The photographer had colorized the portrait, giving Violet rosy cheeks and a touch of blue in her eyes. For a moment it seemed as though the woman were looking back at Neva, studying her, finding her lacking. She would not have this portrait in her house!
She pushed to her feet, pressing the offending image against her rib cage, and scurried to her bedroom. She started to toss the frame into the trash bin, but something brought her frantic movements to a halt. How many times had she longed for a photograph of the ones who’d given birth to her? To her knowledge, no images of her parents existed. Could she destroy this image, knowing it was the likeness of her children’s father? And what of Charley, Cassie, and Adeline? Could she, in clear conscience, steal something so precious from them?
Neva lowered her head and closed her eyes, squeezing the frame so tightly the metal cut into her palms. No, she couldn’t send it to the burn barrel. But neither could she leave it in the trunk where one of the children would find it, take it out, display it.
With jerky steps she moved to her closet, opened the door, and shoved the photograph clear to the back of the narrow shelf above the row of clothes hooks. Shadows hid it from view. No one else ever went into her closet. The photograph could stay concealed until the day Warren and Violet’s children were grown. Until then, no one needed to know Warren had paired himself with such a lovely creature as the woman named Violet.
If she’d needed the support of her minister before, Neva needed it even more desperately now. She quickly donned a fresh dress—the nicest in her closet, admittedly trying to compete with the captured image of Violet—and covered her hair with a feathered felt cloche. Then she donned her best kidskin gloves and set off for the little parsonage tucked behind the clapboard chapel where she and her family worshiped each Sunday.
As she walked through the late-evening shadows, she practiced what she would say to Reverend Savage. No matter how she phrased it, the truth was ugly. Could she really divulge something so awful to a man of God? Halfway there, she almost turned around and went back home, but the deep need to purge herself sent her forward again. Besides, where else could she unload this burden? She’d never share her concerns with Warren again. Bud and Belle were still children. She couldn’t rely on them for emotional support. Reverend Savage was a first-time preacher who’d stood in the pulpit not yet two full years, but he’d told his congregation they were always welcome to bring their concerns to him. She had to trust he had been sincere.
Neva knocked on the parsonage door, and moments later the minister’s wife opened it. A wonderful aroma drifted to Neva’s nose, and high-pitched chatter carried from around a corner. She’d interrupted their dinner. She drew back, chagrined by her thoughtlessness.
But Lois Savage offered a bright smile and ushered her over the threshold. “Please come in, Mrs. Shilling. What brings you out this evening?”
Neva wrung her hands together. “I…I’d hoped to speak to the reverend. But it can wait.”
The younger woman tipped up her head and laughed, her chin-length blond hair swishing along her jaw. Her carefree action sent a shaft of pain through Neva’s middle. Lois leaned close, her eyes sparkling conspiratorially. “To be honest, Ernie will welcome the chance to escape the table while the children are eating. They always seem to spill something on him.”
The comment stirred memories of Bud’s and Belle’s toddler days. Neva’s heart panged. “Well…if you’re sure.”
Lois touched Neva’s elbow, the gesture like a sweet balm. “I’m sure. Wait right here.” She hurried off on scuffed Mary Janes.
Only a few seconds later Reverend Savage bustled around the corner, wiping his mouth with a crumpled napkin. He tossed the napkin on a little table beside a wooden rocking chair and came straight at Neva, both hands extended. “Mrs. Shilling, Lois said you needed to talk to me.”
Neva allowed him to cradle one of her hands between his warm palms. “Yes. If you have some time.”
“Absolutely.” He gently tugged her toward the sofa stretching along the front windows. “Have a seat and—”
Neva jerked free of his grasp. “Not here.”
His dark brows descended.
“I need to speak to you privately.” She whisked a glance toward the doorway from which the sounds of children’s voices and Lois Savage’s soft reprimands continued to drift.
He gave a solemn nod. “All right then. We can go to my office.”
