Lizzie

by Linda Ford

  A knock on the door ended her prayers. “Come in,” she called.

  Mother Hughes pushed the door open. “I’ve brought you more eggs.”

  “Thank you.” Lizzie took the basket. “I can’t get over having so many eggs. Won’t you come in?”

  The older woman pulled out a chair. “Our hens lay good. I see to that. I give them boiled grain along with vegetable peelings. You treat hens right, and they’ll reward you with plenty of eggs.”

  Lizzie nodded. “May I get you a cup of tea?”

  “Tea would be fine.”

  Lizzie wished she had biscuits or cake to offer her mother-in-law and promised herself she would do some baking right away.

  “I see you have some pictures up already.”

  “Paintings of home done by my younger sister.”

  Mother Hughes studied them for a moment. “Very nice.”

  ‘Would you like to see pictures of my family?” At a nod from the older woman, Lizzie hurried to the trunk to pull out her stack of photos. “These are my parents. Here’s one of my sisters and me.”

  Mother Hughes nodded, sipping her tea as Lizzie talked about her home and family.

  “Here are the three of us giving a concert in our parlor. We used to do that.” She stopped, her throat tightening as she realized they would never be able to perform together again.

  Mother Hughes suddenly pushed to her feet. “I have to get back to my work.” She paused at the door. “Thank you for the tea.”

  Lizzie stared after her. She hadn’t seen all the pictures. But she was right. There was work to be done. She’d unpack today. She lifted out the tray from the trunk. Her flute case lay cradled on the blankets. She pulled it out, her fingers lingering on the worn clasp; then she opened the case and folded back the blue velvet. Her fingers moving quickly, with practiced ease, she assembled her flute and began to play. The haunting strains of Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven filled her with sweet, gentle memories of home, even as her eyes flooded with tears. She ended with a piece Patricia had composed for them.

  She carefully cleaned the instrument and put it away, humming as she pulled out one of the knitted patchwork blankets her grandma had made. Lizzie pressed the blanket to her face and breathed in the familiar smells of home, then draped it over the sofa.

  By the time Caleb came stomping through the door, Lizzie had placed photos along one shelf of the bookcase, stored her writing things on another shelf, and hung a quilt over the rocker to hide the peeling paint.

  She turned from mixing a cake and smiled. “Hi.”

  “Smells good in here,” Caleb said.

  “I’m making a cake. Hope you like spice cake.”

  “I like any kind of cake.” He looked around. “You’ve made the place look real nice.”

  “Thank you. I had a good morning. How about you?”

  He nodded. “It was fine.”

  She poured the batter into pans and shoved them in the oven, muttering, “Now don’t go flaring up and burn this.” She gathered up the baking things, scraping a mouthful of batter into a spoon. “Want a taste?” She held it toward Caleb.

  He tasted the batter and rolled his eyes, sighing his appreciation, before he pulled her to his lap and rubbed his nose against her cheek. “You’ll spoil me.”

  “I’ll do my best.” She toyed with the curls behind his ear, her senses drowning in the nearness of him, the warmth of his arm around her waist, the illusive scent of sweat and spring.

  He reached around her to scrape the bowl again. “Mmm. This is good.”

  She nuzzled his neck. “I like it, too.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t think you mean the cake.”

  She giggled. “No, I don’t.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. The rasp of his whiskers sent delightful shivers along her nerves. “What do you do all day? I never saw you once.”

  “Nothing as fun as this. I was thinking about the first time I saw you.”

  “Umm. When Dad brought you home for tea. You walked in so tall and straight, slender as a young sapling, Dad said afterward, and stood looking around, your hat in your hand as if you didn’t know whether to stay or hightail it while you could. I knew then if you stepped into the room, our lives would never be the same.”

  He shook his head. “That wasn’t the first time I saw you.”

  “It wasn’t?” But her attention was on the delicious warmth of his neck.

  “I saw you earlier that day.” His words were muffled against her hair.

  “You never told me that.” She settled into the crook of his arm. “Where did you see me?”

  “The rest of the guys had gone to the pub. I wanted to get away from the racket, so I wandered up and down the streets. That’s when I saw this beautiful girl skipping out of a shop. I moved closer to see her better. She had the prettiest hair, all shiny brown; and when she turned her head, it was like the sunshine reflected in her hair. And her face danced with joy. For a minute I couldn’t even breathe. This gorgeous thing turned and waved to an older man and said, ‘See you at tea, Dad,’ and hurried down the street, where she joined two younger girls.”

  “That was me and my sisters?”

  He stroked her hair. “It was. And I have a confession to make.”

  “Oh?”

  “I followed you girls to the park. I couldn’t help myself. You seemed to be having so much fun—laughing together like best friends. I watched you for a long time; then you went into a ladies’ shop. I waited, but you didn’t come out again.”

  “The Morrisons. They have a flat in the back. We went in for tea.”

  “I waited until people started to stare. Then I headed back for the shop where I first saw you. I don’t know what I planned to do, but I walked in and looked around. I was surprised and pleased to see it was a bookstore. I was soon lost in looking through the old titles. I even found a book written by an explorer to Canada. Can you imagine reading about someone who was one of the first men to see the land where you now live?”

