Redemption (4 page)

Another housekeeper was becoming a necessity, Jake decided. The boy was in need of help. He scanned his mind for another prospect for the job, and came up blank. As Cord had said, he’d already gone through all the widow ladies and the women who were willing to work outside their own homes. His reputation had been blackened by the stories those women told—tales of his foul moods, the angry tirades he’d aimed in their direction when they’d attempted to open the windows and doors.

Jake looked now out of the single window that bore no covering to soften the glare of sunlight through fly-speckled panes. Rena would be aghast at the sight.

His chair rolled across the bare, wooden floor to the second window and he grasped the draperies in his fist, and tugged them from their moorings until they landed with a muffled thud on the floor. Somehow the act was satisfying, as if he rebelled against the darkness that had gripped him for so long.

“What’cha doin’, Pa?” Jason stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale, as if the disturbance in the parlor had frightened him.

“Your uncle Cord told me we needed to open the windows in here,” Jake told him. “Do you think you can push them up? Let some fresh air in?”

“I can try.” And wasn’t that the crux of the matter? Jake thought. If the boy was willing to try to change things, how could his father do any less?

“Let me know when the water’s hot and I’ll come out to the kitchen and help you,” he told Jason. “In the meantime I’m going to write a note to Miss Merriweather, and once you get cleaned up, you can deliver it.”

“I’m gonna get new clothes?”

Jake looked at the shaggy locks that covered Jason’s head and hung against his collar. “And a haircut,” he said firmly.

C
AN YOU COME BY
to talk with me?

The note was brief and to the point, Alicia thought, and looked into Jason’s face, aware that his eyes shone with a hopeful light. The man hadn’t even had the courtesy to sign his name, she thought, exasperation making her cross. It would do no good, though, to take it out on the boy.

“Tell your father I’ll come by tomorrow at suppertime.”
A sudden urge prodded her to action. “Tell him I’ll bring a picnic with me. We can eat in the parlor.”

“A picnic?” Jason’s mouth curved into a smile. “I can’t remember havin’ a picnic since my mama died, ma’am. We used to go to the celebration on the Fourth of July when I was real little. Mama got someone to help and my Pa would go, too.”

Real little?
The boy was far from grown now, she thought sadly. And living on memories of a better time in his young life.

“Do you like fried chicken?” she asked, and at his enthusiastic nod, she determined to borrow the kitchen of the house where she resided and make the most mouthwatering meal she could put together. There was no time to waste.

Friday was Alicia’s favorite day of the week. Two whole days, in which she could please herself, loomed ahead. She’d sometimes found herself walking beyond the town and exploring the countryside during the nice weather. She had a lonely life, but had learned to enjoy her own company. A light quilt tucked under her arm, she frequently took her current volume of history or novel of adventure, finding a tree under which to sit, the book on her lap. Pure heaven, she thought. The whole of an afternoon in which to enter another world, where her imagination could run riot and her mind be refreshed.

Today was Friday, and for another reason she felt the swell of anticipation. A stop at the butcher shop gained her a plucked chicken, one the butcher was happy to cut into pieces. The general store yielded a supply of small new potatoes, fresh from some industrious soul’s garden. Early carrots and a large crimson tomato for slicing filled her basket and she set off for the house where the parents of one of her students had offered a room for her use.

Her landlady, Mrs. Simpson, was willing for her kitchen to be used for Alicia’s project. By the time the chicken was fried and the potatoes made into a salad, Alicia was ready to walk out the door.

Her meal was packed into the market basket and covered with a clean towel. She set off at a determined pace down the street toward the big house where Jake McPherson lived with his son. The front gate sat permanently ajar and the yard was still weed-infested, but the front parlor windows were barren of covering. She looked at them in surprise, noting the shadow of a man in a chair almost out of sight.

Edging past the broken step, she climbed the stairs and crossed to the front door. Before her knuckles could rap, announcing her presence, the door was opened wide, Jason standing before her. His hair was combed, still wet from the dousing he’d given it, marks of the comb he’d used still apparent. That the
part was crooked and the dark locks hung to his shoulders was of little matter; the boy had made an effort.

