Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire

by Lauralee Bliss

  “I’m learning to read,” Sara said. “I didn’t have much schooling when I lived in New York.”

  Suddenly members of the family were interested in hearing her adventures in the big city.

  “I always wanted to visit New York,” Henry mused. “You must tell us about it.”

  “Yes, and why you came all the way here to Bethlehem,” asked Elisa. “You aren’t here for a holiday—just to work?”

  “I…” Sara didn’t know what to say. For some reason, trying to explain to the family about Tom’s ad for a bride seemed rather foolish. In a way, she felt foolish, too. “Let’s just say I came seeking a new life. And nothing has gone as I expected.”

  The family exchanged glances but said no more. As the hour drew late, Adelaide ordered the children to bed while Henry drew on his coat. “I suppose we’d better get you back home now, miss.”

  Sara thanked Adelaide for everything and followed Henry into the cold. When they arrived at the guesthouse, Sara offered her thanks.

  “No, I should thank you. You saved my boy’s life. And since we don’t live too far from Maplewood, you’re welcome to visit anytime. Even board with us, if you wish.”

  “You have a lovely family, sir. Thank you again.” Sara managed a smile before venturing inside. When she walked into the living room, a tall figure stood there. He whirled to face her.

  It was Tom Haskins.

  Her heart felt as if it might stop. Oh no! How did he find me? Dear Lord, not now. After all I’ve been through tonight. She shivered once more, this time from nerves.

  Tom came toward her, his dark eyes wide with concern. “Sara, I was so worried! Mrs. White said you were very late. You usually come home a little after nine, and it’s nearly eleven! I even went to the Maplewood looking for you.”

  “I’m sorry, but I—I can’t talk now,” she managed to say, walking past him. “I don’t know how you found me.”

  “You mentioned staying with a Mrs. White. I knew of the guesthouse. And Sara, I…” He followed her to the stairs.

  “Tom, I can’t. I–I’m so tired. It’s late. Go home. I’m sure Claire is worried about you.”

  Tom took another step forward then stopped.

  Sara stumbled her way up the stairs and to her room, where she collapsed on the bed. “Oh, dear God, what am I going to do?” She buried her face in her pillow. I can’t think. I can barely breathe. But You, dear Lord, are kind even still. You have helped me. You have sent people my way, not only for me to help but to help me, too. She began to relax. And for some reason, You have sent Tom back into my life. I don’t know why. I pray, please help me rest so I can figure out what to do tomorrow.

  Morning arrived all too quickly. At least Sara did not have to report to work at the Maplewood until the afternoon, in time for the busy dinner hour. She spent the morning assisting Mrs. White with housework in exchange for a reduced rate on her room. Her cheeks tingled in the cold air as she stood on the back stoop, beating out rug after rug. She’d also promised to wash the kitchen floor before noon.

  “Oh, Sara, you have a guest!” Mrs. White called out.

  Who would be visiting her? Sara heaved a sigh as she dragged the rug back inside. She stopped short.

  Tom stood before her once more—tall, dark, distinguished, and ever-curious about her circumstances. He took off his hat. “Good morning, Sara.”

  “Why do you keep following me?”

  “I couldn’t very well stay away. You looked as if something terrible had happened last night. As it was, I didn’t sleep all night for worrying.”

  She folded the rugs. “I helped a little boy who was lost in the snow and returned him to his family. It took longer than I thought, visiting with the family after it happened. With the long hours at work and then the boy, I was quite exhausted. But they were a kind family. I was very glad to meet them.”

  “There are many fine people here in Bethlehem. They are not all the sordid kind you’ve seen in recent months.”

  “I never thought they were.”

  “I didn’t mean it to come out that way. But I was thinking…with you working so late at night at the hotel, I don’t like the idea of your walking home alone. I would very much like to be your escort, if you would allow me.”

  Sara stared in amazement at his offer. “Oh, come now. You’re not truly going to walk me back each night at nine o’clock?”