  “Then what?”

  “Then your father started talking to me, asking where I was from and about my family. I don’t think it took him long to discover I was lonely and out of place. He took pity on me and asked me home for tea.”

  She felt him chuckle.

  “I didn’t have to be asked twice. I was sure I’d see you again.” He hugged her. “I’m thankful I did.”

  She turned her head so she could see the smile on his face. “You never told me this before.”

  He smiled down at her. “When did I have time? You rushed me off my feet. Barely gave me time to make up my mind.”

  “Me? I remember it the other way around. Besides, I don’t remember you protesting any at the time.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t. Any more than you’ll hear me protest now.” He kissed her, driving away every thought but the taste of his lips and the way her heart swelled until she thought it would burst.

  He lifted his head and sniffed appreciatively. “Something smells mighty fine. When will the cake be done?”

  “Soon, if the stove cooperates.”

  He ran his finger around the rim of the mixing bowl and licked it. “Were you always such a good cook?”

  She shook her head. “Mother and Patricia liked cooking so much that Vicky and I had to fight to get a chance.” She laughed. “Not that we really cared. Both of us preferred housework, so I guess it was a good balance. But after you left, I made Mother promise to teach me everything when she could.”

  “I’d say if the cake is as good as the batter, you did all right.”

  “I’ve a few things yet to learn.” She frowned at the big old stove. “For one thing, I’m determined to prove to this stubborn thing that I’m boss.”

  He grunted. “I always find a good hard kick works as a persuader.”

  “And here all I’ve done is stamp my foot.” She giggled. “Maybe I need to be more forceful.”

  He sniffed again at the warm aroma coming from the oven. “How
long did you say it would be? My mouth is watering for a big slice of cake right now.”

  Cocking her head to one side, she studied him playfully. “Why, Caleb Hughes—you know you can’t have any cake until after your meal.”

  “Who says?” He grabbed her around the waist and waltzed her across the room, laughing. “Who says you can’t have dessert first? Who says you have to take the bad with the good? Who says into each life some rain must fall?” He ground to a halt, staring into her face, his expression sobering. “Someone ought to write new rules.”

  A tremor shivered up her spine at the sudden change in him; a dark hollow look had replaced the sense of fun in his face. She grabbed his arm. “We can write new rules.”

  “It’s too late,” he muttered, returning to his chair, slumping over the table. “The old rules have already shaped our lives.”

  She stood beside him, placing her hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles. “Our lives are not set in stone. God has redeemed us for His reasons. He’s kindly seen us safely through the war. I’m certain He means for us to make the most of every opportunity that lies before us.”

  He flicked the spoon against his thumbnail, making a ticking sound. The fire crackled.

  “My cake.” She ran to pull it from the oven, setting the pans on the table to cool. “It looks about right.” She was certain Mother and Patricia would have nodded approval. “Would you like some cake now?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll wait.”

  3

  Next afternoon, Caleb headed down the road. Lizzie began to suspect it was a daily habit and promised herself she would ask him where he went and what he did for several hours every afternoon.

  As she dried the last dish and put it away, a knock sounded. Before she could call out an answer, Mother Hughes entered with more eggs.

  Lizzie hurried to take the basket. “If I can do anything to help with the chores, please let me know.”

  “Oh, no, my dear. I wouldn’t let anyone interfere with my hens.”

  Lizzie laughed. “I have no intention of interfering. May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  The older woman hesitated, then nodded and sat down. “I can’t stay but a minute.”

  Lizzie made tea and cut a piece of cake.

  Mother Hughes sipped her tea, then spoke. “I expect you find us quite different from what you’re used to.”

  Lizzie smiled. “Not so as you’d notice.”

  “As time goes by, you’ll find things we disagree on.”

  Lizzie studied the older woman. Dressed in black, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, she gave the impression of a small bird determined to get the worm. Lizzie’s neck muscles tensed. “I hadn’t planned on looking for things to disagree on. I plan to do my best to fit in.”

  Mother Hughes took another bite of cake before she resumed her line of conversation. “No doubt you’ve been raised in a liberal home.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” Lizzie kept her hands clasped together in her lap.

  “For instance, the use of musical instruments. We believe God intended us to worship Him with our voices. Musical instruments are a worldly attraction. First Corinthians thirteen, verse fifteen, says, ‘I will sing with the spirit and with understanding also.’ Use of instruments only detracts from the spirit of worship and understanding.” Mother Hughes kept her gaze on Lizzie as she lifted her cup to drink.

  Lizzie stared at her, wondering why she felt compelled to tell her this. Suddenly an awful thought hit her. “My flute,” she gasped. “You don’t think I should play my flute.” She swallowed hard, the very thought tearing at her heart.

  “Would you mind, my dear? For our sake?”

  Lizzie could only stare at her. How could she survive without her music? It had been her consolation since she was a young child. And somehow it bound her to her sisters. To give it up would be like ripping them from her heart.

