“Oh.” Helene’s widow’s peak moved up and down above her forehead wrinkles. “I guess not.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “Well then, go on. I’ll do as much as I can, but don’t be surprised if I leave most of the cleaning for you to finish in the morning.”
She headed for the parlor, propping the door open. “There’s no mess upstairs, is there? I surely hope George didn’t break anything when he fell.”
Dottie stared in disbelief. “No. I brought his rug down to wash, that’s all.”
Helene whooshed toward the stairs. Heaviness Dottie hadn’t experienced in a long, long time descended. She checked the stove to be sure nothing would scorch, stuck her arms into her wool coat sleeves, and tied on her scarf. She yanked her rubber boots over her shoes and trudged out the back door.
Her feet, heavy as oil barrels, led her home like Daisy and Lilly, Papa’s old mares. When Al ran up, she accepted his suggestion without question.
Something awful had happened today, something earth shattering. It had to do with her hope for the world. Helene’s attitude drained her, temporarily, of that hope. How could that woman be so uncaring, so crass?
The old armchair’s familiarity held her, soothed her. She dozed off and didn’t even hear Al cross the back porch and tap at the kitchen door.
Chapter Seven
Al let himself into the kitchen, set a pot on the table, and ran back home for a glass pie plate. He slipped off his shoes and set the pie on the granite surface of Dottie’s cupboard. Then he went back into the cold porch for a rag and swiped swirls of snow from the linoleum.
“Dottie?”
Poor woman must have fallen asleep. Good for her—she needed rest. He quietly set the table and turned on the gas under her water kettle.
At first when he tiptoed into the dining room, he couldn’t see her from the living room archway. Drenched in shadows away from the streetlight, the shadowy space challenged his vision. When he located Dottie folded into her armchair, his heart did a triple beat. He knew she was awfully tired, but maybe—He hunkered down until he heard her clear, regular breathing. A wave of relief flooded him—he quaked at the very idea of losing her. Yes, now that’s how he thought of Dottie Kyle, Nan’s best friend. He might as well admit it.
He steadied himself with a hand on the plaster archway, mentally reviewing their fishing jaunt. Everything Dottie did that night impressed him, and she’d been constantly on his mind ever since. His heart was all bound up in her.
But did she harbor the same feelings for him? He doubted it. All he could do was pray, wait, and try whatever came into his mind to woo her.
Accustomed to the dim light after a few moments, her simple furnishings caught his attention. They were similar to his, although Nan splashed some turquoise throughout their living room. He liked the way things blended here in Dottie’s front room—muted yellows, deep brown, and rose tones met in a quiet way, reflecting her personality.
Careful not to make any noise, he shuttled stocking-footed back to the kitchen to make tea. When he lifted the yellow ceramic teapot from its shelf above the stove, a stained piece of stationery drifted to the stovetop. He couldn’t avoid reading the few words in Nan’s handwriting.
“To my dearest friend. Thank you, Dottie.” Must be a note Nan sent long ago. But Dot had kept it—she had few friends, as far as he knew, unlike Nan, who attracted chatty pals who used to come over often. Yet Nan always turned to Dottie when she was really hurting. No wonder she’d written my dearest friend.
A trace of guilt heated Al’s neck as he scooped a good-sized spoonful of tea from its white enamelware container. He shouldn’t have read the note, although it was too late now. The vision of Dottie asleep two rooms away eased his conscience—she was too kind to take offense at such a small thing.
Maybe he’d drink tea tonight, instead of coffee. She probably didn’t have coffee in the house anyway. He took a whiff of the dry black leaves before replacing the lid. He could get used to drinking tea. He would make whatever changes he needed to. His own sigh startled him—better take it easy, not get his hopes up too high.
He tiptoed back into the living room, thankful that this house was far newer than his. At home, every floorboard he touched would squawk. At the precise moment he reached the curved archway, Dottie raised her head.
“Al?” Her voice sounded so sleepy, he wanted to tuck the afghan in around her.