They walked together to the church—he with a light step and Neva moving as though she trudged through a foot of sludge. He used a key to open the back door and gestured her inside. He led her up a short, dim hallway to a door on the left. He pushed the door inward and then reached past her to punch the button on the wall.
Light flooded the small space. A large wooden desk, its top nearly hidden by lined notepads and open books, filled the middle of the floor. He held his hand toward a pair of wooden chairs huddled in the corner. Neva gratefully sank into the closest chair’s sturdy seat, and he took the opposite chair, his lips curving into a smile.
“Here now. Is this better?”
At least now no one would overhear her shameful confession. She nodded.
“Good. What’s troubling you, Mrs. Shilling?”
His voice carried authority and kindness. Neva found her stiff muscles relaxing a bit. “I received some disturbing news yesterday. I hoped if I told you, you’d be willing to share the news with the congregation on Sunday.”
Concern crept across his features. “Of course. What is it?”
“Warren is dead.” She hadn’t allowed the word dead to leave her lips when she talked to the children or to Mr. Randall. Stating the word so baldly stabbed like a poker through her middle. Unconsciously she released a little gasp of pain.
At once Reverend Savage reached for her hands. He held tight, his grip giving her strength.
“He died of botulism a week ago and they buried him in Beloit. A sheriff’s official brought his belongings and also three small children. Warren—” Her tongue froze. Shame and anger and disgust crashed through her. She couldn’t tell the minister her husband had fathered children with another wife. She stammered, “W-wanted to raise them.” That was truth, wasn’t it? She dropped her gaze to their joined hands rather than peering into the preacher’s sympathetic face.
His hands tightened on hers. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Shilling. Of course I’ll tell the congregation. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Make it all be a dream. But not even a minister could work miracles. Neva, head low, shrugged.
“What about the store? Will you sell the mercantile?”
The question startled her into looking at him again. “Why would I sell it?”
Genuine confusion pinched his brow. “How will you operate it on your own?”
“I’ve operated it on my own half of each year since 1926.” Even as she spoke, worrisome thoughts trailed through her mind. Warren had always paid their bills on his months in town and left envelopes of cash for her to distribute during his months away. She’d never ordered coal for the furnace or paid the electricity. He’d also brought supplies to restock the shelves on his return. He’d never told her where he ordered them, and she’d never felt the need to ask. Twice today she’d disappointed customers with her inability to fill their complete orders. All of the things Warren had done she’d now have to do on her own.
Tears filling her eyes, she wilted on the chair. “The children and I need a means of income. Our home is above the store. I can’t sell the mercantile.”
“I admire your determination, but I confess I’m concerned for you.” The sincere compassion glowing in his eyes brought a second rush of tears that rolled down her cheeks. He pulled a square cloth of white cotton from his trouser pocket and gave it to her.
While she mopped her face, he said, “Running a business is challenging under the best of circumstances. But without any help? During these days of economic trouble?” Although kindly utt
ered, the words fell like lashes. “Maybe selling the business right now wouldn’t be wise considering how few people would have the funds to buy it. But are you sure you want to keep it open? Do you have family who might be able to take you in for a while until you can decide what’s best for you and your children?”
Neva shook her head, misery twining through her chest. “I’m an orphan. My only family was Warren.”
But she hadn’t been his only family.
She shoved that thought aside and continued. “I must rely on myself. I have to keep things as stable as I can for Bud and Belle. They’ve already lost their father. I won’t make them leave the only home they’ve ever known.”
He nodded, his lips forming a soft line of understanding. “What of the other children you mentioned—the ones you said Warren wanted to raise?”
Her hands began to tremble. She’d told Bud the children would stay, but she hadn’t yet considered how much more she would need to do in the mercantile. Taking on Warren’s responsibilities in the store as well as seeing to the needs of three additional children was too much. No one would fault her for sending those children away. Especially not if the minister thought it wise.
She blurted out a question. “What should I do?”
