe you can find a way to keep him around permanently.”

For a moment, Mrs. Mitchell hesitated, and then hurried her elderly neighbor along, as if fearing what would come out of her mouth next.

The women entered the house and led him down a
wide hallway, the wooden floor gleaming, past a magnificent staircase nestled into the curve of the outside wall. The house was an extraordinary example of Victorian architecture.

At the back of the house, they stopped at a door opening into a small library, the book-laden shelves rising from floor to ceiling. He stacked the newspapers on the large desk, a desire to look at them building inside him. As soon as he finished the porch, he'd ask permission. He suspected both ladies would question his interest. But he wouldn't open that Pandora's box.

With the contents of the wagon stowed in the library and the wagon back in Mrs. Uland's yard, Jake returned to the porch.

Inside, Callie Mitchell sat across the table from her neighbor, a pot of tea and some kind of secret between them.

 

Callie poured Mildred's cup of tea. “What's this about?”

“I've spent days rummaging through every nook and cranny in my house searching for that memorabilia, then getting it in order.”

Callie's usually dapper neighbor looked like she'd gotten into a brawl and lost. Her hair appeared uncombed. The lapels on her dress tipped like a bird in flight. Her stockings were drooping around her ankles. Finding and putting those newspapers in order had taken its toil.

“I'll tell you it wore me out. I'm not what I used to be. Why, last week I had to rest while weeding the garden.” She smiled. “Isn't the early lettuce yummy? I love wilting it, though it's tender enough to eat straight out of the garden.”

Though she had a sharp mind, upon occasion Mil
dred went off on some tangent and forgot the point of the conversation.

Her eyes met Callie's. “Oh, sorry, dear. You asked about the newspapers.”

“Why did you bring them here?”

“Those newspapers and scrapbooks are records you'll need.” Her voice had a slightly impatient tone, as if unable to understand Callie's dim-wittedness.

“Why would I need them?” Callie asked gently.

“So you can write our town's history.”

“Why me?”

“Your wonderful essays and poems used to make me cry. You love history. Told me that yourself. I wouldn't trust anyone else with the job.”

“That's nice of you to say, but why do you want a history written?”

“I've lived in Peaceful all my life. One look at the obituary column makes it clear we oldsters are dying off. Soon no one will be left to answer questions about the town. Down the road, young people will want to know.” She rolled her eyes. “They don't realize that now, of course, but it's true. Most of us never think to ask our elders anything until it's too late. I know my ancestors came over from England. But I have no idea what part and…”

As Mildred went on about her heritage, Callie thought about the countless times she'd wished she could've asked her parents some detail about their lives. Like when and where her father and mother first met. Either Aunt Hilda couldn't remember or never knew. Her pulse tripped. These articles might reveal something new about her mother or her mother's parents. The prospect of learning even one fact to fill the blanks on her family tree was reason enough to take the job.

“You've got the talent. And I've got the facts.” Mildred sat back, looking pleased.

Callie hated to refuse her friend, especially since she'd enjoy delving into the town's past, but could she squeeze in another task? “It'll require a lot of time to organize the information and write it up.”

“I know. That's the reason I will pay you and pay you well.”

Was this God's answer? Not only for her longing for information about her family, but also for her financial predicament? As certainty filled her heart, a smile curved her lips. This put the lie to Commodore's prediction that she'd lose the house. God had provided a way to handle expenses, not with a miracle but through Callie's hard work.

She'd need other sources of revenue to increase the number of women she could help. As soon as the house was safe, she'd seek community support. If her plan were God's will, He'd provide. Her eyes misted. She'd been unsure, even discouraged about how she'd manage. God cared about every detail of her life. She'd lean on Him, the one constant in her ever-changing circumstances.

“I have the money,” Mildred was saying, “and I'm running out of time to spend it.” She grinned. Every line in her face stood at attention like a squad of eager recruits. “Mr. Uland, God rest his soul, always said I could squeeze a penny until Mr. Lincoln hollered.”

Knowing the truth of that statement, Callie bit back a grin.

