by Amanda Cabot
Mr. Williams said nothing, merely stared at Emma as if she were a new species. Perhaps she was. Though Mark’s travels had brought him into contact with small children, it was possible that his father and uncle had had primarily adult male companionship, and for however long he’d lived here, Mr. Williams would have had no companions. Surely he’d be happier living in town.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Mark expanded on Celia’s suggestion. “Mrs. Anderson runs a mighty fine boardinghouse. You wouldn’t have to cook at all if you lived there.”
Wrenching his gaze from Emma and her spoon, the older man shook his head. “No offense, ma’am, but there’s too many folks in Easton for me. Why, Doc said you’re up to 150 now. With that many, a man couldn’t turn around without bumpin’ into someone else. No, ma’am, that’s not the place for me. I’m comfortable right here.”
When Celia glanced at Mark, she saw that his lips were threatening to turn upward, as if he were slightly amused by his uncle’s response. He kept his voice neutral as he said, “You’d be more comfortable if the wind didn’t blow through the cracks and the snow stayed outside.”
That got an immediate response. Mr. Williams straightened his back and glared at Mark. “You criticizing my home, boy?”
Mark shook his head. “Simply stating a fact. I told Mrs. Anderson I didn’t think you’d want to move, so I brought some boards and a ladder. I was hoping you’d let me repair your roof.”
For a moment the two men stared at each other, and Celia had the impression they were communicating without words. At last, Mr. Williams nodded. “That’s mighty generous of you, Mark. I cain’t say no to that offer.” Mr. Williams shook his head, and his face reddened ever so slightly. “I hate to admit it, but I’m gettin’ too old to climb up on the roof.” He glanced at the window and cocked his head to one side, as if listening for something. “Looks like a fine day to go on the roof. For once, that blasted wind ain’t blowin’, so I won’t have no worries about you gettin’ blowed off. But we oughta eat first.” He made a show of sniffing the air before he grinned at Celia. “Forgit about movin’ into town. If this tastes as good as it smells, I may just keep you here.”
The meal was more pleasant than Celia had dared hope, with both Mark and his uncle keeping the conversation flowing. To her relief, Mark’s earlier wariness appeared to have dissipated, and his uncle seemed to enjoy the company, even when Emma began to cry. Though she knew he’d deny it, Celia suspected that the older man was lonely but too proud to admit it. Before the pound cake was served, she resolved that, one way or another, Mark’s uncle would not spend Christmas alone.
“A meal like that makes a man think about napping, not crawling on a roof,” Mark said as he laid his fork on his now-empty plate. When they were headed back to town, he would thank Celia again and again, not just for the best meal he suspected his uncle had eaten in months but for accompanying him. He knew she hadn’t wanted to come, and he had seen her concern over the cabin’s poor condition, but having her and Emma here had smoothed the rough moments, helping Mark and his uncle establish an amicable relationship.
“C’mon, Mark. Naps are for babies,” Lionel declared. “Let’s let Miz Anderson put her daughter to sleep. She don’t want her fussin’ when her pa gets home.”
Mark heard Celia’s quick intake of breath, but before he could correct his uncle’s mistaken belief, she spoke. “Emma’s father died before she was born. He was killed in the mine.”
“Oh.” Lionel’s gaze moved from Celia to Emma and back again. “I’m mighty sorry, ma’am. I had no way of knowin’. Sorry,” he repeated.
Not wanting to dwell on Celia’s loss, Mark led the way outside, pulling the ladder from the wagon and propping it against the house. Though no one would call it a warm day, at least there had been no fresh snow overnight and the sun had melted the ice from the roof.
“I’ll hold the end,” his uncle said, inspecting the ladder while Mark began to gather his tools. “I shore wouldn’t want you to fall. I reckon Miz Anderson would be mighty upset if that was to happen.” He grabbed one of the boards Mark had brought and carried it to the foot of the ladder. “She’s a mighty fine woman, Miz Anderson is,” Lionel said as he laid the plank on the ground. “A woman like her could make even a man with itchy feet think about settlin’ down. I reckon that’s what happened to Abe.”
