Love Blooms in Winter (4 page)

T
he snow was still falling in the fading light as Mae and Jeremy left the Wilson house. When they reached home, Mae stripped out of her cloak and hurried to the fire to warm her hands. She heard a knock at her door as realization of what day this was hit her. Monday. She froze. Jake came for supper on Monday and Thursday nights.

“Jake’s here!” Jeremy called. “Want me to fix him a plate?”

How could she forget this was Monday? “Fix three plates!”

Frowning, Jeremy opened his mouth to speak.

“Do as I say! I’ll explain later—and don’t mention a word about us eating earlier.” Where was her mind these days? She was getting as forgetful as Pauline.

Rushing to her room, she fussed with her hair, pushing stray locks into place. “Give me a few seconds and then tell him to come in.” The mere mention of Jake’s name used to send shivers up her spine, but after six years of waiting for a marriage proposal, the newness of their romance had faded a bit.

Mae had loved this man blindly, patiently waiting the hour when he’d finally slip a ring on her finger. At twenty-seven she was now at the age to be considered a spinster, and she didn’t relish the thought, but spinsterhood didn’t seem all that bad now. The community had become her family, and her best friend, Lil, was closer than a sister. Yet she still wanted toddlers at her feet giggling with her, learning to speak and walk. She wanted to bathe them at night and cradle their sweet-smelling warm bodies in her arms.

The sounds of Jake’s entry reached her. She stole a final look in the mirror, smoothed her bodice into place, and went to greet her guest.

“Darling.” An absent kiss landed between her eyes and hairline. Jake wasn’t the mushy sort, but tonight’s chicken peck seemed especially distant.

“Difficult day at work?” Two years ago Jake had opened Dwadlo’s first law office. Business was slow at first, but it appeared to be picking up somewhat. Mostly land matters and plot issues, but he was making enough now to allow him to order his clothes from a Philadelphia haberdasher. She’d heard the whispers and snickers from some of Dwadlo’s male population, but the women thought he was quite the catch.

Handing her his hat, he smiled. “Every day is difficult in my business, Mae.” He sniffed the air appreciatively. “What has Jeremy prepared for us tonight?”

“Beans.”

A wrinkle appeared in his forehead. “I was expecting chicken and dumplings.”

“I’m sorry.” She glanced at her brother. “Perhaps Thursday night?”

When Jeremy opened his mouth to speak, she urged him toward the kitchen. “Can you dish up supper, sweetie?”

“But, Mae—”

“Later, Jeremy.”

Taking Jake’s coat, she brushed snow off the collar and then hung it on a peg. He was like a pair of old shoes: comfortable. After dinner he would wipe his mouth on his napkin, push back from the table, and sit by the fire while she helped Jeremy with the dishes. Later, she would knit and Jake would doze until the mantle clock struck nine. Rising from the chair, he would place another brief kiss on her forehead, reach for his coat, and depart for home.

What did he do all day long in his office above the bank? There couldn’t be that many legal problems in Dwadlo. Did he sit in his leather chair and peruse clothing ads from the latest men’s magazines? The three-piece “ditto suits,” the sack coat worn with contrasting color? Oh, dear. She studied his outline from the corner of her eye. What if he decided to cut his hair terribly short and grow a pointed beard and generous mustache like so many of the men in the pictures?

She wasn’t supposed to look at people’s mail and she didn’t—except she occasionally succumbed to curiosity and took a peek between the pages of the new magazine,
Vogue
. Fashion was getting disgraceful. She was glad she lived in Dwadlo and didn’t have to dress the way the women did in that magazine.

Tonight Jake remembered his manners when it was time to leave.

“Please stay seated. I’ll clean the snow off my buggy.”

Guilt washed over her. “I’m sorry, Jake. I’d forgotten about the storm.” She and Jeremy always helped prepare the buggy in bad weather.

“Stay,” he insisted. “There’s no cause for both of us catching a chill.” Nodding to Jeremy, he said, “Fine supper, son, though you barely touched your food. Is it possible to have dumplings on Thursday?”

Jeremy glanced at Mae. “Yes, sir.”

“Mae?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll see you Thursday at six?”

She nodded. “And Sunday.” When they would sit in church in the same row, knees barely touching, and sing from a shared hymnal. Jake’s voice boomed over the other men’s—quite pleasant to the ear. At the end of the service the pastor would dismiss in prayer, and then they would exit the row and shake as many hands as possible before they left the small church. Jeremy would fix fried chicken and mashed potatoes. After lunch Mae would knit, Jeremy would work a wooden puzzle, and Jake would doze. Around four he would get up, reach for his coat, give her a peck, and be gone until the next night, when Jeremy would serve pot roast. Mae was starting to wonder whether he loved her or her brother’s cooking.

A gust of frigid wind filled the room when Jake opened the door and stepped out into the swirling snow. Purling a stitch, Mae fretted. Over the years they had come to live as though they were married. With the exception of the marriage bed, she imagined her life would be identical with his ring on her finger. She’d long ago given up the dream of an exciting, thrilling romance. Lil said that was only found in books. Jake was a godly man, a hard worker, and he loved Jeremy as though he was his own. She could do worse.

