What Once Was Lost (27 page)

“Actually, I’m glad you’re here.” Mr. Jonnson met her gaze. Something akin to sympathy glimmered in his eyes.

A prickling disquiet nudged her irritation aside. Beneath her palm Tommy shivered as if he were planted in a snowbank. She turned a worried gaze on the boy. “Tommy, are you ill?”

“He’s fine.” A hint of impatience colored the man’s tone. He held his hand toward the double doors leading to the hallway. “Could we step outside for a moment? I need to talk to you.”

One of the servers approached the table, balancing white plates piled high with crisp fried chicken, boiled potatoes, green peas, and buttery biscuits. She sent Mr. Jonnson a puzzled look. “You gonna eat?”

“Yes. Thank you, Birdie.” Mr. Jonnson took the plates and set them on the table, one in front of Tommy and one in front of his empty chair. “Tommy, go ahead and eat. I’ll be right back.” Then he commandeered Christina’s elbow and guided her to the hallway.

Her face flamed at his familiarity. The moment they cleared the doors, she pulled loose of his grip, but the imprint of his warm, strong hand lingered, sending odd tingles up and down her spine. She peeked into the dining room, certain everyone would be staring at them. But they all seemed focused on their meals. Relieved, she straightened her skirts and folded her arms over her waist in a protective gesture. “All right. I’m listening. Why did you not bring Tommy to service this morning if he’s fine?”

He ran his hand through his hair, leaving the thick, wheat-colored strands standing in appealing ridges. “He didn’t want to go. And I decided not to force him.”

“
You
decided—”

“Miss Willems, there’s something more important I need to tell you.”

Christina shook her head. “There’s nothing more important than Tommy’s spiritual development. I thought you understood—”

“Miss Willems!” Although he held his voice to a low volume, his tone became stern.

Christina clamped her lips closed.

He finger-combed his hair once more, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you, but …” Raising his head, he looked directly into her eyes. The compassion she’d glimpsed earlier returned. “Tommy and I rode out to the poor farm this morning instead of going to services. I wanted to look at the house—see if the rain had caused any further damage.”

Christina’s heart fluttered in her chest. “And had it?”

“No. The canvas someone hung—”

“Wes,” she inserted.

“It kept most of the rain out. But there was … something else.”

Fingers of trepidation tiptoed up her spine. “W-what else?”

Mr. Jonnson pulled in a deep breath and released it. “Miss Willems, someone took an ax to the lumber I brought out to rebuild the walls.”

Christina’s head whirled. She reached for the doorjamb and missed. If Mr. Jonnson hadn’t caught her, she might have collapsed. He quickly put his arm around her waist and led her to a pair of chairs tucked in an alcove off the entry. She sank down, grateful for the sturdy seat beneath her. Placing her head in her hand, she moaned, “I can’t believe someone would do such a thing.”

Mr. Jonnson eased into the second chair. “I wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t seen it. The wood is a mess, completely unusable for building walls.”

She looked at the man, his image blurring through a spurt of tears. “Is that why Tommy is upset? Did you tell him about it?”

“He found the wood first. But he—” He drew in a deep breath, and when he spoke again, great tenderness colored his tone. “Miss Willems, he seemed more pleased than upset. He said if the lumber couldn’t be used, it would take longer for the men from town to repair the house. Then he could stay with me longer.”

He couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d lifted an ax and brought it down on her head. Tommy didn’t want to return to the poor farm. To her care. Tears filled her eyes, then lost their moorings on her lashes and spilled down her cheeks in a warm torrent. Abashed, she covered her face with her hands. She almost missed his quiet question.

“You don’t think Tommy was the one who swung the ax, do you?”

Protectiveness welled. She wiped away her tears and met his gaze. “Absolutely not. Tommy isn’t strong enough to wreak such damage. And even if he were strong enough and saw this as his means of … of staying with you, I can’t imagine him being deliberately destructive.” She lowered her head again, battling another wave of tears.

