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

hair last night and now it’s tangled and matted from my tears. Bruised eyes, from sleeplessness. I snuggled deeper in my bed. Not comfortable, no. A crick in my neck tightened—sorrow in my heart squeezed. I feel as if death had visited me afresh.

I should have been giddy at the thought of owning an entire farm. Thrilled with the possibility of this enormous, tangible inheritance. Something good may be wrought here. Expanding the production levels, feeding the nearby community, helping the poor. Why not? I could be one of those women capable of leadership, in full and fair competition with the stalwart men of this age. If only my wants could redirect themselves. I have no inborn passion for this.

Never in my life had I imagined myself a—what shall I call myself? A farm mistress? Memories of farmer’s wives only brought back odors that were not commonplace where I grew up, but all too ordinary here. Might I, too, smell like a farm-woman now? Soured milk and clinging dung? Smells aside, why do I have the feeling that there is a grand decision before me, when the answer is simply to let Uncle’s family stay?

Mr. Bleu seemed to feel that I might hand over the deed and pretend that fact of my father’s ownership never existed. “That would be the best for everyone,” he’d told me. So sure of himself.

This thought roils in my gut. Life may be easier this way. Feels like a falsehood because it is. And what of the money owed my father—and by law—to me? Why should I lose all claims to my only inheritance?

Another knock. I tossed down my pencil and journal. “Yes?”

Kirsten walked in with Helen trailing behind her. Dressed in their Sunday best of navy blue wool with white linen collars and stiff cuffs. They sat on the edge of my bed, eyes studying the wooden floor. Not a word was spoken. Kirsten wore her hair looped behind her head in braids. Helen wore hers in one long roll from ear to ear. “We don’t want you to be angry with us.” Helen sighed. “Please.”

I crouched before them, my blankets a twisted mess. “Angry?”

“For not telling you sooner.”

They made room for me between them. “How is it that you girls know your father’s business?”

“He told us before you came, just in case we had to pack up and leave soon.” Her eyes widened. “He wanted us to be prepared.”

“Put those thoughts out of your mind.” The placid fear on their faces... so ignorant of what really being without a home means.

“Are you coming to church with us?” Kirsten asked.

Church.  This would be a quiet place to reflect without having to speak with anyone just now. “I suppose I need to get ready.” They pulled me off the mattress.

“We’ll bring you breakfast.” Helen surged forward and hugged my neck. “Thank you.” Her passionate whisper resonated with my own desperate cries. How I wish I could grasp God tightly and say those same words. Perhaps I may feel better if I do. Helen can’t truly know if I will evict her and her family until it doesn’t happen. And if I embrace God, I know in certainty I cannot predict His decisions either.

Mother had an embroidery verse she’d stitched and hung on the staircase wall at home, “Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name.” Psalm 100:4

Job’s plights and praises stabbed my memory. “Blessed be the name of the Lord...”

Between bites of toast and swallows of coffee, I was ready within minutes. Mr. Bleu had readied the wagon. I gazed around at the patchy snow. A speckled earth—the dark, the light.

Aunt and Uncle stayed home with Ernest. I know sooner or later I would have to speak with them on this matter. I surely don’t want to.

Mr. Bleu was necessarily polite. I suppose he thought better of his cold manner and decided to pretend to be kind. We both know I control the acreage, the creeks. His water. If he perturbs me, I have recourse. Power...Listen to me! I am writing in a most monarchal tone. This is not how I wish to behave. I wish to be kinder to the world than it has been to me. Or am I confusing God with the world?

No doubt, I need forgiveness for those last words.

The ride to church needs no explaining. I do not care to immortalize the journey here in these pages. As expected, no one spoke, no one needed to. But I will do my best to describe the church because it’s beautiful simplicity caught my attention. No stained glass or intricate carving like my church in Ohio. No plush pews. This place resembled a few clapboard churches I saw in the distance while on the train. Dull, plain, and uninteresting from the outside.

Mr. Bleu offered his arm. I didn’t want to look the fool in front of the other parishioners...and the brick walkway was still slick in places, so I took it. As soon as we entered, I slipped my hand out as fast as I could. No need to set tongues wagging.

Mr. Bleu and the farm slipped from my thoughts. I noticed the candles first. Each high arced window glowed with a single, white taper candle wedged in a pewter candlestick, surrounded by a hurricane glass—little reflections of each flame bounced through the glass to the window, glowing like diamonds on fire.

The walls are the whitest-white, the pews an aged oak. Smoothed by many hands. A simple pulpit, a simple altar. Who needed heavy carvings and carpets here? I sensed that this place is loved. Else why would anyone spare the church so many expensive candles? Without them, this place might be like any other boorish structure.

Hymns were sung. The candles glistened, dripping sluggish paths that grew and thickened as the minister taught. I scarcely heard him, so mesmerized by the shinning flame but feet away. His last words caught