Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “So the old saying is true,” he mused aloud. The corner of his mouth tugged into a rakish smile.

  “What saying?”

  He looked pointedly at the basket, then scanned the mercantile as he drawled, “Criminals return to the scene of the crime.”

  “How am I to know that you didn’t teach that poor, innocent kitty all of those bad habits? She never knocked things over, scared the wits out of a woman, or broke anything at my house.”

  “It’s a woman thing. I’m sure of it. She was trying to rearrange my store, was being catty about Mrs. Blanchard’s bilious-colored dress, and gave in to a temper fit. I’ll bet you found the kittens because she was causing a ruckus and threw peaches at you.”

  “Garret Diamond, you missed your calling in life.” She picked up one of the dime novels and waved it like a fan in front of herself. “With the tales you make up, you should have become an author.”

  “Rose Masterson, you missed your calling in life,” Garret said half an hour later as they stood on opposite sides of a table she’d set up. “This arrangement you have here could turn into quite an enterprise.”

  An old maple table sat in the middle of her yard. Two buckets and a pair of washtubs sat on it—all full of warm water. In the middle of the table were a scrub brush and a box of baking soda, and two more full buckets waited on the grass under the table. A stack of towels sat on a chair behind her. He nodded approvingly. “Everything necessary to bathe a cat.”

  “Don’t go making any grandiose proclamations yet. The second I get that cat wet, we’re going to be wet. I gave the runt a bath this morning, which is why I have twice as much water and three towels.”

  Garret unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up. For good measure, he used the garters to hike his sleeves up past the muscles of his forearms. “I’m not about to let a cat get the better of me.”

  Five minutes later, Garret shot Rose a quick look, then grabbed Pickle by the scruff of the neck and struggled to wiggle her so she’d let go of the edge of the tub. He’d barely managed to dunk her the first time, and she’d shot out of the tub with a hair-raising yowl. Rose managed to dump half of the box of soda into the water, and she tried to use the scrub brush to help work more into the kitten’s fur.

  “Watcha doin’?” Prentice asked from the other side of the sagging fence.

  “Washing a kitty.” Rose sucked in a quick breath as Pickle scratched her wrist. “Oh dear.”

  In a matter of minutes, several of Buttonhole’s children and a few of the adults were witnesses to the remainder of the kitten’s bath. Afterward, as Prentice sat and held a towel-wrapped Pickle, Rose served peach cobbler to everyone. Garret sighed and told her to cut into the second pan—his pan. Rose giggled. “I imagine since you’ve never seen my backyard, you’re hoping the peach tree is large.”

  “Guilty as charged, Miss Rose.”

  “It’s rather small.” She paused strategically. “But the other two peach trees toward the back of the yard are huge.”

  “I’ll make it a point to come peach picking, Miss Rose.” He took up a few plates and helped her serve the rest of that second cobbler, and Rose licked the last of the sweet peachy syrup from her silver server. Having a scamp like Garret over to pick peaches suited her just fine.

  “Know what?” Prentice announced in a loud voice to everyone while conscientiously keeping hold of the cat. “Mr. Diamond is Miss Rose’s beau. She called him ‘dear.’”

  “Balderdash.” Garret turned to her, then immediately added, “I mean you no disrespect, Miss Rose.”

  She laughed. “I took none. Prentice, I said, ‘Oh dear,’ just as your mama used to say, ‘Oh my,’ or Mrs. Busby says, ‘Mercy me.’”

  “I’ve never heard such piffle. Rose isn’t the marrying type at all,” Lula Mae singsonged. “Rose, you simply must give me your recipe for this cobbler. It melts in my mouth.”

  “I’ll write it down for you and bring you peaches tomorrow.”

  Garret frowned at Rose. “You oughtn’t be picking peaches—not with those scratches.”

  “I have peroxide.”

  “Yes.” Hugo chuckled. “Remember? She used it on your scorched shirt.”

  Cordelia frowned. “I can bandage those scratches while I’m here. Where do you keep your peroxide?”

  “The bottom drawer in the spare bedroom.”

