by Ciara Knight
Vic sighed, unsure what to say to such an honest answer. “Tell me what happened. Why did you do it?”
“He said I set his place on fire, didn’t he?” Davey grabbed hold of his waistband and tugged his pants up higher with a crinkled nose. “He lies. No one believes us street kids, but we ain’t done nothin’ wrong. We made a fire in a trash can so we didn’t freeze last winter. He called The Buttons on us, so we scrammed.”
Relief flooded Vic. Perhaps he was being naïve because he liked Davey and Mr. Mason’s prickly nature added a sense of overreaction.
Davey wiped the front desk down, and Vic knew he needed to stop this before it got out of hand. “You’re a good worker, but I’m afraid I can’t hire you. Lunch was all I have to offer. In case you didn’t notice, there isn’t any business for toys right now.”
Davey didn’t pause or look up from his self-proclaimed job. “I work for food.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
Davey scanned the room as if looking for answers. “I won’t eat much, and I needs to learn a trade. You teach me, and I work.”
“I’m not going to take advantage of a young man who could be in school right now.” Vic studied the tiny man and wanted to give him the food off his own plate.
Davey swatted the air. “School’s for sissies. I need to earn my way.”
“Still can’t pay you, so that wouldn’t be earning your way.”
Davey shot to the front of the store and picked up the strange contraption that slinked or clunked or something like that. “Then I’ll work for one of these.”
Vic chuckled. The boy was full of determination and hope of a better life. An innocence Vic wished he himself still possessed, but war had ended his blind belief of a better tomorrow. “You like that thing?”
“You kidding? Mister, it’s the biggest invention since the atomic bomb.” Davey pushed it up and down between his hands, lighting up like a Christmas star.
Vic wanted to scold him for the insensitive comparison, but instead he walked over and looked down at the ragged, fleabag, lice-infested kid and thought he couldn’t possibly leave him to his own accord. He’d heed Mr. Mason’s warning, but he wouldn’t hold it against Davey. Rumors and accusations were not fact. Vic would form his own opinion about Davey while providing him with a chance in life. “Tell you what. You agree to learn to read and write, I’ll teach you how to carve toys. You’ll get food each day, and come Christmas, if you earn it by studying and working hard, you can have one of those things.”
“A slinky?” Davey smiled so wide Vic noticed the kid needed a toothbrush immediately.
“Yes.” Vic watched the kid’s mouth fall ajar as if he’d been given the keys to happiness.
“Tell you what,” Davey said, repeating Vic’s words. “You do that, I’ll even throw in some advice.” Davey set the slinky down on the display, climbed up onto a chair, and put his hand to Vic’s shoulder. “You need to woo that wife of yours, or she’s never gonna be happy. You got to give her a baby, too.”
Vic stepped away. “How’d you know about that?”
“Walls are thin and doors even thinner.” Davey pointed to the back of the shop. “That trash heap been good to us. We eat, take wood for fire, and listen to Mrs. B sing most days. But she ain’t sang since you returned. You need to make her sing again.”
He nodded his agreement but still narrowed his gaze at Davey. “If I’m going to let you work for me and learn, no more eavesdropping on me and Mrs. B. You got that?”
“I gots it.” Davey climbed down and headed to the desk, pulled out paper and pen, and set it down on the workbench. “Write a note to Mrs. B. Dames like poetry and stuff. You tell her how much you love her and show her. My granny always said words get you in the door, but actions build a warm fire on a cold night.”
“You had a wise granny.”
Davey stiffened. “I have. She still here. I’m no orphan.”
Vic knew the boy lied, but unless he wanted to turn him over to be shipped away to only God knew where, he needed to not ask too many questions. Vic had heard stories of overcrowded orphanages, abusive foster care, children placed without anyone knowing where they’d ended up. The systems in place were broken, and children paid the price. The war had left far too many children without parents or guardians. So he sat back and thought about what might make Rosie smile and sing again.
“What did you do when you were courting her?” Davey asked with a glint in his eyes. “Dames wanna feel special.”
