“I can see they set everything up, though.”
“Mighty peculiar.” Pa shrugged. “And Jo—if you need help, I have another lady very interested in starting right after Christmas.”
She nodded as she moved forward to join her father in the kitchen. Someone’s new starter ingredients, for yet another fruitcake recipe, filled a large bowl.
“Might make your life a little easier if someone else hired on for the kitchen.” Pa quirked an eyebrow at her.
Jo bit her tongue. She’d still not sent her letter to the bakery. Swiftly cracking three eggs, she added them to the bowl and then poured in the cup of cream someone had left alongside a faded recipe on which was scrawled, “Aunt Jean’s Christmas muffins.”
The back door opened and Blue Dog trotted in with Ox. “The ladies all went out to talk to the peddler.”
Pa scowled. “Told that man to get permission from me before he came into my camp, again.”
“Aw, it’s old Mr. Perry. He’s harmless. And he’s got some nice toys the kids will like.” Ox patted his jacket pocket. “And some good candy, too.”
Their father narrowed his eyes. “Still gonna go have a little chat with him and gather those gals back in where they belong.”
Jo shook her head. “Give them a minute, Pa. They’ve been working so hard.”
He moved closer to her, eyeing the fruitcake muffin batter. “All right.”
Pa must be missing Ma as much as she was because he didn’t give her any argument. She whisked the contents in the bowl together, forming a thick batter. She grabbed a pan of melted butter and added the contents. Then she poured the mixture into the muffin tins that had been arranged along the counter. Whoever was trying out this recipe apparently planned on only making two dozen muffins, which meant not all of the men would receive one. That wasn’t going to work. They’d have to make more.
“A letter came from Tom’s mother.” Her brother waved the missive in front of her face then held it out of reach.
“Give it to me.”
“Not unless you let me have the batter bowl.”
“Is that all?” She shoved the remainder across the counter to him and he dipped his fingers along the sides.
“Save some for me, son.” Pa grabbed a spatula and scooped up a mouthful, then licked his lips. “Tastes pretty close to your Ma’s recipe.”
Tears pricked Jo’s eyes. She’d never taste Ma’s good cooking again. She turned from her father and brother to examine her letters, and sniffed.
Right behind Mrs. Jeffries’s letter was one from The Tahquamenon Inn, in Newberry, a growing town in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Jo slid the missive into her apron packet, collapsed down onto her low stool, ripped open Mrs. Jeffries’ letter.
Dear Miss Christy,
I am so delighted that my Thomas is attending camp church service with you and your family. He was always a boy of strong faith, at least until his sister died. And I’m glad to hear you’ve found him reading his Bible, too. I’m sorry he doesn’t get a chance to ride much—he so loved his horse, when he was growing up. I am arranging to get the books he wants to him by Christmas. And bless you for encouraging him to tutor the children from the camp school. I’m sure Thomas told you all about his desire to teach, but with our great country’s difficult economic times, he felt he could support me better by obtaining work. Of course, very soon he will no longer need to send money home as I will no longer be here. I shall be gone before much longer. Please keep me in your prayers.
Many Blessings, Cordelia Jeffries
Tom had wanted to be a teacher—that didn’t seem like a big surprise. Too bad that he’d not been able to pursue his dreams. But she’d been trapped, too. Jo re-read Mrs. Jeffries’ last lines. Why would the woman no longer be there?
Pa eyed something on the floor and reached down to snatch it up. The letter from the business in Newberry. She stiffened as he glanced at the letter.
Pa handed her the envelope. “This is for you, Jo.”
Embarrassed, she averted her gaze. She should have spoken with her father by now.
“Daughter?”
She looked up as her brother set aside the bowl and departed, Blue Dog trailing him.
“Yes, Pa?”
“This Tom is a good man.”
She nodded slowly, flabbergasted at his words.
He poked the letter from the inn. “Do you know what you are doing, darlin’ girl?”
Yes. She was going to have a life. She was getting out of the lumber camps and never coming back. But tears pricked her eyes. “No, Pa, I don’t think I do.”
Vanilla, sugar, and flour scented air saturated the building, teasing Tom’s senses. The promise of sugar cookies distracted the children from his reading of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn.
Jo approached their table, clutching a basket filled with muslin bags. He couldn’t help staring at the beautiful woman who’d drawn him as no other. What had he been thinking when he’d proposed to Eugenia? They’d been childhood friends, were compatible, and he’d been willing to wait for her to finish school. But when she’d gotten a better offer, he was discarded. Even now, his stomach clenched at the memory. Would Jo Christy reject him, too?
All twelve of his primer-level pupils glanced up from the table where they sat, piles of evergreens covering the surface.
“Miss Jo!” Mandy called out and ran to give her a hug.
“Careful—you’ll crush the cookies.”
“Thanks Miss Christy!” Each child took a small cloth bag filled with sugar cookies.
“There’s a jar of frosting in the bottom of each bag so don’t go swinging them around.” Jo opened one, to demonstrate.
The white icing Jo made for desserts reminded him of the snowdrifts he’d expected to find up North. He glanced out the window where light snow drifted down. With the mild winter they’d had so far, the old-timers claimed there was no danger that they could be snowed in anytime soon.