  “You stay out here and mind your daughters. I’ll fetch it,” Mrs. Blanchard said. Garret suspected her motive was less to help than it was to get away from the cat. Chances were good the only reason Mrs. Blanchard had stopped by in the first place was because this impromptu gathering featured a sweet and a chance to chat. For being as skinny as she was, the woman had a terrible sweet tooth. She stopped into the store each day to get a full penny’s worth of candy, and Rose’s cobbler rated as far more desirable.

  Neighbors drifted off, and Mrs. Blanchard reappeared with the peroxide, a dishcloth, and some salve. She clucked her tongue as she set them down on the water-splashed table beside the tubs and buckets Garret had emptied and stacked. “Silly woman. She’s playing with kittens when there’s dust at least half an inch thick in her spare room and parlor.” She spiraled her finger in the air right beside her temple and whispered, “I tell you, she’s touched.”

  Garret lifted the dishcloth Mrs. Blanchard had brought out and studied it. Made from an old white flour sack, it still bore the faintest outline of Minnesota Pink Label. On the opposite side and end, Rose had embroidered “Sunday” and a cheery-looking sunshine in the corner. He continued to look at that silly decoration and said softly, “I, for one, am glad she used her time to bake those cobblers instead of dusting. Aren’t you, Mrs. Blanchard?”

  “There’s no law that says she couldn’t do both.” The woman stuck her nose in the air and stomped off.

  Hugo steered Prentice past the table and across the street. They were the last to go. Rose stood by the porch holding Pickles while the runt she’d mentioned slept on the windowsill behind her. Garret called over, “Rosie, put down the cat, and let’s take care of your scratches.”

  Angry weals lined the full length of all the thin, long scratches. Garret frowned as he inspected her wrists. “I know you already washed these, but I think you’d best suds them again. Cat scratches are known for causing infections and fevers.”

  “Oh, a splash of peroxide will do me just fine.”

  Garret wouldn’t let her pull her hands from his. “Soap first. I’ll apply peroxide, then some salve. What about bandaging them for the night?”

  “Stuff and nonsense!”

  He gave her a stern look. “If this were anyone else, you’d insist on that treatment.”

  Rose let out an irked sound, but she didn’t deny the truth. “Would it satisfy you if I promised to apply salve and to wear gloves tonight?”

  “It’ll spoil your gloves—make them greasy.” As he spoke, he dipped her hands into a fresh pail of water and gently washed the scratches. Such wonderful hands she had. Her nails were short, her fingers slim and long. Instead of being milky white, her hands and wrists carried the slightest bit of coloring—no doubt from the hours she spent gardening and picking fruit. The backs of her hands were soft as could be, but the palms bore small calluses that tattled on how she wasn’t afraid of pitching in and doing work. They reminded him of his great-aunts, Brigit and Emily. They’d spent a lifetime of doing good deeds, and he’d considered their hands beautiful.

  Rose slipped her hands from his and cupped them, palms upward. She pursed her lips and blew, sending bubbles floating into the wind. Her laughter floated along with them as she dunked her fingers to rinse off the remainder of the soap. As she dried her palms on the Sunday dishcloth, she asked, “Did I tell you that ‘Pickle’ is a marvelous name for the kitten? You’ll have to help me think of a name for the runt.”

  Garret carefully applied the peroxide, watched it bubble, then applied the ointment. “I see his coloring is like the other two.”

  “Yes
, there was only one calico. The runt is a girl though. Any ideas for her name?”

  He slowly stroked the salve along the next scratch. Most of the time, women wore gloves. This contact with Rose seemed so warm, so personal. He was in no mood to rush through it. “Mr. Peaches, Apricot, and Pickle. The others are named for food. I’m trying to think of something that’s orangey tan. Crackers? Caramel? Cobbler?”

  Rose shook her head. “Cobbler would be too confusing. I like Caramel. That’s cute.” Her nose wrinkled.

  “Did I hurt you?” He paused and continued to gently hold her hand.

  “Oh no. Not at all. I was just thinking that Pickle and Caramel make for an odd couple of names.” To his acute disappointment, she pulled away and left him feeling oddly incomplete as a result.

  “If anything …” She paused to laugh again. “When I call them, it’s probably going to give everyone fodder to think I’m slipping further into my nonsensical morass.”