  “It would be my pleasure. And we can talk, if you wish. Or we can just walk.”

  Sara gave him what she hoped was a suspicious look. Why in all the heavens would Tom want to do such a thing? “Why are you doing this?” she finally asked, going to a closet to retrieve a bucket and scrub brush.

  “Why?” He hesitated. Sara wondered if he knew the reason himself. “Because it’s the right thing to do.” He stood silent while she filled the bucket with water and added soap flakes. “And because I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  She paused in her work to see the sincerity in his face and the same dark eyes that were looking quite handsome at that moment.

  “And I want to know you better. I want to meet the woman who saved a little boy’s life last night.”

  “Humph.” She worked the water into a lather. “You had plenty of time to get to know me when I was a guest in your home, but you hardly gave me the time of day.”

  “I know, and for that I’m truly sorry.” He stepped forward.

  Sara tensed, wondering if he was going to reach for her hand. Instead, he reached down and picked up the bucket. “Where do you need it?”

  Without a word, Sara pointed to the kitchen floor. Something had changed within the heart of Tom Haskins…and maybe in her heart, as well. After last night, walking home in the snow, she was eager to accept and enjoy the companionship. She knew Tom would protect her, even after all that had happened. He wouldn’t be here now if he didn’t.

  “So will you allow me to walk you home at night?”

  “All right. I leave the kitchen at nine. And…thank you.”

  He nodded. “I’ll see you then.” He placed his hat on his head. “Oh—I have something for you.” He took an envelope out of his coat pocket. “I will see you tonight.”

  Sara wiped her damp hands on her apron, watching him move toward the front door before she examined the letter. She worked to unseal the envelope. Inside was money and a simple note. She began to sound out the letters.

  For your train fare, so you may leave whenever you wish. Tom Haskins

  Sara closed her hand over the envelope. What did this mean? Did he want her to leave? If he did, then why would he ask to walk her back from the hotel each night? How she wished she could read the unspoken words behind the simple note to reveal Tom’s heart.

  Sara sighed and tucked the envelope into the pocket of her apron. Today might well be her last day here in Bethlehem. She could have her few belongings packed and be on the train tomorrow morning. Yet she had no peace with such a plan. She had begun to find a special place in her heart for this town. She liked the beauty of the area and the pastor of the church where they attended. She had friends: Mrs. White…her coworkers at Maplewood…even the new family she met last night…Claire…maybe even Tom Haskins.

  After Sara finished scrubbing the floor, she returned to her room. On a small table beside the cup and saucer that had belonged to her mother rested another letter. Tom had sent the letter to her in New York shortly before she came to Bethlehem. She took it now and compared it to the handwriting on the note she’d received today. The handwriting was the same, but the contents were much different.

  Thank you very much for your recent letter. I was happy indeed to hear more of Sara and her kind heart. How we need such people as her to bring joy into the lives of those who have none. And I must say I’m more than eager to meet her and share that joy. And you have written wise words when you say that beauty is found inside. That is the beauty I cherish, too, and hope to share. Please don’t think anything of Sara’s circums
tances, for they mean little in the grand scale of life. We will have much to do and share when we meet. I look forward to it with all my heart.

  When Mrs. Whitaker read it to her, she’d commented, “It’s a letter of love, for certain.”

  Sara shook her head. “It is a mockery, to be sure. None of what he wrote matched what he has done or how he looks at me. He has only ever judged the outside.” She chuckled in scorn, folded the letter, and put it away. Yet her heart remained unsettled, yearning to know where his feelings stood now. And more importantly, what God’s will was for them. How would she know the right answers if she chose to leave prematurely?

