“Thanks to the boys,” Nilda said. “I wish Bjorn and Rune would attend too, but they are learning from the others. Knute and Leif can be hard taskmasters. Leif is making sure Kirstin learns to talk in English.”
“It is interesting to me how quickly small children—well, children in general—pick up a foreign language.” He smiled up at Charles, who was taking the soup bowls away. “Tell Cook she has outdone herself, as usual.”
Charles leaned closer. “You might notice she cooks all your favorite foods when you are here.”
Nilda watched the interaction. For someone so quiet, Fritz could be charming when he wanted to be. “How many languages do you speak?” she asked him.
“Three fluently—English, Norwegian, and German—and I’m working on French. I can understand and read more than I can speak. It’d be good to find someone around Benson’s Corner who speaks French for practice in conversation.”
“Jane speaks French,” Mrs. Schoenleber said. “She spent a summer in France when she was young and became quite fluent. And she has a good accent.”
“And you speak some,” Fritz pointed out.
“I know, but my accent is abysmal. I would make a real Frenchman shudder.”
“German is so similar to Norwegian that it is fairly easy to learn.” Nilda smiled at Charles when he set her plate before her. “This looks and smells delicious.”
“Wait until you see what she made for dessert.”
“Dried apple pie?” Fritz smiled at his aunt, who shook her head.
“You are incorrigible. I think she was saving the last of the apples for your pie. We’ll have coffee out on the verandah after.”
Nilda smiled at the banter between them. Someday, perhaps, she would learn more of the family stories, but for the moment she was content to observe. Maybe she should ask Fritz if he had any ideas for assisting Blackduck.
After both piano and typewriter lessons in the afternoon, Nilda was not looking forward to playing whist, but she made sure she smiled and acted pleased. If asked what she wanted to do, she’d have said listen to Fritz play the piano, but perhaps that would happen anyway. At least it better.
“What if all four of us play a game of croquet while it is still light out? We can play whist after dark.” Fritz looked from Miss Walstead to his aunt. They were just finishing supper, and dusk had not yet begun to creep in. Fritz looked from Miss Walstead to his aunt.
Nilda nodded. “I’d vote for that.”
Mrs. Schoenleber smiled. “Only if you promise to be gentle with these old ladies.”
Fritz snorted. “You mean no whacking the ball off the lawn?”
“I’m glad you understand me.” Mrs. Schoenleber folded her napkin and slid it back in the ring. “We’ll have beverages later, Charles. Tell Cook thank you for another delicious meal. Fritz, you have to come more often.”
Charles and Fritz pulled the chairs out for the ladies, and they adjourned to the backyard, where the croquet game was all set up.
“Confident, weren’t you?” Mrs. Schoenleber said.
Fritz grinned. “If not tonight, I figured Nilda and I could get in a game before I have to leave tomorrow.”
“You’ll stay for dinner?”
“It’s either that or kidnap Cook.” He waved his hand. “I know you’ve offered to find me a woman to cook and clean house, but no, thank you.”
“Stubborn,” she muttered under her breath.
Mrs. Schoenleber won the game with a perfect shot that knocked Fritz’s ball out of the court and then rolled her ball in to touch the finish post.
Fritz stood, open-mouthed. “But you said . . .”
“You agreed not to knock ours out of the court. I did not agree, for you didn’t ask me.”
Fritz sputtered, Nilda almost choked trying not to laugh, and Jane nearly doubled over laughing. Mrs. Schoenleber gave Fritz a sideways look, her eyes twinkling.
“Let’s go have something to drink, and I do not want to play whist either. What are you trying to do, destroy my manly pride?” Fritz huffed.
“Now, now, let’s not pout.” Mrs. Schoenleber dropped her croquet mallet back in the holding frame and patted his shoulder.
“I’ll agree to one game of whist, and then I think Nilda wants me to play the piano. She mentioned that earlier this afternoon.”
Miss Walstead won the card game, which was not unusual, and they adjourned to the parlor, where Charles served his special drink. Glass in hand, Fritz moved to the piano. He sat down on the bench and lifted the keyboard cover.