“I have a sack for you, too, Mr. Jeffries.” A soft smile tugged at her lovely lips as she passed the bag to him, gently setting it down on the table.
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
As appealing as the treats were, he desired to feast his eyes on her more than he wished to receive cookies. Perhaps she’d sit down for a minute.
“Miss Jo, we all brought holly branches to decorate the tables with.” Mandy held up the berry-covered limb to demonstrate.
“Why, that’s lovely.” Her eyes widened. “Why don’t you put some on every table while I talk with Mr. Jeffries?”
His anticipation fled at her cool tone of voice.
The children looked to him and he gave a quick nod of assent. The laughed and rose, carrying away the spicy scent of the holly.
“Tom?”
He looked up into her hazel eyes, her reddish-brown eyebrows bunching together.
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Is your … do you have any reason to believe your mother might be ill?”
Her touch invited him to cover her hand with his, but he resisted the impulse.
“No. She’s not said a thing in her letters to me.” If anything, his mother sounded feistier than ever. He frowned.
Jo’s pretty lips bunched up. “I think you should ask her.”
“Why would you say such a thing … unless …” Anger rose up in him.
The telling stain of apple red splotches on her cheeks revealed her secret. “Tom…”
“You’ve been corresponding with my mother, haven’t you?”
He shoved back from the table. With another man, he wasn’t averse to using his height to intimidate, but now, with this slight woman, he felt like a coward and collapsed back into his chair. Unfair tactics went against his personal code of ethics.
Several of the children turned in their direction and he motioned for them to turn back around.
Jo stopped chewing on her lower lip. “Yes, I have.”
“That’s cheating.” He fisted his hands. I
f he hated anything it was dishonesty. Worse, though, was a bully. He forced himself to relax.
“No, it isn’t—you never said I couldn’t.” She lifted her chin.
Smart little minx. Some of his ire evaporated. “So did she give you the recipe?”
Jo huffed. “Tom, I’m more concerned about your mother than your silly contest.”
His stomach clenched. He rose again. “I’ll get a telegram out to her if you think I should.”
Her now pale face answered his question. But why would Mother tell Jo, a stranger, and not him? Was this all just a game to Jo, like it had started with him? Was she so determined to humiliate him by rejecting him, as some of the shanty boys suggested, that she’d weasel her way into his mother’s good graces and get the recipe? He’d prayed and this may be God’s answer. He took a deep breath.
“Miss Christy, I want to apologize for behaving in such a disrespectful manner toward you.”
Her eyebrows bunched together, but she didn’t respond.
“I never should have made that offer to you. It isn’t the proper way for two people to even consider marrying one another.”
“Stop. That’s enough.” She held up a hand. Tears glistened in her eyes and he felt like a cad.
“Please …” He wanted to explain that he’d been wrong. To apologize. To make it right.
She tossed a bag of cookies at him, narrowly missing his nose. Then she fled the building.
Oh, Lord, I’ve only made things worse.
If that wasn’t a sign from God, Jo didn’t know what it was. Her stomach threatened to empty its contents as she marched to the office, went inside, and pulled her acceptance letter from the drawer. Sitting in Pa’s chair, she let her tears drip down onto her apron. How had she been such a fool? Tom had led her to believe he had feelings for her—he’d almost kissed her, for heaven’s sake. He’d danced with her. She sure wasn’t going to sit there and listen to any more of his excuses why he wanted to renege on his challenge. Sniffing, she ran her finger over the bakery’s address. Then she went in search of Frenchie. She didn’t want to wait until the mail wagon arrived.
No wonder none of the German, French, and British versions of fruited Christmas cake had met his approval—he’d never intended to marry her. At least now she could stop, for she’d finally lost her enthusiasm for the battle. After all, Christmas was about the love of Christ and his birth and not about silly contests. She’d won the biggest gift of all the day she’d given her life over to the Lord. And lately, she’d not been acting like it. She had two secure job offers in the Upper Peninsula, a God who loved her, and a life that would be just fine without Tom Jeffries.
Jo located Frenchie in the livery stable, cleaning bridles.
“Why so sad, ma petite?” He wiped his hands and set aside his rag.
“I need to get this out in the mail, but I didn’t send it when he delivered earlier in the week.”
“And you want old Frenchie to take it?”
She needed to go, too, to purchase new clothing for the job. She’d need to purchase readymade frocks, having no time to sew. “I need to go to town, too.”
The ache that filled her chest felt almost as bad as the loss she experienced when Ma had died.
“Has that rascal done something to hurt you, ma chère?”
“No.” She accepted the handkerchief he handed her and blew her nose. Her own stupidity had brought this upset about. Believing Tom really had begun to care for her. Thinking that he might be the one for her. Continuing in efforts that had been met with rejection over and over again.
“Perhaps you are grieving your maman, n’est pas?”
“Yes.” This ache was like having a wound ripped open that had just begun to heal. If only Ma had given her the money she’d intended to leave her, before she’d died. Who knew what Pa had done with the dollars she’d saved for her over the years. At least thinking about that made her feel less guilty about what she was about to do.
