Stealing Mercy (21 page)

Trent lost his studied nonchalance and grew alert. “Where?”

Hester nodded at Mount Rainier. “The back pasture. I just came in for the healing broth.”

Trent nodded. “I’ll get it.”

Hester bobbed her head and sent Mercy an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry to spoil your first visit.”

Mercy held up her hand. “No, please, go.” She looked nervously at Hester’s blood stained hands. “Would you like my help?”

Trent shook his head.

“Right. I’d be in the way.”

“Cook had laid a mid day meal,” Hester said, over her shoulder. Already turning away, heading towards the filly in need, she added, “Please, help yourself.”

Trent led her back into the kitchen. She stood in the center of the room and watched as he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a brown jug.

“And that’s --”

“Healing broth. Gram’s cure for everything,” Trent said, straightening, and wiping the dust off a large brown jug.

“Even horses?”

“Especially horses.”

“But, why does she keep it in the kitchen? Why not keep it in the stable?”

“Because, unfortunately, it’s an all purpose healer.” Trent held up the bottle and looked at it with grimace. “Are you sure you’ll be alright here on your own?”

Mercy nodded, thinking of the all the lovely books in the library. “Of course. Go help your grandmother.”

*****

Although Dorrie looked like a napping fairy, she snored like a drunken sailor. Mercy, not wanting to wake her, had silently slipped the first book she came to off the shelves, but when Dorrie started, Mercy quickly left the room. In the hall, she frowned when she saw she’d chosen a book on philosophy. Flipping open to a random page she read, “
Is determinism true? Does free will exist? Determinism is roughly defined as the view that all current and future events are causally necessitated by past events combined with the laws of nature. Compatibilism, also called soft determinism, is the view that the assumption of free will and the existence of a concept of determinism are compatible with each other; this is opposed to incompatibilism which is the view that there is no way to reconcile--
”

She stood in the hall, the book dangling from her fingers.
We are agents unto ourselves
, she reminded herself of Pastor Klum’s sermon, free to chose, free to act.

What would an etiquette book say about her situation? Surely, bringing a prostitute to meet a young man’s grandmother had to be a unique social situation. Besides, Trent couldn’t be classified as “her” young man, could he? Did the kisses define their relationship? Because, if so, she’d love to have a dictionary spell it out for her.

She wandered over to the dining room and trailed her finger along the table. The food looked delicious but couldn’t tempt her. The table had been set for four, but eighteen chairs stood at the ready and four more lined the walls. Twenty-two could fit at the table. Mercy turned away thinking of the tiny board in New York that she’d shared with her parents. After their deaths, how many nights had she sat alone? She went to the window that overlooked the meadow. Could all this land be theirs? The stretch of green that melded into distant trees, the cerulean sky dotted with cotton clouds, the innumerable buttercups-- it all seemed overwhelming compared to the solitary and simple life she’d known.

She hadn’t gone to school. She’d been taught to read and write by her parents. The numbers had been taught and then applied in the kitchen where she’d stood by her parents baking bread, pastries, and sweet meats. Three cups of flour per loaf of bread, three eggs per cake, one cup of lard for biscuits. Mercy’s eyes returned to the food. Sliced ham, braised carrots, mashed potatoes, rolls…no dessert. With a cautious glance around to make sure she was alone, she walked into the kitchen. It was as lovely as she remembered.

She leaned against the doorjamb and indulged in memories of fragrant pies, golden crusts, the feel of dough stiffening beneath her fingers. A clock tick-tocked on the wall. Outside, the cottony clouds turned translucent as the sun sunk. She wouldn’t need to snoop -- she could see the flour and sugar bins sitting beneath the counter. The rolling pin hung on a rack on the wall along with a host of other cooking utensils. Even from the doorway she could tell the oven was still warm; she could feel its radiating heat.

No.

We are free to act, to choose our course.

