Sister's Choice (9 page)

Mama Spooner shrugged as she gently kneaded the heel of her hand into the dough. “You know better than I do. I haven’t seen the lad in a year.”

Ada laughed. “If I am supposed to know better than you, Mama, I am in trouble.”

SEVEN

Maggie had about an hour to clean out the chicken coop before the midday meal. She wished she had given Evan a more specific time than “after lunch.” Would he come at one o’clock, or two? Most of the farm families had their big meal of the day around that time. But the Parkers were not farmers anymore, so they practiced the city schedule of having what they called luncheon between twelve and one.

Well, she would eat quickly to make sure she had enough time to clean up and change before the visit. Besides her determination to learn to sew, Maggie was also trying to improve her appearance. No overalls except to work around the farm—well, she might also wear them for fishing or hiking in the woods. But for receiving guests, she intended to dress like a proper lady.

As she walked out to the coop she noticed a flash of black and white dart out from behind the barn.

“What’re you doing here, Bob?” she mused, then called, “Hey, Bob.” It was the Donnellys’ dog. That must have been the dog she’d heard barking earlier. When the animal loped up to her, she reached down and ruffled its shaggy head. “What’re you doing so far from home? You bored?” Zack was helping Dad and Georgie and Ellie with the potato harvest, and Mrs. Donnelly was probably busy in the house. “I’ll bet you are missing Tommy, aren’t you? I wish I could play with you, but I have work to do. Gypsy is off with the men in the field. You ought to go find them.”

The dog was jumping around too excitedly to listen. Finally Maggie found a stick and tossed it. Bob raced after it, giving her a moment to get inside the chicken yard. When Bob came up to the gate, gripping the stick between his teeth, Maggie felt sorry for him. She couldn’t open the gate because he wasn’t as well-trained as Gypsy to be trusted around the chickens.

“Okay, I’ll play with you as soon as I finish in here,” she promised. “But only for a minute. I have a busy day today.”

Bob, of course, made Maggie think of Tommy. She ought to go visit him again. She also would definitely see if she could enlist Evan’s help. She did feel a little guilty pursuing her romantic notions while her friend languished in jail, but there really wasn’t much else she could do.

Turning her attention to the chickens, she opened the door to the coop and was met with a chorus of squawking hens and crowing roosters. Though they were happy to get out of the chicken coop, they did need a little added enticement, which she provided by sprinkling feed from the coop to the enclosed yard. They fluttered down to the ground from their roosts and followed the trail into the yard. Maggie then got the wheelbarrow, pitchfork, and shovel and proceeded with the messy task of cleaning the coop.

Both she and the chickens were making so much noise she didn’t hear the sound of boots crunching over the dirt yard.

“
A-hem!
” uttered the newcomer.

Maggie started and nearly dropped the pitchfork when she looked up and saw Evan Parker standing in the door of the coop.

“What’re you doing here?” she blurted in a most unsociable way.

“I—uh, thought you asked me to come,” he replied.

“You’re not supposed to come until after dinner.”

“Are you sure? I thought you said—” Breaking off, he smiled apologetically. “I am sorry. I must have made a mistake.”

“Well, it’s okay, I guess,” Maggie replied, regaining her manners. “I just didn’t want to be all covered with hay and muck when you came.”

“I don’t mind. That is, I mean, you look fine. Really, I didn’t expect this to be a formal visit.”

But Maggie saw that he was dressed in a suit, a stylish well-fitted woolen sack jacket with only the top button closed—the current fashion—revealing a matching vest under it, both of a charcoal gray, as were the trousers. His shirt was white with a buttoned, turned-down collar, and his light gray tie barely showed under the vest. He wore a jaunty black Derby style hat, which he seemed to now remember, and he doffed it politely. He looked formal indeed for these parts, but Maggie supposed he was still dressing in Boston fashion.

Before she could say another word, the racket from the chickens rose to an almost deafening crescendo, accompanied by the barking of a dog.

“The gate!” she exclaimed, seeing it was gaping open. Several chickens had wandered out, and Bob was gleefully chasing them around the yard. Maggie ran toward the gate.

“I’m so sorry,” Evan said, joining her.

