Until the Harvest (38 page)

“What’s the matter, Margaret?” Mayfair slipped up beside her sister and took the basket of eggs from her hand. The chickens were still laying well, even as the summer days grew warm. Mayfair wiped the eggs down one by one with a damp cloth and slipped them into an empty carton.

“Why do you think anything is wrong?”

“You have that faraway look in your eyes, like you can see something that doesn’t fit.”

Margaret sometimes found Mayfair’s insights unsettling, but at the moment, she was glad her sister was so sensitive. “I thought maybe Henry liked me—I mean, really liked me. He’s been writing and calling, but he doesn’t seem to care whether or not he ever comes back to the farm. I’m beginning to think he likes that fiddle more than this place . . . or me.”

Mayfair closed a full carton and reached for an empty one. “I don’t think he does.”

“Well, he sure acts like it.”

“Don’t you sometimes act one way when you feel another?”

Margaret, busy wiping down the counter where she’d finished with the day’s milking, stilled her hands. Honestly, that’s how her life felt most of the time, that one thing was happening inside while she tried to show something else to the world. “I suppose,” she said slowly, turning to consider her sister. “So how do I know how Henry really feels?”

“Ask him.” Mayfair took the empty basket and tucked it away in the closet near the front door. “I’m going to write some letters.”

That girl and her letters to orphans. Margaret found herself staring vacantly into space again. Ask him. Well now, maybe she should.

As soon as Margaret dropped the letter to Henry through the slot at the post office, she wished she could reach in and take it back. She was an idiot. What woman wrote to a man and asked him to declare his intentions? That’s not quite how she’d phrased it, but it was basically what she was asking him to do. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the box set into the wall and wondered if Jeanine would give her the letter back. The postmistress took her job very seriously, though, and anyway, Margaret was too embarrassed to ask.

“You need some stamps or anything?”

Margaret jumped and saw Jeanine watching her from behind a pair of half glasses. “No, ma’am. Thank you.”

Jeanine blinked once and resumed sorting the letters in her hand. “All right, then.” She shot Margaret another look over the top of her glasses, and Margaret took it to mean she’d lingered long enough. She gave a halfhearted wave and walked out to her car. She had a few things to pick up for Emily before she headed home.

“Let the waiting begin,” she said to no one. Or maybe to God. Somehow she felt more and more like He might actually be listening.

33

M
ARGARET
JUST
KNEW
IT
. He’d fallen in love with one of those blond songbird sisters of his friend from school and was coming home to tell her in person. Henry had finally written back, but he didn’t answer her directly. He only let her know when he’d be home and wrote that he’d like to talk to her about something important. He had a degree plus a possible career in music and what did she have? A high school diploma and a willingness to work the farm. Oh, and lots and lots of freckles. Surely he wanted more than that. She’d make a fine housekeeper, but anything more? Nonsense.

Henry was due to arrive at his mother’s house that afternoon, and then they’d come to dinner at Emily’s. Margaret and Emily cooked all day as Margaret’s mood sank lower and lower. She surveyed the table. There was a glazed ham from the hog they raised last year, the first of the summer squash, biscuits, and mashed potatoes made with cream from Bertie, whose second calf was finally old enough for them to resume milking. There were also strawberry preserves she’d put up the week before and a pound cake for dessert. It should have pleased her to look over that table, but she was pretty sure she couldn’t eat a bite.

Since coming home from Henry’s graduation Margaret had lost her appetite. She’d always enjoyed food, but the pleasure seemed to have gone out of it. That probably meant she really was in love with Henry. She didn’t know for sure, but if her current level of misery was any indicator, then she was definitely gone on him. She almost wished he’d married Barbara and never given her any hope. Almost.

“Here they come,” Mayfair called from where she was kneeling on the sofa to watch out the window. She practically danced into the kitchen, smiling and clapping her hands. “Henry’s home,” she sang.

Emily smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “I declare, that child looks and sounds the way I feel.”

Margaret did her best to smile. Her sister was on the cusp of annoying her. Mayfair tended to have a positive outlook, but today she was downright bubbly. They all hurried out of the house to greet Henry as soon as he stepped out of his truck. He grinned and waved, then walked around to open his mother’s door. Margaret thought that was gentlemanly of him. She almost wished he’d act like a jerk instead.

Henry hugged his grandmother first, swinging her feet until she insisted he put her down. Then he practically tossed Mayfair into the air as her crystal laughter fell over them all. Finally he turned to Margaret and took both of her hands in his.

“I sure have missed you,” he said.

Margaret felt a flutter and tried to push it down. He was just being nice. They were friends, and he was going to let her down easy. There was no need to pin her future on a boy—she looked at him more closely, okay, a man—who was only going to break her heart.

Henry winked, and Margaret’s resolve proved to be made of timid stuff. She almost cried when he turned away and escorted
the chattering group of women into the house. She brought up the rear, determined not to spoil the party for everyone.

The meal was filled with laughter and Henry’s stories. Margaret felt everyone was looking at her but guessed it was just this feeling that Henry was going to break her heart that made her feel like the center of attention. Goodness knows, she’d never been the center of anything. Finally, the meal drew to a close, and Emily offered to make coffee while they went into the living room to enjoy their cake.