  They would begin the journey again with Sara accepting Tom’s offer to escort her to the guesthouse each night. They would walk the path together and see where God led them. And if it did not work out, he’d given her the freedom to leave whenever she wished. Sara opened the envelope and counted out the money. “All right, Mr. Haskins, you shall have your walk. I shall have my escort. And we shall see what comes of it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tom could hardly concentrate the rest of that day for thinking of Sara. He’d learned even more about last night’s escapade with the lost boy when he arrived at the mercantile to buy some items for Claire. Everyone was talking about it. When anything happened among the Bethlehem townspeople, it became news. He was glad then he had stopped by to see Sara earlier that morning. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder what might happen. By offering her the money so she could return home, it might well signal the end. Sara could leave this very afternoon if she wanted. But he hoped she might choose differently. She did, after all, accept his escort for this evening. Perhaps something new would spring up between them.

  Now he tried to return his thoughts to his paintings. With the weather more favorable, he set up his easel in a large field, hoping to paint Mount Agassiz blanketed in freshly fallen snow. But the white canvas stared back at him as if to challenge him. Again the mood for a painting had fled. Mr. Astor had left a few days ago, reminding Tom of his commitment to have the paintings sent to New York in time for Christmas. But at this rate of progress, Tom would never make the deadline. Other things continued to hold his creative touch captive.

  Finally he forced himself to sit before an easel and mix paints. He must paint something, no matter how he felt. Just then several children arrived with sleds to ride down the hill before him. He watched the playful scene unfold: the screams of delight as the children raced each other then turned into miniature snowmen after rolling off their sleds. Suddenly he had the urge to capture the simplistic but meaningful image of children enjoying a winter’s day in Bethlehem. Even when the children left an hour later, Tom continued to paint until his fingers grew too cold to hold a paintbrush and the paints turned thick and sticky. With the scene emblazoned in his memory, he could finish the rest of it in the warmth of his home. He began to pack up his supplies.

  “Hello, Thomas,” came a familiar voice.

  He turned and saw a feminine form plodding through the snow, dressed in a stylish coat, with hands buried inside a woolly muff. Annabelle Loving withdrew her hand and extended it to him. He hesitated to take her hand at first. Her red lips twisted into a pout, distorting her otherwise chiseled features. Finally he took her hand and kissed it lightly.

  She smiled. “I haven’t seen you in so long, not since the day we met at the hotel. Did you like the book on Italy?”

  He didn’t admit to her that he’d forgotten about it, but a perturbed look on her face formed anyway.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “I’m just busy, Annabelle. Mr. Astor was here for a few days, demanding his paintings. I’m severely behind in my work.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m delighted that Mr. Astor wants your paintings. Is that why you’re out here in the cold? I’m surprised to find you painting in a big snowy field like this.”

  “I can no longer feel my fingers,” he admitted, flexing them.

  In a graceful move, Annabelle took his cold hands in hers, made warm by the muff, and began rubbing them. She drew nearer. “Does this help?” she whispered in a sultry voice.

  Tom withdrew his hands and turned away. “Thank you. I do have to get my paints inside before they freeze.”

  “Of course. I only wondered what’s happening. I thought…” She paused. “I thought things were going so well between us…and then suddenly I heard nothing from you. Are you angry with me?”

  “Of course not. Why would I be?”

  A smile lit her face, and her eyes glistened. “I couldn’t begin to imagine why. We are so perfect for each other, Thomas, with our love for the arts. Then there’s the trip to Italy Father has planned.”

  “I can’t go to Italy,” he said quickly, continuing to pack his paints.

  She didn’t seem to hear him. “I just know it will be a wonderful trip. Perfect for an artist. Can you see it? The painted domes. The cathedrals. And of course, the romance of Rome. Maybe we could even get married in Rome itself! A dream come true, just as you once said.”

  He froze. Again came the words about a marriage proposal. But the way she said them, he sensed for the first time the error of it all, offering the fulfillment of a dream in exchange for a marital commitment. A relationship formed like this would never last, especially through the trials of life. “Annabelle, I can’t go on the trip. I should have said this to you sooner, but…there’s someone else.” He glanced up in time to see her face redden.