“All my life, I fought letting go of a dollar. Last I looked, those dollars were breeding. Why, I've got more than enough money to last me and then some. And you…” She paused. “With Commodore's attitude toward this house, I doubt he's helping with your bills. You need income, especially with Elise living here.”

Who would've thought Mildred Uland, a tight-fisted friend, and Jacob Smith, a closed-mouth drifter, would be the keys to launching her dream? “Thank you, Mildred, for the opportunity. I'll work on the town's story in the evenings.”

“I'll help all I can. It'll be good to have a new purpose, since that husband of mine up and died on me. Why, I'm as adrift as a rudderless sailboat.”

Though her husband had been gone for more than twenty years, Mildred often groused about his passing, as if the poor man had died just to annoy her. Perhaps her way of handling grief was better than holding everything inside, as Callie often did. “I'm sure Elise would help, too.”

“If she does, tell her to keep quiet about the book. It'll be my gift to the town at Peaceful's seventy-fifth anniversary two years from now. I don't want it blabbed about until it's in print.” Mildred reached a blue-veined hand. “I'm paying for your talent and your reticence. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Callie gave her neighbor's hand a squeeze. “You're an answer to a prayer.”

“Not surprised. God's been nudging me to get moving on this.” She sighed. “Lately it's been more of a shove. I don't hanker to wrestle with God and end up with an out-of-kilter hip. Got me enough aches and pains as it is.” She smiled. “I'm late learning the lesson, but when God says, ‘Do it,' I do it.”

Callie rose and came around the table, wrapping her arms around Mildred's shoulders. “Remember the spring after I came to live with Aunt Hilda? I picked your tulips.” She kissed her cheek. “I still can't believe you forgave me for ruining your front flowerbed.”

“You were only seven and meant well, wanted to give them to Hilda on her birthday. You weren't the brightest
vandal I've come across.” Mildred grinned up at her. “You left a trail of petals clear to her house.”

“You followed that trail. Carrying a bouquet of tulips you'd picked from your flowerbed out back, claiming I'd missed a few. Then you helped me put together a bouquet, though you surely wanted to paddle my behind.”

Tears flooded Mildred's eyes. “No, dear girl. You'd lost your brother and your parents. I lost only petals.”

A sudden spasm seized Callie's throat. Her baby brother, Ronnie, just starting to walk. Mama and Papa going about their routine with no warning that the dam was about to give way. All gone.

When she could finally speak, Callie said, “Where would I be if not for Aunt Hilda and people like you, who took a frightened little girl into your hearts?”

“You'd be fine. You were born with all the strength you needed, just like your mother. She's up in Heaven chatting with that inconsiderate husband of mine.” She patted Callie's cheek. “That faith of yours will see you through. I'm proud of you, Callie Marie Mitchell.”

Callie's smile trembled. “You've been my rock. I'm happy I can do something for you now. Writing this history will be fun. Imagine, Peaceful's past at my fingertips.”

Mildred removed some bills from her pocket. “This'll get you started.”

At the generous sum, Callie shook her head. “I can't accept this.”

“You'll soon have four mouths to feed.” Mildred said, then left through the back door and disappeared between the shrubs separating their houses.

In Callie's hands was enough money to meet their needs for months, maybe more. As she tucked the bills into her purse, the weight of obligations she'd had no idea how she'd pay fell from her shoulders. And she knew—

A naughty little girl's petal trail had brought Mildred Uland into her life, a very special friend. God had seen Callie through her troubles every step of the way. He'd given her this home. He'd sent Jacob Smith to make repairs. And Mildred with an offer of much-needed funds. Ensuring that she'd be able to take care of her baby and keep the promise she'd made to Nell, a desperate young girl who'd believed she had nowhere to turn.

With her heart filled to overflowing for the good fortune God had brought into her life, Callie could barely contain the unfettered joy pounding through her. A walk would help expend some of that energy.

She opened the screen door and jerked her foot back. Most of the porch floor was missing. The boards had been stripped away, revealing support timbers underneath. Thankfully, they appeared solid and wouldn't need to be replaced.

Jacob Smith turned from tossing another plank to the lawn.

Callie smiled. “I'm amazed at the progress you've made while Mildred and I have been visiting.”