Women, strong, territorial women such as Hester appeared to be, didn’t appreciate other women trespassing in their kitchens, but what kind of impression could she have made on Trent’s grandmother? All Mrs. Michaels could possibly know from their short meeting was that Trent enjoyed kissing her. That was certainly not the impression Mercy wanted to give. First impressions are the most important, but could Mercy alter that? She turned back to the dining room and considered the meal on the table. Double checked. No dessert.

She reminded herself of all the hearts she’d won over through baking. Would Mrs. Michaels be any different? Was she as susceptible to a gooey dessert as Mercy’s past customers?

Mercy’s mouth began to water.
I’m being silly
, she scolded herself. She could eat, but she couldn’t sit and eat at that big table by herself. She could take a plate and eat at the little table in the sunny kitchen, but that also felt wrong.

Her gaze landed on a row of bottles of homemade cider, each clearly labeled. Slowly, she walked to the pantry. Looking wasn’t cooking. She pushed open the door. Jars of dried apple slices. Cinnamon sticks. Nuggets of nutmeg. Honey.

She had everything she needed.

CHAPTER 20

When making this type of pie crust, chill the fat and liquids before beginning. Chilling prevents the fat pieces from getting creamed into the flour.

From the Recipes of Mercy Faye

The next evening, as promised, a wagon pulled into the back alley behind the shop. Even though it was barely seven, the sun burned hot and a furnace like wind blew back Mercy’s hair as she helped Trent.

“I’ll get this,” he said, lugging a sack of flour as she tried to help. She watched him cart in the fifth bag; he hadn’t let her help him carry one. Sweat rolled down his face and as he brushed past her in the doorway she saw where his shirt had grown sticky and clung to his back.

She followed him to the wagon where Mugs stood holding the reins of a large gentle creature, unlike the stallion Trent typically rode. A few crates holding bottles of dried fruit and cider still remained in the wagon.

When Mercy moved towards them, Trent said, “Let me.”

Mercy crossed her arms. “You haven’t let me do anything.”

Trent stopped, his lips twitching. “You’ll have plenty to do.”

Tilly stood in the middle of the back kitchen, plucking at her skirts. Her gaze flicked between Mercy and Trent, trying to read their expressions. When Trent deposited the last crate, he stood, brushed his hands on his pants and gave Tilly a sheepish smile.

Mercy wondered if her aunt hadn’t been here if he would kiss her goodbye. She didn’t know when she’d see him again; all she knew was that his Grandmother needed him at the ranch for birthing season. Since Dorrie had seemed adamant that a girl of Rita’s description wasn’t at the brothel, Mrs. Michaels thought Trent should leave town and help at the ranch. Or so she said. Did she want Trent at the ranch because Mercy was in town and was best to be avoided? Mrs. Michaels had seemed friendly enough, and she’d obviously enjoyed Mercy’s pie, but Mercy felt unsure.

Trent pushed his hair off his moist forehead. “Take care,” he said. “I’ll call when I come back into town.”

Tilly looked ready to cry when the kitchen door banged closed. Mercy turned her attention to her new wares.

“But, why?” Tilly asked while Mercy stacked the pantry.

“Why, what?” Mercy asked without turning away from the shelves.

“Why all these…groceries?”

Mercy had forgotten, or rather, put aside, her love of baking, but last night, watching Mrs. Michaels, Dorrie and Trent bite into her pie, she’d felt that surge of pleasure return. The transported look on their faces carried her back to her mother’s kitchen.

“It’s a gift,” Mercy said, turning and wiping her hands on her apron.

“But, what are we supposed to do with this… gift?” Tilly asked with a curled lip. She sat down at the table covered with bolts of material, pins, needles and buttons. Tilly relied on Lee to do the cooking and he produced a standard fare of boiled vegetables, rice, and fried meat. Two times a day. Breakfast was tea and bread bought from the baker down the street.

Mercy wished the baker lived and worked a little further away, because she feared the plan she and Mrs. Michaels had cooked up would displease him.

