Serendipity (37 page)

Men back home spoke their hearts freely and did so in a musical, run-together way. Cowboys and farmers – especially the German ones, guarded their hearts and hoarded their words.

The blue curtains looked . . . fair. Strung on twine, they dipped a bit in the middle. So she drove a few pegs above the window and swagged her beloved Rose plaid across.

“The blues match.” Coming from Ma, Maggie took it as a compliment. “Like from our wedding.” Approval warmed Todd’s voice.

Black lines separated the jeweled green and blue squares – making it handsome, yet reminiscent of a stained-glass window. She’d always had a plaid across her mantel. Depending on her mood, she’d choose one of the three belonging to Clan Rose, but the ancient hunting one had been Daddy’s favorite. The change made this feel more like home . . . but it also made her feel much, much farther away from Carver’s Hollow.

Maggie anticipated the weekly letter she received from Uncle Bo and read it over and over. In his letters, Uncle Bo told of the happenings. Often her uncles sent notes, too. And bless her dear uncle, he had Jerlund write his name on envelopes and sent them with stamps affixed. She never breathed a word about how their farm was at risk; no one in the holler ever asked about finances. But Maggie suspected Uncle Bo knew. About every other letter, he’d include money and receipts for some of Maggie’s trade goods he’d sold. Every penny of it went in the jar that held their savings.

Two magnificent double eagles sat in the bottom of the jar – ten whole, blessed dollars from Mrs. Ludquist. She’d requested Maggie send a bottle of perfume and some soap to her home in Boston – a rush order, because she wanted to take it with her on her travels. Maggie couldn’t help seeing the irony of it: Mrs. Ludquist wanted the roses as she left home; all Maggie wanted was to grow roses at home!

Saturday morning Maggie wrapped her own plaid around Ma’s shoulders. “I aim to go pamper my roses. They’re struggling. Come on outside.”

“You’re bossy.”

Maggie dropped Ma’s embroidery in her lap. “I’m honored you noticed.”

Maggie fretted over her beloved roses, and Ma’s stitches improved each week. Todd stopped by to admire both.

Linette sashayed up. “I hope you don’t mind, but John Toomel is meeting me here so I can measure him for a shirt.”

“We don’t mind at all.”

Todd waited until Linette was out of earshot. His hot whisper sounded appalled. “We don’t mind? You said we were helping our friends and neighbors with this bartering. Don’t even consider trying to play matchmaker between your friend and my neighbor.”

“What’s mine is yours.” She frowned at a leaf. “I’m just helping along two folks who are our friends.”

“I’m saddling up and warning my friend about yours. He can’t possibly know what he got himself into.”

A moment later, while Ma stayed in the shade, Linette yanked Maggie into the house. “I can’t believe John really asked for this trade.”

“Aye, and you’re going to be proper as a stiff-rumped professor. No fluttering or small talk. And I’ll chaperon. Afterward, we’ll cook a roast. The other one was so delicious, Todd’s been wrangling all sorts of deals to bring in another.”

Plopping down on the edge of Ma’s bed, Linette gave her a woebegone look. “You’re smart and beautiful and talented. You even had Belgians. Todd is blind to what a bargain he got. If that didn’t get you love, then I’m sunk.”

It was the first time Linette implied Todd didn’t love her. Maggie turned away. “Love can’t be bought. And I’ll have you remember you are a sleek doe – a very talented and smart one that can sew and bake. In a few months, I might change my mind. Could be, love isn’t bought, but a man can make a first payment on it with a shirt.”

She poured lotion into Linette’s hands. “When you measure his collar and cuffs, you want your hands nice and soft.”

“This smells heavenly. Do you make other fragrances?”

“The rose is my specialty, but I can mix other things. What would you like?”

“I don’t know. Can you ask John what his favorite flower is?”

“I’ll do it today.”

Linette rubbed her hands a little more, then inhaled. “You ought to sell this. People would buy it!”

Maggie looked out the open door. “No one has that kind of money. Wheat and corn prices dropped again. We’re all praying to make ends meet. Luxuries, like fine perfume, soap, and lotion . . . Only the very rich are indulging.”

Until now, Maggie hadn’t let herself imagine what would happen if they lost the farm. They could start over again.
Todd did it
once, and he’d get us through anything. . . . But if we leave Gooding, I
wouldn’t be with my dear friends anymore.

John arrived. “Hello, Miss Richardson. I’m looking forward to getting a new shirt for church.”

“Did you have any preferences?” Linette pitched her voice just right. “Some gentlemen are having shirts with the collar and cuffs attached instead of removable. And would you like the sleeves standard length, or longer so you can uhhh . . .” Linette didn’t want to say “garter.”

“Band it,” he supplied. “What do you recommend?”

“Removable collars and cuffs make it easy to freshen a shirt and make it last longer.”

Cutting butter into flour to make a pie dough, Maggie said, “It never ceases to amaze me how we are all so different. Like those preferences for a shirt. What makes one person happy displeases another. Todd is very easy to please. But he has taken a special liking to my peach jam and dried-peach pie.”

“Now if you’ll pardon me, Mr. Toomel . . .” Linette measured the length of his sleeve, trying to act casual.

“What about you, Mr. Toomel? What kind of pie is your favorite?”

“Maggie, I have yet to eat a thing here that isn’t great. But the thing I recall enjoying the most is that apple pie Miss Richardson made.”

“Mmm-hmm!” Dusting the table with more flour so she could roll out the dough, Maggie said, “Linette, you have a way with spicing things just right.”

“Thank you. Oh my. Twenty-nine across the shoulders!” Scribbling down the measurement, she said, “Daddy likes his shirttails extra long so they stay tucked in better when he rides.”

