Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire

by Lauralee Bliss

  Help me do what’s right, Lord. He added with reservation, Not my will…but Yours be done.

  Chapter Nine

  It didn’t take long for Sara to realize that something was wrong with Tom Haskins. He’d never said anything to lead her to this conclusion, but his actions spoke a great deal. After a life on the streets, Sara relied on intuition when it came to people and their responses. Once she had offered to help a man care for his ailing mother. He quoted her a sum of money that nearly made her faint. With that kind of money she could well afford more of a dinner than simple bread and cheese. And maybe even some other things as well, like a new dress. But Sara should have listened to the uneasiness in her heart. The man was not as he appeared. No sooner had she left the store with him than he attempted to have his way with her in a dark alley. Sara managed to escape, but the incident alerted her to never trust a stranger but, instead, to trust in the Lord.

  Looking at Tom Haskins that morning at breakfast, she didn’t think him a terrible man like the one she’d met that fateful day in New York. On the contrary. Tom had been most giving of his home and his possessions, even if he never gave her the gaily wrapped gift that day at the depot. She wondered who it was for. There was another side of Tom, though, the side filled with displeasure, knowing she was not what he expected. Many mornings he offered few words but only stared at the newspaper. Claire squirmed in her seat, acting as though she wanted to say something but did not.

  When he left to perform some errands, Claire sighed with great heaviness. “I don’t know what’s the matter with him. You’ve been here nearly a week, and he hasn’t so much as spoken but a few words each day.”

  “He wishes I were someone else,” Sara said softly.

  “Probably that Loving woman,” Claire said with a huff.

  “What loving woman?”

  “Nothing. She’s just…uh, there are wealthy socialites visiting the area. But I don’t think he likes her or anyone. I don’t think he wants to get married.”

  But Sara’s mind was on the other women of Bethlehem, who would be clothed in fancy dresses and large hats, strolling along the boardwalk, gazing at the colored leaves, flirting with the men, or giggling with other women. To Sara, the women she had seen here all sounded like a gaggle of geese that had lost their way and ended up on the rooftops. Mrs. Whitaker used to tell her they were just resting before they took flight to places she had never seen. Maybe like the geese, the women found rest in Bethlehem before returning to a difficult world.

  “I would leave right now if I had the money for the train fare back to New York,” Sara announced.

  Claire cast a look at her as she carried the breakfast dishes to the kitchen and placed them into a large metal tub. “Now don’t start that again. You don’t look to me like the kind who gives up easily.”

  “I wanted to when I first came here,” Sara reminded her. “It was foolish, though, to run away like I did. I shouldn’t have done it. Your brother will never forget it.” Or the episode in the café with my manners…or my dress…or anything else disagreeable…, she thought miserably.

  “God has His reasons, and there’s a reason He chose you to come here. You may be able to accomplish something no one else can.”

  Sara thought on this, wondering what she could possibly accomplish here in this place. She knew she must cease comparing herself to the wealthy women inhabiting the hotels and think instead of the special woman God had created her to be. He must have a reason for arranging this through Mrs. Whitaker. He had a destiny for her life.

  Sara gathered up the remaining dishes. She swiped up the leftover strawberry jam she noticed on a plate and licked her finger. The tangy sweetness left her feeling giddy, like a small girl enjoying summertime.

  Claire saw it and stole the plate, shaking her head. “We really need to begin our lessons. You’ve had some time to settle in now. We can start with some simple manners, such as licking a plate or the silver, as I’ve seen you do too many times after meals.”

  “Why should I waste such delicious jam? Or the last piece of bread? In New York I dare not waste anything. And to have strawberry jam, why, it would be like having the finest chocolate.”

  “That may be, but here we have plenty of strawberry jam and other things. God has brought you to a place of abundance, Sara. You must learn to accept that abundance and not use it as an open door to ill manners.”

