Ice Carnival

by Spaeth, Janet

  Christal. That was her name. It fit her, too. She sparkled like crystal.

  He became aware that his uncle was talking to him.

  “Christal will show you around St. Paul. She walks everywhere, so you may end up with some blistered feet at first, but no one knows the city the way she does. You two will become great friends, I am sure.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. Her words were simple but rang with honesty. “I’m delighted that God brought you here safely.”

  He realized that he was still holding her hand, and he dropped it suddenly. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a croak came out. “Er, yes.”

  Mentally he chided himself. Why was he acting like such a buffoon? It wasn’t as if he had never spoken to a woman before. He’d had a nice social life in Florida and attended many social functions with women.

  But none of them had such intelligent and lively eyes, and none of them sported a little curl of light brown hair that had escaped a coil of braids and trailed along a slender neck.

  Oh, this was not good. Not good at all.

  He realized that his uncle watched him, a smile playing across his face. Maybe he was wrong.

  Perhaps this was good? Very good?

  Two

  “Please join us in the parlor,” Dr. Bering said as he took Aunt Ruth’s shawl from her shoulders and draped it carefully over an arm of the wire coatrack. “I’ve got tea ready, of course, and some spice cookies—the kind you like, Christal.”

  “Oh, thank you so much! They are my favorite. Isaac, have you gotten to try them yet?” she said, trying not to stare at the newcomer. He was really quite attractive. His amber-colored hair gleamed in the subdued lighting, and she almost sighed. If only her hair would be that shiny! But she was stuck with plain brown hair that wasn’t straight enough to be obedient nor curly enough to style into fashionable ringlets.

  He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry to say that my uncle has been guarding them, saying something about them being reserved for a young woman who liked them very much.”

  Papa hung his wife’s cape on the wire rack as he spoke. “You are in for a rare treat, Isaac. Among the good doctor’s many talents is baking.”

  “I don’t know how much talent I have in the area,” Dr. Bering said, “but I do enjoy it.” He chuckled and patted his stomach. “As if anyone couldn’t determine that from this girth! I’ve sampled too many of my culinary experiments.”

  “We’re all standing here in this drafty hall,” Aunt Ruth interjected, “but I believe you have some chairs in your parlor near the fireplace if I’m not mistaken. Alfred?” She held out her hand in an obvious directive for him to move the group into the house.

  Christal started to follow when Isaac put his hand on her arm.

  “Would you like for me to take your wrap?” he asked.

  She’d forgotten that she still had on her old plaid jacket. She’d put it on at Aunt Ruth’s bidding. The older woman had insisted that the evening chill in the air would climb into Christal’s bones and give her consumption.

  There was no point in arguing with Aunt Ruth by reminding her that the two houses were next door to each other, and Christal certainly wasn’t going to tell her that she often ran between the two houses in the dead of winter with no coat at all. She’d thrown on the first thing that she touched in the closet—a red and green woolen jacket that was missing more buttons than it had kept. It was a disreputable bit of clothing, and she should have thrown it away long ago. As it was, she wore it when clearing the steps of snow or helping her father clean the gutters on the roof in the fall.

  And now, meeting Isaac for the first time, she was wearing it.

  He must think she was the silliest goose on the planet. Or the most poorly dressed one.

  Knowing she was blushing, she ducked her head and quickly attended to removing the jacket. Then she realized that bad could indeed get worse. She had misbuttoned the jacket, too, so that it was crooked and poked out at an odd angle right above her waist.

  She mutely handed the offending piece of clothing to him, and as she raised her eyes, she saw laughter dancing in his taffy-colored eyes.

  “I was in a bit of a hurry,” she said under her breath, and he laughed.

  “I see that.” He hung the jacket on the coatrack with the other garments and turned to her. “Cookies await. Shall we?”

  He offered her his arm, and she took it, grateful that the awkward moment had passed.

  As they entered the parlor, arm in arm, conversation stopped. Her parents, sitting together on the blue velvet divan, simply smiled, as did Dr. Bering, who was in a wing chair by the side of the fireplace.