“Margaret, come show me the garden,” Henry said.

Margaret looked toward her sister. “Mayfair’s the gardener around here. I just do what she tells me. Maybe she should show you.”

Mayfair rolled her eyes. “I promised I’d dry the dishes.”

“And I’d rather you show me,” Henry said, reaching for her hand.

Margaret let him lead her outside. The late June evening felt cool against her skin, and the dusk softened the world around them. Roses bloomed on a trellis at the end of the porch, and she caught a trace of their perfume.

“Garden sure looks good.” Henry walked to the end of a row of tomato plants, releasing her hand. “You and Mayfair make a good team.”

“I like being in the garden. It’s . . .” Margaret searched for the right word. “Manageable.”

Henry half smiled. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone describe a garden that way before.”

“I guess I know what to expect from the garden. If I plant and water and weed, eventually I’ll get a harvest. It’s not like people. You never know with people.” She ducked her head and stuffed her hands into the pockets of the skirt she’d put on for Henry’s homecoming. Her mother bought it for her back
when she thought buying clothes a size too small would make Margaret lose weight. Now it was almost loose-fitting.

“You look different,” Henry said, cocking his head to one side.

Margaret looked at him and squinted. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, prettier for one thing. Maybe sadder for another. Mayfair’s okay, isn’t she?”

“Yes, I think she’s the healthiest she’s been in a long time. We’ve been really careful about what she eats and getting her insulin.”

Henry nodded, appearing to be only half listening. “Good, I’m glad. So what about you? Seems like you didn’t eat much this evening.”

Margaret shrugged and knelt down to nip suckers off the tomato plants. She was surprised he’d noticed. “I’m okay. I’ve learned a lot about keeping up a farm from your grandmother. I’m not sure what good it’ll do me, but I like learning it.”

Henry moved toward a hill of crookneck squash with its mix of blooms and ripening vegetables. The buttery blossoms were closing now against the dark. “Yeah, I thought for a while I might want to do something else—something more—than farm this place. But over the last month I’ve realized living here, working the land my father and grandfather worked, is exactly what I want.” He shrugged. “Some of the guys think I should do something else. Maybe use my degree to go into research or teach, keep playing music, but . . .” He looked around at the closing of the day, the fireflies rising from the grasses, and the last trails of light slipping behind the horizon. Then he looked right at Margaret. “But this is what I really want.”

Margaret swallowed past a lump in her throat. It was what she wanted, too, but she hardly dared hope Henry saw her as part of his dream.

“What about you, Margaret? What do you want?”

She cleared her throat. “What I have now is pretty great. But I don’t guess I can live in your grandmother’s cottage for the rest of my life. Who knows what’ll happen down the road? I might have to work in a plant or something. I don’t guess I’m qualified for much else. I could go to school, but I don’t know . . .” She looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

Henry moved to the far side of the squash plant, and Margaret took a step that direction to pull a few weeds hiding under the broad leaves. Henry knelt down opposite and reached over to tilt Margaret’s chin up. He looked into her eyes, and she felt tears begin to pool. She would not let them fall.

“What’s that?” Henry asked, releasing her.

Margaret was confused. “What?”

“That,” he said, pointing down.

Margaret looked and saw where some dollar weed had begun to encroach on the hill. He was pointing out a weed she’d missed? Seriously? She reached for the weed, and her eye caught on a squash blossom. It looked different. There was something inside—not an insect—something shiny.

With shaking fingers, Margaret reached into the flower and touched the cool metal of . . . a ring. It was a simple gold band with a small diamond. She looked at Henry.

He smiled. “Margaret Anne Hoffman, would you marry me and live on this farm for the rest of your life?”

Henry lay in the bed he’d been sleeping in since he got too big for the crib he hoped was up in the attic somewhere. No way would he sleep tonight. When he drove home from Morgantown with that ring in his pocket—paid for with what he’d earned playing at the Screen Door—he’d felt one hundred percent sure that Margaret would say yes. But once he was
there in the garden where he’d tucked that band of gold, he’d had his doubts.

Margaret had been different. She had achieved an almost fragile prettiness since he’d seen her a month before. She seemed smaller, less sturdy than he remembered. No less strong or capable, but somehow more feminine. The feelings she stirred standing there in the garden in that soft blue skirt and white blouse had surprised him. The first time he thought of Margaret as a potential wife, he’d seen it as a practical arrangement. But now . . . well, he supposed this was how a man was supposed to feel about the woman he was going to marry.

He hadn’t known he wanted to marry her until he’d tried on the life of a musician for size. He’d been so certain it would be the right fit. He thought if he could play music while she waited for him, life would be just about perfect. But then she left on a bus for the farm, and somehow as good as the music felt, it wasn’t enough.

And it wasn’t just Margaret’s presence that was lacking. He missed milking Bertie on dewy mornings. He missed stupid things like hayfields dotted with daisies. He missed watching the chickens peck the yard clean. He missed his mother and grandmother and Mayfair, and yes, Margaret most of all. He called and even wrote a letter or two, but he’d still catch himself playing those mournful tunes at the end of a set, wishing he could watch the sunset throw its reflection over the pond as if it had all the light in the world to waste.