The Cherry Harvest (3 page)

CHARLOTTE WOKE TO THE SOFT COOING
of mourning doves and slipped quietly from under the warmth of her covers, careful not to wake Thomas. She pushed aside the curtain and peered out across the wide lake. Many a morning Charlotte had looked through this window to see Ben on the dock or out in the blue wooden motorboat with Scout, his black retriever. He'd fish until he had enough for the family's supper, then he'd clean his catch and bring Charlotte beautiful fillets. All before he left for school.

Thinking of the vest she'd finished knitting yesterday, she smiled. She had stayed up well beyond bedtime perfecting the cabling that ran down the front. Now it sat next to her bed in the canvas satchel, ready for mailing. She imagined Ben fingering the precious stitches, thinking of his mother keeping him warm in the icy Alps.

The last time she saw Ben was at the train station, tall and solemn in his Army uniform. If he was frightened, he didn't show it. She certainly was—frightened that the war would change him, frightened that she'd never see him again. She studied his face, full rosy cheeks, big blue eyes. She hugged him tight to her breast until the whistle of the steam engine blew them apart.

Off near Loon Island, a man in a motorboat stood casting a line. He reeled something in and caught it in a net, too far away to see what it was, but it had to be a fish. Food, that's all she seemed to think about these days. She had stretched the rabbit stew to three suppers; the next two nights they'd had a watery soup she'd made from wild greens and mushrooms and a few of her last pathetic vegetables from the root cellar—a flabby carrot and a potato full of eyes. She would have eggs and goat's milk for breakfast and lunch today, but what about supper? A pheasant would be nice, or a grouse. Ben used to come home from school, pick up his gun and go into the woods with his dog, and bring home splendid dinners. Charlotte hadn't written him that Scout had died.

Thomas fished and hunted through the winter, but in the spring he had the pruning and spraying to do, and in the summer he managed the harvest. Charlotte herself was a good shot, but she wasn't patient enough to sit still and be quiet. So much to do. Until a week ago, she had counted on Olga's credit. What would she put on the table tonight? And tomorrow? And the next day? Just thinking of it made her hungry. Only thin soup last night! Thomas and Kate must be hungry too.

She pulled on her wool flannel robe.

Could that be the lighthouse keeper in the boat? She had never seen him in anything but his dark-blue uniform and cap, neat and well groomed, proud like a military officer. The man out on the water wore a casual jacket and flat cap.

Remy Lapointe wasn't a military man but a civilian, an engineer of some sort, employed by the Coast Guard with privileges Charlotte could only imagine. The Coast Guard supply boat routinely stopped at the island, bringing anything the lightkeeper and his family wanted. He certainly didn't need to fish for supper.

Charlotte watched as he reeled in another and captured it in his net. Fish weren't among the rationed items up this way, but those who caught fish these days kept them. What a waste for the lightkeeper's
family to have the fish! Charlotte turned from the window.
What can I trade?
Glancing about, her eyes landed on the canvas bag.
That's it! If Marta provides the yarn, I can knit her something, something special she can't buy
. She slipped into a freshly washed housedress and grabbed the canvas satchel to show Marta the quality of her work.

Downstairs in the chilly kitchen, Charlotte opened the cast-iron stove, added a log from the wood box, and lit the kindling. Kate and Thomas would appreciate a hot stove when they came down for morning tea. Soon the scent of cherry wood filled the room.

Charlotte opened the back door, picked up the
Door County Advocate,
and scanned the headlines. No new war news today. She put the paper on the kitchen table for Thomas, donned her coat, hat, and gloves, and went out the door.

Down in the boathouse, Charlotte turned the winch and the blue wooden motorboat rolled down the track alongside the dock. A silvery fish flashed briefly near the surface. She stepped into the boat, pushed off, and lowered the propeller into the water. Floating beyond the dock, she pulled hard on the starter rope, then again, until the motor finally caught and growled into motion. Oily fumes permeated the air. Charlotte shifted the throttle, and the bow lifted and bounced on the waves as she guided the boat across the bay to the island.

Through a rising mist, the eastern horizon shifted from purple to orange, and by the time Charlotte reached the lighthouse the round fiery sunball was dancing on the lake's surface.
When was the last time I danced?
She had taught Ben and Kate how to dance in the living room—the waltz, the foxtrot, the Lindy Hop. Ben was so light on his feet, laughing and singing along with the music. All the girls wanted to be his partner.

She tied the boat at the dock below the lighthouse and headed up the walk. Charlotte didn't know these people well, Remy and Marta Lapointe. They had arrived in 1939 when the former keeper received a new assignment. Charlotte and Thomas had gone to the welcoming
party—a square dance at the armory. She recalled Remy, dignified in his uniform; Marta, his plump wife reaching out to greet everyone; and their four children—two boys, two girls, Josie the oldest. Was that where it started, Ben and Josie dancing together?

Charlotte stepped along the stone walkway near the massive brick tower and rounded the corner to the front of the residence. When the door opened, Marta looked startled, wide dark eyes, brows lifted. “What is it? Did something happen?” Her French Canadian accent so foreign to Charlotte's ears, the nasal
o,
the missing
h
.

“I didn't mean to startle you, Marta. I've only come for a visit.” Charlotte wasn't one to make neighborly calls—for one thing, she didn't want neighbors knocking at her own kitchen door—but for the sake of business, she was prepared to do so now. “If this isn't a good time . . .”

Marta opened the door further. “Please come in, if you don't mind speaking softly lest we wake the brood.” She paused. “I do love my mornings before the children are up and about, eh?”

“I'm disturbing you.”

Five years earlier, shortly after the couple arrived in Door County, Charlotte had called on Marta, bringing a cherry pie. Marta was friendly then, but now she wasn't smiling.