“I’m awfully sorry, Miss Willems. I know this is hard for you.” The man’s voice—soft, kind, understanding—cut through her fog of pain. “Remember he’s just a boy. A confused boy who feels accepted and needed with me.”

Though sweetly uttered, his comment did nothing to soothe her pierced soul. Tommy hadn’t felt accepted and needed by her?

He went on in that same tender tone. “I promised you enough lumber to fix your walls, and I’ll make sure you get it. It’ll take me a while longer now. I have to wait for my shipment of logs to arrive and then cut them. But you’ll have it.”

Of course she wanted the lumber. She couldn’t replace the kitchen without it. But even more than the lumber, she wanted Tommy’s devotion again. She’d cared for him for two years, and during that time she’d grown to love him as if he were her own son. Within the span of a few weeks, he’d transferred his affection from Christina to the mill owner. How would she regain it?

“I’ll have a talk with Tommy. I’ll make sure”—he hunkered forward as if his stomach pained him—“he understands his staying with me is temporary. As soon as the poor farm house is repaired, he’ll go back. I won’t allow any argument.”

A glimmer of hope wriggled its way through Christina’s breast. Yes, as soon as they were back under the roof of the poor farm, things would return to normal. Tommy was simply reacting to all the changes thrust upon him recently. He’d found a sense of security with Mr. Jonnson, and he didn’t want to lose it. Who could blame the boy? He needed a father figure, and Mr. Jonnson was strong and able and—she gulped, recognition dawning—worthy of admiration. His acceptance of Tommy, his willingness to provide lumber at no cost, even his determination to return Tommy to her care when she knew he’d grown fond of the boy endeared him to her.

She sat gazing into his handsome face, seeking a way to thank him. But words wouldn’t form. She drew in a shuddering breath, bringing her tears under control. “Your dinner is growing cold.”

He blinked twice, frowning slightly. Then his expression cleared, and he
nodded. “And you need to return to your celebration.” He tipped his head, giving him a boyish appearance that set her heart fluttering in a strange and somehow pleasing manner. “What are you celebrating?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Creeger’s anniversary,” her voice squeaked out. She cleared her throat. “Their fourteenth.”

He smiled. “That’s nice.”

“Yes.” She jerked to her feet, wiping her cheeks to remove any vestiges of tears. “They’re probably wondering where I am.”

“Let me escort you.”

“No.” She backed away, suddenly very uneasy in his all-too-appealing presence. “I … I can find my own way.”

Disappointment seemed to flicker in his eyes for a moment, but then he nodded. “I understand.”

Did he? A new burst of heat seared her cheeks. She turned and fled.

Chapter 27

Tommy tipped his head, listening. The slight creak of rocking wood joined the gentle burble of the river. They’d reached the mill. In moments Mr. Jonnson would stop the wagon. He’d tell Tommy to climb down and go into the house. And he’d have to go in, because where else could he go?

His jaw ached from clenching his teeth so hard. He’d hated sitting there alone eating his chicken. He’d hated listening to all those voices from people at other tables and knowing none of them were talking to him. Then Mr. Jonnson hadn’t even apologized for leaving him by himself. And Miss Willems hadn’t bothered to say good-bye. And worst of all, Mr. Jonnson was angry with him.
Angry
. With
him
. Tommy’s stomach hurt.

“Whoa …” Reins squeaked, and metal fittings from the horse’s rigging clanked. The wagon creaked to a stop. The
ahem
of a clearing throat sounded next to Tommy’s ear, and then Mr. Jonnson spoke again. “All right, Tommy. Head inside. I’ll be there as soon as I unhitch the horse and put the wagon away.”

Tommy unfolded himself from the seat by inches. He’d sat so still and stiff on the ride from town his muscles didn’t want to cooperate. With jerky movements he managed to climb down from the seat.

“Maybe six steps to the porch. You can find the door from there.”

Tommy gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists. He wished he could see where to go without having to rely on Mr. Jonnson’s instructions. He didn’t want to listen to the man. Didn’t want to need him. Not now. But he wouldn’t be able to find his way on his own. So he did what Mr. Jonnson said, but he dragged his feet rather than lifting them. On the sixth shuffling step, his toes bumped the edge of the porch stair. Hands stretched in front of him, he felt his way to the door and let himself inside.