“Any special requests?” His fingers moved up and down the keyboard, filling the room with music that bathed the senses in peace. When no one responded, he moved into a passage from Debussy’s “La Mer,” followed by that composer’s “Clair de Lune.” Thanks to her piano lessons, Nilda was beginning to recognize the works of the major composers. Well, a few of them. Debussy seemed to be Fritz’s favorite.
Nilda rested her head against the back of her chair and let herself float. What bliss! When she opened her eyes, she saw Fritz watching her, a smile playing hide and seek with the music. Dreamy was the only word she could think of. He finished with “It Is Well with My Soul,” and after the last note lingered, he sat with his eyes closed and let the peace of the moment remain.
“Amen,” Mrs. Schoenleber whispered. “And thank you for blessing us with your amazing gift.” She stood. “Good night, my dears.” One by one, they all drifted up the stairs.
Fritz walked Nilda to her bedroom door. “Thank you.”
“I am the one to be thanking you.” Hand on the doorknob, she smiled over her shoulder. “Music flows out of your fingers and sings to my soul. Good night.”
“’Night.”
Inside her room, she crossed to the window and pulled back the sheers. Gilda had learned not to close the drapes, and the window was already open a foot or so. The breeze wafted in the fragrances from the garden. First peace for her soul and now incense. “Lord God, how can I ever thank you for such soul-bathing gifts as these?”
When she woke in the morning, all she could think of was a walk. Down by the river. With Fritz. As the pieces fell into place, she smiled to herself. They could be back by the time breakfast was served.
She dressed quickly, pulled her hair back with a tie, and descended the stairs as if she were floating. Six thirty, and voices drew her to the dining room. Fritz and Charles were talking as Charles poured the coffee and set a plate with a roll in front of Fritz. She paused in the doorway.
“Good morning, Miss Nilda, what can I bring you?”
“Nothing right now, thank you. I just wanted to tell someone I am going for a walk.”
“Do you mind if I come along?” Fritz already had frosting on his mouth.
“Not at all, but you might want to finish your coffee. I guess you could catch up.”
He swallowed, made a face, and set the coffee back in the saucer. “Hot!”
“Yes, sir, that’s the way you like it.” Charles kept his face straight, but his eyes twinkled. “I am sure Cook will keep your roll for you.”
“No, she won’t. I can walk and eat.” He pushed his chair back, grabbed the rest of his roll, and followed Nilda out the door.
“You want to take one with you?” Charles called after her.
“No, thanks. I’ll eat my share later.”
When they cleared the shadows of the house, she lifted her face to the sun already arching into the sky, as if in a hurry to complete his work for the day. They picked up the path heading east. Once they passed the place where Dreng had attacked her, she exhaled the tension that always tried to trip her but no longer succeeded.
“Your smile is back.”
“That is no longer a terrifying place, but I still have to make myself keep walking. Once I get past it, I am good again. The farther I get beyond it, the more I enjoy my walk.”
“But you make yourself do this.”
She nodded. “I cannot let him influence how I feel. That
is over and done with, and I have to go on. If I never heard his name again, it would be fine with me.”
“Is he buried here in Blackduck?”
She shook her head and picked up the pace. “I have no idea where he is buried, and I have no way to find out.”
That is a lie, Nilda Carlson. You could ask that Detective Galt, and he would know. But if you never see Mr. Galt again, it will be too soon.
She stopped when they reached the river that now flowed gently on its way to the Mississippi. “In the spring, when the ice breaks up and the logs are floated down, this is a whole different scene. It’s hard to believe it is the same river as now.”
“I know. I used to come down here and dream of being a log roller. They looked to have such an adventurous life.”
“What kept you from doing that?”
“I saw a man fall off the logs one day, and they found his body way downriver. I’ve never forgotten that. Logging might sound like a wild adventure, but Aunt Gertrude didn’t have to talk hard to dissuade me. The thought of smashing my fingers and not being able to play the piano and organ was more than enough to put me off the idea.”