“If you could do that and work in a little give around the arm, I’d appreciate it.”

“John!” Todd shouted from outside. “John, I need to talk with you for a second.”

Irked, Maggie pushed the rolling pin so hard it spun around and around when she lifted it. She wasn’t going to let Todd ruin Linette’s chance for happiness. Determined to get the information from John she’d promised, she had to keep him there. “What about the collar?”

John had to lean down for Linette to measure his neck. His eyeglasses reflected Linette, proving he was staring at her. She measured him with trembling fingers.

Maggie took pity. “I’m still learning Todd’s favorites. Like the dog he’d like to get, or flower. I’ve seen your dogs. Do you have a favorite flower?”

“John . . .” Todd called again from outside.

John jerked upright, away from Linette. “I . . . um . . . flower? I didn’t know there was anything other than Best.” With Todd bellowing for him, he left.

Linette wilted into a chair. “Best?”

Maggie stared down at the table in utter disbelief. There, in a white powdery cloud, sat a bag emblazoned
BEST
.

Holding up the flour sack, she sighed. “Linette, they’re hopeless.”

Eighteen

The small oven box limited how many cookies she could bake at a time. Since Todd and Ma adored pfeffernuesse, Maggie took most of the morning to make a batch. She developed a rhythm – heating the iron while she spooned the next pan of cookies to bake, ironing while the cookies baked, and repeating the cycle. By the end of the morning, she’d finished her ironing and had a big tin full of cookies.

Ma set aside her crewel work and swiped another cookie. “Todd’s fit to be tied over you playing Cupid. That whole shirt-measuring scheme from yesterday rubbed him the wrong way.”

“Something special is blossoming between Linette and John.”
If
only Todd looked at me the way John gazes at her . . .
“I wish my roses were coming along as nicely.”
I wish my own marriage was going as
well. Our romance is as dry and barren as the rose garden.

“You’re wasting your time – on the matchmaking and on the flowers.”

Maggie needed to go tend the roses – because they needed the attention and because she didn’t want to hear Ma’s grousing. Wrapping cookies in a tea towel, she said, “Todd loves pfeffernuesse hot from the oven.” She brushed a kiss on Ma’s cheek and headed out to surprise her husband. It felt good to be outside . . . until she looked around.

“No!” The word tore from her chest as she raced to her rose bed. Falling to her knees, she scooped away everything at the first rose’s base. Desperately, she crawled down the row. Thorns raked her flesh, but she had no time to put on gloves. It was probably too late already.

Todd pulled her to her feet. “Maggie?”

“My roses! They’re burnt. It’s killing them.” She jerked away and fell to her knees again. “Help me.”

Shoveling off the mixture of manure and fertilizer, Todd moved with blinding speed. “They weren’t growing. I tried to help.”

They worked furiously, but it was too late. Maggie looked at the yellowed and brittle stems and leaves – damaged. More than damaged. This would kill her beloved roses.

“It was yesterday’s love token. I traded for fertilizer.”

Maggie gave him a tragic look. “They won’t make it. They’re dead or burning.”

The sizzle of fried eggs was the only sound at breakfast the next morning. Todd’s five filled the skillet. Soon as they were done, she slid them onto his plate. She and Ma ate two apiece – the second round. The idea of eating turned Maggie’s stomach, but she’d force herself. Wasn’t she the one who always told her uncles back home that an empty stomach stayed sick and one with a little something in it calmed down? But it wasn’t her body ailing
–
it was her aching heart.

Now without the refuge of her roses, she’d plunge back into ceaseless hours of Ma’s advice. Learning a new recipe or how to account for the dishes you took to someone else’s house at harvest rapidly trapped her into listening about any and every opinion Ma held. Only Ma didn’t have opinions; she believed she had the truth.

“Charity . . . beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all
things.”
No matter how much she chanted that verse, Maggie didn’t think she could bear much more of this, and she didn’t believe more than half of what Ma said. If only God would send Linette or Hope – or anyone – to come rescue her.

Outside the woodicocks clattered and the windmill whirred. Everything else about her remained the same – but she’d lost her legacy and sacrificed that bequest for her daughters and granddaughters. Future generations would hear the stories, but they’d mean so much less. The hours and days of two or three generations working together, talking about what it meant to love, to sacrifice, to face the worst with courage . . . Gathering petals, smelling the fragrance, and helping press out the essential oil . . . the fragrance brought back hundreds of memories. The tenderness of a mother dabbing the tiniest dot of perfume on her little girl’s wrist . . . lost. All of that lost.

Maggie’s chest ached – some from crying, but mostly from the crushing feeling each heartbeat made.

“Go water the vegetable garden.” Ma sounded as if she’d been dosed with a vile-tasting curative. “The important matters in life – those are what you must work on.”

Anguish welled up. “My roses are – were – important!”

“Sewing warm quilts is important. Putting up food is vital. Helping my son in the fields is essential. These are the things that count most.”

“I’ve sewn curtains to warm the cabin. I’m tending a large vegetable garden to have food to preserve, and there’s not another woman in all of Texas who helped her man with every row of sod he broke.”

“Basic things a wife ought to do. No one’s going to lavish praises on you like those hillbilly geezers. Children crave praise; wives do the work with a willing heart and know labor is its own reward.”

The eggs she fried earlier hadn’t sizzled half as hot as the thoughts in Maggie’s head. Careful to put a cup of water in Ma’s reach, she finally said, “Chores are waiting. Before I go, though, I’ve something important to tell you: Mama taught me, ‘If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’ Aunt Maude taught me the importance of respecting others. And the importance of gratitude. They were fine, God-fearing women who passed on those common courtesies and eleven generations’ worth of wisdom that is twined with my special roses.