Baking was one of Constance’s favorite things to do, and she was good at it. She wanted to stay in town until she could locate Jim Mitchell, anyway. Maybe she should do something to bring in money instead of spending so much of her savings.
“That sounds like a good idea.” Constance smiled at Mary, joining in her excitement. “I know how to bake lots of things.”
Mary stood. “Do you want to go meet her right now?”
When they arrived at the boardinghouse, Mrs. Barker stood on the porch talking to a couple who rented a room from her. Mary and Constance waited on the front walkway until the trio finished their conversation.
“Mary Reeves,” Mrs. Barker called from the porch. “What are you doing standing out there in the sun? Bring your friend up here for a cool drink of water.”
Constance followed Mary up the steps, and the two women sat in inviting cushioned rocking chairs. These were just the kind Constance imagined should be on the front porch of the Mitchell’s farmhouse.
“So what brings you here?” The proprietor of the boarding-house dropped into the third rocker.
Mary leaned forward. “I want you to meet Constance Miller. She’s new to town, and she knows how to bake.”
At that last statement, Mrs. Barker’s face beamed. “Does she now?” She peered at Constance over the top of her glasses. “Are you looking for a job?”
Constance wasn’t sure why she felt so nervous. Maybe because she had never had a job in her life. “I understand you need someone for a while. I won’t be here too long, but I could stay until your other cook comes back to work.”
The older woman tented her fingers under her chin and stared out at the treetops across the street. After a moment, she turned back toward Constance. “So what exactly do you know how to bake?”
Constance had expected to be asked such a question, so she had a ready answer. “It’s been said that my biscuits are the lightest ones in the holler back home. I always make berry pies in the summer. We dried peaches and apples so we had those kinds of pies all year round. No one has ever complained that my crusts were tough.”
Mrs. Barker rocked her chair back and forth. “This is sounding better all the time. Is that all?”
“Well, my pa was partial to yeast rolls, but sometimes I made potato rolls or sourdough rolls when we couldn’t get the yeast.”
“My mouth is watering just from the telling.” Mrs. Barker smacked her lips. “What about cakes?”
Constance didn’t want to brag too much. She’d done enough of that in the last few minutes to last all year. But she needed to give Mrs. Barker enough information so she could make her decision.
“My pound cake always gets eaten first on Sundays when we have dinner-on-the-grounds. I can make other kinds, too. Apple spice, pumpkin, several others.”
Mary rocked contentedly and gave Constance an encouraging smile.
“Would you be willing to show me what you can do?” Mrs. Barker sounded eager.
“Do you want me to make biscuits for dinner tonight? There’s time.” Constance felt a spark of excitement inside.
Mrs. Barker stood up. “Come right on in. Mary, are you going to stay and visit while we do this?”
The beef stew simmering in a large kettle on the back of the stove filled the kitchen with an enticing aroma. Constance realized with a start that she was hungry again. She would enjoy eating here.
“Since you’re having stew”—Constance hooked one of Mrs.
Barker’s aprons over her head and tied it behind her back—“why don’t I make a pan of cornbread, too?”
“Sounds good to me.” Mrs. Barker started putting containers out on the table. Then she turned toward Mary. “You and Pastor Jackson would be welcome to stop by for supper.”
After Mary agreed, she left, presumably to tell her husband about the invitation.
Mrs. Barker sat beside the table, greasing baking tins, while Constance got started mixing the dough. They chatted while they worked, and soon Constance knew she would like to live here and work for this woman.
When the first pan of lightly browned biscuits came out of the oven, Mrs. Barker exclaimed, “Constance, you have a job if you want one.”
Constance dusted the last of the flour from her hands and smiled at the other woman. “I want one.”
“Then you can move your things from the hotel after supper. Come upstairs, and I’ll show you your room.”
After dinner, Pastor Jackson and Mary walked back to the hotel with Constance. He waited in the lobby while the two women went upstairs. Constance pulled her carpetbag out from under the bed and carefully packed her belongings in it.
“I’m glad you could help Mrs. Barker this way.” Mary stood by the window, gazing out into the twilit evening.
Constance stopped folding her unmentionables. “It’ll help me, too. I won’t have to be quite so careful with the rest of Pa’s money.” She went over to the other woman and gave her a quick hug. “Thank you.”
Mary turned back toward her. “I can see God’s hand in all of this, can’t you?”
Constance nodded. Of course. How could she ever have gotten this far without God’s help? But why couldn’t she find Jim Mitchell, and why did God want her here in Browning City, Iowa, if she couldn’t?
six
Constance stood looking out the window of her upstairs room in the boardinghouse. A nearly full moon shone through the cold night air, lighting an inky sky that contained pin dots of stars. A soft breeze ruffled the leaves recently emerged from their buds on the trees. She felt so far from her mountain home.
Time and distance hadn’t really dulled the pain of being alone. Even though she tried to keep all her grieving to the nighttime hours, some days it was extremely hard to keep up the strong front she maintained before others.