Nilda realized she was puffing, so she slowed her steps just enough to catch her breath. Ask him. Ask him. The words kept time with her feet. “You like Blackduck, don’t you?”
“Of course. I love it here. The proximity to Blackduck is what made me accept the teaching position in Benson’s Corner. I came to live here after Uncle Arvid and the children were killed in the tornado. Aunt Gertrude was withdrawing into her grief, and my mother—her sister-in-law—was afraid she would die of a broken heart.”
Another piece in the puzzle that was Gertrude Schoenleber. “She has assigned me the task of determining what she, er, we can do to make life better for the people who live here. Or at least of coming up with good ideas. Then we will need to find others who want to help. I’ve talked with Reverend Holtschmidt and Father McElroy and several others, and they said housing and support for immigrant families while the men are at the lumberjack camps in the winter. The women and children have little to live on until the men are paid at the end of the season. So that is one idea, and I’ve researched the costs to build houses and developed a proposal that I was going to present to Schmitz Enterprises at the next board meeting. But I have come to understand that they don’t much care about Blackduck.”
“They don’t much care about anything that doesn’t have a high profit return.”
“Or at least the possibility of one. So we have scheduled a dinner, and the leaders of Blackduck are invited, both those with wealth and those who care but need help.” She paused and studied the man beside her. “Would you like to come to the dinner and share some ideas and suggestions?”
“I’d be glad to come, but I’m not sure I can help.”
“Do you have any dreams for this town?”
“Right now, the timber industry is pouring money through here and has created a booming town. But what will happen when the trees are all harvested and the timber industry moves out? We know that is going to happen. It has in other places in the northeastern states.”
“Have you heard any estimates of a timeline?”
“No, but then, I am not following the industry. You need to talk with Jacob Schmitz. He handles the logging arm of Schmitz Enterprises. Talk with those who own the other logging companies too.”
“I know.” Nilda felt increasingly hopeless.
“It seems to me that the best way to assist would be in services that will benefit the community in years to come. My dream would be of a music program starting with the elementary school and on up through the high school, including a theater with a stage and plenty of seating—big enough for concerts and even bringing in performers.”
“Will you write all that down and send it to me before the meeting?” She stopped on the edge of the back lawn where she saw George cleaning out the greenhouse. The house basked in the sunshine. “Let’s go have breakfast. Thank you.”
“For what?” He held the screen door open for her.
“Your ideas and for going with me.”
“Anytime, Nilda, anytime.”
Chapter
12
Dear Miss Carlson,
Thank you for responding to my letter. I feared you might not, and then I didn’t know what I would do.
Nilda stopped reading and shook her head. Whatever made Jeffrey Schmitz write something like that?
I need to fulfill my obligations in the office starting after the Fourth of July, so I will telephone my aunt and ask when might be a good time. I do hope that you might be willing to show me around. When the heat and humidity smother us here, we adjourn to the lake north of town, but not as far north as you are. That is usually in August. Perhaps you and my aunt could join us there.
Here I am, forging ahead on my own, rather than waiting for invitations. Pardon my forthrightness, but I really would like to see you again soon.
Sincerely,
Mr. Jeffrey Schmitz.
Nilda laid the letter in her lap. “Hmm.” On one hand, this was beginning to sound interesting, and on the other, she had no desire to travel to the city before the next board meeting, and that wouldn’t be until September.
Mrs. Schoenleber wagged her head when Nilda told her of Jeffrey’s letter. “Of course I will invite him to visit. The last time he was here, Jeffrey moped and moaned the whole time. And if I remember right, they were glad to return to the city life. Perhaps this time around we could encourage him to look at our town with vision instead of derision.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Nilda nodded. “Good idea. He might bring a good word back to the board when they convene, and I could still present our proposal.” She read through the missive again. “If he is to visit here in July, it will have to be near the end of the month now, and he doesn’t have to stay long, does he?”
