Brightest and Best

by Newport, Olivia

  “I’ve heard some call you ‘Wagon James,’” Gideon said. “Do you ever say no to a delivery?”

  James shook his head. “Not if I’m sure it will help folks if I deliver. A man wants to be useful.”

  “I should get back to the barn. One more stall to muck. Shall I take Gertie with me?”

  “I’ve already pulled her out of the dirt over there.” James gestured. “I might as well look after her until supper.”

  Gideon paced over to the patch of dirt. He looked up at the scene before him and back to the dirt. “It’s a drawing of the horse pasture.”

  “How can you tell from scratches in the dirt?”

  “It’s not scratches. She drew what she saw. The fence is perfect.”

  James got up to look for himself. “Why would Gertie do such a thing?”

  Gideon rubbed a boot through the dirt and scattered the stick drawing.

  Gideon could tell from the timbre of the approaching clatter that the horse pulled a cart on the brink of repairs.

  “It’s Miss Coates,” he said.

  “Maybe she has news from the superintendent.”

  “Maybe. She’s smiling.”

  In the sunshine-blanketed grass a few yards away, Gertie sat up. “I said I don’t want to go to that school.”

  “Gertie,” Gideon said, “go inside and see if Miriam needs some help.”

  Gertie obeyed without hesitation, as if to impress on her father that she wanted nothing to do with the teacher or the school.

  Miss Coates pulled her cart up alongside the barn and got out. Her face beamed. “Since you’re the head of the parents committee, I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “I appreciate your taking the trouble to come all the way out here,” Gideon said. “Good news from the school board, I hope.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I have no word on the matter of the schoolhouse. This is another matter, but not unrelated. I’ve accepted a proposal to be married in a few weeks. Obviously under these circumstances, I won’t be continuing as teacher.”

  Gideon nodded. Obviously. A stone settled in his stomach.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “I hope your marriage brings you every happiness.”

  “Thank you,” Miss Coates said. “I came as soon as I could. I wanted you to have every available day to begin the search for a new teacher. She’ll have to be approved by the district, of course. I’m sure the superintendent will have some names for you to correspond with. I’ve already submitted my resignation.”

  “I’ll contact him immediately.” Perhaps this second line of inquiry would prod the superintendent to release funds for the new school.

  “I hope your little girl has recovered from the events of last week,” Miss Coates said.

  “She’s not too keen on school right now,” Gideon said, “but I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  Miss Coates hoisted herself back into the cart. “I won’t take up any more of your time. If I can help with the search in any way, please do let me know. I won’t be moving away for another two weeks.”

  The horse trotted out of the farmyard. With a grin still on her face, Miss Coates offered a final wave.

  Behind Gideon, the back door of his home opened. Miriam stepped out.

  “What was that all about?” she said.

  Gideon sighed. “We don’t have a school building, and now we don’t have a teacher, either.”

  “Miss Coates is getting married.” James sidled over to his wife and kissed her cheek.

  Miriam tilted her head and lost her gaze in James’s eyes.

  Pangs of loss heated Gideon’s belly. He had hoped to have fifty years of Betsy looking into his eyes that way. She’d been gone five years, and now he hoped to have a long life with Ella, but still grief washed through him in odd moments.

  Even after being out of school for twelve years, Ella still cultivated the rhythm of opening a book every day and expecting to learn something interesting. The Seabury Public Library had a small but varied collection, and Ella sometimes checked out her favorite books every few months, either to read them again or simply because she enjoyed having them within reach on her bedside table. Since her father’s marriage to Rachel, who gladly shared household chores, Ella had more time than ever to absorb what the library offered.

  She was running a finger along a shelf of bird and wildlife books on a Monday morning when a pair of green eyes startled her by staring back at her over the tops of the books. She gasped.

  “Hello, Ella.”

  The voice was familiar, but Ella could not place it immediately.

  Margaret Simpson came around the end of the aisle.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Ella whispered. “I’m afraid I didn’t recognize you just by your eyes!”

  Margaret chortled and then shushed herself. “I was hoping they might have some new animal books I might share with my students. But first graders need illustrations, and scientists seem to prefer lots of big words.”

  Ella flipped through the books in her arms. “This is my favorite book on birds. There are lots of words, but the drawings are delightful.”

  Margaret took the book and opened it in the middle and turned a few pages. “Mmm. Birds of Geauga County. I see what you mean. Your favorite, you say?”

  Ella twisted her lips sheepishly. “I check it out four times a year.”

  Margaret handed the book back to Ella. “I’ll let you enjoy it again now, but I’m going to remember it when school begins. I suppose you heard about Nora Coates.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wittmer told me. He’s on the parents committee.”

  “I rather think that the condition of the schoolhouse will be more formidable than finding a new teacher. Recent graduates of the teachers college will be eager to go wherever there is a position available.”

  “I hope so,” Ella said. “We only have six weeks to sort it all out.”

  “What else do you like to read?” Margaret lowered her voice further, glancing toward the librarian at the desk.