Mark didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading. He was here to repair his uncle’s cabin. If he started thinking about his parents, who knew what might happen? He could tumble off the roof. But he couldn’t let his uncle’s statement go unchallenged. “Celia’s not like my mother.”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re both mighty fine-lookin’ women. That could turn a man’s head.” Lionel put a hand on Mark’s shoulder, keeping him from climbing the ladder. “I reckon you don’t want an old man’s advice, but I’m gonna give it, anyhow. Don’t make the same mistake your ma and pa did. They should never a’ done what they did—get themselves hitched, then live apart.”
Although Mark agreed, his uncle was simplifying the story. Tugging the brim of his hat to block the sun’s rays, Mark said, “Ma didn’t have a choice.”
“You think so? We all got choices. Even your ma. Abe begged her to come with us. He waited ’til you was born, hopin’ she’d change her mind, but Grace was too scared of the unknown to take a chance.” When Mark started to protest, Lionel held up a restraining hand. “I ain’t sayin’ Abe was right, either. All I know is, it were a downright shame that two folks who loved each other the way they did spent their whole lives apart.”
While he tugged his hat brim to shield his eyes from the sun, Mark’s mind seized on one part of his uncle’s speech. “You think they loved each other?” If they had, perhaps that was the reason Ma had not remarried. That was far more palatable than the idea that she had considered her marriage a mistake or that she’d had suitors who would have been poor fathers.
Lionel’s expression said the answer should have been obvious. “Sakes alive, yes. Problem was, neither one was willin’ to bend. They shore was two stubborn folks.” He pointed his finger at Mark. “I hope to heavens you ain’t like that.”
Some might claim Mark was stubborn in his refusal to stop searching for his father. “I might be. I don’t know.”
Lionel squinted, as if trying to see within Mark’s heart. “I’m gonna give you some more advice. Don’t let Miz Anderson slip away from you. Gals like that don’t come along but once in a lifetime.” His eyes narrowed even more. “And don’t go tellin’ me you don’t care. I can see in your eyes that you do.”
“I do care about her.” Mark wondered if his uncle was as surprised as he was that he had revealed that. Here he was, telling a stranger about his deepest feelings. And yet, perhaps it was because Lionel wasn’t simply a stranger but what Celia had called a connected stranger.
“If things were different, I might be courting her,” Mark admitted.
Lionel grabbed another board from the wagon. When he had laid it next to the others, he frowned at Mark. “How different do they need to be? Seems to me, if you care about Miz Anderson, you oughta ask her to marry you. What’s the problem? What’s gotta be different?”
Mark wondered how much his bachelor uncle would understand. “There’s more than Celia to think about. There’s Emma too. She deserves a good pa.” And that was the problem. “How could I be that when I don’t know anything about being a father—good or bad? It’s not as if I had an example to follow.”
Lionel was silent for a moment, as if considering Mark’s concerns. “You could learn,” he said at last.
He made it sound simple, but it wasn’t. Just as not everyone could be a carpenter, Mark knew not everyone could be a good father.
“That would mean risking Emma’s happiness. I’m not willing to do that.” She would be better off with a man who’d proven himself as a father, a man like Jacob. That was what Emma needed. Wasn’t it?
“That was the best oyst
er pudding I ever ate.” Hiram smacked his lips to emphasize his words. “I hope you’ll make it again next Thanksgiving.”
“I agree,” Mark chimed in. “It was definitely the best I’ve ever eaten. Of course”—his lips turned up—“it was also the only oyster pudding I’ve ever eaten.”
As he’d probably intended, Celia laughed. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or not.”
The two men had remained at the table after the rest of the guests had dispersed to stand in corners, talking, smoking, and taking occasional surreptitious swigs from the jugs of spirits that someone had smuggled into the church. The forbidden whiskey was as much a part of Easton’s Thanksgiving tradition as the succulent foods.