“Yeah. You hungry?”
Her arm stretched out from the chair. “I must’ve fallen asleep. What time is it, anyway?”
“About six-thirty. I’ve got a feast for you in the kitchen.”
“Really? Good. I don’t think I could have cooked anything tonight.”
He took a few steps toward her and held out his hand. “Come on. You need some nutrition.”
She let him help her up. His heart raced at her touch. He had to get hold of himself—Dot wasn’t one for any sort of swooning.
“Sorry. Don’t know what came over me—we had a hard afternoon at the house.”
“You can tell me all about it if you want to. I’ve got tea ready for us, too.” They moved toward the kitchen’s light.
“Tea? You?”
“Yup. I’m converting.”
Her eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be. Wonders never cease.”
“My Gramps used to say bless my buttons, and followed it with ‘wonders never cease.’” He pulled out her chair and she dropped into it. “And Grandma Jensen swore by a good cup of tea for whatever ailed a person.”
He poured her a steaming cup, and one for himself. Pungent steam laced the air, and though the scent was mild compared to coffee, he found comfort in it, as Dottie seemed to. Then he dished up two bowls of chicken and noodles he had nursed all day on the slow back burner. All afternoon, he plotted to share them and his extra bounty with her. And now, the moment had come.
“Chicken and dumplings? Don’t tell me you made this yourself?”
“I did. Nan taught me, once she got so sick. She had a craving for it every once in a while, so I had her show me how to make the recipe.”
“I didn’t realize she craved noodles.” Dottie took a bite, aware of his eyes on her. “They taste just like hers.”
“She used to say the blend of salty broth and flour soothed her throat.”
“Hmm.” Talk went by the wayside as they ate the mild, satisfying concoction.
“Her mother used to make noodles, too, when all they had was eggs and hand-ground flour in the house. They satisfied a longing in her, especially salted down and cooked in chicken broth. Know what I mean?”
Dottie nodded. “Now I remember—that’s what Nan brought over when we lost Bill.” They cleaned their plates in easy silence.
“I have something else for you.” He jumped up and brought the pie to the table.
“Another pie? You made it yourself this time?” Dottie pulled off the towel cover and stared at him, her lips turned out like Bill’s when he was a little boy. If ever a child looked like his mother, it was that one.
She pinched a tiny piece of crust into her mouth and exclaimed, “No, I don’t think so.”
“You recognize it?”
“Of course. No other woman in this town makes her piecrust with a tablespoon of vinegar. I’d say Henrietta Perry has struck again.”
Heat prickled Al’s neck as he sat down. “Guilty as charged. You should be a detective.”
“Does she have any idea what you do with all the food she brings you?”
“I suppose she thinks I eat it. And mostly, that’s true. I’ve only shared with you.”
He scrutinized Dottie’s expression, unsure if her quirked brow showed amusement or disapproval. “You don’t mind eating Henrietta’s baked goods, do you?”
“No, not exactly. I mean—she’s a great cook. But I think she might have a problem with me benefitting from her heartfelt gifts.”
Her tone maintained cheer, but those dark eyes spoke of something else going on, s
omething deeper. Al sat down and picked up his fork.
“What happened at the boarding house today?”
“Oh, Al.” The tremor in her voice startled him.
Dottie’s dimples showed for a moment as she grimaced, but then returned to her normal controlled expression. She would tell him when she was ready. One thing he felt sure about, Dot couldn’t be pushed into anything. Obviously, she’d decided to wait until after they finished their pie, which was fine with him.
In a few minutes, a smile lit her eyes. She touched her stomach.
“Oh, my, that pie is so good. Thanks for bringing it over.” She glanced at the clock. “I still should be at work, but something upsetting happened today. I left early.”
Sounded pretty serious. She stayed late plenty, but never left work early. He tried to keep his voice even. “Upsetting?”
“Not like you might think.”
“How might I think?”
She didn’t answer for a while. “I guess you know I’m not a crier—I mean, upset like that.”