  “Recipe books. Agriculture. Veterinary medicine. Waterways. The Farmer’s Almanac,” Ella said. “Occasionally some American history, particularly biographies of some of the presidents.”

  “Goodness. I love your curious mind. I have a small library of my own at home. You’re welcome to borrow anything you’d like.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I suppose you’ve read all the great novels. Jane Eyre? David Copperfield?”

  “I don’t generally read fiction.” Ella had never read a novel.

  “I’m sure we can find a story you’d like.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” Ella did not want to imagine explaining to her father—or to Gideon—that she was idly passing the time with an English novel. It was one thing to read for edification or to form useful skills, but another to indulge in a story that was not true.

  “The next time you’re in town, feel free to knock on my door.”

  “You’re kind.” Ella clasped her stack of books against her chest. “I’d better check out and be on my way. I need to … well, I should … be going.”

  She stepped quickly toward the desk. Margaret Simpson was perfectly nice and seemed determined to be friends—which was what unnerved Ella. She hadn’t had an English friend since Sally Templeton when they were fourteen years old.

  “Three yards of plain white cotton fabric,” Miriam said. “Watch as the clerk measures it out. Don’t let him cut it short.”

  “I won’t,” James said.

  “If you forget the kaffi, you’ll have nothing to drink with your breakfast tomorrow.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “There are two baskets of eggs on the back porch for you to take in for store credit. You know what the price is on those, right?”

  “I do.”

  “Blue thread. Two spools. The girls are outgrowing their dresses again.”

  “On my list.”

  “And don’t forget to stop by Lindy’s and see if
she’s finished painting the rack I asked her to make.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  James found Miriam’s fussy, bossy moods endearing. It would bother some husbands, but he appreciated her mind for details to keep both Gideon’s home and their own dawdihaus running smoothly. He supposed that if they’d had their own children, Miriam would have focused her fussing on them. But they’d had Betsy and Lindy and their brothers and sisters to dote on, and now they had Betsy’s children.

  It was already hot even before midmorning. James filled a jug with water to take in the wagon.

  “No rest for the weary,” Miriam said.

  That was what James feared. He hoped Gideon would marry Ella soon. At least when fall came, all three children would be in school for the first time and Miriam’s days would ease.

  CHAPTER 4

  On the beige settee with green and blue tapestry pillows, Margaret sat in her front room with hands in her lap and feet flat on the floor. Almost flat. One toe wiggled in rhythm with the ticking second hand of the clock on the mantel. She refused to give in to the urge to open the oven too soon. Patience would yield impeccable golden crusts, steam rising from the precise vents she had cut in the tops before sliding two pies into the oven side by side.

  Tick. Tock. Tick.

  A fine red thread ran through the weave of the pillows. Margaret seldom looked at them closely enough to notice it.

  Tick. Tock. Tick.

  The minute hand circled the clock face seven more times before Margaret popped up and pushed through the oak door into the kitchen, where the woodstove blasted intolerable heat. Temperatures on the first of August were beastly on their own. In past summers, Margaret was content with a cold plate of cheese and fruit for her supper. Her kitchen table always had half a dozen books on it, and food she could pick up with her fingers was more convenient while she read.

  That was before Gray Truesdale.

  Margaret took the two blackberry pies from the oven and transferred them to the cooling rack, though she had no intention of letting them cool. She wrapped each one in a fresh white towel purchased at the mercantile only four days ago. She and Gray could cut into one tonight—still warm—and she would send the other home with him.

  He stopped by two or three evenings a week now. Margaret couldn’t be certain he would come tonight, but she would be prepared. It was Thursday, a day he seemed to favor. She moved the coffeepot to the heat of a front burner.

  Perspiration dripped from both temples. Taking a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, Margaret dabbed at the moisture while she walked through the house. The front porch would be cooler, and if Gray didn’t see her sitting in her swing on a fine evening, he might think she would not welcome a visit.

  Across the street and two houses down, Lindy Lehman knelt in a flower bed. When Lindy glanced up, Margaret waved. Tomorrow evening she would wander over with a friendly offering of leftover pie.

  Margaret heard the grind of Gray’s truck, though it had not yet come into view. Several neighbors were outside their homes. If they were paying attention, they would soon realize that Gray’s visits held a pattern. What the neighbors might think of a male visitor to a woman who lived alone was a dilemma Margaret had not faced before.

  She didn’t care. This might be her last chance.

  Gray’s truck was not loud or irregular. Margaret doubted anyone else would recognize the pitch of its engine from three blocks away, but her ears were peculiarly attuned to the sound. He eased to the side of the road down the block, exited, let the door fall closed without slamming it, and plunged his hands into this pockets for a casual stroll toward Margaret’s porch.

  Her chest heated up just with the thought of him, and his scent filled her mind from yards away.

  “Evening,” he said, turning up the brick path in front of her home.

  “Evening.” Margaret gave the swing a slight push, determined not to appear too eager.

  “It’s a fine night.”

  “Quite lovely.”