  Sara felt her vexation rise but managed to settle herself. After all, Claire had defended her before Tom when she first came. Claire had arranged her room, a sanctuary that went beyond Sara’s wildest dreams. And Claire had even said she’d hoped for a sister to take tea and go shopping with. The irritation vanished as Sara quietly took away the rest of the dishes, even though she had to restrain herself from scooping up the morsel of biscuit she found resting on a butter plate.

  “Today I’ll show you a fine supper we like to make,” Claire said, following her into the kitchen. “New England boiled dinner.”

  “A boiled dinner for supper?”

  “We take a big pot and boil up a nice spiced beef with potatoes, carrots, and turnips. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”

  “I suppose. I never heard of boiling a whole dinner, unless it’s like a soup.”

  “In many ways it is like soup, only better. You need an apron so you don’t ruin your dress.” Claire handed one to her. “But first, we’re going to make a fine rye bread to go with it. We will make the boiled dinner later.”

  “How did Mr. Haskins ever live without your help?” Sara mused, tying on the apron.

  “I’ve often wondered that.” Claire chuckled as she searched for ingredients.

  For the next hour, Sara watched Claire carefully mix the ingredients to make the brown bread flavored with caraway seeds to go along with the boiled dinner. Sara recognized the bread as a variety that Mrs. Whitaker sold in the bakery, but she had never helped make it before. How delighted the older woman would be if she learned Sara was making bread. And even a boiled dinner. Sara would have to write and tell her.

  Sara’s face warmed. How could she write her? She had yet to tell Claire or Tom she could neither read nor write. It would place a further stigma on her character and be something else for Tom to frown upon and the citizens of Bethlehem to snicker over.

  “Sara, the dough! Please knead it a few more minutes. We don’t want it to dry out.”

  Sara worked the dough the way Claire had shown her, giving the sticky mass a quarter turn and then pushing it down with the heel of her hand. When Claire proclaimed it ready, Sara placed the dough in a bowl to let it rise. They spent the rest of the day doing chores around the house, returning to the kitchen to prepare the loaves and put the meat to boil in a kettle. Claire then set Sara to work peeling potatoes.

  “I can see now why wealthy women have servants,” Sara remarked. “There’s so much work to running a household. I could never do it all.”

  “But you must have done some cooking, sewing, or cleaning in the city.”

  Sara wondered how much of her life in New York she should share with Claire—like that she subsisted on bread and cheese for the most part, or occasional soup if Mrs. Whitaker invited her over to her house. That once in a while she would be fed a ripe apple or some other gift as a thank-you for helping others in need. That her dwelling for a year had been a forgotten room in a cellar with no stove, let alone a kitchen.

  “Didn’t you?” Claire pressed.

  “I didn’t do much cooking. Especially after Mama died. Since it was just me, it made no sense to do cooking and sewing.”

  “I remember you telling me that she died and you were left alone to fend for yourself. How sad.”

  “I have a picture of Mama if you would like to see it.” Sara hurried off to her room and the possessions she’d shared with no one, save Mrs. Whitaker: the cup and saucer that belonged to her mother and, of course, the faded photographs. She returned with her prized items to show Claire.

  “What an hono
rable woman,” Claire said of the picture, to Sara’s delight. “I see you both share the same little nose and large eyes.”

  Sara touched her nose. Was it too small? Did Tom dislike the shape of her nose along with everything else?

  “How did she die?”

  “From the fever. I think about her all the time.”

  “I’m sure you do. My parents are gone, too. This was their house, you know. I can still see Mother in the kitchen, making the same dinner we’re making today. We never forget what our mothers taught us, do we? They remain with us throughout our lives.”

  Sara liked Claire more and more as they talked. Maybe they could trust each other with dreams and secrets, things true sisters often shared. A tear glazed her eye at the thought. How lovely that would be. Even if things did not work out with Tom Haskins, to have a sister would be a better gift…and even more reason for her to be content with this new life in Bethlehem and not give any further thought to returning to New York.

  But the thoughts quickly vanished when Tom appeared for dinner. Sara proudly placed the bread on the table, but he took little notice of it. She wondered if anything she did would impress him. Perhaps nothing, unless she looked and acted the part of a wealthy socialite. When Claire began dishing up the dinner, he inhaled the aroma. “My favorite,” he declared.

