Roses for Mama

by Janette Oke

  “Nobody is saying,” responded Thane. “Even Doc is evasive. I don’t think things are going well.” Suddenly his tone changed. “Have you heard the latest bit of news?” he asked.

  Angela shook her head.

  “Mr. Stratton has a son.”

  “A son? I didn’t even know he had a wife.”

  “I guess he doesn’t—anymore. But he did at one time. Some of the older neighbors knew her—though they had almost forgotten she ever existed.”

  Angela’s eyes opened wide. “Did she live here?” she asked.

  “For a short time, it seems.”

  “That’s why the house is so nicely decorated!” Angela exclaimed, feeling that the mystery was now solved.

  “He built it for her. Tried to have it just the way she wanted. But she didn’t like the West. She was from some big city back east, and I guess this life just didn’t agree with her. She went back home. Took their baby boy with her. Folks say that Mr. Stratton hasn’t seen either one of them since. That was some years ago.”

  Angela’s face clouded. “How sad,” she murmured softly. “Really sad. No wonder the poor man looks so gloomy all the time.”

  “But that’s not all,” Thane continued. “Rumor has it that the son is heading out this way. Seems that Charlie felt honor-bound to let him know of Mr. Stratton’s condition, and the fellow has decided to come see for himself.”

  Angela smiled. Perhaps there would be a happy ending after all. She was glad for Mr. Stratton. She did hope that he was well enough to know and enjoy his grown-up son.

  “Gus didn’t sound too excited about it,” Thane continued. “I think he fears that the fellow is just interested in getting his hands on the Stratton money.”

  Angela was suddenly angry. Why should Gus go and spoil her dream? Why couldn’t it be concern—if not love—that was bringing the junior Stratton to his father’s bedside?

  “Well,” she said defiantly, “perhaps Gus should wait and see before he brands the man as a black-heart. He could at least give him a chance.”

  “You’re right,” Thane responded, more serious now. “Maybe we all should.”

  “When is he to arrive?” asked Angela.

  “I don’t know. Soon, I gather from what Gus said. He was spreading the word around town, though he was none too happy about the situation.”

  “That’s awful,” Angela said, still annoyed. “The poor man hasn’t even done anything, and already folks are against him. Fine welcome for someone coming to see his sick pa.”

  Angela resolved that she would not be one to brand a man before she knew his intent. She promised herself she would take over some more baking the minute she learned of his arrival.

  They spent the remainder of their evening talking of other things. After the moon had climbed high into the sky, Thane announced he’d better get on home.

  Before leaving he reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a small brown bag that he handed without comment to Angela. Like a small child, she could not resist a peek. Pink peppermints. Her favorite. She gave Thane a warm smile in thank you. He acknowledged it with a smile of his own, touched his cap, and was gone.

  ———

  Mrs. Blackwell called. Even though she maintained that the young Petersons should be left strictly on their own, she still made it her neighborly duty to drop by now and then to see that they were doing things right. Angela had seen her coming and longed to slip out the back door and escape to the fields where Thomas and Derek were stacking the summer hay.

  Instead, she laid aside her soiled apron and pushed the kettle forward on the stove to make a cup of tea.

  Mrs. Blackwell was puffing her way up the veranda steps when Angela opened the door and smiled a welcome.

  “My, that sun is hot today” was the only greeting the woman offered. She whisked off her heavy black bonnet and wiped her perspiring face.

  Angela stepped aside to let her enter the kitchen. She headed directly for a chair beside the table, her eyes traveling hither and yon to survey the room.

  “It’s cool in here,” she observed. “Guess you haven’t been doin’ any bakin’ for a while.”

  “No,” acknowledged Angela slowly, “when the weather is like this I try to do enough in one day to last us the week.”

  Mrs. Blackwell nodded her head but made no immediate comment. She wiped her face again and sat down heavily on the chair.

  “How do you keep it fresh?” she asked forthrightly.

  “We have an extra icebox in the shed out back. I wrap it and put it in there.”

  The woman frowned. Angela knew Mrs. Blackwell had no spare icebox and was probably thinking it wasn’t fair that someone so young should have things she didn’t.

