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

worked in the minister’s berry patch behind the cottage, tossing out last season’s trapped leaves and twigs, exposing blooms and green berries to the ever-warming sun. The two of them, heads together, barely lifted a hand and certainly didn’t smile. I had planned to go to them, embrace them, trusting they’d recall our strand of friendship and it would still hold strong. No. Now was not the time.

Once I saw a man walk on a rope lifted and fastened tight to the highest windows in Cincinnati. One wrong step and there’d be no recovery. He made it across without plunging to his death and we clapped and cheered. There is a fearful chasm between us, they on the ground, I on the rope. Or is it the other way around?

A man sat near the front door with a chair tipped over. Ready for repairs. Assorted materials lay around him—tools I can’t name, supple reeds waited for weaving. A corn cob pipe clenched between his teeth as fragrant tobacco swirled.

He nodded to me. “Mornin’, Miss.”

“Good morning.”

The front door stood wide open.

“They’s sittin’ in the parlor.”

I supposed I should go on in. I stepped over the threshold. Chairs with sunken worn out bottoms cluttered the foyer waiting their turn.

Soft voices floated from the parlor.

I paused outside the door, weary of the bare reception I’d received outside. Mrs. Meade saved me the trouble of pushing myself forward.

“Why my dear! When did you get here?” She touched my hand.

“Only just. I’ve come to visit my family.”

“Of course you have, you must be worried sick with all that’s happened.”

She had no idea how concerned I truly was.

“Come sit in the parlor with your aunt, I’ll get us some tea.” It was time to speak.

Aunt sat on the old horsehair sofa, looking rather pale with dark shadows beneath her eyes. Wisps of auburn hair spilled from her bun. A square of quilting sat in her lap, her needle poised for tugging.

I approached her as though nothing had happened, and honestly, there is nothing between us. Is there? Shouldn’t be. “How is he?”

The corners of her lips clenched. “Doctor says he won’t be able to work the farm for another month, maybe. Even then he’s got to take it slow.”

“I am so sorry.”

“For what?” Her question was a challenge. She pulled the needle up while I debated how to answer. I doubted my side of the story would be accepted. We scarcely knew each other even after several months. Oh, we might guess at some personal preferences—but knowing our heart of hearts? Not hardly.

“You’re right. Precious little I could do to stop a tornado.” Disbelief still tinged my days. I took a seat in a low rocking chair near the tea table.

“Doc says stress made his condition worse.” Guilt colored each syllable. She gazed at the patchwork sunburst in reds and yellows. The sunrise, a symbol of hope.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I chose to speak out, for my sake. That nothing may be left undone in order to sleep without frustration. Father had always said not to let the sun go down on my anger, or anyone else’s if I could help it. I’m pretty sure God said that too. I plunged ahead.

“I’m not sure what Uncle told you, but I’ve not been courting Mr. Bleu.” Though we seemed to have been thrown together for that purpose since the gala. “He is not after my...our land. And I have a perfect right to my father’s papers. I’m sorry Uncle thought me incapable of taking care of my own family’s business.” I took a breath.

She stopped sewing and looked at me with wide, serious eyes, her lips pressed tightly.

Mrs. Meade came in with the tea, breaking any possibility of a reply. Her sweet, confident spirit dispersed the ill air. Aunt accepted her tea but said little. Words aren’t always needed to understand feelings.

Mrs. Meade spoke of each and every precious blossom she’d spied on her morning walk, as if these tender growths were the latest, most intriguing news. Had I seen the dear gathering of yellow violets growing near the maple’s roots? Yellow, mind you. I must peek at them before I left. Promised I would.

I didn’t get to see Uncle, but I did kneel down at the yellow violets and stroked my hand over the velvety little comforters. Couldn’t help but smile over the delicate buds.

Chess came round with the wagon and helped me in. I’m afraid Helen saw him. We both waved to her. She lifted a mud-streaked sleeve. I tried to shout “good bye” but she had already turned the corner of the cottage.

In one month, none of them will be able to avoid me.

Chess sang folk songs and silly tunes all the way back to Cedar Gate. I didn’t dare join in, but like the violets, I enjoyed a little cheer.

When we arrived home, father’s metal box sat in my desk chair. Mr. Bleu, bless him, had been here.

JAMES RODE BACK TO his farm disappointed. She’d gone to call upon Hammond and Jenny in town. He hoped their visit went well, but his gut told him differently. His visit the previous day had yielded no results. Hammond’s sense of betrayal cut deeply.

“You’re not going to play me for a fool, David.” The endearment fell from his tongue from years of habit.

“I’m not after your farm.” James touched his arm and left the room. Further stress meant longer recovery. God knew the man must get well enough to work.

He’d left them with one of Ruth’s pies and hoped there’d be one waiting for him at home.

He trotted past Hammond’s farm—Ernest waved him down. Dirt covered every inch of the gangly kid. “Think you might take a dunk in the creek tonight?” He smiled.

“Very funny. I chose the trees we need to use, if you can come over tomorrow. Good thing the leaves aren’t all out yet.”

“I’ll be there first thing.” He mentally gathered the tools needed for stripping branches.

“Dad talking to you