Maggie hardly heard him as she ran after the dog, waving her arms and calling his name. Right now he was having fun, but if he caught one of the chickens and killed it and got the taste of blood, it would be the end of him, because a dog that started killing the livestock would have to be shot. The dog was Tommy’s constant companion, and it would devastate him if anything happened to the animal. Zack should be giving him more attention, but Maggie couldn’t really blame Zack. He was working day and night to pay off his debts and save a little nest egg for his marriage.

“Come on, Bob!” Maggie called in a cajoling tone, which didn’t fool the animal at all. Bob nipped at a fat hen and nearly got her.

Maggie looked around to see what Evan was doing and saw that he, too, was chasing after one of the chickens. And he was grinning, seeming to enjoy the fracas he had started by leaving the gate open. She had never seen anything more than a nervous or apologetic smile on Evan’s face, but this was a full, gleeful grin, like a kid having the time of his life.

“I’ll get Bob,” Maggie said. “You try to get the chickens back in the pen.”

Evan nodded and went for one of the chickens. But his foot came down on the stick Maggie had tossed to Bob earlier. He lost his balance and went down, spread-eagled, into the dirt. He was still grinning!

He jumped up and finally got his hands on a chicken and quickly deposited it back into the pen. Maggie grabbed the stick, thinking Bob might be enticed by another game of fetch.

“Bob, go get it!” She tossed the stick.

Bob would have none of it. He went for another hen, nipping its fluttering wing.

“What’s going on out there?” Mama’s voice came from the house.

“Nothing,” Maggie called back. “Some chickens just got out.”

“Sounds like the whole henhouse is loose.”

Her guess was not far off. By now all but a couple of their fourteen hens and three roosters were out, but Evan was making headway getting them corralled once again.

Maggie went after Bob. Figuring that last time he hadn’t gotten a good look at the stick, she got it again and this time waved it right in his face.

“Go get it, Bob!” She heaved the stick into the air.

Now Bob took the bait and leaped in pursuit of the stick. While he was thus engaged, Maggie hurriedly gave Evan a hand with the chickens, stopping only when Bob returned with the stick. It took about three stick tosses before they finally had all the chickens in.

Evan was still grinning.

“You enjoying yourself, Evan?” Maggie asked dryly.

He suddenly seemed self-conscious, and his grin turned nervous.

“Well . . . uh . . . there weren’t any chickens to chase in Boston,” he finally said.

Maggie laughed. “I guess not! But you got your pretty suit all dirty.”

“Makes up for me getting your pretty party dress all wet the other evening.” He gave his duds a slap with his hands, sending up a little cloud of dust.

“I didn’t mind,” she said.

“Neither do I—I mean about my suit. I still feel awfully bad about your dress.”

“Don’t give it another thought. Mama said it would be good as new once it’s washed.” Then she added, “I worked up a mighty thirst. Come on up to the house. I know we have some fresh buttermilk because I did the churning myself.”

“My favorite,” Evan said, seeming more at ease, “and nothing quenches a thirst like buttermilk.”

He gave his suit a few more pats to get rid of any remaining dust, and they trooped up to the house.

They took tall, frothy glasses of buttermilk out to the porch and sat there to enjoy the cool afternoon breeze. Bob was still prancing about in the yard. Maggie supposed she would have to take him back up to the Donnelly place later.

“That’s Tommy Donnelly’s dog, you know,” she said by way of broaching one topic of conversation she intended to discuss with Evan.

“I heard what happened to him,” Evan said. “It is very sad. I kind of remember Tommy. I felt sorry for him. I guess I know what it feels like to be made fun of. The irony is, they made fun of him for being slow-witted and of me for being too smart.”

“You just can’t please people,” Maggie said.

“It is best to be yourself and hope for the best.”

“That’s what you did, Evan, and it worked out okay. And I admire you for it. You went on to a big Eastern college, got high marks, and became a real success.”

With a self-deprecating shrug, Evan replied, “I did in part, but looks can be a bit deceiving.”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitated, then said, “I remember you were Tommy’s friend, probably his only friend. You never made fun of him, or me either, for that matter.”

“I never could see the point. I know I’m not perfect, so who am I to berate another?”

“I’ll tell you something about myself. That is, if you’d like to hear it?”