Handing Marta her coat, Charlotte noted the woman's resemblance to Josie—the high cheekbones, large features, thick dark hair and eyelashes.

“I was about to make coffee.”

Charlotte took it as an invitation. “How delightful.” She hadn't had coffee for ages, just chicory once in a while. She drank mostly mint tea from her window garden.

A good seven inches shorter than Charlotte, Marta led the way to the kitchen. She wore the latest military-cut slacks and matching cardigan sweater—a style Charlotte had seen on the covers of magazines at Schwarz's Drug Store. And shiny new leather loafers! The only shoes available in Turtle Bay were canvas.

In the kitchen, Marta nodded toward a chair at the round fruitwood table. The previous lightkeepers had kept the place in the original brown and gray, but now it was painted bright blue and yellow, a cheerful look. A large bowl of fresh fruit sat on the wooden counter—grapefruit, oranges, lemons, bananas—and baskets of vegetables hung on a rack, not just root vegetables but fresh garden greens—lettuce and cucumber and ripe tomatoes. How did she get them so early in the season? So as not to appear wanting, Charlotte swallowed her question and said, “Such a cozy kitchen.”

Just then, Marta opened the coffee tin and oh, that rich dark aroma! She poured beans into the grinder and turned the handle. “It's not like Boston . . . but for now . . .” Marta said, as if this were quite a comedown from her husband's former assignment. Remy and Marta didn't have an easy life here on the island—no electricity, not even a pump at the sink because the well water was bad. Goods had to be shipped in. Still, Charlotte envied their easy access to things because Remy worked for the government. Charlotte's son worked for the government too, but his family was suffering while this family remained above it all.

Marta lifted the cover to the bread box and pulled out a tray of pastries. Charlotte couldn't help but stare. No one had sugar or flour for such treats these days.

“Apple or apricot?”

“Apricot,” Charlotte said too quickly.

Marta put two pastries into the bun warmer on the stove. “Have you heard from Benny? Such a handsome, capable boy. You must be proud, eh?”

Charlotte cringed at Marta's use of the nickname Josie had given him. “Thank you, yes, we hear from
Benjamin
often.”

Marta's eyes remained on Charlotte, expecting more, but Ben's letters were none of her business.

Marta poured steaming water over the crushed coffee beans. “Josie gets letters . . .”

“Letters?” Charlotte felt the sting. “From Benjamin?”
What does he say to
her?

Marta laughed. “Lovers . . . who knows!”

Charlotte didn't laugh. Josie was one of those clever girls who would do whatever she needed to get what she wanted. And what Josie wanted was Ben. Some might call the girl attractive, but she was far too free with her body to suit Charlotte, walking with a deliberate swing of her hips, standing too close, breasts pushed forward. Charlotte wished Ben had chosen one of his own kind—a farm girl, a Norwegian, at least a Protestant. That was the worst of it: these people were Catholic. Charlotte wasn't fond of any church, but it was the Catholic allegiance to the pope that galled her. A Catholic marriage would mean Ben would have to be baptized and, worse yet, swear to raise his children—her own grandchildren—Catholic.

Josie had even drawn Kate into her little web, luring her with books—to get information about Ben no doubt. The Coast Guard brought a roving library to the island regularly, and Josie ordered whatever books Kate asked for. Impressionable as she was, Kate spent far too much time with the older girl.

When Marta brought the coffeepot to the table and poured steaming dark liquid into the cups, Charlotte nearly swooned with the seductive scent.

“Sugar and cream?” Marta asked.

Sugar and cream!
Charlotte hadn't seen such a casual display of luxuries since before the war. She tried to act nonchalant as she reached forward. “Was that your husband I saw out on the lake fishing?”

“Remy? Yes, it's his way of relaxing.”

Charlotte laughed. “I tried fishing a few times, but all I could think about was everything else I should be doing. The fish bite early morning and evening, just when I need to be preparing breakfast or dinner. Benjamin was the one . . .”

Marta set the pastries on the table and sat across from Charlotte. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't friendly, as she had been in the past.
What's this about?

Charlotte chose the fat one dripping with apricot jelly. “Thank you.” If only she could take this home to share with Kate and Thomas. She was about to bite into the sweet when Marta cleared her throat for attention.

“Let us say grace.” Marta lowered her head.

Charlotte dropped the pastry to the plate and, out of respect, followed Marta in the sign of the cross, but inside, her blood bubbled with resentment. She didn't want Ben to feel the shame if he might pick up his fork too soon.

Just as the prayer ended, the door opened and Marta looked up. “Ah, here's Remy.”

The lighthouse keeper came into the kitchen.

He tipped his hat—“Mrs. Christiansen”—but he didn't smile. He carried a mesh basket of perch, tails flicking, iridescent scales catching the morning light, and put it into the sink. “I do hope nothing's amiss.”

“Charlotte's just come for a visit.” Marta's voice had an edge. Husband and wife exchanged looks, frowning.

What's going on?

Remy gave a slight bow. “Please excuse me. I must dress for work.”

Footsteps pattered upstairs. Charlotte had to finish her business while she still had a chance. She smiled across the table at Marta. “You're lucky to have a husband who brings your family supper.”

“The children turn up their noses at fish, except Josie.” Marta sighed. “Remy does it for sport.”

Sport? So they didn't even want them!
Charlotte could get by with trading something small, a hat or mittens perhaps. She took a sip of the rich coffee. “The last time I enjoyed my fill of fish was when Big Mike's eldest son was married.”

“The boy who was killed in the Kasserine Pass, killed by that
Nazi Rommel!” Marta stared into Charlotte's eyes, pursed her lips. “We heard what you did at that county meeting.”

Charlotte's cup rattled on the saucer.

“How could you, with your own boy over there? My future son-in-law!”