Out of Mr. Jonnson’s sight, he walked without shuffling to the sofa and sat. Pressed his palms together between his knees. Stared straight ahead into the black nothing. And planned what he would say as soon as Mr. Jonnson came through the door.
I thought you were my friend. I thought you liked me as much as I like you. I thought you understood me. But you’re not my friend. You’re a hypocrite, too
. The thought of calling Mr. Jonnson such an ugly word stung, but he wouldn’t take it back. Mr. Jonnson was a hypocrite, acting like he cared about Tommy but then telling him he was all wrong.

Tommy remembered the man’s words, spoken in a nice voice but still scalding him with shame.
“You need to think about Miss Willems’s feelings, Tommy. Think how much it will hurt her to put off rebuilding the kitchen so she can go home again. I’m disappointed in you for being so selfish.”

Mr. Jonnson had been disappointed in Tommy for leaving the Tatums and trying to get to the mill again. Now he was disappointed in him for wanting to stay at the mill. Why couldn’t Mr. Jonnson support Tommy’s desire to be with him? Why couldn’t Mr. Jonnson understand how Tommy felt?

Miss Willems didn’t need him. He was just a burden for her, same as he’d been for Pa. Here at the mill, fending for himself and learning to do something useful, he’d finally felt like he mattered. Why should he want to go back to the poor farm even if it meant it would make Miss Willems happy? Didn’t Tommy’s happiness count for anything? Mr. Jonnson wanted to ignore Tommy’s needs. It hurt, being misunderstood and ignored. It hurt having Mr. Jonnson disappointed in him. And he didn’t like feeling hurt. He wished he could just not care at all.

Mr. Jonnson wouldn’t go to church because of the hypocrites. So Tommy wouldn’t stay with a hypocrite either. Just yesterday Mr. Jonnson had told him it wouldn’t be long before he’d be able to start working on that chair seat because his weaving was getting better all the time. As soon as he’d mastered caning, he’d leave. He’d go to a big city where there were factories, where they made furniture, and he’d show the boss how he could cane. And he’d get a job and take care of himself.

In the back of Tommy’s mind, worry niggled. How would he take care of himself? Would the people in the city run ropes everywhere for him to follow? How would he even find a factory? He pushed all the questions aside. He’d find a way to make it work. Because he sure wasn’t going to stay with a hypocrite. He wouldn’t stay with Miss Willems either. If he went back to the poor farm, he’d be treated like a baby again. And he might even get threatened again. His body broke out in goose flesh, and he pushed the memory deep down where it couldn’t escape. He had to get to a big city. He had to get away.

Suppressed tears created a sharp sting in his nose, and he sniffed hard. He wouldn’t cry. Babies cried. And he was no baby—he was a man. A man who could make it just fine all on his own.

Boots clomped on the porch. Hinges complained, and a
click
signaled the door had closed. Then footsteps approached. A soft movement of air let Tommy know Mr. Jonnson had passed in front of him, and he scooted closer to the armrest when the sofa sank beneath Mr. Jonnson’s weight. A hand—a strong hand, with fingers that gripped but didn’t bruise—landed on Tommy’s shoulder.

Tommy lifted his chin and clenched his fists, grabbing hold of all his gumption. “Mr. Jonnson, I got something to say to you.”

Cora held her skirt above her ankles as she walked to the boardinghouse with Miss Willems. Although they used the wooden walkways rather than walking in the street, the wood was warped in places and held puddles of rainwater. Cora didn’t want to soil the hem of her brown serge skirt—the nicest skirt she’d ever owned. She’d had to move the button on the waistband a good inch in order to fasten it this morning. By next Sunday she might not be able to wear it at all. She couldn’t deny a rush of sorrow at the thought. In this brown serge she felt pretty. Respectable. Emmet Wade would probably tell her she looked like a lady.

But she knew better.