  “What?” Her laugher reached a crescendo. “You can’t be serious. Don’t tell me it’s that simpleton of a girl who used to live in your house. I heard how she ran off as soon as she learned about us. Lawrence told me she was some newspaper bride, of all things. How silly. It’s better she left. I mean…” She laughed once more. “You can’t possibly see yourself married to such a woman, can you? She’s a strumpet from the street. No matter how much Claire has tried to dress her like a lady, she never will be a lady. You must know it.”

  A silent rage began to fill him. His face began to heat. “Sara is a fine Christian woman, Annabelle, and not some harlot. And I will no longer judge by outward appearances. That was my mistake in the beginning. It’s the inner person, the quiet heart, that matters. The Bible even says not to put on airs like jewels but to adorn oneself with a gentle and quiet spirit.”

  She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he continued.

  “Talk with people at the mercantile on Main Street, and you will learn how Sara helped a young boy who was lost in the snow last night. If she had not found him, he would have died. And I must say it’s that gentle spirit of humility one finds attractive. And likable.”

  “So are you saying I won’t help others? Why, I helped you, in case you don’t realize it. More than you know. And this is how you thank me, by giving me some kind of Bible lesson, like I’m in Sunday school?”

  “Annabelle, you can’t base a marriage on selfishness. Using trips or money to buy your way to happiness will never work. You will still be miserable, no matter how hard you try.”

  Annabelle jerked backward as though she had been slapped. “How dare you. I’ve never been so insulted!”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you. But I’ve given this plenty of thought recently. And I can’t go on a trip, nor can I marry you.” He paused. “And please tell Lawrence that I will return his book.” He continued packing up his paints. By the time he finished, the only image of Annabelle that remained was hurried footprints in the new-fallen snow, heading toward town.

  Tom felt as if a great boulder had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t know why; he had nothing now. Annabelle was no more. Sara remained distant and even angry with him. But I have peace. I couldn’t have been happy with someone like Annabelle. Why I didn’t see it until now, I don’t know. He paused. I may be too late for Sara, too. Still he felt at peace with the situation. Somehow, someway, he was on the right path and no longer fighting through a hedge of choking bri
ars.

  For the first time in many months, Tom felt light on his feet, even if they were temporarily dragged down by his trudging through snow drifts. He returned to the house, whistling a favorite hymn, “How Great Thou Art.”

  A startled Claire greeted him with a confused look. “So what’s the reason for all this gaiety today?”

  “I’ve found freedom, Claire.”

  “Freedom from what, dear brother? I must admit, I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “Freedom from selfishness and criticism.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He entered the study and began setting up the easel. Claire followed. “Annabelle found me while I was painting, and we talked. But as she spoke, I realized my own mistake—valuing the outward appearance. Criticizing those beneath us. But now I’m free from it all. And from Annabelle. Neither of us was good for the other.”

  Tom felt the strength of Claire’s embrace, and with such force, he nearly lost his balance.

  “Oh, Tom, this is an answer to prayer! How I prayed God would direct all this and open your eyes. I can’t believe it’s happened.”

  Tom couldn’t quite believe what had happened, either. But he knew he was finally in the right place in his heart. “And tonight I’m seeing Sara. She tried so hard to fit in, to find her way in a world that rejected her and left her alone. And I want her to know that she does fit in this place, better than anyone, even those who supposedly have everything.”

  “I know you said you saw her at the Maplewood in the dining room when you met Mr. Astor. What happened after that?”

  “We didn’t talk much last night. I returned to her guesthouse this morning, and I found out she was responsible for rescuing the little Turner boy out in the snow. The news is all over town.”

  Claire’s eyes widened.

  “I didn’t like the idea of her walking home alone every night, so I offered to be her escort each evening after work. And you may as well know this, too. I gave her the money for the train fare back to New York City. If she still chooses to go.”