  “S’pose you heard about poor Mr. Stratton?” Mrs. Blackwell asked.

  Angela nodded and willed the kettle to boil quickly.

  “Such a shame. But then—jest another reminder thet the Lord don’t take kindly to sin. One reaps what one sows—jest as the Book says.”

  Angela was glad she could turn to lift the teapot down from the shelf and not have to comment.

  “You use that one for everyday? My, looks to me like your mama would have kept thet for special occasions.”

  “Mama felt it a special occasion when a neighbor came to call,” Angela answered sweetly and gave the woman a nice smile.

  Mrs. Blackwell flushed an even deeper red and busied herself with fanning for several moments before she found her tongue again.

  “This here Mr. Stratton—has him a son. Did ya ever hear of such a thing? Comin’ on out. Seems to me it woulda set better had he been here all those years helpin’ his pa out. Might have saved his heart, or whatever the man has, iffen he would’ve been here. Doc won’t say none what’s ailin’ the fella.”

  Angela set two china cups and saucers on the table and went for the cream and sugar.

  “Well, I’m thinkin’ thet he’ll likely scoop up what he can get his hands on an’ head straight back east to his mama—thet’s what I’m thinkin’. He’s probably a chip off the old block—as stingy and unneighborly as his pa. I remember the woman—shouldn’t you let that tea steep a bit longer?—she was a flighty thing, let me tell you. Pretty as a picture—an’ ’bout as flimsy. Couldn’t lift her hand in her own kitchen. An’ the mister. He tried to give her everything so thet she would be happy here. We knew it would never work. Some of us tried to tell him, but he jest turned a deaf ear. Well, I guess he learned.”

  Angela set the tea before Mrs. Blackwell and turned for the sponge cake.

  “Yer brothers hayin’?” the woman asked.

  Angela nodded.

  “Wonder iffen it’s quite dry enough. You can sure ruin good hay iffen you don’t give it time to dry proper.”

  Angela bit her lip and then boldly suggested that they thank the Lord for the refreshments. Mrs. Blackwell looked surprised, as though tea and cake were hardly worth a prayer.

  Angela’s prayer was simple and sincere. When she lifted her head she passed the cake to her neighbor.

  “Those sisters of yours big enough to be of any use to you yet?” asked Mrs. Blackwell as she stirred the cream and sugar into her tea.

  “They have always been of use to us,” responded Angela a bit too quickly.

  “Work? Work?” hurried on Mrs. Blackwell in explanation. “Are they able to help with—?”

  “Oh yes,” cut in Angela. “They’ve had their own chores from when they were tiny—which they see to on their own,” she informed the older woman, feeling a bit smug.

  “Where are they now?” asked Mrs. Blackwell, her eyes traveling about as though she thought the two young girls should be scurrying about the kitchen.

  “I sent them out to pick strawberries for jam,” replied Angela.

  “It’s a bit late for strawberries.”

  “Oh no. The girls brought in a nice pailful yesterday. I canned five jars of jam with it.”

  The woman seemed to be at a loss as to what to s
ay next. She took a bite of her sponge cake and turned again to Angela.

  “I’m guessin’ you’ve been a bit wasteful in usin’ eggs. I have a way of making this same recipe with about half the eggs. Eggs are worth money, you know. Every egg saved means—”

  “We have lots of eggs,” said Angela softly.

  “Still—you can take ’em to town and sell ’em. Trade ’em fer something needed. No sense being wasteful—”

  Louise burst through the door. In her hand was a pail filled with bright red strawberries. “We found the best patch—” she began but jerked to a halt when she saw the woman at the table. “Excuse me,” she said softly. “Hello, Mrs. Blackwell.”

  Sara moved in beside her sister, her face flushed and streaks of dirt on her pinafore. But her blue eyes were dancing, and Angela knew she was nearly bursting with excitement over some find. But Sara held her tongue and curtsied slightly. “Hello, Mrs. Blackwell,” she said in no more than a whisper.

  Angela could have hugged them both. They had remembered their manners. She felt pride swelling within her. Her mama would have been so pleased.