“Of course I would.”

“Well, I did very well at Harvard. I passed every theory course with flying colors. I stumbled a little over the practical elements, mock trials, that sort of thing, but it didn’t detract from my standing because my arguments were all sound and compelling, even if my delivery . . . ah . . . faltered. For the most part I managed to conceal the fear I felt when I made court presentations. I passed the bar exam easily and was invited to join an important Boston law firm. I enjoyed the work until I had to appear in court. Then the fear was always there. That’s why I left Boston—well, one of the reasons. I don’t think I am cut out to be a lawyer.”

“But you did so well in school.”

“I enjoy the law, but I guess my nerves don’t.” Pausing, he sipped his buttermilk. “This is very good. I missed this kind of thing in Boston. Oh, they have chickens and buttermilk at farms out in the country in Massachusetts, but I wasn’t around any of it. I missed home and farm life.”

“Were you that happy here?” she queried. “Even though some made fun of you?”

“They were just kids—granted, the very kids I wanted to accept me.” He gave an ironic smile. “The odd thing is, I never fit in much in Boston either.”

Maggie nodded. “I know that feeling.”

“You?” He looked truly astonished. “But the Newcomb children were always the most normal, well-rounded of all the kids. How I envied Boyd!”

“Yes, Boyd and Ellie and even Georgie are pretty normal, though I could tweak Georgie’s ears sometimes. But you try being a girl who hates housework and sewing in a world where that’s the only thing that matters for girls. It is every bit as bad as being the smartest kid in the county.”

With seemingly sincere understanding, he said, “Yes, I can see that. You really don’t like sewing or housework?”

She gave a disgusted roll of her eyes. “And you really don’t like talking in front of people?”

He laughed and she cracked a smile, as well.

“Shall we discuss why you invited me here?” he asked. “I assume the friend you mentioned is Tommy Donnelly?”

“You are smart,” she said wryly. “But now I hesitate to ask for your help.”

“Help in what way?”

“Well, Tommy has been in jail for weeks waiting on his lawyer,” Maggie replied. “His mother hired a fellow from Portland who must not think we backwater farmers are very important.”

“If Tommy has engaged another lawyer, it would be improper for me to interfere.”

“Would you be willing if the other lawyer was gone, I mean, fired or something?”

Evan didn’t answer for a long time. Maggie could tell he was giving his response thoughtful consideration. Finally he said, “Even if I wanted to help, I already told you I doubt my competence.”

“If there was a trial, you wouldn’t have to get up in front of fancy Eastern people, only us common Columbia County folks. You could do that.”

“I don’t know . . .”

They sipped their milk in silence for a while. Maggie didn’t want to pressure him.

“I have no real trial experience,” he added. “To start out on a murder trial, of a young boy to boot—I don’t know. . . .” He shook his head. “I just don’t know. . . .”

“Listen, Evan, you have something the Portland lawyer doesn’t have. You know Tommy, and you know the folks here. And I think you care a long sight more, too. That counts for a lot. Maybe it is even more important than experience and confidence.” She took a breath and stopped, feeling herself getting a bit pushy. She did add, “Couldn’t you at least talk to Mrs. Donnelly?”

“That wouldn’t be ethical.”

“Could
I
talk to her?”

“I guess I have no control over whom you talk to.” There was no guile in his tone, just a statement of fact.

She liked that about him. He was so straightforward. It inspired her to be likewise.

“Evan, there is something else I wanted to talk to you about.” He nodded for her to continue, but her resolve wavered as she realized she was venturing into a very delicate area. “It is a bit personal,” she hedged.

“If it is too personal, I will tell you so. Okay?”

“All right, then . . . well, it is about Tamara Brennan.” She waited a moment for him to stop her. His expression was unreadable except for a slight twitch at the corner of his right eye. He didn’t stop her, so she continued, not confidently, but with determination. “Mabel told me that you cared for her.”

“I wish she hadn’t done that, but I didn’t tell her in confidence,” he said. “I suppose I should have known that with her penchant for gossip, she couldn’t keep it quiet.”

“I, too, have a secret crush on a fellow—” She stopped when she saw his brow arch in surprise and realized he might take her words wrong. “It’s on Colby Stoddard,” she quickly added.