  “Sara made the bread,” Claire added.

  Tom’s gaze now focused on her. It was the longest he’d ever looked at her, but it seemed to be more out of amazement than appreciation for what he was seeing. “You made the bread?”

  “I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I will. It looks good.” He cut a healthy slice and slathered it with butter. He took a huge bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Excellent.”

  Sara glowed with pleasure. She claimed her seat opposite him, cut her own piece of bread, and began to eat.

  “I like to put my napkin here, Sara,” Claire said gently, showing Sara how to unfold her napkin and place it in her lap. “That way, it keeps spills from staining my dress, and I can use it to wipe my mouth.”

  “But why not have it right beside your fork?” Sara asked. “It makes no sense to have it in your lap. It’s too far away to be of any use. And when it gets soiled, it can stain your dress.”

  Tom began to choke on his bread and hastily grabbed his glass of water. “I must say, Sara has a good point.”

  Claire gave him a sharp look, and he returned his attention to his meal.

  Sara took up her fork to stab the potatoes and carrots. Claire had shown her how to hold her knife and fork correctly to cut her vegetables and meat into small pieces. In Sara’s mind, the slow process would leave her food cold by the time she was done readying it to eat. Why not enjoy the food while it was hot rather than imitate these silly pleasantries? She forced her opinion aside for Claire’s sake and cut a piece of spiced beef into five equally sized squares.

  “Very nice,” Claire said with a smile. “So what did you do today, Tom?”

  “I had Ginger shod,” he said, slicing a second helping of bread. “And I showed a painting to Mrs. Hunter, who wanted it for her guesthouse.”

  “How nice. Have you enjoyed the painting Tom did for you, Sara?”

  Sara put down her fork. “Painting? What painting?”

  Claire looked over at Tom. “I thought you were going to give her the painting, Tom. At the train depot, remember? You had wrapped one up for her.”

  His face colored. “I was going to, but things didn’t go quite as planned.”

  Sara looked from Tom to Claire. So that was the secret gift in his possession that day. Tom had planned to give her one of his paintings. Why did he change his mind? Did he think her unworthy of his work? Not fit to be by his side, no matter how hard she tried? Tears stung her eyes. Her throat closed over. She stirred in her seat, and the napkin floated to the floor. “I’m sorry you dislike me so,” she said stiffly. “But I am trying….”

  “You’re doing a wonderful job, Sara,” Claire interrupted, casting a steely-eyed look at Tom. “I’m sure Tom just forgot to give it to you. It’s been busy here.”

  “Sara, I don’t dislike you. I promise I will give you a painting when I have another one to give.”

  “Another one?”

  “You see, that painting was the one Mrs. Hunter bought today.” He hesitated. “I didn’t think giving you a painting was a good idea right now when you need more important things…like a dress and shoes.” He shifted in discomfort. “I’m sorry.” He withdrew from the table and slipped into the drawing room.

  Sara tried to comprehend this, even as Claire gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sure Tom thought perhaps you would think a painting useless when you’ve had little else in your life. I know he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, gathering up the dishes and avoiding Claire’s gaze. She didn’t want her to see the tears gathering in her eyes. Perhaps he was right that she needed other things. But giving her the painting, sharing in his life’s work as an artist, his God-given talent, might have signaled a ray of hope for a future relationship.

  But what was she to expect, after all? Tom had seemed unwilling to share much of anything since the day she arrived, except for his home and his sister. The inner man, the one God created, remained shut up, unwilling to be exposed, at least before her eyes. That fact renewed the flow of tears as she carried away the bread she’d made. Dear God, I wish Tom would reveal a part of himself to me. I wish he would think of me as a woman he can share his life and dreams with and not a waif of the streets. Help him see me with new eyes and an open heart.