  “Wash your hands,” she instructed, her voice shaky with emotion, “and you can have a slice of sponge cake and a glass of milk.”

  Mrs. Blackwell collected her thoughts and spoke again. “Won’t thet spoil their supper?”

  “They have worked hard,” replied Angela firmly. “And growing children must be fed.”

  She sliced generous pieces of the cake and poured out two chilled glasses of milk as the girls washed at the corner basin.

  “You may take it to the back porch out of the sun,” she told Louise and Sara as she handed them the food.

  Mrs. Blackwell may have felt that Angela did not trust two rowdy children at the same table as a neighborhood guest. But in truth, there was no way Angela would have subjected her two young sisters to the tiresome exchange she was enduring.

  Chapter Nine

  The Son

  “Well, he’s here,” Thomas announced as he hoisted the box of groceries onto the kitchen table. “Thane said that Gus came into town almost bursting.”

  “Who’s here?” asked Angela, reaching for the bag of sugar.

  “The young Mr. Stratton. Don’t even know his name. No one seems to know his name.”

  “Is he—is he like his father?” asked Angela hesitantly.

  Thomas laughed. “I haven’t laid eyes on him myself, but from what folks are saying, he is pretty citified. Don’t expect he’ll last long out here.”

  “Thomas, don’t be like the others and brand him bad before he even gets a chance to prove himself,” Angela reprimanded gently.

  Thomas moved to the corner stand and lifted a dipper of cold water. He drank long and deeply before he lowered the dipper. With a quick movement of his wrist, he splashed the remaining water into the blue basin and returned the dipper to the pail.

  “You’re right,” he said seriously. “We need to give the fellow a chance.”

  He reached out and ruffled Angela’s hair as he headed for the door. “I’m going to be working on that last hay field. Send Derek out as soon as he has his chores done.”

  Angela nodded and lifted the salt and baking soda from the grocery box. Already her mind was rushing. Should she bake a chocolate cake or a batch of fudge brownies to take to the Strattons? She still felt it was a shame how folks were so willing to think ill of the young Mr. Stratton even before they knew him.

  ———

  It was fudge brownies that Angela delivered to the Stratton household later in the day. She was not as timid when she stepped up to rap on the door as she had been when she had made her first delivery to the big house. Over the weeks the little trip across the field to see Charlie—or Gus—had become a welcomed break in her routine day.

  She looked about her now before lifting her hand to the wooden door. Flowers were blooming in the bed to the right. She wondered who had the time or interest to plant flowers, and then quickly attributed them to Charlie. Charlie, though elderly and crippled, liked pretty things.

  Angela knocked and waited, expecting Charlie to pop his head out the door. But the door was opened by a stranger. Angela blinked, then stepped quickly back and felt her face flushing.

  She had never before seen anyone dressed quite like he was. His long tailored suit jacket with velvet lapels hung open over a matching vest. A gold chain stretched across his front from button hole to side pocket. A carefully knotted scarf at the throat of his stark-white stand-up collar added a softening touch to the otherwise stiff-looking attire. Softly striped trousers and highly polished boots were the last things Angela noticed before remembering her manners. Her eyes moved quickly back to the man’s face.

  His complexion was pale and looked baby-soft, as though neither sun nor rain had ever touched it. And his hair seemed as though wind never tousled it. Every shining strand was carefully combed into place. Slight waves hinted at curliness, but Angela somehow was sure they were never allowed to get out of control.

  He seemed so foreign to Angela that she felt confused. He did not belong to the world she was used to. She hardly knew how to address him. Her flush deepened.

  “H—Hello,” she finally stammered. “I—I am looking for Mr. Stratton.”

  The gentleman tipped his head slightly while she awkwardly tried to tuck in a strand of silvery blond hair that danced playfully about her face in the afternoon breeze. Her blue eyes, wide in astonishment, and her flushed cheeks revealed her confusion.

  Then he offered a smile—not a friendly grin like Angela was used to receiving from Charlie but a smile—soft, curving, and controlled.

  “I do hope you are a neighbor,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “A close neighbor.”

