Forevermore

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “I didn’t notice. Had me a good time, gettin’ to know your missus. As the years pass, Emmy-Lou will love hearin’ your stories. It’ll mean the world to her, knowin’ more about her mama.”

  When he went upstairs and shut his bedroom door, Jakob didn’t follow his usual ritual. Instead, he tugged open the top drawer of his bureau. A picture lay there, facedown. Slowly, he turned it over. He’d hidden it there the day of the funeral. Naomi sat in a wicker chair with Emmy-Lou standing on the seat beside her. One of Naomi’s arms wrapped around Emmy-Lou’s waist; the other held Jakob Jr.

  Emmy-Lou was too young to remember Naomi. Hope had pointed out the obvious: A daughter deserved to grow up knowing her mama loved her. Just as he cherished the love light in Naomi’s face in the picture downstairs, Emmy-Lou would treasure this photograph. Like a wounded animal that curled up and hid away, he’d retreated in silence—but by doing so, he’d been stuck in his grief and robbing his daughter of the vital message that her mother adored her.

  Jakob knelt by his bed and held the picture. He set it on the wedding-ring quilt and smoothed his rough hand over the tiny cotton pieces. In the years ahead, he’d find a little thing to tell Emmy-Lou each day about her mother—and as time passed, like the pieces of a quilt, a pattern of comfort and love would result. Tomorrow, he’d show the picture to Emmy-Lou.

  Instead of folding his hands in prayer, Jakob laid them on either side of the picture. “Lord, I miss her. You know I do. There was so much about her to love. You were good to me, to give me such a wife. Help me be strong enough to look back with gratitude instead of grief, and let me share my memories of Naomi so our daughter will carry a piece of her mother in her heart.”

  The cool predawn air wafted through the wide open windows. Hope slipped the domed glass lid atop the Mason jar she’d filled with Crowder peas and slid the wire assembly clamp into the groove to fasten it. That jar joined the others in the stove’s water reservoir.

  A quick glance at the clock let her know she could do one more batch if she hurried. Adding more coal to the stove, she planned everything they’d do today.

  A small creak on the stairs made her wheel around.

  Mr. Stauffer stood there, his shirt unbuttoned and suspenders hanging down, feet bare. A small patch of hair stuck straight up at the back of his head, making him look like he’d suffered a huge shock. The protective intensity on his face changed to bewilderment. “It’s you.”

  She nodded.

  As if suddenly aware of his half-dressed state, he buttoned his faded blue shirt and drew closer. “What—” His voice came to an abrupt halt as he spied the jars cooling on the table.

  Hope held a finger to her lips.

  He glanced toward the stairs. “It’s early yet.”

  “I’m countin’ on that.” She started fishing jars from the water reservoir. “I’d ’preciate it if ’n you’d not say anything ’bout this here batch.”

  He studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes unblinking. “You don’t want Annie to know.”

  “You and me made a pact to make things easier on her.” The water on the outside of the hot jars evaporated immediately. “You pickin’ up the baskets in the garden and puttin’ ’em on the back porch—that’s been right kind of you.”

  “I thought . . .” He shook his head. That wild clump of hair still stood at attention, not daring to wobble or fall.

  “I’ll put the coffee on in two shakes of a short stick.”

  His brows rose. “A short stick?”

  “Long sticks take longer to go back and forth.” She wrinkled her nose. “Come to think on it, maybe not. If ’n that was true, clocks with a longer pendulum would make time go slower, wouldn’t they?”

  “I’m sure the clockmaker knows how to adjust for that.”

  Hope nodded. For being a clever man, Mr. Stauffer didn’t act all biggety. If he didn’t know something, he didn’t bluster or change the subject. Showed good sense and humility. Those were fine qualities. Since he was up, the least she could do was get the coffee on the stove. A blink later, the pot she’d prepared the night before sat over a burner.

  “I saw all the butterbeans you gathered yesterday.” He hitched his suspenders up onto his broad shoulders. “Do you need the drying screens on the porch again?”

  “That’d be mighty nice of you.” She set a tray on the table. Hot as the jars there were, she had to use potholders to pop them onto the tray. As soon as she’d filled the tray, Mr. Stauffer lifted it. “Are you putting these in the pantry?”

