What Once Was Lost (24 page)

“Didn’t think about that.” She made a face and tossed the half-eaten okra into the slop bucket. “That means we’d hafta stay here even longer. Sure was lookin’ forward to bein’ back in our own place.”

“So was I …” Christina chewed her thumbnail and gazed at the darkening sky. She’d promised Tommy, Wes, and the McLain sisters-in-law they wouldn’t have to wait much longer to return to their home. The area men had arranged to work on Saturday since their own jobs kept them busy the rest of the week. The lumber was already in the barn, delivered by Mr. Jonnson for the men’s use. But unless the storm passed quickly, they’d likely postpone putting up the walls.

From behind her, Cora’s timid voice quavered. “You reckon if we prayed, God’d send the storm scootin’ around us?”

“I don’t know, Cora.” Her indecisiveness startled her. When had she stopped trusting in the power of prayer? Hadn’t she always told the residents God listened when they prayed and responded in the best possible way for them? Her fingers groped for Papa’s watch and closed around it. Over the past few weeks, facing the loss of her house and the loss of contact with the people she loved like family, her faith had somehow drifted out of reach. She looked at
the sky again, seeking a ray of sunshine—a glimmer of hope—but all she saw was roiling clouds against a murky gray expanse.

She slapped the windowsill in aggravation and turned away from the unwelcome sight. Apparently God had decided to ignore her pleas for assistance. Was it because she’d brought this turmoil on herself and her charges by foolishly causing the fire? Her father taught her that God is not a God of harsh judgment yet each person has to face the consequences of his actions. If she was being punished for thoughtlessness, it didn’t seem fair that the other poor farm residents must suffer as well.

Plates and cutlery for lunch waited on the sideboard—a shorter stack than what was needed for the evening meal since some of Mrs. Beasley’s boarders chose to eat at the local café or took sandwiches for their lunch. Christina carried the items to the dining room and set them on the blue-checked cloth—white napkins and silverware placed just so on either side of blue willowware plates. She performed the task by rote, grateful for a few moments when she didn’t need to think.

She and Cora carried in platters and bowls containing ham sandwiches, cucumbers swimming in buttermilk, pickled okra and beets, and spiced peaches. As she returned to the kitchen to fetch the coffeepot, someone knocked on the back door. She scurried over, wiping her hands on her apron, and swung the door open wide. Rain-scented air gusted through the opening and pushed her skirt against her legs. She let out a little gasp of surprise.

A man stood on the stoop. He swept his hat from his head and met Christina’s gaze, earning a second gasp—this one of trepidation. He stepped over the threshold and grinned. “Howdy, Miss Willems. The new mercantile owners told me where I could find you. Workin’ as a maid an’ cook now, huh?” He chuckled. “Must be a real comedown for you.”

“Hamilton Dresden …” Christina pressed her palm to her fluttering heart. “I thought you’d left Brambleville.”

“Oh, I did.” He swung his hat against his pant leg, creating a
whish, whish, whish
that matched the pitch of the wind. “But as you can see, I’m back.”

Thunder rumbled. Tommy’s stomach clenched. He was hungry—lunch had been quite a while ago—but the twinge in his midsection wasn’t because of hunger. He hated the sound of thunder. Especially close thunder. The rumble and crash reminded him too much of another sound on the day his life had changed forever.

His hands started to shake. He’d mess up his weaving if he wasn’t careful. Eyes closed, tongue tucked in the corner of his lips, he formed a loose slipknot at the end of the strips, just as Mr. Jonnson had taught him. Not too tight, or he’d ruin the weaving above it, but tight enough to keep everything from unraveling. He ran his fingers over the knot. It felt fine. Real fine. He sat back on his haunches and let out a sigh.

Tap, tap, tap …
Raindrops pattered on the mill’s tin roof. Tommy didn’t mind the sound of rain. Like fingertips drumming on a desktop. Pa used to drum his fingers when he was deep in thought. Ma would say, “You’re gonna poke a hole through that wood if you’re not careful.” And Pa would grin. Tommy missed those days.