  Aunt Ruth, perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair, looked like a crimson-garbed queen about to hold court. She looked pointedly at their linked arms, and her back stiffened.

  She moved as if to speak, and Christal froze. Her aunt often said the most outrageous things. Isaac had just gotten here, and he didn’t know how she truly spoke her mind. Please, God, don’t let her. Not here, not now.

  And then Aunt Ruth shut her mouth, leaving the words unspoken.

  Christal breathed a quiet sigh of relief and said a silent prayer of thanks to God for tempering the woman’s words.

  She had no idea what her aunt had considered saying. The elderly woman had a strong sense of propriety, so it might have been that she thought the action inappropriate, but the truth was that Aunt Ruth was liable to say anything. However, as spontaneous as she might be, she was never intentionally mean.

  “We saved your seat,” Dr. Bering said in his booming voice, indicating the padded rocking chair beside the piano. “And if Matthew will pass the platter your way, you can indulge in some spice cookies.”

  She curled into the familiar shape of her favorite chair and took the plate of cookies her father handed over to her. The aroma was heavenly, soft cinnamon and sharp nutmeg mingled together. She took two and gave the rest to Isaac, who had taken a seat on the hassock near the rocking chair.

  “Try these.”

  He took a bite and smiled. “They’re tremendous. Uncle, will you teach me to make these while I’m here? My skills in the kitchen are limited to scrambled eggs and chops, neither of which I do well.”

  “Good luck. I’ve tried to get this recipe from him forever, and he refuses to share. You’ll never get it from him, and neither will I.”

  Dr. Bering waved his finger chidingly at Christal. “My dear child, never say, ‘Never.’ Remember that the prize worth winning must be won.”

  Isaac leaned back and nodded. “I like that. The prize worth winning must be won.”

  “So someday you will give me the recipe?” she asked eagerly.

  Aunt Ruth cleared her throat. “It might help, child,” she said, “if you could learn to light the stove.”

  Christal laughed. “Perhaps.” Her aunt’s words were true—Christal always needed help with the stove—but they stung nevertheless, and she made a mental note to work on learning it once she got home. It couldn’t be that difficult. Why hadn’t she ever learned how to do it properly?

  Her mother intervened smoothly. “Isaac, please tell us about your family. We know that Dr. Bering is your uncle, but do you have family still in Florida?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Isaac clasped his hands together, his fingers lacing and unlacing, as if he was uncomfortable with the attention. “My parents and my two sisters live in Key West. My older brother has relocated to Tennessee. He is married and has one child, a boy.”

  “My brother Walter is Isaac’s father,” Dr. Bering added. He beamed proudly at the young man.

  “What drew you to medicine, Isaac?” Papa asked. “Is your father a physician, too?”

  Isaac shook his head. “My father is a pharmacist.”

  “Now there’s an interesting career,” her father commented. “All those powders and potions and pills.”

  Aunt Ruth nodded approvingly. “I have my own remedies that suit me just fine
for the most part, although I do like a drop or two of camphor when needed.”

  “Camphor can be very helpful, I believe,” Isaac said. “My father often supplies it for deep chest congestion. It’s quite effective.”

  “It sounds like there’s a tendency toward the medical field in your family,” Mother said. “Dr. Bering, was your father also interested in that sort of thing?”

  Dr. Bering shook his head. “Not at all. He was a farrier and for a while had a small stable business that specialized in workhorses that businesses could use in construction. He certainly knew how to care for a horse, though, so perhaps he simply directed his mind toward horses while we focused on people.”

  “Did you see to the horses, too?” Christal asked. She could picture this gentle giant tending a dray horse. His large hands could easily shoe their oversized hooves.

  “I did. Even young Isaac got the chance to try it. Do you remember, Isaac?”

  Isaac nodded. “I do recall some of it. They were the biggest horses I had ever seen. Their hooves were the size of me, or so I thought, and I was terrified they’d step on me. And worse, they wouldn’t know it. They’d just keep on walking.”