Vic shrugged. “We’d go to the diner or a dance.”
“Well, that won’t work. Diner not open yet.” Davey bowed his head in defeat.
Vic thought back over the last few years and how he dreamed of a simpler life with his wife at home. The little man was right about one thing. Girls did like to feel special. Rosie deserved to feel special. That’s what was broken between them. In his attempt to control his passion, he’d kept his distance and made her feel like she wasn’t cherished. He needed to do something nice to show her how he felt about her. How he was the luckiest man on earth to have her as his wife, and how their home was the only place he wanted to be on Earth. “Wait. That’s it. If there isn’t anyplace I can take her right now, I’ll invent one.” He eyed the door and thought about his options. “I need your help, though. You in?”
“I’m in.” Davey shot his hand out, and Vic shook the tiny, dirty man-calloused fingers lost in his palm.
The sun began to dip below the old storefronts across the town square, so he knew he didn’t have much time. “Anywhere I can get flowers? A bottle of wine or anything else like that?”
“I’m on it. Flowers coming.” Davey hopped off the stool and raced out the front door. Vic didn’t care what Mr. Mason said. That kid was something special. All he wanted to do was make his own way in life and to feel important.
He’d go set Mr. Mason straight under the guise of looking for wine at his store. Wait, not wine. Instead, he’d recreate their first date at the soda fountain. He stood at the front door and looked out the window to see no customers in sight. With a heavy heart but a hope he hadn’t felt in a while, he closed up shop and raced to the general store before it closed.
“Hi, Mr. Bessler. What can I do for you?” Mr. Mason asked in a forced pleasant tone. His little girl hid behind him with golden Shirley Temple-style curls dusting her pink cheeks.
“I’m hoping that you might have some root beer and ice cream I can take with me,” Vic said, eyeing the shelves that had been restocked recently.
At the realization that he’d make a sale, the man’s toned changed to schmoozing. “You’re in luck. I’ve got Ma’s Root Beer and some Old Mill ice cream.” Mr. Mason pointed to the soda bottle on the shelf, and his little one skittered over, snagged it, and ran back behind Mr. Mason. The bottle appeared on the counter with a tiny hand that retreated quickly.
“I see you have a helper.”
“Yes, my little girl Melba is with me today. No school and all.”
“I’ve managed to inherit a helper of my own. I wanted you to know that I heard your warning, but I think there was a misunderstanding. The children were only attempting to stay warm and had no malicious intent with their fire. As a matter of fact, the sweet boy is out searching for some flowers for me. I’m not sure where he’ll find them, but knowing Davey, he’ll manage.”
The golden curls popped out along with two bright blue eyes. “Davey?” Melba asked with eyebrows raised and a bright smile.
“Yes, he’s going to apprentice with me next door while he learns some reading and writing.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Mr. Mason’s faux smile shook as if it were about to curl into a snarl. “I think you are making a mistake, though. Those street kids need some discipline and guidance now that their families are gone. I’ve attempted to help them by calling the authorities, but by the time they arrive, the kids are gone. I worry they’ll grow up to be miscreants.” He patted his little one’s head and scooted
her behind him once more, as if to protect her from the bad boy Davey. “If you insist on allowing them around your shop, I would appreciate you keeping them contained on your premises and away from Melba. No daughter of mine will be associating with such riffraff.”
Vic’s temper sparked, but he managed to keep it at a simmer. “We all must do what we believe is best.”
“That’ll be twenty-five cents, sir,” Mr. Mason said in a calm manner that reminded Vic he was no longer around soldiers and it was time for him to work on his gruffness, so he forced a friendly smile despite the parting of money he shouldn’t be throwing away. No, this was an investment in his marriage, a luxury but also a necessity.
“Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant evening.” Vic tipped his hat to Mr. Mason and headed to the house, his belly churning with first-date jitters.