The little girl inside her wanted her mother back. Had it really been three years since Ma died? That event so soon after Pa returned from the fighting seemed to change him more than the war had. Maybe that was the reason he wasn’t able to fight off his final illness.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to rub them away. Not only did she long for a comforting hug from her mother, she wished she were still a little girl who could climb up in her daddy’s lap and lay her head on his shoulder. How safe she had felt there.
She turned back toward the pleasant room. Mrs. Barker made the rooms homey. Constance had never had things this nice when she grew up. Mother did make quilts out of the good parts of their worn-out clothes, and she used every scrap left over from making new things, but her quilts were more utilitarian than beautiful. Constance crossed the room and ran her fingers along the honeycomb pattern so different from Ma’s nine-patch quilts.
If Pa had used more of the money he saved, they could have had nicer things. It wouldn’t have been soon enough to save Ma, but…her mind couldn’t even imagine what it would have meant.
The tears came faster, flowing down and spotting the multicolored cover. Constance pulled it back and slid between sheets smoother than she had ever slept on before. Even the ones in the hotel weren’t this nice. She turned her face into the pillow to muffle her sobs and cried for her losses and for what might have been. But there was something more inside her that she couldn’t explain. Some deep longing she had never felt before.
Because she slept fitfully, Constance was up before the chickens, as her mother would often say. She bathed her face in the cold water left in her pitcher, hoping it would erase the ravages of a night spent in grief. She peered into the looking glass above the washstand. Her skin only had a few red blotches on it. By the time she was dressed, more natural color filled her face.
Constance pasted on a smile, took a deep breath, and opened the door. When she reached the kitchen, it stood empty, silent, and lonely. She went to the black cast-iron stove and stirred the embers, adding more wood from the pile on the back porch. While the fire built up, she put ground coffee and water in the blue graniteware pot and set
it on the back of the stove.
By the time Mrs. Barker came into the kitchen, the room had warmed, and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air. Constance stood beside the table, cutting biscuits from the dough she had patted out on its floured surface.
“Why, Constance.” Mrs. Barker went over to pour herself a cup of coffee. “You don’t have to get up so early. I usually stoke the fire and start the coffee.” She turned and leaned against the cabinet that held the empty dishpan and a bucket of water.
Constance continued cutting the dough and putting the biscuits in a greased pan. “I woke early, so it didn’t make any sense to lie abed.” Although she didn’t glance up, she could feel Mrs. Barker looking at her.
“I have a rolling pin.”
Constance turned to look at her employer before concentrating on her task. “I don’t really like to roll the biscuits. I know I did last night, but I was just getting used to this kitchen. They will be lighter if I don’t work the dough too much. I just pat it to the thickness I want.”
Mrs. Barker came over and glanced at those in the pan. “I never thought of doing something like that.”
Once again, Constance felt the woman looking at her. She raised her head and smiled at her employer.
After setting her cup on the edge of the table away from where Constance worked, Mrs. Barker studied Constance’s face as if she were reading a book. “I see a hint of sadness in your eyes that I didn’t notice yesterday. Are you homesick for your family?”
Constance swallowed around the lump in her throat, a lump that was probably made up of more tears waiting to be released. “I don’t have any family left.” She sobbed on the last word.
“Oh, you poor dear.”
The sympathy in Mrs. Barker’s voice released some of that reservoir of tears. Constance reached up and swiped them away.
“I think you need a mother’s hug.”
Comforting arms engulfed Constance and didn’t let go. She enjoyed them for a moment before she stepped back. “Thank you.” Here she was thanking someone again. She stiffened her spine and went back to her task.
“I’m here for you anytime you need me.” Mrs. Barker bustled over and placed a skillet on the stove. Then she started stirring eggs together to scramble.
At breakfast, Constance paid closer attention to catch the names of the people at the table. Two men named Theodore and Thomas sat beside each other. She could tell by all their similarities that they must be brothers. Short in stature, their balding heads had tufts of hair around the sides and back that stood straight up, and their eyes twinkled when they laughed. Not only did they look almost identical, their voices sounded similar, and their gestures followed the same patterns. They kept talking about working at the mercantile. From what they said, they must be employees, not the owners of the place.
Martha Sutter was the schoolteacher, and Sylvia Marshall talked about the clothing she designed for a customer, so she had to be a seamstress. Constance wondered where she did her work. The new couple who rented a room yesterday afternoon was quieter, listening to the others. However, when Martha asked their names, they told her they were Ed and Francis Owens. They didn’t say much else except that they were looking for a farm to buy, so they might not live in the boardinghouse very long.
“Mrs. Barker, how is Selena?” Constance wondered who Sylvia was inquiring about.
“She’s still in a lot of pain.” The proprietress shook her head as if dismayed. “Her sister came in from their farm and took her home with her. She wanted to be sure she was well cared for. The doctor is concerned because the break wasn’t a clean one. He’s afraid it might take awhile to heal.”
The other cook. Constance said a silent prayer for the woman.
Constance baked all morning. Mrs. Barker wanted bread so they could have sandwiches for supper. She gave Constance canned peaches to make pies for lunch, and Constance made a pound cake to have at suppertime. All the work felt good. It had been too long since she felt such a sense of accomplishment.