“We’d better get to the house.” Mr. Jonnson’s voice came from close by, startling Tommy out of his woolgathering. “Good, you’ve got that tied off. Let’s head in before the hard rain hits, or we’ll get soaked.”

A hand curled around Tommy’s upper arm, drawing him to his feet, and the hand tugged. Tommy trotted alongside Mr. Jonnson, his feet slipping on the wet ground. He didn’t bother counting the steps. Mr. Jonnson would tell him when they reached the porch.

“Up,” came the man’s voice, and Tommy lifted his foot. The porch boards felt solid beneath his soles. A door squeaked, and Mr. Jonnson’s palm on his back urged him inside. Tommy moved to the side to allow Mr. Jonnson to enter. Then he felt his way to the sofa. He stood with his hand on the sofa’s back, his skin tingling.

“The air is funny,” Tommy said.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. He couldn’t define what seemed different, but something made him feel as though pins pricked his scalp.

A soft chuckle carried across the room. “I think the storm’s just got you spooked. From the looks of things, we’re in for a real gullywasher.”

Tommy tipped his head, listening to the sound of the storm. The raindrops picked up their tempo, their
tap-taps
plinking hard and fast on the windows. The wind howled, and a clap of thunder rattled the panes. Tommy jumped.

“I’ll get us a fire going,” Mr. Jonnson said.
Thuds
and
thumps
let Tommy know Mr. Jonnson had dropped wood into the fireplace. “Once we take the chill off the room, it won’t feel so funny to you.”

Tommy eased onto the sofa cushion and pressed his palms between his knees. He hoped Mr. Jonnson was right because he couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was coming.

Chapter 24

Raindrops fell in a soft, steady patter. Gray shadows bathed every corner of the room. Midnight had passed, according to the chimes from the clock in the parlor, and tiredness plagued her, but worry—a more intense disquiet than she’d ever experienced before—held Christina’s eyelids open.

She didn’t want to be ensnared in fretfulness. Her father had often preached on the futility of worry. “Worry,” he’d said, “is telling God you don’t trust Him.” Christina examined her heart, seeking the faith she’d claimed as a young child and had staunchly defended her entire life. But her feeling of unease deepened because for the first time in her twenty-eight years, she found herself questioning whether or not God was truly there.

“Oh, Papa, I need your wisdom …” She whispered the plea to the gray-shrouded ceiling. But Papa couldn’t answer. And God had steadfastly ignored every prayer she’d uttered since the night of the fire. How else could she explain the mission board’s refusal to help rebuild, the delay of her own plans to repair the house, and the one-by-one removal of the people she’d grown to love? If she cried out to God now, would He listen? Unwilling to be rejected once again by her heavenly Father, she held her anguish inside, where it churned painfully through her stomach.

Thunder rumbled, and Cora stirred. She sat up, glancing around in apparent confusion until her gaze fell on Christina. She squinted for several seconds, as if trying to determine if she was awake or dreaming, and then she yawned. “Rain botherin’ you?”

Christina offered a mute nod that rustled the starched pillowcase beneath her head.

Cora sighed and lay back down, folding her hands over her stomach on the outside of the covers. “If it don’t stop soon, those men’ll put off rebuildin’ our walls for sure.” She peeked sideways at Christina. “But if it rains itself out by mornin’, think maybe it’ll be dry enough on Sunday for the men to do that buildin’?”

Christina grimaced. “Sunday’s a day of rest.”

Cora snorted. “For men maybe but not for womenfolk. We still hafta cook and clean up.” She yawned again, her stomach rising and falling. “Mrs. Beasley didn’t rent a room to that man who showed up tonight, did she?”

Christina’s pulse sped into double beats at the mention of Hamilton Dresden. Of all the people who’d entered the poor farm’s doors, he was the only one who’d made her feel uncomfortable. The day she’d informed him he could no longer stay at the poor farm since he had broken the stringent “no visiting rooms of residents of the opposite sex” rule, he’d turned menacing, vowing no woman would order him about. In her mind’s eye she could still see his snapping eyes and sneering lips. Had Wes not stepped up beside her in a show of support, Ham might not have left. Today he’d been congenial, chatting as if they’d never had an unpleasant word between them, but he still made her uneasy.