“No, and we will fill those two days with so many activities that he will run back to the Cities with his tail between his legs.” Mrs. Schoenleber did not look pleased. Nilda noted the contrast between her warm delight in Fritz and her rather sour attitude toward Jeffrey.
Miss Walstead looked over her glasses, her eyes wide in astonishment.
Mrs. Schoenleber huffed. “Oh, I know that is a bad metaphor, but . . . oh, all right. Riding the train back to the Cities, grateful he did not promise to return.”
“I think inviting him for a social would be enlightening. Do they play croquet and badminton on the estates, or is it all tennis?” Nilda emphasized estates. “I know they don’t have Cook to prepare the repast, or music like Fritz plays.”
Mrs. Schoenleber looked thoughtful. “I seem to remember that Jeffrey played the piano when he was younger, but he really didn’t want to practice. He always gravitated to sports and physical activities. I don’t know how he will manage to work in an office.”
Nilda stared down at the letter. “I think I’ll ask Fritz to knock his ball out of the yard, let alone the court.” She heard the chuckles from the other two but glared at the letter instead.
“I will have Charles telephone him tomorrow.” Mrs. Schoenleber shook her head. “No, this is something I should do. I will invite him to arrive on the thirtieth and leave on August second. How does that sound?”
Nilda’s sigh could have been heard in the kitchen. “All right.”
“Isn’t it better than your going down there?”
“Yes! The board meetings are bad enough. Although I did enjoy the symphony. I’m grateful I got to do that.”
Mrs. Schoenleber warned, “If he insists on your going down there for something, I will chaperone. And no, we will be too busy to visit them at their lake house in August. Besides, Heinrik only joins them there on weekends.”
Interesting that she never mentions her sister-in-law. Nilda tapped the folded letter on her skirt. She’d wait to answer until after the telephone call. Since Mrs. Schoenleber disliked the box on the wall so intensely—more than she
had ever hated anyone or anything, she said—for her to agree to do this was a real sacrifice on her part.
That taken care of, Nilda put her mind on the next task, the dinner for the town leaders tomorrow. She had all the paperwork together and condensed to a short presentation. Fritz was returning in time for the meeting, and so far everyone had accepted the invitation. Cook and Mrs. Schoenleber had the menu planned and the supplies all purchased, so Cook would be up early, and breakfast might be a bit sparse. Not that Nilda felt much like eating anyway, since every time she thought about the coming dinner, her stomach clenched.
She did not sleep well that night. After breakfast, Nilda absently tucked a strand of hair into the figure-eight chignon at the back of her head that the maid had fashioned for her. I wish I could go home to the farm, at least for today. Life there was far simpler than life here. Harder work for certain, but no one cared how she looked or walked or talked, be it English or Norwegian. She’d come to this country dreaming of becoming a farmer’s wife—not that she knew any farmers looking for a wife at the moment, but that had been the dream.
A knock at her bedroom door made her turn from the peaceful view of the rose garden. “Yes?”
Gilda stuck her head in the door. “Mrs. Schoenleber said to tell you the guests will be arriving in the next ten minutes or so.”
“All right, I’m coming.” Nilda paused. “Do I look all right?”
“Oh, miss, you look perfect. You need not worry about this meeting. You will do just fine, a real credit to Madam. So never fear.”
Nilda glanced in the mirror one more time. The summer-sky blue of her watered-silk dress not only matched her eyes but made her dream of her homeland fjords, the land she’d so gleefully left behind to begin her new life in America.
She returned Gilda’s smile, even though she felt it wobble a tiny bit. Her presentation papers were already in the dining room so that the meeting could be conducted after the meal. As Mrs. Schoenleber had said, meeting in her home instead of in someone’s office gave them a slight edge.
Nilda inhaled and blew out a breath, as she had been taught, to help her relax. Her back straight and head high, she followed the maid down the walnut staircase, putting to use all the training in social graces Miss Walstead had spent hours drilling into her. Like her mor so often said, one should dream and plan but always know that God had the final say on what would truly happen. Lord, if this is what you have planned for me, give me the right words to say and help them see the possibilities.
A Song of Joy Page 11