“Come on in,” he said. “My pa’s in the parlor.” He lowered his voice and bent closer. “I don’t know if he’s happy about this or not, ma’am. He looked kinda cross when I told him you was bringin’ supper with you.”

“It will be just fine,” she said, offering assurance and wishing she felt some of the same. The basket was heavy and she sought for a flat surface upon which to deposit it. A library table stood near the door and she placed her bundle there and then turned to face Jake. “I hope I didn’t intrude with my offer,” she said, addressing the man with a confidence she did not feel. “Jason thought a picnic would be nice.”

“I don’t go outdoors,” Jake said flatly.

“We’ll have it in here,” she answered. “Jason and I can sit on the floor on a quilt and you can join us from your chair.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?” he asked, and she took note of the burning resentment in his dark eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a managing woman?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’ve been called even worse than that.”

His mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “It doesn’t bother you?”

She met his gaze head-on. “Do I look bothered?” She turned to Jason and issued an order. “Please go and find a quilt we can sit on. I’ll get the food ready.” That she’d brought napkins and plates was probably a good thing, she decided. Three forks and a salt shaker made up the rest of her supplies.

Jason carried a folded quilt into the parlor. “This was in the airing closet,” he said, breathless after his jaunt up and down the stairs. Eyes glowing with anticipation, he spread it on the floor and sat on one edge. “Now what?”

Alicia arranged the small tablecloth she’d brought, then placed the bowl of chicken, the potato salad and the carrots and sliced tomatoes in the middle. A loaf of bread, freshly baked only this morning and sliced into thick slabs, was wrapped in a clean dish towel, and she opened it, tucking the edges beneath the offering. Butter in a small bowl completed the arrangement.

“Oh, dear. I forgot to bring knives for spreading the butter,” she said softly. Her gaze flew to Jake’s. “May I send Jason to the kitchen?”

He nodded curtly, and Jason rose, almost trotting from the room, so anxious did he seem to get this meal under way.

“Don’t spoil this for him,” she said, warning Jake quietly. She bent to arrange the food on their plates.

“I do own some semblance of courtesy,” he told her harshly. “I don’t need a lesson in manners from the schoolmarm.”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” she shot back, looking up as Jason skidded to a stop just inside the parlor door.

“Here you go,” he said, a grin bringing to life a dimple in his left cheek, something she’d never noted up until now. He handed her the three knives and she inspected them with a cursory glance and deemed them clean enough to be used.

She sat on the edge of the quilt, across from Jake’s chair, and folded her hands in her lap. “Shall we say grace?” she asked, and then at Jake’s snort of disbelief, she offered a glare in his direction. “You needn’t join us,” she said politely, “but Jason seems to understand the concept.”

For indeed the boy had folded his hands nicely, waiting for her to speak the words. “My mama used to pray before we ate,” he told her, and then looked up at his father. “Remember, Pa? I always liked it when she did that.”

Jake nodded curtly. “Go ahead, if it gives you pleasure, ma’am.”

His words were brief, and her mind churned as she attempted to decipher his mood. The man was angry again, probably as riled as he’d been on their first
meeting. Unless she missed her guess, he was not about to accept her help with Jason.

“What part of the chicken do you prefer?” she asked her host.

“Whatever’s left,” he said. “It’s all food.”

Jason bit into a drumstick. “This is
good
food, Pa,” he said, the words muffled as he chewed. Some potato salad followed and he relished it for a moment, then swallowed. “My mama used to make stuff like this. Does it have eggs in it?”

Alicia nodded. “And mayonnaise and a touch of mustard and a big onion.”

Jake accepted his plate from her hand and their fingers touched during the interchange. His were warm, hers chilled, and he raised a brow as he looked down at her.

“Surely you’re not cold, Miss Merriweather?” She thought a gleam of satisfaction shone from his eyes as he spoke, and rued the apprehension she’d tried so hard to hide. The man was enjoying her discomfort.

“No, just afraid that I’ve offended you, sir.” She bent her head and took up a wing in her hand, breaking it apart and nibbling at the sparse amount of meat it held. The bones were placed neatly on the edge of her plate and she speared a slice of tomato, shook salt over it, then cut it up with her fork.