When everyone came in for supper, Hans arrived. He told Mrs. Barker that he wanted to eat at the boardinghouse that night. He was tired of his own cooking. Somehow, Constance had a hard time picturing the gentle giant toiling over a hot stove. She wondered what he cooked.
“You’re welcome to eat here anytime.” Mrs. Barker smiled encouragement at him. “I can always use the extra money.”
Constance ate quietly, listening to all the conversations around the table. She hoped they would mention something that would help her finish her quest.
“Mrs. Barker, this pound cake is the best one I’ve ever eaten.” Hans stuffed a forkful into his mouth, and a smile lit his face.
“Thank Constance.” The woman gestured toward her. “She’s my new baker.”
Hans stared at Constance. “I didn’t know you were looking for a job.”
She dropped her hands into her lap. “I wasn’t. Remember Mary was waiting to talk to me when we returned to town?”
He nodded, and she continued. “That’s what she wanted to tell me. That Mrs. Barker needed someone to bake while her cook recovered. It sounded good to me. I have a better place to stay than the hotel, and I can save my money.”
“If you’re going to bake every day, I just might have to eat here every night.” Hans laughed.
Some of the others joined in. Their compliments about her baking abilities encouraged Constance. Maybe she was supposed to be here right now. If only someone would mention something about the Mitchell boys, especially Jim.
The thought of Hans eating here every night caused an unsettled feeling in her. Why did the prospect of seeing him every day make her happy?
Hans had been surprised to learn that Constance had a job at the boardinghouse. Pleasantly surprised, since the things she baked were so delicious. When he told Mrs. Barker he might eat there every night, he meant it as a joke. After she agreed, he knew it was just what he wanted to do. Maybe by being there with everyone sharing their days, he would be able to find out what Constance was hiding. And the food was far better than anything he put together.
For the next few nights, he showed up right when the meal was being served. Every night, Constance made a different kind of dessert. If Hans didn’t work so hard, he might get fat eating all those rich sweets.
Since his family had moved away, he lived alone. He hadn’t felt lonely until he spent so much time with other people around the table in the evening. Maybe he wasn’t created to be solitary. He had friends, but when he went home after work, the evenings seemed to stretch on forever.
Today was Saturday, and several people from outlying farms who came to town to pick up supplies also brought items that he needed to repair for them. A couple even had him shoe more than one horse, which they would take home when they left town later. His day was long, almost past the supper hour at the boardinghouse.
When he arrived, everyone was finishing their meal and ready for dessert. He had just walked in as Mrs. Barker had told him to do, but when he saw all the empty dishes on the table, he turned to leave.
“Hans.” Mrs. Barker hurried around the table to greet him. “I thought you would be coming. I told Constance to put a plate in the warming oven for you.” She turned to look at the young woman. “Why don’t you get it for Hans while I pour his drink?”
Constance carried the covered plate with two thick, quilted potholders. When she set it in front of him and lifted the cover, the smell of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy caused his stomach to rumble. He hoped no one noticed, but just before Constance turned away, he noticed a twinkle in her eye. It looked good there. Too often, her face held a sad expression.
Mrs. Barker patted Constance on the shoulder. “You sit down and finish your food. I’ll get the apple pie for everyone.”
Constance slipped into the empty chair beside him. He felt her presence so strongly that, even if his eyes had been closed, he would have known she was there.
Mrs. Barker ret
urned carrying two plates of pie, which she set in front of the two single women who roomed with her. “What kept you so long, Hans?”
Everyone turned to look at him expectantly. He didn’t like the feeling of being the center of attention. “I had lots of customers today. Then I went home to clean up. I didn’t want to show up at your table in dirty clothes or with dirty hands.”
A chorus of chuckles went round the table, and conversation resumed. Hans enjoyed the excellent food while everyone else except Constance ate dessert. One by one, they excused themselves and left the room. Then Mrs. Barker took her empty plates into the kitchen.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you something, Constance.” When he said her name, she looked at him instead of the food on her plate. “I have a buggy, and I would like to pick you up and take you to church in the morning.” Her expression told him that she might want to decline his invitation. “I know you walked last week, but the boardinghouse is farther away, and the weather is getting warmer. We could even ask Mrs. Barker if she wants a ride, too. Would that be all right with you?”
Constance stopped eating and put her fork down. After a long moment, she turned to smile at him. “That would be nice, Hans.”
Mrs. Barker agreed to go to church with them, but she planned to go out to see Selena after the services. The people who lived on the neighboring farm to Selena’s sister had offered to give her a ride out there and even bring her back to town.
On Sunday, the sanctuary of the church welcomed Constance like an old friend. How could she have gotten to feel so at home in such a short time? Hans stayed outside talking to one of the farmers, and that suited her fine. She sat in the same pew where she had sat the week before and looked up at the Good Shepherd. Mary turned around in the front row and smiled at Constance. Several times this week, the two women had spent time together.
A Daughter's Quest Page 5