  “Rose, I’m about convinced your attic isn’t dusty—it’s drafty as can be if you think I’m letting you keep my cat.” He dumped out the bucket, scooped up Pickle, and walked off. He was halfway back to the store before he realized something. Pickle didn’t smell of dill brine any longer. The faint but unmistakable fragrance of tea rose wafted from her fur.

  He threw back his head and laughed. Rose had anointed his cat with her perfume!

  Chapter 9

  Let’s try it again.” Rose cupped her hands around the harmonica and watched as Prentice bobbed his head and drew in a deep breath. He lifted his own nickel-plated Hohner harmonica, and they started to play a duet.

  “I think Susannah would say, ‘Oh!’ all right if she heard us play that,” Prentice moaned after they finished. “Miss Rose, we sound terr’ble.”

  “I’ve heard better,” she admitted. “I know we wanted to keep this a secret, but perhaps it’s time for us to seek out help. Who do we know who plays a harmonica?”

  Prentice stuck out his tongue through the empty spot where his teeth once were and played with the gap. “I dunno.”

  “Hello.”

  Rose jumped a bit and swiveled around. “Garret!” She motioned him over enthusiastically. “What a wonderful surprise. What brings you here?”

  He opened the gate and sauntered into her backyard with long, lazy strides that still managed to close the distance between them quite quickly. “Cordelia Orrick is minding the store. I came to pick peaches.”

  Prentice elbowed her and whispered loudly, “Ask him!”

  “Ask me what?”

  Rose lifted her harmonica. “Can you make this silly thing work?”

  “I’ve been known to puff a tune or two.” Garret accepted it and polished the nickel on his sleeve. He took a seat on the step next to Rose. “The first trick is, you have to shine it up and make sure it’s warm. A cold one makes your mouth stick so the mouth organ won’t slide easily.”

  “Wow. He’s gonna be great!” Prentice hopped up, raced over, and plopped back down on Garret’s other side.

  There wasn’t enough room, so Garret scooted closer. Rose gathered her skirts and started to inch away, but he curled his arm around her shoulders and halted her movement. “You needn’t run away, Miss Rose. I promise not to deafen you with too many sour notes.”

  She smiled. “I’m just scooting over a tad.”

  “Better not. You’ll fall in that—what is that thing?” He leaned forward and squinted.

  “A strawberry barrel. By cutting holes all over in the barrel, I can harvest a fine crop of berries in a small space.”

  Garret’s arm tightened, and he yanked her closer. Rose muffled a surprised squeal. “That settles it! I hold a definite liking for both you and strawberries, so I refuse to let you fall.”

  Rose couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged her. The feeling of being sheltered washed over her. Garret’s easygoing nature and scampish smile made her settle in close beside him with a contented sigh. Life couldn’t be richer or sweeter than to have good friends and a sunny day and to be surrounded by the blessing of God’s bounty.

  Rose watched as Garret cradled the harmonica like she would hold a tiny chick. An odd thought streamed through her mind. I like the way he moves—his confident, steady gait, the effortless manner in which he hefts heavy things, the supple gestures he uses, and now—the way he wraps those long-fingered, strong hands around the little instrument.

  “Here’s how you do it.” He patiently showed Prentice how to hold the harmonica, how to sense and hear the right notes, and how to play as he both inhaled and exhaled. Soon Prentice was playing recognizable snippets from songs.

  “You taught him more in fifteen minutes than I have in three weeks,” Rose praised.

  “You practice more, little man. Rose is going to hold a basket for me while I pick fruit.” Garret held up a finger to silence her before she could protest. “You are not going to pick anything until those scratches are completely healed.”

  “They’re already much better.” She held them up and wiggled her fingers.

  “Miss Rose,” Garret said in a low tone as his brows knit, “you’d best be thankful your yard doesn’t have a hickory tree in it.”

  “Hickory?” She glanced around, then gave him a baffled look. “Why?”

  “Where I come from, folks got a whuppin’ with a hickory switch for stretching the truth beyond all recognition.”