Bud
Bud curled his fingers over the battered hymnal tucked in the little slatted shelf on the back of the pew in front of him, eager to sing the closing hymn. Because then he could leave. The walls of the church had never seemed closer, tighter, than that morning. How could Ma and Belle sit there with their Bibles open in their laps, acting like everything was hunky-dory when the whole world was upside down? Pop was dead, three kids who’d somehow won his father’s affection were smashed together in a row between him and Belle, and Ma had hardly slept or eaten since the sheriff’s officer—who right now sat on the pew closest to the doors—showed up with that wagon full of furniture. He nearly snorted. If there was a God up in heaven, He must be as much a bully as Leroy and Leon Randall to let so many bad things happen at once.
“Before we close today, I have something of importance to share with you.”
Bud released the hymnal and slunk low in the seat.
“One of our church families has experienced a tremendous tragedy. Mr. Warren Shilling, owner of the Main Street Mercantile, succumbed to illness in Beloit almost two weeks ago and was laid to rest in that town’s cemetery.”
Murmurs rippled across the room. People turned around to stare. Bud aimed his gaze at the hymnal and ordered himself not to cry.
“He leaves behind his widow, Mrs. Neva Shilling, his son, Bud, and daughter, Belle.”
Bud already knew what the preacher would say—Ma had warned him and Belle before they took off for service that morning—but hearing it all said out loud still stung worse than being attacked by a hundred hornets. He folded his arms tight over his chest and held back the roar of fury that tried to escape his throat.
“Mrs. Shilling also told me her husband took on the care of three orphaned children—Charley, Cassie, and Adeline—who are currently staying with the Shillings here in Buffalo Creek.”
More murmurs, some sounding confused and some holding approval, rose from the people in the pews.
Bud flicked a glance at Charley and caught the boy scowling. If people weren’t watching, he’d give the kid a good jab with his elbow. Charley had landed in high clover as far as Bud was concerned, being chosen by Pop and then taking over half of Bud’s room. If anybody ought to be scowling, it should be Bud. He clamped his jaw hard and stared at the hymnal again. When would they sing the closing song? He wanted out of here.
“Mrs. Shilling and I are working on a memorial service for her husband. When the time and day is settled, we’ll put an announcement in the Buffalo Creek Examiner, so please be watching.” He paused, and Bud’s fingers inched toward the hymnal. Preacher Savage sent a slow look across the congregation. “Before going home today, please take a moment to offer condolences to Mrs. Shilling and her children.”
Bud’s fingers curled into a fist. Nobody better talk to him! What would he say back?
“Also be in prayer on how to follow the biblical instruction to see to the needs of widows and orphans.”
His stomach whirled. He didn’t want to be an orphan.
“Let’s ease our dear sister’s burden with our loving support.”
A knot of tangled agony and fury filled his throat. Nothing would ease the burden of not having a father anymore.
“Now please rise, take out your hymnals, and turn to page 119, ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’ ”
Finally! Bud held the hymnal open, but he didn’t sing. He couldn’t. Nothing would sneak past the lump in his throat. Charley didn’t sing either, but Cassie and Adeline added their squeaky voices to the song, sometimes singing the wrong words and notes. The congregation sang all four verses, and Bud’s desire to bolt grew stronger with every line. By the time they reached the closing words, he was ready to climb out of his skin.
He slapped the hymnal into its spot and pushed past the three little orphan kids. Ma reached for his arm, but he ducked away from her grasp and charged up the aisle, ignoring the sympathetic looks and extended hands of others in church.
He smacked the door open and plowed onto the porch, ramming directly into Mr. Jesse Caudel’s backside. He grunted with the impact, bounced backward, and caught hold of the porch railing to hold himself upright.
The man turned and gave him a surprised look. “Bud…” He glanced at the door before looking at Bud again. “Why aren’t you in there with your mother?”
“There’s plenty of folks in there with her.” He’d seen them all swarming toward their pew. “She don’t need me.”
“I think you’re wrong about that, son.”
Heat exploded through Bud’s middle. He snarled, “I’m not your son.” If the man snapped at him for being rude, he wouldn’t apologize. Nobody should be calling him something only a father should say.