  His uncle laughed. “Well, they were big and you were small. That’s the truth.”

  “Did you get over your fear of those horses?” Christal ate the last of the spice cookies she had in her hand. This was one of her favorite moments, when the stories were told.

  “I don’t know that I was afraid of them as much as I was respectful of their gigantic feet. They are beautiful animals.”

  “What happened to the horses, Dr. Bering?” she asked.

  “When my father retired, he could have sold them, but each one was precious to him, so he moved them all to his farm and let them stay until, one by one, they passed on to the Lord’s pasture.”

  She nodded. Every good story needed a good ending, and this was a good ending.

  She had many more questions, but she saw Isaac stifling a yawn. Her mother must have seen it, too, for she put her teacup on the side table and said, “This has been wonderful, but we really need to go back home. Tomorrow is Sunday, and the Lord’s Day is a working day for the pastor’s family, you know.”

  As they stood and then gathered their things from the coatrack, Dr. Bering put two more spice cookies, wrapped in a linen napkin, into Christal’s hand. “I won’t give you more, because I want you to come back tomorrow and take Isaac for a tour of the area after church.”

  She looked over at Isaac, who had taken the wretched plaid coat from the rack and now held it for her to slip into. “I’d be delighted to.”

  “Wear your most comfortable shoes,” her father advised Isaac. “She knows every nook and cranny in the neighborhood and will probably try to show you all of them.”

  “I’m looking forward to that.” He smiled, but she could see the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. He must be quite tired from his travels.

  Christal slipped the napkin-wrapped bundle into her jacket pocket. “We’ll walk through this neighborhood tomorrow. Nothing too strenuous.”

  “Make sure you dress warmly,” Aunt Ruth interjected. “Even if you are a doctor in training, you should be careful with your own health. Bundle up.”

  “Oh, I will,” he promised. “I am still used to the warm Floridian weather.”

  Aunt Ruth’s blackberry-dark eyes turned toward Christal. “You, too, Christal. Just because you’re a Minnesotan doesn’t mean you can’t catch a chill. Button that jacket.”

  And do it right, Christal added mentally as she took care to match the button to the buttonhole. One button hung only by a thread, and as soon as she slid it into the hole, it sprang free, clattered across the glossy wooden floor, and came to rest against Isaac’s foot.

  Isaac bent over and picked it up. “I believe this is yours,” he said, smiling as he handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, her head down. Could this get any worse?

  Her mother moved toward the door. “Dr. Bering, it’s been a lovely evening. Thank you so much for the cookies and tea. Isaac, I am delighted to meet you, and I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

  Mother took Aunt Ruth’s elbow and guided her out of the house, murmuring something to the older woman as they walked through the door.

  “All I said,” Aunt Ruth continued as they left the house, “was that she needed a coat. Why, look at tonight. If I hadn’t said something, she would have left the house without anything on her arms. It’s a good thing that I—”

  Her aunt’s voice fading into the October night, Christal made a promise to herself. First item of business when she got home: to shove the jacket into the ash can.

  ❧

  Isaac hummed as he joined his uncle for breakfast. He felt like a new man, refreshed and revitalized.

  “You certainly sound chipper today,” Uncle Alfred boomed.

  “It’s amazing how much good a solid night’s sleep can do,” Isaac said. “No wonder so many doctors recommend it.”

  His uncle chuckled. “Traveling, even though one does it all by sitting down nowadays, is oddly wearing, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” Isaac spread jam across his toast. “By the way, I’m sorry about falling asleep so quickly after our guests left last night. I wanted to help you with the dishes, but I didn’t make it that far.”

  “You were more asleep than awake as you climbed the stairs. I don’t think my china would have fared well in your hands. Bacon or sausage, or both?”

  “Bacon, please.”

  “Eggs are ready, too. Coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee, but let me get it myself. You need to sit down and eat, too.” Isaac pushed back his chair and began to stand, but his uncle motioned him to sit again.

