by Janette Oke
One Wednesday afternoon Berta was busy filing library cards when Glenna burst in upon her, face glowing, eyes bright. With a nod of her head she motioned Berta toward the small private room that they had used on occasion for personal discussions. Berta soundlessly got up and followed.
“Oh, Berta,” exclaimed Glenna when she had shut the door. “I’ve just met the most perfect man.”
Berta stared. You already have a man, was her first thought, but Glenna bubbled on.
“Can you come for dinner Sunday? I’ve invited—”
What was her sister saying? Did she think—? Berta’s lips closed firmly in a thin, stubborn line.
Yes, she did. Glenna was about to lend a helping hand to find her a desirable suitor.
With a look of angry dismissal, Berta spun on her heel and left the small room, her plain black skirt swishing against the hard oak floor, anger spilling out with each step she took.
This simply was going too far. Too far. She had no intention of letting Glenna—or anyone—try to match her up with a man. She didn’t want a man. Didn’t want energetic children rushing about her skirts, demanding her total time and attention.
Berta returned to her file cards, her mind still whirling with angry thoughts.
After some time Glenna appeared, her eyes looking as though she had been crying.
“Berta,” she whispered in a quiet voice. “I’m so sorry.”
Berta only gave her a cold look and returned to her cards.
Glenna slipped away.
Gradually Berta’s anger subsided. It really hadn’t been such a terrible thing to do. There was no question that Glenna had been out of line, but she hadn’t been malicious. She really hadn’t intended—
But Berta found it very difficult to forgive.
It wasn’t until she sat before her own fireplace, empty cup in hand that she let her true feelings come to the surface.
Don’t you know that men don’t want a plain woman? she cried as though Glenna was in her thoughts listening to her argument. You were born pretty. You don’t know what it is to be—plain.
Berta had never allowed herself to use a term like “ugly.” She didn’t want to be thought of as ugly and, in truth, she recognized that she really was not. It would have been an exaggeration—and Berta told herself that she was always honest and straightforward. She prided herself in taking things head on. In facing them. Accepting them. Then she moved on.
But there were feelings concerning Glenna that she had never really understood. Even now, she refused to try to sort them out. They were too deep—too confusing—and perhaps too painful. Berta pushed them aside and went to take her cup and saucer back to the kitchen for washing.
She was exhausted. She would retire early.
Chapter Thirteen
Surprise
Glenna never again brought up the matter of the fine man she had met. Nor did she ever try to set Berta up with any other gentlemen.
Others did.
On more than one occasion Berta was invited to dinner by a kind family of the church and found herself seated at the table beside some eligible bachelor in whom she had no interest and with whom she had no intention of pursuing any type of a relationship.
She always went home disgusted and angry from such engagements. She began making excuses to turn down invitations—not knowing just which ones might turn out to be a matchmaking attempt. This only increased her reputation as withdrawn and unfriendly—but she did not care. She refused to let people interfere in her life.
She thought that now she was beginning to understand Miss Phillips better. Perhaps the older woman had gone through the same routine. No wonder she now stayed close to home in her evenings—with her books. At least she did not have to put on a show of pleasure when presented with some bachelor who had obviously already been rejected by most of the female population—and usually for good reason, thought Berta.
So Berta kept up with her activities. Her busy life kept her occupied and also provided her with an honest reason for not accepting invitations.
But Sundays presented a problem. She could not use the excuse that she had too much to do. Her duties in the Sunday school were over at an early hour. So Berta chose to use her mare for more frequent visits to her grandmother’s farm on Sunday afternoons, giving her another reason to be unavailable for those after-church meals. It also gave her opportunity to keep a more watchful eye on her mother and to help her with her duties for at least one day of the week.
Granna was almost totally bedridden now. Uncle John came to do the lifting, but other than that, her mother cared for the elderly woman day by day. Berta knew it was not an easy task. No wonder her mother looked pale and weary.
So Berta took over the duties on Sunday afternoons and suggested that her mother take a rest.
At first Mrs. Berdette had argued mildly, but when Berta insisted, she looked relieved and went off to her room. Berta was surprised at how long she slept each Sunday afternoon. While her mother rested, Berta read. As long as Granna stayed alert, Berta read aloud, but when it was plain that the elderly woman slept, Berta read to herself.
At day’s end, Berta prepared a light meal for the three of them, then hitched the mare to the buggy and made the trip back into town.
Often darkness was falling by the time she turned in at the stable and walked the remainder of the way to her little house. She was always weary when the day was over and was glad she didn’t need to go through the routine every day.
She could no longer look forward to Sunday as a day of rest and relaxation, though she did look forward to seeing her mother. Because of her grandmother’s confinement, Uncle John or Aunt Cee occasionally took turns staying home from services on Sundays so Mrs. Berdette could attend.