  “I—I’m Angela,” she murmured and felt even more foolish. “I—I—expected Charlie—”

  “Charlie is busy.”

  “Oh—of course. Well, really I came to see Mr. Stratton and well—”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, kind but firm. “He really isn’t up to visitors. He’s quite ill.”

  “Oh, not that Mr. Stratton,” Angela said quickly. “I mean the—the new Mr. Stratton.” She knew she had said it all wrong. She tried again. “Mr. Stratton’s son.”

  The door swung open to its full width and the youthful gentleman stepped back and bid her enter with a wave of his hand. The smile had returned.

  “That Mr. Stratton would be most pleased to see you.” He motioned Angela into the hallway. “Won’t you come into the parlor?”

  Angela stumbled along in step.

  “Please be seated,” he continued. “I will have Gus prepare some coffee—or perhaps you prefer tea?”

  Angela had never been in the parlor before. Her wide eyes studied it now, going from the gold damask of the sofa and chairs to the rich mahogany of the piano. She wanted to just stand and look, but the man beside her seemed to be asking her something. She turned her attention back to him and shook her head slightly.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Tea—or coffee?” he repeated.

  “I—I think—tea, please,” she managed to answer and then remembered the pan in her hands. “I—I’ve brought some baking,” she said. “To sort of welcome the—the other Mr. Stratton—to the community—as a neighbor—you know.” She thrust the pan out toward the stranger.

  She had never been so flustered before. Was this young man Mr. Stratton’s lawyer? Maybe he had accompanied the son here. If only he would stop looking at her. If only Charlie would make an appearance.

  “Please,” the young man said again. “Won’t you have a chair. I’ll only be a minute.” As soon as Angela had taken the seat he offered, he left, baking in hand.

  Angela arranged her skirts carefully and wiped her palms on her pocket handkerchief. Before she could turn her attention back to the identity of the stranger and to her intriguing surroundings, she heard footsteps in the hall and turned to see Charlie enter the room. She co
uld have hugged him. He crossed to her and took her trembling hand.

  “Are you ill, girlie?” he asked, noticing her flushed face and clammy fingers.

  “Oh, Charlie,” she admitted, “I have just made such a fool of myself. I—I came over here to—to sort of welcome Mr. Stratton’s son with some baking and I—I expected you—or Gus—to open the door and it—it quite threw me when this—this total stranger was standing there, and I’ve been babbling like a silly schoolgirl ever since.”

  Charlie gave Angela a quizzical look. Then his hand tightened. “He threw ya, did he?” he asked, and Angela detected annoyance in his voice.

  “Oh, it wasn’t that. I mean he was most polite,” she hurried on. “It was just that I expected you—or Gus—or maybe even Mr. Stratton’s son, but—”

  “Angela,” said Charlie giving her hand a bit of a shake, “that was Mr. Stratton’s son.”

  Angela looked at Charlie with wide eyes, unable to believe that he was serious. She wasn’t sure what she had expected—perhaps just a younger version of the older perhaps, with a gloomy, weathered face, dusty boots, and a buckskin jacket.

  “That—?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “But—but—he is so young!”

  Charlie nodded again.

  “He—he’s not much older than—than Thomas!” exclaimed Angela.

  “A little,” said Charlie.

  “But I thought—I mean, I expected—well—someone quite—quite different.”

  “I apologize that I took so long,” said a cultured voice from the doorway. “I couldn’t find Gus so I had to make the tea myself. I do hope—” Then the young man spotted Charlie. “Oh, Charlie—” he said and let the words hang.

  “Gus is with your father,” Charlie explained, then turned back to Angela. “I’ll try to get over one of these evenings,” he said, giving her hand a final squeeze. Angela nodded and watched him leave the room.

  “Cream and sugar?” asked her young host after a few moments of awkward silence.

  “No—no thank you. Neither,” Angela managed to reply, and then she took charge of herself. I need not be flustered, she informed herself. My mama taught me to be a lady, so I will act like one. Angela willed her racing heart and trembling hands to be quiet. Soon she sat at tea in the big parlor as though she had done so for many years.