  Mother Hughes was speaking again. “For Caleb, too. After all, it goes against his upbringing. I’m sure he would never say anything, but he must find it, well”—she seemed to search for the best word—“well, difficult.”

  A spear of pain shafted through Lizzie. She always thought Caleb took a great deal of pleasure from listening to her and her sisters play.

  Somehow she managed to finish her tea and nod at the appropriate times as Mother Hughes talked about the weather. She managed to rise to her feet, disguising the way her limbs shook, and bid her mother-in-law a pleasant farewell; then she shut the door firmly and collapsed against it. Why hadn’t Caleb told her this himself? Could she be so completely wrong about who he was?

  She rushed to the trunk and pulled out her flute case, clutching it to her chest, rocking back and forth. She ached to find solace in playing but could not. She sobbed. Her family and all that was familiar and warm seemed to have been torn from her. Tears fell to her wrists, but she paid them no heed. After awhile, her tears spent, she pushed to her feet and retreated to the rocking chair. Taking her Bible, she read one of the psalms. “ ‘Praise Him for His mighty acts. Praise Him with the sound of the trumpet: praise Him with psaltery and harp.’ ”

  “Thank You for this message,” she prayed. “I know it isn’t wrong to love music. Not even the music made by instruments.” But when would she ever get to satisfy her soul again?

  She ached for her family, certain they would be missing her as much as she missed them, and pulled out her writing supplies to start a letter.

  “Arrived safely. My new house is small.” A picture would tell far more than she could hope to convey with words, so she picked up her colored pencils and sketched a drawing of the house. She had to slip outside several times to get the details fixed in her mind correctly—the color of the spindly trees showing the first signs of new growth, the size of the dark evergreens standing guard along the edge of the yard, the bulk of the red barn, the green-trimmed white house set to the right of her own little place.

  “Caleb’s parents are—” She hesitated, not wanting to paint a picture tainted by her recent pain. “His mother is small, birdlike. His father is quiet and seems gentle.” With quick, deft strokes, she drew a black-and-white picture of her in-laws—Mother Hughes in black from neck to ankle like a crow; Father Hughes at her side, leaning against a rake.

  She held the picture at arm’s length and smiled. She was no artist like Vicky, although she’d always been able to do people better, but the simple sketches accurately portrayed the older couple. She peered at the drawing more closely, trying to ascertain if she had given away more than she planned with the tight-lipped expression on Mother Hughes’s face, but decided it was not an unkind expression.

  “Caleb is well, though very thin.” Again a few quick strokes and she had Caleb’s likeness. She liked it so well, she did another to keep.

  “I have not been any farther than across the yard to meet the in-laws,” she penned. “Perhaps tomorrow I will go for a walk. The weather is pleasantly warm. I think I’ll see if I can discover any wildflowers.”

  She folded the pages and slipped them into an envelope. When Caleb came home, she’d ask him about mailing the letter.

  He lay beside her in bed, the lamp burning low.

  “Caleb, your mother was over to visit. Actually she’s been every day to bring more eggs.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She said your beliefs teach the use of musical instruments is wrong.” She gulped, surprised at how much it hurt just to say the words aloud.

  “That’s what they teach.” He sounded groggy. Lizzie found it strange that he could seem so uninterested.

  “Do you agree?”

  “Not really.”

  Her breath whooshed out of her. “I didn’t think you could.”

  “Mother and Dad believe in leading sober lives.”

  Lizzie nodded, remembering the verse on the wall in her mother-in-law’s kitchen.

  “We never played games. Fact is, I can’t remember hardly ever laughing without
being admonished to restrain myself.” He shrugged, his warm arm rubbing against her.

  “Sounds dreadful.”

  “I never thought much about it. Guess I thought every family was like that until I met yours.”

  She giggled. “We must have seemed very frivolous.”

  He chuckled. She turned her head, pressing her ear against his side, enjoying the rumbling sound in his chest. “I didn’t know what to think at first. But it didn’t take me long to realize what I’d been missing.”

  “We had some good times, didn’t we?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “The best.” He loosened his arms so he could look into her face. “Aren’t you going to miss all that?”

  She turned to meet his gaze, hanging on to the warmth there. Tonight he seemed to have lost the dark spells that came over him occasionally. She drew her fingers along his lips. “Your mother asked me not to play my flute.” She tried to keep her voice light but knew her pain drew her words tight.

  He crushed her to his chest. “Lizzie. I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you could play it quietly?”

  “A flute?” The idea so tickled her that she giggled.

  He chuckled. “I guess not.”

  Smiling now, she asked, “Could I play it somewhere else?”

  “Like where?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I could walk down the road a ways.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “That’s what I’ll do then.” But talk about going down the road brought another thought to her mind. “Where do you go every day when you go down the road?”

  He grew very still.

  “I’m not meaning to pry.”

  “You’re not prying. It’s just something I don’t talk about much.”

  “I understand.” But even as she told herself he was entitled to his own life, a trickle of hurt made her desperate to know.

  “I have a friend in town.”

  She waited, wondering if the friend was male or female.

  “Frankie Duncan.”

  She scolded herself for her doubts.

  “We signed up together.”

  “You must share a lot of memories.”