When Hiram rose to join the smokers, Mark moved to the seat on Celia’s right. Emma lay sleeping in a basket on her other side, despite the almost deafening sounds of close to two hundred people talking. Now that her daughter was asleep, Celia could eat dessert. It had been a challenge, holding Emma while she ate dinner, and though she had a cup of coffee and a piece of pie in front of her, Celia had yet to taste it.
“Be flattered,” Mark said. “The pudding was very good, and your pound cake was even better than the one you made for Lionel. He talks about that every time I visit.”
Celia’s smile broadened. In the few hours she’d spent with him, she’d become fond of the gruff old man. That was why she was glad that Mark continued to visit him, even though it meant that she saw Mark less often. The trips into the forest took time he could ill afford, and with Christmas approaching, he had no recourse but to spend his evenings in the workshop. It was a major concession that he’d come to the Thanksgiving celebration today, and even then, he’d only agreed to join Easton’s and Cedarville’s citizens for dinner. Though he’d claimed work as an excuse for not attending the worship service, Celia was certain that was not his only reason. As far as she knew, he’d not set foot inside the church.
“Have you convinced your uncle to spend Christmas with us?” When she’d mentioned the idea to Mark, he’d agreed that it was a good one and had offered to try to persuade Mr. Williams.
Mark shook his head. “I think he’s weakening, but he’s still refusing.”
Celia took a bite of pie. Unlike the men, who had insisted on having pieces of her pound cake, she had chosen a wedge of Bertha’s apple pie for her dessert. “Do you suppose bribery would work?”
Mark’s lips twitched with amusement. “I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”
“Tell him I’ll serve pound cake for dinner and I’ll make an extra one just for him.”
Amusement turned into laughter. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that seals the deal.”
When Emma started to fuss again, Celia gathered her into her arms and rose. Sometimes just pacing back and forth soothed her daughter. She smiled, looking down at the child who had brought such happiness to her life. Though Emma would not remember it, her first Thanksgiving had been a success by anyone’s standards. The parson’s sermon about gratitude had helped Celia recognize that although the past year had brought many changes to her life, most of them had been good ones. She had spent the rest of the day following Reverend Pearson’s advice and had counted her blessings.
There had been many today, with good company and good food high on the list. Frank had been pleased when the oyster pudding was available as their group made their way through the line. It wasn’t coincidence, Celia was certain, but the result of Bertha’s careful planning, and that gave her another reason to give thanks—for friends like Bertha. The only problem had been Emma. Celia’s normally gregarious daughter seemed anxious today. The reason could be, as one of the other mothers had suggested, the presence of all the strangers. Celia hoped that was the case, for it was far better than the possibility that Emma had contracted another illness.
Mark stretched out his arms. “Let me hold her. You deserve to enjoy your pie. Emma will be fine with me for a couple minutes.”
She would. Celia knew that. “Thank you,” she said as she sat down on the bench. “Give me five minutes.”
Nodding, Mark carried Emma toward the door. Since he’d grabbed the blanket, he was probably planning to take her outside for a few minutes.
Celia had just taken a bite of pie when Aaron clambered onto the bench next to her. Though the boy had eaten his meal with the rest of the group, as soon as he’d finished, he’d joined the other children for games in the far corner of the room. She hadn’t expected him to return.
“I love you, Mrs. Celia,” Aaron announced, throwing his arms around her neck. “I want you to be my ma.”
Celia’s heart lurched, and she almost choked on her pie. Though she wouldn’t have put it past Jacob to have coached his son, it seemed unlikely he had spoken to Aaron since they’d left the table, since he was talking with the men in the opposite corner from the children. The boy’s words had come from the heart, and that made them all the more poignant.
“I love you too,” Celia said, pressing Aaron’s head to her shoulder.