“I’m surely more offensive, than offended,” he suggested,
and she looked up quickly, catching him with a look of appraisal alive on his face.

His gaze was warm and she shifted uncomfortably under it, feeling self-conscious. Her black boots were large, her hips wider than most women her age, and the size of her bosom was “magnificent,” a gentleman caller had said, long years ago. Back when she had thought there might be hope of a man in her life, and children born from her body.

“Well, you do know how to cook,” Jake conceded reluctantly. “I’ll have another piece of that chicken, if you don’t mind.”

She offered him the bowl and he took a thigh, then glanced at the potato salad. “Would you like another spoonful?” she asked, and lifted it within his reach.

“Maybe a slice of tomato, too.” His voice softened as he grudgingly asked for her help in serving him, but she refused to feel triumph at his expense. The man was making a stab at good manners, and she subdued her own natural inclination to gloat.

“Do you cook often?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the napkin she’d provided. She’d already noticed Jason copying his father’s example, placing the napkin across his lap before he began eating.

“Not very. I don’t have a kitchen of my own.”

“Miss Merriweather lives with Catherine Simpson’s mama and papa,” Jason offered. “Catherine thinks
she’s real smart because the teacher has a bedroom next to hers.” He looked gloomy, Alicia thought, as if a bit of jealousy had popped up its ugly head. And then he wiped his mouth, following Jake’s example again and looked hopefully at Alicia.

“Do you think you could come and cook in our kitchen once in a while?” he asked.

“Jason.” The single word was a reprimand and Jake’s lowered brows emphasized the rebuke.

“I just thought—”

“You’re imposing on Miss Merriweather,” Jake said firmly. “She was decent enough to bring us supper tonight. It would be rude to expect her to repeat the gesture.”

No, Alicia thought grimly.
Rude
was a man who offered cutting remarks to the woman who’d carried a basket all the way across town to his house, a place where that man sat, totally lost in self-pity, brooding day in and day out.

“I’d be delighted to come and cook your supper once in a while,” she said brightly, knowing that Jake was ready to burst with irritation at her high-handedness. “Shall we say once a week?” She smiled encouragingly at Jason.

“That would be…” Jason fumbled for a word to express his delight, and only grinned widely, including his father in the elation he made no attempt to hide.

“Will I be able to take Jason to the general store?” she asked Jake. “I am free tomorrow if that would be a good time for him.”

Jake simmered, she could easily tell from the look he gave her. She had him neatly boxed in, and reveled in the fact. How she could find joy in making him fume was a question she wouldn’t even attempt to answer. She had to admit, there was a certain sense of satisfaction that had accompanied this meal, eaten at his feet, so to speak, and obviously enjoyed by both father and son.

She decided to change the direction of their conversation, and pointed up at the two windows where late afternoon sunlight shone. “I see you decided to uncover your windows,” she said. “It’s an enormous improvement, Mr. McPherson.” Tilting her head to one side, she made a sober observation.

“Perhaps I could bring over a bottle of vinegar and clean them for you tomorrow after Jason and I complete our shopping.”

“I’m sure there’s vinegar in the pantry,” Jake said forcefully. “If you’re of a mind to be our household help for the day, you just go right ahead.”

“I’ll help,” Jason said quickly. “I can do all kinds of stuff to help.”

She looked at the boy, her heart aching at his eagerness. “Perhaps we can repair the front step,” she suggested.
“You’ve a fine hand with a hammer and nails, Jason. We’ll look for a board to use and make that second on our list.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said quickly. Then he looked at his father. “Ain’t that a good idea, Pa?”

“I’m sure your teacher has any number of talents that might come in handy around here,” Jake told him, his gaze turning to Alicia as she got to her feet.

Never the most graceful of women, she came close to falling across his chair as she took note of his sarcastic observation. Her eyes burned as she turned aside and reached for her basket. “If you’ll take the leftovers into the kitchen and put them away, I’ll take the dirty dishes and go home, Jason. I think I’ve outstayed my welcome for today.”