  She nodded. Having him carry the tray would help. Once inside the pantry, she hastened up both planks of the stepstool and quickly moved jars from the middle shelf up to the highest one. That way, the hot jars would be easier for her to check later. She twisted to take the hot jars from the tray.

  Mr. Stauffer stood just inside the door. Gawking at the shelves, he remained just out of reach.

  “Could you please step a little closer?”

  He closed the distance and held the tray higher.

  Quickly as she could, Hope transferred the hot jars where they could continue cooling, yet be out of the way. As she took the last one, she smiled down at him. “Would you mind fetching the tray o’er by the pump?”

  She hopped down and moved the stepstool so when he returned, she was ready to tuck away stewed tomatoes.

  “There.”

  Mr. Stauffer held the empty tray and stared up at the shelf. “Those jars—they were hot, too. They weren’t the tomatoes you made late last night.”

  “That garden of yours—’tis bountiful. Come wintertime, you’ll be glad them tomatoes didn’t go to waste.”

  Blocking the doorway, he scanned each shelf. Finally, his gaze returned to her. “You’ve put up more than I thought.”

  She hitched her shoulder. “Little bit at a time adds up in the end.”

  His fingers curled around the tray until they turned white. “Is that what you tell my sister?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  His wide shoulders swiveled as he surveyed the pantry from one corner clear to the opposite one. He didn’t just scan across, either. His gaze dropped and rose to take in the contents of every last shelf in the cramped quarters. “The truth,” he paused and stared into her eyes, “is that you have done much in secret.”

  Hope tugged the tray from him. “I’ve done a little bit here and there. Your sister and me—we’ve been doin’ plenty together. Them leather pant green beans—she strung ’em all herself. I’d best get back to the stove, else you won’t be havin’ anything but coffee for breakfast.” He stepped aside, and she slipped past him.

  It wasn’t until then Hope realized she hadn’t put up her hair yet, and the intimacy of it made her stomach flutter. It still hung down her back in a simple plait—like a schoolgirl. Well, I’m barefoot like a schoolgirl, too. Don’t make no never mind, anyhow. “Are y’all wantin’ grits or oatmeal this mornin’?”

  “Either.” He leaned against the table and folded his arms across his chest.

  “If ’n ’tis all the same to you, I’ll make oatmeal. Addin’ in raisins—that’s good for Annie. We need to build up her blood. Liver and raisins and blackstrap molasses—they all help. When all the workers are here, we’ll fry up plenty of chickens, but I’m plannin’ on holdin’ back the livers and frying ’em with a mess of onions those nights for your sis.”

  “Gut. Sehr gut. Annie—I’m glad for her that you’re here.” Hope smiled. “Thankee. But I’m glad for me that I’m here, too. Your sis and little daughter—they’re sweet as sugar sandies.”

  “Sugar candy?”

  “That, too, I reckon. But sugar sandies—they’re my favorite. Dreadful expensive to bake, though, what with them having pecans in them and such.”

  “I have to go to town anyway. I’ll get some pecans. What else do you need?”

  Just the mention of pecans made her mouth water. Nothing tasted better than freshly-hulled pecans. Shoving aside the temptation, Ho
pe set down the tray. “Pecans seem more suited to Thanksgivin’ and Christmas than to harvesttime. ’Twould strike me as odd, bakin’ with ’em at harvesttime. They wouldn’t be quite so special over the holidays if ’n I had ’em other times.” “What else do you need?” he repeated.

  “Sugar, flour, vinegar, and paraffin wax.” Relief flowed through her. She shouldn’t have said anything about pecans in the first place. They were an extravagance, and she’d be embarrassed if her boss squandered money on them. “Yep. Sugar, flour, vinegar, and wax. Other than them things, you’re 95 sittin’ real fine. Don’t forget ’bout the glass for your picture frame. You can take nearly all them crated eggs ’long, but we’ll be a-needin’ ’bout two dozen of ’em and all of today’s eggs to feed the harvest hands. After that, while you go help out at the other farms, I can take eggs to town for you.”

  “Hope?” Though he said her name, he looked away, through the window as if something out there demanded his concentration. His voice dropped. “Smith’s got a big family and a small coop. They eat whatever their layers produce. We’ll be here two days, then Sunday falls between our harvest and his. I’ll tell him to send someone over for eggs.”