Glenna sometimes was able to get out to see her mother during the week. Parker hired a driver to take her and little Jamie to the farm. Glenna was in no condition to do the driving herself, with an energetic son to watch and a new baby on the way.
With their separate lives and schedules, the two sisters were not able to be at Granna’s at the same time. Berta did not mind. It was hard enough caring for the two older ladies. It would have been doubly so trying to keep Jamie out from underfoot.
At least that’s what Berta constantly told herself. In truth, she had some inner conflicts concerning Jamie. He was rambunctious—tiring to even watch as he dashed about investigating everything in sight. He was also bright and enthusiastic—like his mother—and extremely loving. Each Sunday at church he greeted his “Auntie Berty” with warmth and pleasure, insisting that she bend over for his hug, attended by a kiss on the cheek. Berta pretended to be unaffected, but the truth was she looked forward to his greeting. Never had anyone been so totally and openly pleased to see her.
Berta was secretly afraid that she might be taken in by the small Jamie, so she braced herself and held herself somewhat aloof. But Jamie did not seem to notice. He still headed directly toward her as soon as his papa had deposited him within the safe confines of the church building.
“I wanna sit with Auntie Berty,” he would often insist, and Berta’s heart would race a bit faster.
“Only if you sit very still,” was Glenna’s usual reply.
“I will. I promise,” Jamie would plead his case.
Berta insisted that he keep his promise. Whenever he squirmed the least bit she gave him a stern look. She was always sure he would reject her the next Sunday, but he never did.
It was a strange relationship, with the little boy offering so much love and Berta working hard to keep it from penetrating her self-constructed shell.
One fall Sunday Berta found herself alone in the foyer when Jamie came bounding in for morning class. As usual his eyes shone as he called out to her and rushed directly toward her.
She felt her back stiffen. This nephew was going to turn her into sentimental mush if she didn’t keep up her guard.
But she did bend down for his welcoming hug. She could not t
otally rebuff a child—could she?
With arms wrapped about her neck he placed a rather wet kiss on her cheek, then leaned back to grin at her.
Berta could not refrain from returning the smile.
“What a lovely picture,” said a male voice beside her.
Someone else had entered the hall.
Berta untangled Jamie’s arms, settled her face into its usual stoic look, and rose to her full height.
A tall man, looking strangely familiar, stood before her. A frown creased her forehead.
“Off to your class now, Jamie,” she said to the boy and he bounded away.
“Your son?” asked the gentleman, and when he spoke Berta knew at once who he was. Thomas Hawkins. Years before he had left their area. She’d had no idea he had returned.
“Thomas?” she found herself saying, then quickly changed it to, “Mr. Hawkins—I—I had no idea—”
“I much prefer Thomas,” he answered easily, and Berta found herself flushing.
“I didn’t know—” she began again. She flushed more deeply at the unbidden thought that his trim beard was most becoming.
“Your son?” he asked again.
Berta became flustered and embarrassed that Thomas—that anyone had watched the affectionate exchange.
“No—no, Glenna’s. Remember Glenna?”
Of course he would remember Glenna. Any man would remember Glenna.
“She’s back?” he asked, his left eyebrow lifting.
“Yes—she and Parker have been back for almost a year now. Parker has a practice in town.”
“How nice,” he responded.
They stood there—awkwardly, Berta felt. Again her cheeks colored.
“I must get to my class,” she said. “Do excuse me.”
He smiled. He had a very nice smile, Berta noted. She had never noticed it when they had been schoolmates. But then she had not liked Thomas Hawkins when they had been schoolmates. He had been a noisy, overly energetic boy, who teased her whenever he had the opportunity.
She had not even liked him in her teens when he had grinned at her whenever they met face-to-face and even dared to ask to walk her home.
No, she had not liked Thomas Hawkins. She supposed that he had not changed. She had no intention of liking him now either.
———
Jamie sat with her during church. When she frowned at him for his restlessness, he leaned up against her and soon dropped off to sleep. She had to place her arm around him for proper support. She didn’t want him to wake up with a kink in his neck. Or worse yet, turn in his sleep and slip off the pew to the floor.
It was an awkward position, and Berta found her arm aching by the time the pastor had finished his sermon.
But Jamie seemed to waken refreshed and ready to go again.
“Will you come to our house, Auntie Berty?” he pleaded as they made their way to the church door.
“I need to go out to see Grandma and Granna,” she answered him.
“Can I go with you?” he asked eagerly.
For one moment Berta was tempted to agree, and then she thought of trying to keep Jamie entertained while her mother rested and Granna needed care. It would be most difficult.
“I’m afraid not,” she replied. “I will be very busy.”
He did not coax further, but Berta saw the look of disappointment cloud his dark eyes.
They were almost to the door when he turned his face up to hers again. “I could help you,” he offered quietly and slipped his small hand into hers.
In spite of herself, her hand tightened on the little one. But again she shook her head.