  “I’ve already eaten. I should warn you that I’m up every day as soon as the sun comes up.” He reached for the coffeepot from the top of the stove; and after wrapping the handle with a thick green cloth, he poured a cup and handed it to Isaac. “I’ve always been an early riser. My mother used to say that I was part rooster.”

  Isaac laughed.

  “She, however, was like a cat,” his uncle went on. “She loved to sleep, so we made a deal. I wouldn’t crow when I woke up. What that meant was that I learned early on to make my own breakfast, and if there’s one lesson that’s served me well all these years, that’s it. A man who can make breakfast on his own starts every day with an advantage.”

  “Why is that?” Isaac asked.

  “The man who heads off into his work without food in his stomach is hobbled. Food is our fuel. You know what your books taught you. The alimentary canal is meant to have food in it to provide energy, just as a fireplace must have wood to provide heat.” He patted his rounded stomach. “Perhaps it shouldn’t have as much as I put in mine, however. I guess sometimes I take my own advice too much.”

  “It must be difficult,” Isaac commented as he dug into the eggs his uncle handed him, “with food as delicious as this.”

  “I like to cook, as you can see. By the way, we’ll walk to church this morning. It’s a grand Sunday morning. The sun is shining, and the air is crisp and bright.”

  “ ‘Crisp and bright’?” Isaac repeated. “Is that Minnesotan for ‘cold’?”

  Uncle Alfred grinned. “You learn fast, son. You learn fast.”

  Isaac ate the rest of his meal quickly and dashed upstairs to finish his preparations for going to church. As he straightened his tie using the mirror over the bureau in his room, he sighed. Right on the crown of his head, a lock of hair was twisted straight up into the air.

  “I look like I have a handle on top of my head,” he said as he tried to comb it into place. It sprang right back up. He wet the wayward section. It didn’t help.

  “We need to leave,” his uncle called up the stairs.

  Isaac had no choice except to let his hair go its rebellious way. He hoped that by the time he got to church it would have softened, or perhaps in church it
would repent and return to lying flat.

  When he got to the bottom of the stairs, his uncle patted him on the back. “We need to get going. You have a real treat ahead of you. Rev. Everett is a splendid preacher, very learned and precise yet very moving. We’ve been lucky to have him here all this time.”

  Isaac reached for his overcoat, and Uncle Alfred shook his head. “It’s not that cold. You don’t need it.”

  Isaac returned the coat to the rack. Somehow he wasn’t at all reassured by Uncle Alfred’s words.

  His uncle smiled. “You’ll be fine, but you are simply going to have to develop warmer blood, Isaac. That,” he said as he put on his hat and turned to look at his nephew, “and the ability not to sleep with your hair kinked under your head. Wait here.”

  The doctor walked quickly to his room and returned with a bottle. “This is just a little pomade, and I apologize for the smell.”

  Before Isaac could protest, his uncle opened the bottle, swiped his fingertips across the top of it, and ran the stuff through Isaac’s hair.

  The scent of lilacs and roses was immediate, almost overpowering in its intensity. Isaac coughed and waved his hand in front of his nose trying desperately to stop the odor.

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Alfred said cheerfully as he pulled Isaac out the door. “By the time we get to church, it should have worn off.”

  “ ‘Should’? You mean there’s no guarantee?”

  “You know there are no guarantees on anything except death.”

  “Which might come sooner than expected if I have to keep inhaling this.”

  His uncle was right. The day was sunny. But once outside he had to keep himself from going back inside for his outer coat, knowing that they were late as it was. Perhaps if he walked quickly enough, he could generate enough body heat to keep himself from freezing to death before they got to church, which would—which should, he corrected his own thoughts—be heated.

  This was a fine way to start the day, heading to worship stinking of flowers and worrying that despite it all, the recalcitrant lock would break free and point upward like a spire atop his head, perhaps reminding the other congregants that their ultimate destination lay heavenward. Plus, the small fact that he was so cold he couldn’t feel his fingertips didn’t help a bit.