Though she had more than four weeks before she had to give Jacob his answer, the question was never far from her mind. When he’d first proposed, Celia had not imagined that she might seriously consider marrying Jacob, and yet—though she had thought it impossible—the idea was less repugnant than it had once been. The difference was Mark. Listening to his stories and realizing how greatly the absence of a father had affected him had led Celia to agree with Bertha. Emma did need a father. Celia couldn’t bear the thought that twenty years from now, her daughter might tell a stranger that Celia hadn’t given her the one thing she wanted most: a father.
Emma needed a father. Aaron needed a mother. Jacob was right. Their marriage would be good for the children. The problem was, she did not want Jacob as her husband. She wanted Mark.
Celia blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears that welled in her eyes from falling. There was no point in wishing for something that wouldn’t happen. Even though Mark might stay in Easton past the winter, he was not a man she could marry. No matter how much she cared for him—and Celia would not deny that Mark had touched emotions deep inside her—she could not entrust Emma’s future to a man who was so angry with God. Josef’s death was proof that life could end in an instant and that Celia needed to provide for Emma’s future in case she wasn’t there to share it. That led her back to Jacob. He would be a good father for Emma. He was steady and God-fearing.
Celia sighed. Those qualities were important. The problem was, they weren’t enough. She wanted love.
9
He’d made a mistake.
Mark took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. It was a technique he had learned to help him relax. Unfortunately, today it accomplished nothing. He was not calm. Far from it. The only thing he wanted was to turn around and flee, but he couldn’t do that. That would be the act of a coward, and he wasn’t a coward. Just as importantly, he was carrying Emma, and he couldn’t leave with her.
He took another breath, this time focusing on Emma’s face. The little girl nestled so close to him giggled. Ever since Thanksgiving dinner, every time he’d come into the room, she had held up her arms, signaling that she wanted him to hold her. Celia had laughed, telling Mark he had a new admirer, but he hadn’t minded. The truth was, it felt good. When he held Emma, he felt as if his life had a purpose. It might be nothing more important than keeping a baby from crying, but he couldn’t deny the sense of satisfaction he found in knowing that he was needed.
Perhaps that was the reason he’d agreed when Celia had urged him to attend the first Advent service with her and Emma. That and the fact that he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Celia again. She made no secret of the fact that her faith was important to her, just as she hadn’t disguised her disappointment when Mark had refused to accompany her to church on Thanksgiving. Celia had done so much for him, especially where Lionel was concerned, that he wanted to repay her. He had thought an hour in church wouldn’t be too difficult. Now
he wasn’t certain.
As if she had heard his thoughts, Celia gave him an encouraging smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly, “and I’m glad you’re holding Emma. She’s getting heavy.”
Mark nodded as they climbed the steps. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared. He’d concentrate on Celia and Emma and not on the fact that he was entering a place where his welcome was unsure. “Emma weighs less than a log.”
“But logs don’t squirm. My daughter definitely does.” Celia led the way into the sanctuary, stopping at the last pew. “I used to sit in front, but now I sit back here,” she explained. “That way, if Emma gets fussy, I can take her outside.”
“That’s fine with me.” If he felt uncomfortable, he could leave without disturbing too many people.
When Celia took her seat, Mark handed Emma to her and was surprised when she placed the child on the pew between them. Though Emma’s legs stuck straight out, she didn’t appear uncomfortable. Instead, she bounced up and down, apparently enjoying the wooden seat, and when a young couple with a baby settled in the pew before them, Emma grinned and cooed at the other infant. This wasn’t the way Mark remembered church. Services had always been somber, and no one—not even a baby—would dare to smile.
The church was not what he’d expected, either. He hadn’t paid much attention to it on Thanksgiving, when it had been turned into a dining hall for close to two hundred people. Then the focus had been on food and conversation. Today, with the pews back in place, it was once more a house of worship. It was simpler than the church in Ohio, devoid of stained-glass windows and an elaborately carved altar and pulpit. Though some might call it stark, the simplicity appealed to Mark. By the time the bell pealed, the sanctuary was filled. The rustling of skirts, the clomp of boots, and the whispered conversations ended abruptly as Reverend Pearson took his place in front of the altar and announced the first hymn.