  “There’ll be plenty enough for sharin’.” She busied herself at the stove and glanced back over her shoulder. “Your sis said she doesn’t know what we take to the other farms for harvest.”

  “Peaches, two loaves of bread, and a dessert—that is what Naomi always did.” His voice started out sounding certain, but faded a touch.

  “Mr. Stauffer, sir, rememberin’ your dearly departed wife has gotta pain you somethin’ fierce. I just can’t tell at this moment whether ’tis your grief or you hesitating. I know the Bible says to give with the left hand in secret ’cuz ’tis right.” His eyes widened, so she thought she’d guessed what he’d been thinking. “Bein’ a God-fearin’ man, that might be what’s on your mind, so I’m gonna open my big mouth and ask. Do y’all want me to maybe dress up some chickens and send ’em over to the Smiths ’long with the eggs?”

  He nodded.

  Hope started oatmeal, then set to filling the next set of freshly boiled jars. She felt unaccountably flustered. It’s my fault he’s up so early; he doesn’t have to get to chores yet. “Ain’t put up any corn yet. That sweet corn is nigh unto ready. Coupla the Yankee farmers up north like succotash. Are you wanting me to put some up, or do you like your corn and butterbeans kept apart?”

  “Apart.” He hitched his shoulder as if to dismiss something. “Annie and Emmy-Lou—they don’t like butterbeans. Miriam planted the butterbeans. Don’t bother with them. I’ll take them to town.”

  Hope tilted her head to the side. “What ’bout you? You like ’em?”

  “Yes, but it’s a waste of time to prepare something for just one person.”

  “Don’t know as I agree. Just goin’ along with that for a moment—does Phineas like butterbeans?”

  “Don’t know. He always eats whatever’s on the table.”

  Hope shot him a saucy smile. “I’ll be shore not to leave any laundry or mending on there.”

  Jakob opened the glass door on the front of the clock and wound it. The tightly sprung, metallic zzzt-zzzt-zzzt filled the kitchen. Carefully closing the door again, he made sure the clock still hung straight. While nudging it ever so slightly to one side, he commented, “Speaking of laundry—other women do it all on Monday. Ironing on Tuesday.”

  “True enough. Been known to do that myself sometimes.”

  “Then why—” His voice skidded to a halt. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Because of Annie.”

  “Don’t you go blamin’ her,” Hope whispered. “ ’Twas my idea.”

  He glanced at the stairway, then leaned forward and spoke in a deep whisper, “It’s more work for you to spread it out. You have to fill the kettle and boil it each time you do laundry.”

  “Only on the day when we do britches and such. The rest of the time, it’s been easy enough to use the kettle to boil up jars and heat seal them. Then I shave in a tad of lye soap and wash up a few things. Annie rinses them out and hangs ’em on the line. Your sis—she loves the feel of a breeze wafting through the damp clothes. The heat gets to her, and that’s an easy way for me to cool her down a mite.”

  What’s gotten into me? she thought as a small laugh bubbled out of her when she saw his brows rise. “That didn’t come out quite right. Sounds like I’m comparin’ her to a horse, but I’m not.” Hope turned back to the stove.

  Mr. Stauffer didn’t say another word. Even if that one stair step didn’t creak, she would have known he left. Odd, how the room felt different when he was in it. Smaller. She plunged a jar into the hot water. Fanciful thinking. The steam must be gettin’ to my brain, twistin’ it like the pieces of a bentwood rocker.

  She had enough Crowder peas for only four more jars. With those done and oatmeal going, Hope scooped her boots from the floor and took them outside. As a rooster warmed up and the sun started to sneak a peep at the day, the screen door opened. She didn’t cast a look over her shoulder but yanked the laces tight on her right boot. “Gonna be a scorcher today.”

  “While I’m in town, we’ll decide on when to harvest. My fields are usually the first. Smiths’ next, then Richardsons’. At church on Sunday, we talked about starting on Friday.”

  “I heard that.” She grinned at him. “Heard y’all got two reapers. That’s right smart. Hot as it gets here, you wanna cut the wheat before it scorches.”

  He cleared his throat. “Hot as it’s gotten, I’d rather start the harvest tomorrow. I don’t know that we’ll get everything done here in two days. Some places say the ox is in the ditch and harvest on Sundays, but we don’t do that in Gooding.”