  A few days later, Claire offered to take Sara shopping for a new dress and shoes. Sara all but ran out the door at the invitation. At last she might finally capture Tom’s attention, if she looked the part of a grand lady of Bethlehem. While she did appreciate the dress Mrs. Whitaker had given her, it was sadly outdated from the dresses she had seen worn by other women and Claire. She yearned for the regal skirt, the puffy sleeves, and the distinct waistline. And, of course, a large hat to match.

  When Sara arrived at the boutique, the clerk wriggled her nose at the garment Sara wore. “I can see you do need help, young lady. That style has not been worn since the war!” She took a dress from a display. “Now here is a lovely frock. Go try it on behind the curtain there.”

  When Sara stepped out from behind the curtain, the clerk frowned. “I had no idea she was so thin and pale,” the lady remarked to Claire. “This will not do.”

  Sara sighed. Yes, she was pale and spindly, the perfect portrait of a destitute woman. The clerk came with another garment. After three more tries, Claire agreed to an emerald green dress that both she and Sara liked.

  “I wish I could pay you,” Sara said wistfully while Claire counted out the money to purchase the dress and a matching hat.

  “It’s a gift, didn’t I tell you? Since Tom decided you might prefer a dress, it’s your welcome-to-Bethlehem gift.”

  “I do like it very much.” Sara couldn’t help but think of the original gift of the painting Tom had planned to give her. But this was far better, she decided. It gave her a sense of belonging and the confidence to walk among the other ladies along the town boardwalk. And she prayed it might turn Tom’s attention to her.

  She wore the new garment as they walked out to the street. Claire had other errands—to post a letter and visit the butcher for meat. Observing the way the ladies strolled with their head erect and posture straight, with arms curved graciously, Sara mimicked them. The women they passed nodded to her. She nodded in return and smiled to herself. I’m one of them!

  When Claire came out of the butcher shop with a package of meat, she gazed at Sara. “You look happy.”

  “Oh, Claire, I am happy. I don’t know how to thank you. I’ll do whatever I can to help you at the house, I promise. Somehow I’ll make this up to you.”

  “You don’t have to do that, though I always welcome your help. I’m just
glad you like the dress and hat.”

  “I do. It makes me feel so…”

  “Why, hello, Claire!”

  Sara glanced past Claire to see a woman strolling up behind them. Sara performed a small curtsey and nodded her head. The woman gave Sara a brief nod then turned her attention to Claire.

  “Annabelle, how are you?”

  “Just fine. I was hoping to see that charming brother of yours around. He owes me another outing, you know. In fact, it’s his turn to suggest a time and place. I took him on a fine picnic last time. But since then, we’ve barely spoken.”

  Disbelief swept through Sara. Claire’s gaze darted from her to Annabelle. “I’m sorry; he hasn’t mentioned anything. He’s been quite preoccupied with our new visitor here. May I introduce Tom’s houseguest, Miss Sara McGee from New York City.”

  Sara could see an icy glaze form in Annabelle’s eyes. “A houseguest? Are you a cousin, perhaps? It seems all the cousins are visiting these days. I’m the cousin of Tom’s friend, Lawrence. Lawrence’s wife, Loretta, actually.”

  Lawrence. The dreadful, inconsiderate man who had ridiculed her at the depot. “Your cousin’s husband is the rudest man,” Sara said stoutly.

  Annabelle stepped back, her mouth dropping open. “What?”

  “A most inconsiderate man. You may tell him for me that he had no right to interfere with Tom’s business or my own. And he would do well to stay away, thank you.” Sara whirled and walked off. She heard some vague comment from the woman about her inexplicable rudeness, followed by Claire’s apology. Then Sara heard the patter of footsteps quicken behind her along the wooden walkway.

  “Sara, how could you say such a thing?” Claire said breathlessly, suddenly walking stride for stride beside her.

  “I meant every word, Claire. Her cousin’s husband was the one who interfered with our meeting. He said terrible things about me, along with other men at the depot. And he planted doubt in Tom’s heart.”

  “Sara, you should know better than to pick a quarrel with someone like Annabelle.”