  Rose tilted her nose in the air. “I’m not telling a falsehood. They’ve not festered as cat scratches can, and I kept salve on them all night.”

  “You ought to soak them.”

  “I did.” When he gave her a stern look, she sheepishly added, “In a manner of speaking. They were in warm water whilst I washed the dishes.”

  “You’ve misbehaved enough for the day, if not for the week.” Garret handed her an empty basket. “You just stand there. I’ll fill it.” He reached up and plucked two peaches from a branch and placed them in the basket.

  “This is ridiculous. I want to be useful.”

  “You can be useful by deciding where all of these …” He picked two more and held them up before tucking them in the basket with the others. “… are going to end up.”

  “They’re all coming ripe at the same time. I’ll can as many as possible.” She tipped her head back and looked up at the heavily laden branches. “I have enough to feed an army.”

  “I have empty crates at the emporium.” His movements were so fluid that it didn’t seem as if he was working at all, yet the basket she held was filling up fast. He paused a moment and looked at her. “We could send peaches to the orphanage in Roanoke. Don’t you think those children would enjoy them?”

  “What a wonderful idea! The train comes through tomorrow morning. We could do that, couldn’t we?”

  “I have a feeling we could do just about anything we put our minds to.”

  “As long as the Lord blessed the task,” she tacked on.

  “Look at all of this. It would be a sin to waste it. After you decide how much you want to keep for your own use, I’d be happy to carry some to the boardinghouse.” He took the full basket from her, set it on the steps next to Prentice, who continued to puff into his harmonica with more zeal than talent, then came back with another basket.

  Rose had already picked three peaches. She lay them in the basket, and Garret groused at her, “You need to learn to follow directions, woman. No more picking. You just hold this.”

  “You’re downright bossy, Garret Diamond.”

  “If my skin were as thin as the skin on these peaches, I’d be mortally wounded by your harsh words.”

  “Doc Rexfeld is talented.” She laughed. “I’m sure he could pull you through.”

  “He was just in the store yesterday. Struck me as a competent, likable fellow.” He rapidly filled that basket. “Hey, speaking of the emporium, I wouldn’t mind putting some of your fruit out. You could make a bit of money on all of these extra peaches and apricots, you know.”
>
  “Oh, I couldn’t! I’d much rather give them away.” She lifted the basket higher. As it filled, it grew increasingly heavy.

  Garret hitched his right shoulder. “If that’s what you want. I’d be willing to give you some jars or sugar if you want to can or preserve more. Knowing you, you’ll be giving most of it away.”

  His generosity and enthusiasm for giving to others touched her deeply. “I really have enough jars. Could I talk you into giving the jars to Cordelia? Her girls love peaches, but she’s sensitive about taking charity. Perhaps if you worked it out as part of her pay …”

  “I still have some of those I emptied when I took over the emporium. I’ll just stick them in a wagon and have Prentice wheel them over to her house. If you take the peaches over tomorrow, she’s bound to—”

  Prentice came over. “Listen to this!” He played “Three Blind Mice” with just enough accuracy to allow them to guess the tune.

  Garret gently rubbed a freshly picked peach on his sleeve and handed it to the little boy. “That deserves a prize. Here you are.” As they finished filling the bucket, he brushed a leaf off Rose’s shoulder and puffed out her sleeve.

  Rose laughed. “I’m a wreck, and you did all the work.”

  “All the work? We’re not stopping already. I haven’t even gotten to climb a tree yet.”

  She looked from the tree to him, then back at the branches. “I don’t even let Prentice climb the peach, apricot, or plum trees. The limbs aren’t strong enough to bear weight.”

  “Killjoy.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. “Did you just call me a name?”

  He grabbed the bucket from her and leaned close enough that the sparkle in his eyes warned her he might say something outrageous. “Well, I guess I’ll take solace in the fact that Prentice’s harmonica playing didn’t harm your hearing.” He added, raising his voice, “Even if you are a spoilsport.”

  “Oh. Are they spoiled, Miss Rose?” Prentice pouted. “You were going to make jam.”

  Garret took that as an invitation to harvest several more bushels. They picked peaches and apricots aplenty. He carried a few of the baskets into the kitchen and set them on the table.