At the entrance to their home, he took a deep breath. This was the first time he’d looked forward to anything in almost four years, excluding his ideal of returning home. Thank the dear Lord the war had ended, although the ghosts of his lost brothers and his full mobility would forever haunt him. He couldn’t surrender to the madness. Not when there was a life with his beautiful Rosie.
“Got ’em.” Davey’s breath heaved between words. “They pretty enough to win Mrs. B back to you, I’m sure of it.”
Davey bent over, one hand on his knee and the other outstretched with wildflowers. Beautiful yellow, lavender, and white blooms with slightly wilted stalks were scrunched together in his grip.
“How did you find these? It’s winter.”
“Best you not ask,” Davey said with a mischievous, cherry-cheeked grin. If the boy washed up, he’d be an adorable little man with his dimples and bright eyes. Something told him little Melba already saw past his dirt, grime, and lice.
“Understood.” He should reprimand Davey, but he was doing what he could to survive. No different than men at war. “Thank you, sir. I have one more job for you.”
“What’s that, Mr. B?”
Vic removed the invitation he’d written on the piece of paper and handed it to Davey. “Wait a minute after I enter the house, and then go to the back where Rosie is working and give her this.”
“I’m on it.” Davey took the note and bolted ten steps and then froze as if remembering the rest of the instructions.
Quietly, Vic opened the front door and peered inside. As he’d suspected, Rosie was nowhere to be seen. The only evidence was the slight aroma of her fresh-smelling lotion. He closed the door and went to the kitchen. His pulse hammered and his heart pounded with anticipation. This would work. This would fix things between them, and they would talk, laugh, and hold hands like they did before they were married. A new beginning.
And he couldn’t wait to start the rest of his life with Rosie.
Chapter Five
Mr. Mesa’s goat bleated at the edge of the field shared between their homes. They had the best view in town with the last of the sun rays drifting below the white-capped mountains in the distance. It wouldn’t be long before the snow reached the little town of Sugar Maple.
Last winter, the streets were devoid of life. Only on occasion did Rosie catch a glimpse of Mrs. Slaughter across the street when she walked into town for supplies. The poor widow. Rosie should’ve done more to help after she’d lost her husband, but she’d succumbed to her own grief and wanted to hide from the world herself. How had Mrs. Slaughter been so strong?
Rosie stretched the kinks from her back and tossed the paintbrush down. The table glistened in the dim light with the varnish she’d finished. Pride filled her from a job well done. Toys were more Vic’s thing, a family heritage, but she liked building solid pieces that families could utilize for years to come.
“Excuse me.” A tiny boy’s voice sounded from the corner of the house. Rosie looked up to find little Davey. It had been a long time since he’d hung around her home. Not since Esther had died.
A lump lodged in her throat, making it difficult to speak.
“I know you don’t want me ’round here, but I have message for you. I’m just delivering it is all.” He jutted out his threadbare coat–covered arm with a white paper extending from beneath the oversize cuff.
She wiped her hands clean on a towel to give her a moment to think about how to deal with the child. Guilt plagued her at the thought of how so many had taken to the streets with nowhere to go, but she couldn’t save them. How could she help all of those lost and forgotten when she couldn’t help one little girl? “Thank you.” She took it from his shaking hand.
She eyed the crinkled paper. “What’s this?”
“Don’t know. Can’t read it,” Davey said with his gaze downcast.
Mrs. Rosie Bessler, would you please do me the honor of allowing me to escort you this evening to the soda shop? Please put on that fine new dress and meet me in the parlor.
Love,
Victor Bessler
“Did Mr. Bessler give this to you?” She looked up to find Davey had disappeared from sight.
Confused but intrigued, she spied a light inside the house. A distant howl reminded her it was time to call it a night anyway, and she needed to heat up the stew she’d made. She cleaned her work area and faced the back door, unsure what would be waiting on the other side. With one more glance at the note, she decided to follow its instructions and headed straight to the bedroom. The thought of Victor taking her out made her giddy, feeling like their first date when they’d gone to the soda shop to meet all their friends. Her parents were none too happy. They were older than most and stuck to traditions, so she’d been shocked when they’d acquiesced. Maybe they knew they weren’t going to be around much longer and thought it time for her to move on to start her own family. She’d barely been married a few weeks when her father passed and her mother a month later from a broken heart. She thanked God every day for not leaving her alone in the world. Not until the war anyway.