The dirty, uncivilized drovers who frequented the mercantile were a perfect example. Those men were rowdy, crude, and rude. Years ago Dwadlo closed the saloon in hopes of discouraging the cattlemen’s business, but the move hurt the town’s commerce, so last year a nearby farmer, with little concern for his community, opened a smaller version of the establishment on the outskirts of town and the drovers returned. Mae said that they were giving in to sin, but others argued that there was a penny to be made and why shouldn’t Dwadlo reap the windfall?

Shaking her head, Mae’s mind skipped to Pauline’s dilemma. She would write a letter to Mr. Curtis before going to bed tonight and send it with the morning mail. What would she do if it never reached him? He could be elderly—or in worse shape than Pauline. Maybe even dead. Violence still reigned in these parts. Masked men robbed trains, and ruthless thieves overtook stagecoaches. Honestly. What was this world coming to? In order to err on the side of certainty, if she didn’t hear anything in a month from Mr. Curtis, a second letter would definitely be in order.

She could only pray that Tom Curtis was a staunch man, and that his family’s welfare would take precedence in this matter.

Yawning, she set her knitting needles aside and went to find pen and paper.

“Is there a Mr. Tom Curtis here?”

Tom glanced up to see the Chicago & North Western Railway mail clerk grinning at him.

“You back from your trip, Tom?”

“Just back.”

“Good to see ya.” The black boy dropped a letter on Tom’s desk and walked on, whistling.

“Thanks, Harvey.” Hopefully Tom would be able to stay home until spring. But with Christmas coming in a few weeks and with C&NW adding track at the rate of multiplying rabbits, he couldn’t be sure.

In ’79 they started a line from Minnesota and South Dakota, and then they platted the town sites in between. Every seven to ten miles tracks started to appear, and rival companies joined the march of railroad lines strung out like dominoes crisscrossing the states.

Tom reached for the letter and noted that the address was written in feminine cursive. He never received personal mail. Anything addressed to him came from the railroad office or was an occasional equipment sales notice. Glancing at the cancellation mark on the stamp, he saw that it came from Dwadlo, North Dakota. Probably someone wanting to sell the railroad land rights.

Dear Mr. Curtis
,

I am writing in regards to your cousin or aunt Pauline Wilson—I presume she is a relation—and her immediate welfare. She is quite elderly now and needs family attention. While I check on her often, I cannot give her the care she needs. Please be advised that her mental state is not always clear. In spite of that, she is a wise and wonderful woman whom I am certain you care for very deeply
.

Please come as soon as possible for your dear cousin—or possibly aunt. I’m sorry to have to inform you that she is rapidly failing
.

Warmest regards
,

Mae Wilkey

Wilkey. He mulled the name around in his mind. Pauline Wilson? Turning the fancy stationary over, he frowned. Aunt Pauline? Cousin Pauline? He shook his head. He’d been on his own for so long he’d lost track of family. His mother and father had died years ago. He’d had an older sister in Wyoming, but she passed last year. He glanced at the paper. Wilson. Pauline.

Great-Aunt Pauline Wilson?

Bringing his hand to his chin, he repeated out loud. “Aunt Pauline. Cousin Pauline. Seems like there was a cousin, Pearl, in the family. Or was it Prudence? Patricia?”

Picking up the envelope, he studied the writing. Who was Mae Wilkey? His eyes focused on the postmark again. Dwadlo. C&NW had track through there—he knew that because he’d seen the name on the roster over the years. Had he ever been there? The name didn’t ring a bell, but then he didn’t recall every town he’d visited in the sixteen years he’d been with the railroad. There’d been too many.

Setting the letter aside, he dismissed the matter. This Wilkey woman had her wires crossed. He certainly didn’t have relatives in North Dakota.

Denial came easy in daylight. Work occupied his time and thoughts for the rest of the day, but later that night it was harder to dismiss the odd inquiry. When he turned out the lantern and stared at the dark ceiling in his rented room at Bessie Hellman’s Boarding Establishment, where he had a soft bed, meals, and laundry service for six dollars a week, the letter wasn’t as easy to forget. Somehow someone must have come across his name and mistook him for distant kin to this Pauline. He mentally searched each side of the family again, and to his knowledge there wasn’t a Curtis or Holland still alive.

The letter had to be a prank. That thought nearly made him slap his forehead. Of course. One of his fellow coworkers was playing a joke on him. The railroad crew was a crazy bunch—Harvey probably promoted the trick. Or Jack Billings. Jack was a real cutup, and his brain could easily come up with a plot that would make Tom run off to North Dakota in search of a mysterious aunt who didn’t exist. Relief filled him. A trick. Jack was paying him back for the time he’d replaced roast beef sandwiches with tar-filled ones in his lunch bucket. Chuckling, Tom rolled on his back, plotting revenge.

Tomorrow morning, without Jack noticing, he was going to tape a sign on his back that said “Kick Me.” The grin widened. He should know Jack would get him back. The crew was probably laughing, knowing Tom would be racking his brain to figure out where this mysterious “kin” came from.

Blockheads.

W
hen the boisterous Lil Jenkins came to town, everyone in Dwadlo heard her. Mae’s best friend had a small spread north of town; nothing impressive except for her land. Her folks left her a hundred prime acres of fertile grass with deep springs and rolling countryside, but Lil didn’t raise cattle. She raised hogs. Big black-and-red sows weighing upward of a thousand pounds brought a pretty market price. The animals provided Lil with more than ham and bacon. A place in Wisconsin bought her stock to render the fat into lard for baking and frying and to make lye soap for simple home cleaning tasks.