“When you say you’re upset, that’s enough for me, Dot, tears or no tears.”
Her cheeks colored. “Hmm.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “I realized something today that bothers me to my toes. Don’t know if I can talk about it just yet.”
Al worked on the last of his pie. He wanted her to feel free to tell him anything, yet a part of him didn’t want to know. If it was bad enough to upset her, it had to be something awful. He almost blurted out the first thing that came into his mind, but thought better of it. Best to err on the side of silence. He refilled their cups and returned to the table.
When he set her cup down, Dottie’s face cracked. He blinked hard. What would he do if she did cry?
“Al, you don’t owe me anything. Do you really want to hear about my day?”
“I sure do. What are neighbors for?”
Her gulp was loud enough for him to hear clear over in his house. “George Hanson may have had a heart attack today. You know who he is?”
He leaned closer. “He’s come into the hardware a few times over the years. Nice fella, really quiet.”
“Bonnie Mae found him on the floor up in his room this afternoon. Doc took him to the hospital in Heston. But then Helene chided me for calling Doc, and vowed she wouldn’t spend the money for a long-distance call to see how he’s doing.”
Her first two sentences came out in spurts, like the new electric irons when they were warming up. But the rest of the details exited her mouth in an avalanche. Severe creases formed permanent pleats on her forehead, and he wanted to smooth them away.
“I’ve had my share of dealings with Helene down at the store, so her penny-pinching attitude doesn’t surprise me one bit, but this is one of her boarders. How could she be so hard-hearted?”
He tamped down a rising tide of indignation and glanced at his watch. “You want me to drive you over to Heston to check on George?”
Dottie’s jaw dropped. “You would do that?”
“Sure. Visiting hours last ’til eight-thirty, I think.”
“George doesn’t have anybody, Al, and Helene doesn’t care about him at all.” Her eyes brimmed. He’d only seen her like that one time, when Owen died. With Bill, she’d kept it all inside, at least in front of him and Nan.
One day, a few weeks after word came about Bill, Owen told him he couldn’t stand it if Dottie didn’t stop going up to Bill’s room. When he confronted her, she responded that she needed to smell Bill’s clothes, touch his high school letter jacket, and re-read his last letters. That would be Dottie—grieving in her own quiet way.
“Get your coat.”
“But isn’t it still sleeting out there?”
“Nope. Stopped before I came over, and I heard the county truck go by to sand the streets.”
She glanced around the kitchen as if seeking something but slid her chair back, and returned from the dining room wearing her coat and scarf. Energy coursed through Al.
“I’ll get the truck started while you put on your boots.”
Cold wind sent a flurry through the cab, but the engine roared to life. In the darkness, he felt for the blanket he kept behind the seat and nudged it toward Dottie when she sat down. Al jammed his palm hard on the lever that controlled the outside air to be sure the vent was shut tight. In the small space, his elbow touched Dottie’s as he turned the wheel to back out.
The old engine purred down Main Street. Good thing he’d given it an overhaul recently—for such a time as this. Businesses on Sternville had locked up for the night. Only Almira’s café showed activity, but as they passed, those lights dimmed, too. Al accelerated on the outskirts of town.
“At least no ice is falling, eh?”
Dottie gave him an arched-brow look while she sorted out his words. “Right.” She practically shouted over the truck’s noise. Talking would be impossible from here on out.
Darkness hid the farmhouses along the gravel road, one he’d traveled often enough during Owen’s sickness when Al ran his mail route for him. So far, the moon hadn’t risen, so he kept a watchful eye for deer, fox, raccoon, or possum darting from fence lines and groves.
The shoulders looked slick—hopefully they wouldn’t meet any traffic from the other direction. He leaned over the wheel, especially when shifting at corners. His hands, so cold they almost stuck to the clammy wheel, fought him. Why hadn’t he run home for his gloves? His cold toes and ankles reminded him he’d left his boots behind, too.
