Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (interesting novels to read .TXT) 📗

I placed the teapot here on my desk, recessed into the cubby hole so there is no chance of grabbing hands or little elbows knocking it to the ground. There. I have a small purpose. I shall apply myself to learning my larger purpose for this one day, I will figure out what to do with myself, what needs to be accomplished. Soon. But first I need breakfast.

What shall I first report? That Mr. Bleu is to remain with us a fortnight or the fact that the MacDonald boys made an entrance as soon as breakfast had been eaten? To dispense with the difficult, I will start with Mr. Bleu—who made no correction when I called him so. I feel strange that the rest of the family calls him simply David. Mr. Bleu is his name, and as a mere acquaintance, I should not mind the usual title.

I looked him straight in the eye and gave out a hearty, undignified greeting. I fear I looked and sounded like a goose. I felt my smile too large and my neck poke out an inch forward. Not to mention I enunciated my words as if he were deaf.

Humiliating. He copied my clownish greeting, showing me instantly my absurd behavior. A normal, quiet “good morning” should have sufficed, but I was trying to make up for my off-kilter feelings. Feelings Mr. Bleu did nothing to salve. Not only that, he turned his back to me and settled in at the opposite end of the table where Uncle sat.

I ate with a burning face, unaccustomed to such rudeness. Of course, no one else seemed to notice. I assume he is irritated that I live here now...as though I had changed the dynamic of the family by my very presence. Very often my thoughts run away with me as much as my dreams do. My assessment may be completely unfair. But I doubt it.

Father always said that we must never give up on another human because Christ surely does not. At this early stage of our acquaintance, I shall shove all judgments aside for the Last Day. I shall not, however, forgo discernment. Thus far, I discern Mr. Bleu to be reticent in regard to young women. And I cannot blame him. My small theory may yet prove incorrect. I don’t pretend to care either way. At any cost, I shall avoid further humiliation while in his presence. What have I to do with him?

Being a Saturday, and being cooped up a day too long, I resolved to pull on my boots and take a long walk through the snow. Alone, I hoped. As for the MacDonald boys, I find reserving judgments with that pair a difficult task.

I had just bitten into a soft doughnut when those two men walked into the kitchen. Why didn’t they knock or at least ring the guest bell? That’s only courteous. Ernest scooted down the bench making room for them. Their faces were obscured by the children’s small heads, I could not get a good look at them until some moments later.

“Good morning, madam, good morning, sirs.” Jovial, but what manners!

I saw portions of blonde and black hair. Short fuzzy beards. I glanced at Helen. She’d pasted on a soft smile and refrained from eating a single bite. Really, she was far too transparent.

“Philip and Chess, what brings you here?” Aunt seemed delighted. “Sledding again?”

Elbows landed firmly on the table. “Your doughnuts. We can smell them all the way to Cedar Gate,” spoke dark beard.

“Help yourself—I made too many,” she laughed.

“See, Chess, she knew we’d be here.” Philip grabbed a handful like he’d never eaten before.

A couple of foolish brothers, likely not ready to settle down.  Helen looked back at me. Her smile showed teeth now. I know how her heart beats quickly and how far her hope exceeds reality. Though she is a few years younger than me, am I beyond similar dreamy entrapments? I hope and pray so.

When Mother lay dying, she used her last breaths not to say farewell or that she loved me but to advise me not to marry a man unless he is very like Father. But who is like Father? I have not met him yet. Probably never shall. But if I do not meet him, perhaps I can be like Father myself. His example of a good heart produced an unequally good history—with an unquestioned reputation that surely none in my hometown may soon forget.

Such a thought unnerves me. I do not feel as good as he at all, mostly because of the agony that lies between God and me. It bars me from trusting Him. Yet I have no choice. I understand that. To be good and happy means that I must enjoy Him first, because all true joy flows out of Him. Isn’t that true?  But how am I to enjoy the tragic circumstance of their deaths?

Without thinking, I looked to Mr. Bleu and caught Toliver climbing into his lap. His brown fingers touched the scarred and mottled portion of his face. A single small finger poked at his lip. “Ow.” The child sensed the man’s pain.

Everyone else shuffled from the table in busyness. Grabbing scarves and hats for another day on the hills. Mr. Bleu returned my stare, not smiling. Just steel gray eyes I failed to read. As if eyes could ever be properly read. Like tea leaves, no fortune will be found there. Just his own inner-sight or perhaps only darkness, not meant for me to comprehend. If I moved closer, I would only see that strange double reflection of myself.

I smiled a little and barely nodded, but he turned his complete attention to Toliver. “Do you want to be a giant, little man? Yes?” He studiously ignored me.

“Yes! I giant!” He lifted Toliver on his sturdy shoulders so he might touch the ceiling. Remarkable that this little one should be so drawn to one so damaged. At least the