“Jamie,” Glenna called as they reached the outside steps of the church.
Jamie took one more look at his aunt and then released her hand.
“See you next week,” he said in grown-up fashion and ran off to his mother.
Berta gathered her teaching materials into a more compact bundle and prepared for her walk home. She would deposit her load, grab a quick bite to eat, and hurry off to the livery to collect her mare and buggy.
With thoughts on her afternoon ahead, she hardly noticed that someone had fallen in step beside her until a voice spoke.
“May I walk along with you?”
Berta looked up to see Thomas Hawkins at her side.
He had not asked if he could see her home. That she would have quickly declined. He had simply asked to walk along with her. It was a public sidewalk. She could hardly refuse that.
“I hear you are the librarian,” he said at her prim nod of agreement. “I expect to make much use of the library in the coming days. I thought you might be able to give me some idea of what I can expect to find there.”
“In what regard?” asked Berta, not taking her eyes from where she was placing her feet.
“I’ll be teaching at the university this term,” he went on. “History.”
A silence fell. Berta mentally went over their shelves of history.
“We have a fair selection,” she said in businesslike fashion. “It will depend on what you are looking for. We might be able to offer material.”
“Very good!” He smiled at her and she could not avoid making eye contact. It made her feel uneasy and she found herself stiffening again.
“Doesn’t the university have its own library?’ she asked rather curtly.
He nodded. “It does. But it’s always good to supplement the material as much as possible. The students will also have access to the university material. I like to throw in a few surprises.”
He smiled again.
“I didn’t know you had pursued your education,” Berta commented for something to say.
“We haven’t been in touch,” he answered matter-of-factly. “I didn’t know you were a librarian.”
She looked at him frankly as though to ask where and how he had learned that information. He seemed to read her thoughts.
“I asked Parker. He said you are doing very well. Have your own place on Cedar.”
Berta wondered what else Parker might have passed along. She was a bit miffed at Parker. Yet she had no reason to be. Nothing he had told Thomas so far could be considered private.
“What else did Parker divulge?” she asked dourly.
“That you make a great auntie,” Thomas reported with a smile.
Berta cringed. Jamie was turning her into a sentimental old dolt.
“He also said that you are kept on the run—caring for your mother and grandmother each Sunday, teaching Sunday school, working at the church many weeknights—”
“But not every weekend,” argued Berta quickly.
“No? He also said that you are involved in some community activities with boys and girls.”
Berta did not respond.
“How do you do it?” he asked, his eyes reflecting admiration.
Berta felt her cheeks flushing. She was not used to a gentleman looking at her in such a way.
“I have no one else to—” she began, and then quickly broke off. She had not intended to share that fact with Thomas. He did not look surprised.
“You must have boundless energy,” he replied.
“Does it surprise you?” she asked curtly, thinking of Miss Phillips. “Is the librarian image one of a quaint old maid with her nose in a book and her cheeks pale from lack of sun and air?”
Her question was too sharp. Too direct. She wished she could take it back. To her surprise he laughed. A gentle laugh that rolled softly from his lips and made his eyes crinkle with merriment.
“You haven’t lost your spark,” he replied, looking as though he meant it as a compliment.
Berta was totally discomfited. She did not know how to respond to this boy-turned-man.
They approached her house, and she was glad she was able to turn in at her gate.
He did not rush away but leaned on the fence and looked at the house.
“It’s a lovely little place,” he mused. “You must take great pleasure in it.”
“Well, I’ll see you at the library,” he said as he straightened and waved his hand cheerily.
Berta watched him go, her thoughts whirling around in her mind. Why had Thomas Hawkins returned to their little town? And an even more troubling thought, why did she really care?
Chapter Fourteen
The Ride
Thomas stopped by the library the very next day. He asked for help in discovering the history shelves, though Berta was sure he could have found them well enough on his own.
He spent the morning browsing among the books. He even took notes, convincing a rather skeptical Berta that he was serious about his research.
He was back again the next day. Referring to his notes, he asked Berta if she knew of any fictional work set at the time of the French Revolution. Berta looked up what they had on the subject and found three books for him.
“Sometimes one can glean a good deal from fiction,” was his comment. “It is often easier to get a feel of the time in that manner than in reading the history texts,” he added as he gathered up the volumes Berta had located for him. She nodded her agreement.
Berta glanced his way now and then and found him totally absorbed in his reading.
He checked one book out and took it with him. “Most interesting,” he mused. “Have you read it?”
Berta shook her head. She had noted the book when it came in, but it looked like heavy reading. Berta liked to relax when she sat down with a book in the evenings.
“You must,” he urged her. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”
“Perhaps I’m not as interested in the French Revolution as you are,” she countered without looking up to meet his gaze.
He chuckled. “Perhaps not,” he conceded. “Though my initial interest was driven by necessity. Now, however, I can’t get enough of the topic. It is most fascinating.”
