Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel (14 page)

“Most everything you see,” Marfa explained in response to Vonnie’s comment, “was given to us when we married. I don’t know what we’d have done without them.” And she went around the room pointing out various items—doilies, pictures, cushions, rag rugs, tablecloth, tea towels, pieces of china—all adding to the utility and comfort and even beauty of the small domicile.

“It looks like you, Marfa,” Vonnie commented. “Homey, comfortable. And probably happy.”

“You’re right about that last part,” Marfa admitted, smiling, and Ellie and Vonnie knew that if it had been otherwise, if Marfa
had been miserable, it would have shown. Marfa was as open as a sunflower.

On the table in the center of the room were a plate of tarts, three cups and saucers, and three snowy serviettes embroidered by Marfa in the long and sometimes lonely winter hours of her confinements.

Marfa made tea and served it; the girls complimented her on the flakiness of her pastry and the daintiness of her linens and talked about old times, those memories that bound them together. The intervening years had erased the squabbles, disappointments, hurts, and jealousies, and only the rosy glow of childhood remained.

“I miss Flossy,” they said more than once and shared what news they had of this missing fourth person. Flossy had married a half Indian man and moved—first to Prince Albert and then north to the timber.

“Her husband is in logging, I understand,” Marfa said and paused suddenly, remembering, looking at Vonnie with stricken eyes. A logging accident had taken the life of Vonnie’s husband.

“Never mind,” Vonnie said. “I was going to tell you about it anyway.”

Ellie and Marfa listened sympathetically to the account of the accident, Vonnie’s shock and sorrow, and her eventual decision to come home.

“There was no reason to stay there,” she explained. “I couldn’t support myself away out there. You think you’re a pioneer, Marfa? You should have seen Chance; it’s as raw as they come. I had no idea, of course, when I went.”

Vonnie had met Vernon Whinnery on a trip to Prince Albert. He had made it a point, following that occasion, to come to Bliss twice. The third time was for the wedding. But that’s the way romances often were, in the bush and on the prairies. Often they were not romances but conveniences, a mate having died and the bereaved husband—especially if he were a father—desperate for help, company, and consolation.

And so Vonnie, not knowing much about Vernon Whinnery except that he was single, handsome, and a good dancer, had willingly taken her chances and moved to Chance.

“It’s well named,” she said now. “Somebody knew what they were doing when they chose it. But I didn’t know. Though I miss Vernon terribly, I have to admit it almost feels like coming back to civilization to come home to Bliss.”

Bliss—civilization? Ellie and Marfa, true children of the frontier, might have smiled, if humor wouldn’t have been so inappropriate at the moment.

Vonnie’s parents were among Bliss’s first settlers, and their toughest years were behind them. Here Vonnie had a room of her own, with her familiar things around her and the loving care of parents who idolized her.

“I’d like to stay,” Vonnie said simply. “I’d like very much just to stay in Bliss.”

The other two murmured encouraging words.

“You’ve lost your mother since I’ve been gone,” Vonnie said, turning to Ellie. “Of course my mum wrote me about it. I’m very sorry.”

Ellie gripped Vonnie’s extended hand for a moment. “It’s all right,” she said. “Dad has needed me—”

“You and Tom,” Vonnie said, “I thought you’d marry, of course. So many years, Ellie. How come...” Vonnie’s voice trailed away.

“It just hasn’t been right,” Ellie said a trifle uncomfortably. Marfa, knowing that something was seriously wrong, keeping Ellie and Tom from marriage, changed the subject.

“Ellie’s become quite the doctor hereabouts. Grandma Jurgenson can’t keep on forever, and she often takes Ellie along when she’s called to a birthing or an injury.”

“It’s what’s been on your heart for a long time, of course,” Vonnie said reminiscently.“You always wanted to do things for people, remember?”

“I remember,” Ellie said.

“Remember the Nikolai head-washing experience?”

All three girls laughed, perhaps a bit ruefully, recalling that first experiment in granting their services to Bliss...forcing their services upon Bliss, they admitted now.

“Remember the insignia you made, Ellie?” Marfa asked. “That’s what it was, though we generally referred to it as a badge—The Badge of the Busy Bees. You made it, Ellie, with your usual creativity. You always came up with the best ideas! That badge was particularly clever; I remember that we all took turns wearing it with such pride. Whatever happened to it?”

“No one seems to remember that,” Vonnie said, reaching for the teapot and a fresh cup of tea. “Do you remember, Ellie?”

“I don’t remember,” Ellie said.

“Perhaps Flossy ended up with it,” Vonnie continued. “Of course, we all lost interest in it after... after the tragedy. Do you remember—”

Ellie’s unseeing gaze was turned on the bottom of her cup...

Hoeing was a job that left a lot of time for thinking, even for a twelve-year-old. Ellie paused, wiping the perspiration from her brow, leaning on the hoe, resting her back. And thinking. And though she was alone except for Wrinkles the Third who was chasing a butterfly nearby, she exclaimed aloud, “Yes, good idea!”

At double speed now she finished the row and turned toward the house. Laying the hoe aside, she opened the door, calling as she stepped in, “Mum!”