“You’re right. I’ll just call you Bud from now on. How’s that?”
Too surprised to answer, Bud just stared at the deputy.
“Bud Shilling…” The man’s tone turned to musing. “I’m tryin’ to figure this all out. I thought your mother’s name was Gaines. But in there the preacher called her Mrs. Shilling.”
Bud curled his lips into a sneer the way he’d seen Leroy Randall do. “My ma was Gaines before she married my pop. Now she’s Neva Shilling.”
Mr. Caudel’s eyes narrowed. Just a tiny bit. Almost so tiny Bud wasn’t sure he really saw it. “So your pop was Warren Shilling.”
Was. Bud broke out in a cold sweat. “I gotta go.” He lunged forward.
Mr. Caudel’s thick hand came down on his shoulder and held him in place. “I won’t pretend to know what it’s like to lose your pop.”
He spoke soft. Gentle. But his hand was hard. Firm. Bud stood stone still beneath the weight of it.
“I’m guessing it’s made you sad. And even angry. You probably think it wasn’t fair.”
Bud gritted his teeth. Fair? Not even close.
“I bet you’re even tempted to wallow in unhappiness. Maybe try to make everybody else unhappy, too, hoping if they aren’t happy, it’ll somehow make you feel better.” His fingers pinched tight, not painful but definitely attention grabbing. “But, Bud, that’s wrong.”
Bud aimed a slit-eyed scowl at the man, the face he’d been using to send Charley scuttling to his own half of the room every time he tried to talk to Bud.
Caudel didn’t even wince. “You’re hurting. That’s all right. Losing your pop is reason to hurt. But it’s not a reason to hurt others. Keep that in mind.” He finally let go.
Bud leaped from the porch and ran for home like the Randall boys were on his tail.
Jesse
Jesse stepped to the edge of the porch and watched Bud hightail it up the street. Uncertainty pricked. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so frank with the boy. He hardly knew him, after all
. But if everything he suspected was true, Neva Gaines—he shook his head and corrected his thoughts—Neva Shilling would need all the support and kindness she could get. Bud’s self-centered mourning would only add to his mother’s pain. Regret for the way he’d treated his own ma soured his stomach. He’d hate to see Bud carry the same regret.
The church door opened, and Jesse moved to the side with his toe propped against the bottom corner of the door to hold it in place. Parishioners trailed past. Most turned a glance in his direction, and he nodded a hello to each, noting how many bobbed their heads or offered a curious smile in reply. The youngsters galloped out, some whooping to release their pent-up energy the way his younger sisters had when leaving church services, but every last one of the grownups from young to elderly was quiet. Subdued. Rightfully so, given the news they’d just heard about one of their own.
Something warm stirred through Jesse. The townsfolk’s lack of idle chatter, their sorrowful furrowing of brows and dabbing of eyes, endeared them to Jesse. They were a caring lot. It’d be a pleasure to serve such people. That sheriff job was becoming more comfortable by the minute.
The flow of people ended, and Jesse peeked inside. Mrs. Shilling was talking to the preacher and a young woman he surmised must be the preacher’s wife from the way she held on to his elbow. Two little towheaded toddlers clung to the woman’s skirts. Mrs. Shilling’s daughter stood several feet away, surrounded by Warren and Violet’s youngsters. He shouldn’t stare. If they caught him, they’d think he was spying. But somehow he couldn’t pull his gaze away. Something about the two separate circles of people bothered him.
He watched until the woman released the preacher’s arm and enfolded Mrs. Shilling in a hug. He slipped halfway behind the door, angling his gaze away, while Mrs. Shilling and the cluster of children filed past. He sneaked a glance at their retreating backs and frowned.
Mrs. Shilling moved with her spine stiff and her face aimed straight ahead, her hand looped through Belle’s elbow. Belle held the hand of the younger of Warren and Violet’s girls, and the other children trotted along behind.
Room for Hope Page 6