*****

Word and aroma got out and within a few days, a line of men, women and children snaked the boardwalk outside the shop. After a couple of weeks the boardwalk had become a circus. People laughed and talked while a one-man-band played a bawdy tune on the corner. A young boy hawked his newspapers and fashion sheets and Young Lee entertained the crowd with magic tricks. The perpetual line formed in the morning and disbanded in the early evening.

“Well, I never,” Tilly sputtered, looking out the window and twisting her hands. “How in heavens…”

Mercy came up beside her and put an arm around her aunt’s ample waist. For a woman of Tilly’s stature, she seemed remarkably immune to the pleasures of Mercy’s pies.

“People like pie.” Mercy knew something bothered her aunt. Perhaps she’d been hoping Mercy would return from the ranch with something other than a cart full of food. Perhaps she’d expected a ring. Perhaps Trent’s prolonged absence concerned her…almost as much as it bothered Mercy.

“Yes, but where did you find all these girls to help you?” Tilly asked, motioning to the two girls standing at the counter, smiling while one wrapped up pies in white butcher paper and the other manned the till. Three more girls were in the kitchen, baking pies.

Mercy kept her face open and honest. “They’re friends of Georgina. You know her from church.”

Tilly turned back to the window to watch the boardwalk’s mayhem. She blinked hard when Young Lee made a chicken disappear into a puff of smoke. “Goodness,” she muttered. “But, what will we do when we run out of supplies?”

Mercy shrugged. “I don’t see that happening very soon. Mrs. Michaels promised to keep us well stocked.”

“But -?” Tilly turned back to the counter. A breeze blew in from the open door, but even so the room was toasty warm from all the people and the continuously burning oven in the back. The room smelled of cinnamon and spices. “We’re a dry goods store…we’re very busy sewing and selling shirts.”

Mercy leaned her head against her aunt’s shoulder. “But, this is good, right? These girls need work and obviously these people want pie.”

Tilly patted Mercy’s arm, but still looked concerned.

Misunderstanding Mercy asked, “Would you like some of the girls to help you sew? I’m sure they’d be happy to if we asked.”

Tilly took a deep breath. “It’s not that. It’s just…well,” she looked around to see if anyone would hear. “It’s not proper for a young woman to concern herself with business.”

Mercy took a step back and looked at the customers piled around the counter and pushing through the door. Some waited quietly while others chatted. Many of the men flirted with the girls at the counter. It was hard for Mercy to imagine a better scenario, unless, of course, she could add in Trent. She wasn’t sure how he’d fit into the mix, but he’d be a welcome addition. She suspected her aunt felt the same. “But Aunt, you’re in business.”

Tilly dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m not trying to marry.”

“I’m not --” Mercy noticed her aunt’s expression and changed tactics. “ I worked for you in the shop, surely that’s business.”

Tilly took Mercy’s hands. “But, it wasn’t yours, and it wasn’t successful.”

Mercy bit her tongue so she couldn’t blurt out her thoughts and then she gave her aunt’s hands, clutching hers so earnestly, a gentle squeeze. “No one sees me,” Mercy reminded her. “I’m strictly behind the scenes.” She knew that this appeased her aunt only a little, and while she liked pleasing her aunt, her real motivation for remaining in the kitchen had less to do with her aunt and more to do with her fear of Steele. Setting up a pie shop similar to her bakery in New York seemed as inconspicuous as a giant red flag bearing her picture and pies. Every minute of every day she expected Mr. Steele to bust in burst her bubble. Sometimes she wanted him to. She didn’t like lurking in the kitchen. Part of her itched for a showdown, but her reasonable self told her to wait and watch for the opportunity to destroy Steele’s Lucky Island.

A tall man with a hook nose poked his finger into his just purchased pie and a curl of warm fragrance lifted in the air. He inhaled deeply and said to Molly behind the counter, “Law Miss, will you marry me?” The customers burst into laughing and Molly flushed pink.

Mercy smiled and then whispered to her aunt, “I don’t think our success will lessen my marital opportunities.”