“Here, Ellie. I’m right here.”

Of course. Ellie was always so eager, sometimes impatient, when she had an idea or a plan.

“I’ve got an idea!”

Serena looked up from her sewing, smiling faintly. Ellie had taken another flight of fancy.

“Now what?” she asked, snipping a thread.

“Mum, could we have salmon for supper?”

“Salmon?” her mother questioned. “Salmon for supper? That’s your grand idea? I have potatoes in the oven—”

“Salmon would be good with baked potatoes. How about it, Mum?”

Serena sighed. “Suppose you tell me why this sudden interest in salmon?”

“I want the can. Can I have the can, Mum?”

“There are cans in the trash behind the barn—”

“Rusty. Old. Bent. I want a fresh, new one.”

“Well, I suppose we can have salmon.” Fondly Serena laid aside her sewing, went to the cabinet, and checked among several cans stored there.

“Does it have to be salmon?”

“I guess not,” Ellie said at her mother’s elbow. “Marrowfat peas would be all right, I guess. Any can that size. But I like salmon better than marrowfat peas. So it might as well be salmon, right, Mum?”

“That settles that,” Serena murmured and set about opening the can.

“Careful,” Ellie warned, hovering at her side. “I want you to take the end off all the way. It’s the end I want, not the can.”

“Ellie,” Serena warned, pausing, “the edges are awfully sharp. You could cut yourself.”

“I won’t, Mum!” Ellie declared scornfully. “What do you think I am—a baby? I promise I won’t cut myself!”

With some reservation Serena cut the end of the can completely off and rather reluctantly turned it over to her daughter.

“Thank you!” And Ellie was out the door and away.

“You should wash it,” Serena called after her, but it was too late; the screen door banged.

Holding the round tin object to her small nose, Ellie sniffed and made a face. Swiping it on the skirt of her dress, she continued her way to the end of a nearby shed, her father’s workshop.

Once there, she looked around, locating the items she needed—a hammer and a nail. That was enough to transform the can lid into the object of her planning—an insignia for the Busy Bee club.

Laying the round tin piece on the worktable, Ellie carefully positioned the nail, lifted the hammer, and gave it a whack. A
hole appeared in the tin. Perfect! Another whack, another hole, and on and on. Positioning, whacking, positioning, whacking.

Finally, with a gust of satisfaction, she picked it up. Punctured with small nail holes, it showed a close-to-perfect BB. Holding it up to the light, Ellie breathed her pleasure in her success. Laying it down again, she gave one final whack to the top edge of the disk, making a hole for a piece of string or an old shoe lace to be inserted, which would tie the insignia in place around the wearer’s neck.

The nail holes were rough. Turning it over and laying it down, Ellie hammered until the jagged holes were beaten down and comparatively smooth.

Holding it carefully, turning it, studying it, thinking some more, she looked around, locating her father’s vise. She opened the vise a little, then slipped the metal disk into it and tightened it down. Taking pliers, she gripped the edge of the disk and twisted the pliers until the metal kinked in that spot. After loosening the vise, she repositioned the disk, then tightened the vise and crimped in a new place. She moved the circle of tin again and again, continuing to grip and twist until the edge was scalloped all the way around.

Now she held it up with satisfaction: Shiny, crimped of edge, and bearing the initials of the club, it was a badge to be prized.

Prized and shared. Because once Ellie had worn it to a club meeting, shining in its glory on the barely rounded bosom of her dress, and the girls saw and admired her handiwork, they clamored to have a turn at wearing it. “After all,” they pointed out, “we’re all Busy Bees. One of us is secretary, one is treasurer [a treasury with four cents and not much hope of more], and one is sergeant at arms [whose duty it was to keep unworthy individuals at bay].”

The precious Badge of the Busy Bees would be worn with pride first by one, then another. Until... until the club collapsed, the badge was lost, discarded, or stolen, and life, as Elizabeth Grace Bonney knew it, disappeared in a burst of flame and a puff of smoke.

T
he slanting rays of the afternoon sun illuminated the scene outside the schoolhouse window—the edge of the clearing, the bush beyond, the stark white of the birches. It emphasized the emptiness of the ring within the circling trunks; it touched the lone figure...

Birdie stepped farther back into the shadows of the room, watching, numb of feeling for the moment, while Buck—partially concealed, clearly discernible—hesitated uncertainly. Finally, with a shrug of his shoulders, he turned, crashed through the bush, careless of being seen or heard, and took himself off toward the barn. Within moments she heard the pounding of a horse’s hooves as Buck flashed past the schoolhouse, heading for the road and escape.

Swiftly now, acting on impulse, Birdie went to her desk, opened a drawer, and lifted out a stack of papers, lessons that she had not yet taken time to correct. Perhaps what she needed would be among them.

Laying the papers on the desk, she began sorting through them, setting them aside grade by grade, child by child. In spite of the dreadful calm of her countenance, her fingers betrayed her
and trembled pitifully, riffling through the pages unsteadily. Laying aside the final page, she had failed to turn up what she was looking for.

Taking a deep breath she began again, more slowly, methodically, checking each page, each name. Nothing.