Dottie surely knew how to maintain quiet when a person needed it. Without her beside him on the cracked leather seat, the thick darkness beyond the twin arcs illuminating the road might have struck him as eerie. As it was, resolute calmness filled him. He had a mission to fulfill, like delivering the U.S. mail those weeks before Owen died. Still, he breathed easier when a few lights flickered in the distance.
“We can already see Heston.”
He thought she replied, “Good,” but wasn’t sure, with the cylinders cranking beneath the hood. An obscure clatter, kind of like a bolt coming loose in the steering column, drew Al’s attention out of all the various sounds issuing from under the hood.
He’d better check on that tomorrow. For now, he basked in the reality of being this close to Dottie for an extended time, and the blessed responsibility of getting her where she wanted to go.
****
The county seat of Heston edged a curve of the Maple River, the town’s lights creating an S punctuated by tall oak groves, low undergrowth, and a wide swatch of pines. Through towering tree trunks, the river shimmered in the background. The night beauty beckoned Dottie. She hadn’t been out like this after supper for a long time.
She tried to remember when—maybe last year on Christmas Eve when Millie and her brood drove up to spend a couple of days and they all went to the late candlelight service. Those three grandchildren had grown up so fast—at thirteen, Alice was developing into a young woman already. Walking home from church, the two of them linked arms and Alice commented on a sky blazing with stars.
“Do you think Grandpa Owen can see us?”
Dottie hadn’t known how to answer. “Maybe—do you think so?”
“Yeah. He was a Christmas sort of guy.” Her words stuck with Dottie for a long time. She supposed Alice meant Owen’s fun-loving, cheerful nature—of course, the grandchildren only saw him on holidays.
Only one lone star peered down at them tonight, and she wished for more. Maybe by the time they came home, the haze would rise and the heavens could strut their stuff.
When her heartbeat calmed after a few miles, she noticed a patch of brown below her feet. What was that? Then it hit her—it was the gravel road, seen through an odd-shaped hole in the floorboard—she recalled it from that fishing trip she and Al took. No wonder the cab was so cold.
Al hunched over the steering wheel, his lean profile intense in the dashboard’s dim light. He looked like Ichabod Crane, from a story she’d read the children ag
es ago. After a while, he reached for a knob and yanked on it.
“The heater works, but it takes a while. Sorry.” He yelled the message above the engine’s loud hum.
“It’s fine.” Her reply never reached him, she was pretty sure.
She really hadn’t spent that much time in vehicles. Her dad, not much of a forward thinker, rebelled against the new automobile craze in her youth. He never did switch over from draft horses to a mechanized tractor.
By the time another farmer rented the land and allowed for some innovation, she lived with Mildred, but she’d inherited her dad’s penchant for judging that they had enough, whatever they did have. When something new came along, she always eyed it with suspicion, like the kitchen faucet. Owen saw to it they got one, but she’d been perfectly happy with the pump sitting atop the counter. It wasn’t until after the change that she embraced the helpful convenience, wondering why she’d resisted it for so long.
Al turned off to the south, and several more stars appeared. She could have sworn one of them winked at her, and she took a longer look out the window. She’d have to find reasons to come outside at night more often. If she weren’t so blamed tired after work, she’d take an evening walk like she always used to, unless the weather was truly terrible.
Good for the digestion. Mildred used to say that about her evening walks. Dottie let out a long sigh—seeing the stars reminded her that all was right with the world, even when things got out of hand.
Another source of awe seeped through her. Al had taken up George’s cause as soon as he heard about the heart attack. He offered his time, his pickup, and his gasoline, although he barely knew the boarder. She tilted her head to glimpse him through the corner of her eye, and the sight of him so intent on reaching their destination touched her heart. Al Jensen was a good man—a very good man.
A house or two came into view, and then a whole street full. Al maneuvered the vehicle through town as though he made this trip every day. Now, heat gushed from the dashboard. The warm barrage brought feeling back to Dottie’s feet.
At a stop sign, Al turned her way. “Sorry it’s so cold. But the road wasn’t icy—I’m mighty glad for that.”
In This Together Page 6