  Gray reached the bottom of three broad steps, set his foot on it, and leaned on his knee. He was a tall man, and fit. When he removed his hat, dimming rays of sunlight brightened his brown eyes.

  “I was just about to have some pie,” Margaret said. “I wonder if you might want to sit on the porch and have a slice.”

  “That’s the most hospitable offer I’ve had all day.” Gray took two slow steps up the stairs.

  Margaret stood and smoothed her skirt, trying to will her heart rate to slow. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  By the time she returned with a tray of pie and coffee to set on the low table beside the swing, he sat on what Margaret had come to think of as Gray’s side. He slowed the sway to take a plate from her and wait for her to sit next to him with her own pie. Margaret played with her fork for a moment while Gray filled his mouth with steaming fruit and crust.

  “Mmm. You make a fine pie, Miss Margaret Simpson.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  Gray started the swing again, a gentle, fluid wobble in rhythm with the motion of his fork rising and falling. They sat in shadows now.

  “I trust you know that I come around for more than your cooking,” Gray said, his eyes looking straight down the length of the porch.

  “I rather hoped that was the case.” Beside him, Margaret pushed a clump of blackberries first one direction and then the other. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “In a minute,” he said. “There’s something I’d like to ask you first.”

  “Yes?” She felt his eyes on her and turned her head to meet his gaze.

  “I wonder if I might express my growing affection for you.”

  Margaret’s breathing stilled. Affection.

  Gray set his pie plate on the tray and took Margaret’s. Had he seen her tremble? She hoped not.

  “If I have your kind permission,” he said, “I would very much like to kiss you.”

  “You do,” she whispered.

  Gray laid three long fingers at the side of her chin and leaned toward her. Margaret hadn’t been kissed in years, and no other beau’s kiss had been as delicious as this one. Gray lingered long enough to be convincing, but not so long as to raise alarms as to his intentions.

  “I’ll go to bed a happy man tonight.”

  Whether or not Gray slept, Margaret did not know. As many times as she closed her eyes determined to sleep, each time she shut out the shadows of her bedroom, she remembered his kiss.

  It was good to know she had not turned into a dried-up spinster who could not make a man feel something.

  Growing affection. That was the way he put it. Not pity for her age. Not convenience because he didn’t know another suitable woman. Affection.

  Still glowing from her dreams, Margaret rose early on Friday morning, dressed carefully, gave thanks for her breakfast, made notes about what she must accomplish—no matter how distracted she was—and walked six blocks to Seabury Consolidated Grade School. The principal offered two hours this morning for teachers who wanted to enter the building.

  Margaret carried her leather satchel, which contained the composition book she used for her lesson plans, a set of colorful alphabet cards to attach to the classroom walls, and a rag and tin of vegetable soap with which she would polish the desks in the room. Every six-year-old deserved to find school a cheery, welcoming place on the first day of a robust educational career.

  She had reached the desks in the third row when footsteps sounded in the hall.

  Good. It was time other teachers joined her determination to have classrooms ready when school resumed. The building’s custodian had mopped and scrubbed the rooms thoroughly in June after school let out and undertaken a list of minor repairs, but it was up to the trained teaching staff to be ready at the first bell.

  The footfalls ceased right outside her classroom door, and Margaret looked up from her task. Immediately, she abandoned her vegetable soap and stood erect.

  “Good morning, gentlemen
,” she said.

  Principal Tarkington stepped into the room with the school district superintendent, whom Margaret had met only once or twice in a room full of other teachers.

  “Mr. Brownley asked me for a recommendation,” the principal said, “and I have suggested he speak with you.”

  “Of course,” Margaret said, though she could not imagine what the superintendent would need her help with.

  “I have some telephone calls to return,” Mr. Tarkington said, “so I’ll leave you two to talk.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tarkington.” Margaret watched him pivot and leave the room.

  Mr. Brownley began to pace along the wall of windows.

  “I’ve received some correspondence,” he said. “In responding, I require the assistance of a competent teacher dedicated to the principles of a sound public education, and Mr. Tarkington assures me that you meet this description.”

  “I’ve been teaching for nine years.” Margaret rotated slowly to follow the path the superintendent was taking across the back of the classroom. “I believe I am accomplished in my profession.”

  “I’m glad to hear you sound confident. That is just the disposition I seek.”

  “I’m happy to help.”

  Brownley crossed his wrists behind him and paced along the opposite wall. “Have you much experience dealing with resistant parents?”

  Why didn’t the superintendent simply say what was on his mind?

  “Occasionally I have met parents who do not understand the importance of regular school attendance,” Margaret said.

  Brownley nodded.

  “And if a child presents a disciplinary challenge, I find it constructive to win over the parents to offer a united front in resolving the matter.”

  “Excellent.” Brownley pulled papers out of his suit jacket. “I have here two items of correspondence signed by Mr. Gideon Wittmer and others.”

  “Mr. Wittmer?”

  Brownley raised an eyebrow. “Do you know him?”

  “Not exactly. I met someone who knows him.”

  “Then you will not be surprised that these particular parents have children in one of the outlying one-room schoolhouses.”