Not wanting to allow the gloomy thoughts to take hold, she fixed her hair, makeup, and put on the dress. Her pulse sped at the thought that he wanted her to wear it for him. She even used the last dab of her perfume she’d rationed since before the war. With nervous bubbles like she’d drunk a Coca-Cola too quickly, she smoothed out any wrinkles in her skirt and put on a smile before she entered the parlor, but he wasn’t there. “Vic?”
“Come in here, please,” he called from the direction of the kitchen. She made her way into the kitchen, where the smell of stew overpowered her senses, but when she turned the corner, she spotted a candle lit in the center of the table with two floats resting on either side. “I’m afraid the soda shop won’t be open for another week or so. I hope this will do for now.”
He pulled out a chair and directed her to sit. What an effort he’d made. She slid into the chair and waited for him to join her as he gazed at her from a gentlemanly distance. She didn’t take offense to his distance this time, since it was obvious he was acting like he had on their first date—nervous, shy, yet confident and attentive. “Thank you. This is lovely.”
“It’s a root beer float. Is it still your favorite?” he asked with a hesitant smile.
“It is. Although, it’s been so long since I’ve indulged.” She eyed the yummy creation and fought for something to say, realizing she was just as clumsy around him as when they’d first met. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” He lifted his spoon and held it out the way he had many years ago; it had become a tradition she’d forgotten about. She lifted her spoon, and they clinked before he dug into the foamy surface. “And how was your day?”
“Good.” She stopped herself from speaking about her own work, thinking it wasn’t wifely of her to do. “What an indulgence, and before dinner. I’m afraid I only made stew.” She lowered her spoon, chastising herself for not making a better meal because she was too busy working.
He laughed. Not a sound of reprimand but of joy. “The minute I smelled your fresh stew, it took me back to when we first married. To a simpl
er time. I stood in the center of the kitchen with my eyes closed, ice cream melting, savoring the aroma.”
A glimpse of happiness filled her. “Really?”
“Yes, it’s one of my favorite dishes. Did you know that I used to tell my men about that stew? I’d dream about it and you serving it at the table.”
“I must confess that I didn’t know that you liked it so much and I made it so I could continue working instead of stopping to cook.” She pressed her lips together. “I promise to make something better tomorrow.”
“Better? I was hoping we’d have enough to eat it again.” He took a heaping spoonful of ice cream, sending tan foam dripping down the sides of the glass.
She grabbed the napkin from her lap and mopped up the residue before it hit the tablecloth. When she realized he watched her every move, she decided to follow his lead and not worry about the amount of scrubbing it would take to remove the stain, or about dinner, or about work, or money, or war, or children. She leaned back, retrieved her spoon, and dug in. The sweet, cool liquid melted in her mouth and slid down her throat in a euphoric blend of sugar and memories. Earthy, unctuous, and a little acidic with hints of vanilla and sassafras coated in creamy goodness. With her eyes closed, she savored each individual flavor and the way they concocted such a treat when mixed together. How long had it been since she’d tasted ice cream or soda? A luxury she never indulged in over the last few years.
He leaned over and dabbed the corner of her lips, his gaze transfixed on her mouth, as if thinking about kissing her for the first time, but then he retreated back to his seat.
“Thank you.” She looked at him, analyzing the small cut at the corner of his right eye that added character and the way he sat with his bad leg outstretched instead of under the table. Yet his eyes, mouth, chin, cheeks, hair…all were familiar to her. “Familiar strangers,” she mumbled.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She dove into her float for another bite of bliss, savoring it before she spoke again. “I said familiar strangers. It sounds silly, but I know you…but then I don’t. It’s as if we know each other yet we have only just met.”