  “Ain’t for me to tell a man what to do on his land or what’s right betwixt him and the Lord, but deep in my own heart, I agree with you. Don’t seem to keep the day holy, and nobody gets any rest.”

  Hope continued. “I already planned on three days. Don’t matter how hard the men and beasts work, a reaper can only go so fast. Twelve or thirteen acres a day. I reckon you got fifty, maybe sixty acres wavin’ in the wind out there. By startin’ tomorrow, you’ll have it done by Saturday night.”

  “It’s short notice. I should have told you last night.”

  Hope shook her head. “Wouldn’t have changed nothin’ for me, but it woulda put your sister in a dither. We’ll get it all taken care of.” Mentally she listed all the chores she needed to attend and details she ought to iron out. She tied her boot and shoved her left foot into the other, sighing as she tied it.

  “Is your foot hurt? Don’t your shoes fit?”

  “They fit me just fine. Truth is, given my druthers, I’d go barefoot as a heathen.” She smoothed down her hem and rose. “Ever notice in the Bible, how Adam and Eve wore leaves, then God made ’em clothes from animal skins?”

  “Yes.” He stared at her, waiting.

  “Neither of ’em was a-wearin’ shoes. Did y’all ever take note of that? I bet the devil was jealous of folks havin’ feet. Snakes don’t got ’em, so that old Lucifer probably decided to rob people of the joy of dew-soaked grass beneath their feet or the fun of squishin’ mud ’twixt their toes. Shoes. That’s how he done it. Once man got outta the Garden of Eden, he ended up wearin’ shoes. It makes me wonder if that’s where the sayin’ came from—you know, bein’ booted out of someplace.”

  “I don’t know. The saying sure fits.” A slow smile kicked up the corners of Mr. Stauffer’s mouth. “The only thing better than wearing a pair of broken-in boots is taking them off.”

  “That’s a fine way of thinkin’ on it. Makes me grateful both ways.”

  Smiling pulled the muscles in Jakob’s face contrary to where they wanted to go, and the tiny nick he’d gotten shaving twinged. Served him right. He’d been so busy looking for Hope to accomplish things a certain way, he’d been blind to the truth. Busy remonstrating with himself as he took care of his morning ablutions, Jakob managed to ca
tch the angle of his jaw with the razor. The styptic pencil stopped the bleeding. If he hadn’t already been wide awake, the sting from the pencil would have done the job.

  Ever since her arrival, the chaos of his household had changed. The shift had been so subtle, he’d failed to notice what was right under his nose. Just because she approached tasks differently didn’t mean they weren’t accomplished. He’d mistaken her flexibility for disorganization.

  “I don’t come to change things. I just come to help out.” The words she’d spoken after their first supper ran through his mind. She’d changed just about everything . . . but Jakob had to admit, for the good.

  By Saturday, the reaping would be done . . . and Hope would leave. She’d agreed to stay through harvest. One taste of her cooking, and word would spread—other farmers would snap her up. Even if he convinced her to stay through threshing, Jakob knew that wouldn’t be more than another week or so—not nearly long enough. He had to convince her to stay longer, but would she agree? She had her own livelihood to consider.

  He’d come back downstairs, rehearsing what he wanted to say. Off-balance at not finding her in the house, he’d come out onto the porch and ended up talking about boots. That was all well and good, but—

  “I’m needing to get back to the stove. Time to stir up the oatmeal.”

  “Wait.” He couldn’t risk letting her go without trying to secure her. “I wanted to—”

  “Whoops! I hear your sis. ’Scuse me.” She bustled past him and into the house. “ ’Mornin’, Annie! Looks like we all wanted worms today.”

  “Is Jakob going fishing? Today?”

  Jakob opened the door. “Don’t tempt me. I think Hope meant we all rose early.”

  “Yup. The early bird gets the worm.” Hope washed her hands at the kitchen pump.

  Jakob and Annie exchanged a stunned look. Hope hadn’t mangled the cliché.

  Oblivious to their astonishment, Hope finished washing up. “Reckon that’s why roosters make a bunch of racket at the crack of sunrise. Ain’t that just like a man—to go squawkin’ if ’n he’s hungry?” She laughed. “And truth be told, I’m just like all the hens that start a-cluckin’ after his first notes. Only they lay the eggs and I just cook ’em.”