“No.” Great relief underscored Christina’s simple answer.

“Good,” Cora said on a sigh. “He looked like the type who would eat a body out of house an’ home. Didn’t look forward to cooking for him. It’d be a heap o’ work, I reckon.”

Recalling the large amounts of food the man had consumed while at the poor farm, Christina agreed. “Well, we needn’t worry about it. He won’t be staying here.” She didn’t bother to explain that Ham Dresden hadn’t been able to pay for a week in advance, one of Mrs. Beasley’s requirements. Christina had expected him to rant or to promise to have the money soon, but he’d merely tipped his hat—an amazingly nice hat, considering his presumably penniless state—and departed with a grin on his face. Yet she suspected they hadn’t seen the last of him.

“I suppose we can hold out one more week here.” Cora’s tone turned musing. Almost melancholy. “One week won’t make much difference. Sure it won’t.”

Christina wanted to scream that one week made a tremendous difference. Another week before she could insist Florie and Joe be returned to her care. Another week with Wes living in a stable. Another week away from Tommy. Another week of Herman and Harriet languishing far from their familiar home and of Louisa and Rose grating on each other’s nerves in their tiny shared room. Another week of feeling helpless and useless and aimless. Why couldn’t Cora understand she needed the poor farm house finished so she could regain her sense of self? But screaming would only wake the entire house and would solve nothing. She bit her lower lip and kept her thoughts inside.

After a few moments another yawn stretched Cora’s mouth wide. Then she rolled to her side, bouncing the bed. She settled, and soon deep, even breaths let Christina know she’d fallen asleep again. Christina closed her eyes, willing sleep to claim her as well, but when dawn broke, gray and drizzly rather than rosy and bright, she was awake to witness it.

Saturday morning after the breakfast cleanup, Christina braved the rain with a folded week-old newspaper held over her head as a makeshift umbrella and set off for the mercantile. Although the walk was only three blocks, by the time she reached the Creegers’ store, the paper lay in a soggy heap across her bonnet, and her dress was drenched. Mary Ann Creeger took one look at Christina and burst into laughter. But when Christina didn’t join in, she stilled her laughter and hurried around the counter, hands outstretched.

“I’d say this rainy day has washed away your sunniness, Christina. We don’t have a fire going in the stove to warm you, but I can offer a towel to blot some of that water.”

Christina dropped the sodden newspaper onto the cold stove. “There’s no sense in soiling one of your towels. I’ll only be here a few minutes, and then I’ll be out getting wet again. I came to speak with Mr. Creeger.”

“He left to make a delivery to Old Mrs. Bronson. It’s gotten too hard for her to get out, so we take her canned goods and such every week.”

“I hope he wore a slicker.” Christina scowled at the window, where raindrops danced in rivulets down the square panes. “I don’t think it’s ever going to stop.”

Mary Ann slung her arm around Christina’s wet shoulders and guided her to two carved rocking chairs tucked in the far corner of the store. “It’s quiet right now—quietest Saturday we’ve had since we moved to Brambleville. The rain’s got most everyone holed up, I reckon. I was bemoaning the lack of business to Jay earlier, but now I’m grateful. With nobody around needing my attention, I can take some time to chat.” She seated herself in one of the chairs and gestured to the other. “Sit a spell.”

Christina looked at the caned seat and finely formed spindles, then held out her soggy skirts. “I probably shouldn’t.”

Mary Ann waved her hand, wrinkling her nose. “If a wet skirt does it damage, then the chair isn’t worth its six-dollar price.” Christina still hesitated, and Mary Ann reached out to take her hand. “Please, Christina. Sit down and tell me what has you so heartsore. Can’t be just the rain that’s caused your sad face.”

Christina sank into the chair. “It shows that badly, hmm?”

Mary Ann released a short, light laugh. “The sparkle’s gone right out of your eyes. I know rainy days affect some people that way.”