“Tomorrow I will bring you to town, first thing. Bien?”
“Yes, that’s good. Thank you.”
From there, Jo sought out Irma and the older woman agreed to substitute for the evening meal. Jo spent the early evening going through her drawers and sorting out what she’d need to take with her when she moved to St. Ignace. Something inside her withered like the leaves that had all drifted down to the ground.
A blessed numbness sealed her sleep, like it had the weeks after Ma’s death. She slept deeper than she had in ages.
A sharp rap at her window awoke Jo and she sat straight up in bed, throwing off her quilts. She’d not even heard Pa leave that morning. She went to the window and peered out at Frenchie.
“Allons. Come on.” He pulled his red knit hat lower on his head.
She held up five fingers. “Five minutes.”
“Oui.”
As quickly as she could, she donned her clothes and coat, hat, and gloves and headed out. The trip to town was uneventful, save for the deer that jumped in front of them. Once in town, Jo clutched her reticule to her breast and headed to the docks to learn what the current cost of a ticket across would be. Although the increase in price was slight, it meant she’d have to do without new undergarments until she received her first paycheck. Reworking her list, she crossed the street, dodging carriages and drays as well as horse manure.
Frenchie emerged from the post office. “C’est fini—it’s done.”
Was she making a huge mistake? The sadness overcoming her screamed that she had no other choices. “Thank you.”
“Here—for you.” The Frenchman handed a missive to her.
Another one, already, from Mrs. Jeffries.
“You want to go in where it is warm—to read?”
“Yes. Go ahead to the mercantile and I’ll catch up with you in a bit.” Jo ducked back into the post office. She settled on a bench near the door and tore open the envelope. She pulled the single sheet of rosewater-scented paper free and held the note up by the nearby window.
Dear Josephine,
If it is within your power, I’d greatly appreciate it if you encourage Thomas to remain in camp over the holidays. It would be in his best interests to do so. I am in the process of putting my affairs in order and it would be futile for him to try to visit me at this time. Has Thomas mentioned anything from home that he wishes he had with him there? I would hate to depart from here without him having received anything he desired from the old homestead. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be on this earth. Please keep this letter private between the two of us.
Blessings and prayers to you, my dear. Cordelia
Jo sucked in a deep breath. If Tom’s mother had grown seriously ill and Tom wanted the special fruitcakes she makes, then what would happen if she died? By golly, she had to ask Mrs. Jeffries straight out for the recipe. Jo would get it for him, in honor of his mother, and not for herself. Suddenly, a load seemed lifted from her.
She approached the counter. “May I purchase a sheet of paper and an envelope? And may I borrow your fountain pen?”
No other patrons were present but the man behind the counter peered around as though searching someone out. “Here.” He shoved a notepad at her and his pen.
“Much obliged, sir.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.” She scribbled her request.
“Envelope?”
When she nodded, he slid one across the counter. She hastily addressed the letter and then paid for postage.
She frowned. Her intent was to run away from Tom, not get close to him and encourage him to stay at camp. Maybe she should tell him what his mother said. No. She’d honor the woman’s request.
Stepping out into the cold air, Jo’s head began to pound, like the sound of the horse’s hooves clamoring over the cobblestone streets. She practically ran to the store so she wouldn’t freeze in the cold. A gentleman in a tall beaver hat held the door open for her as she stepped into the warmth of the mercantile.
/> “Awfully cold, isn’t it, Miss?” The man removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
Shivering, she bobbed her chin in agreement.
“Why Lawyer Cain, what brings you here?” The portly owner grasped the attorney’s hand.
Jo went about her business, filling her basket with the few things she could afford and that she needed for her new job. She could almost smell the multitudes of scents that the bakery in the Upper Peninsula would have. But maybe that was because she was standing beside the spice section. A tiny glass jar of cardamom seemed to call her name. She lifted it from the display and discretely removed the cover. Inhaling deeply, her heart first rose, thinking this might be exactly what she needed for the fruitcake. Then just as quickly her spirits crashed. Tom had already made it clear he was very sorry for what he’d said. Still, she needed it in case it was required in his mother’s recipe. Surely the woman would send her the directions before Christmas has arrived.
“On sale today, Miss Christy.” The clerk grinned and gave her the new price.
She might have just enough to cover it.
Frenchie joined her and swiped the bottle from her hands. “With my order, oui?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
As soon as Frenchie’s purchases for the camp were tallied, he and the shop owner began loading them into the dray.
Jo left with everything she needed—except her composure. Because as she departed with her goods, the clerk asked her, “Say, when’s the wedding date for you and your young man?”
When she’d stared gape-mouthed at him, he’d continued, “The one who bought those nice boots for you.”
Swallowing hard, she’d gathered up her purchases. “I fear the poor man didn’t have my pa’s permission and I was unaware of that particular shanty boy’s doings until recently. He’s gonna be mighty disappointed when he discovers I’ve taken work in St. Ignace.”
Her cheeks burned for she shouldn’t have blurted out these comments to the salesclerk. But she was so embarrassed and angry that her tongue had come unhinged. She ducked her head.
Would Tom be relieved rather than disappointed?
The Fruitcake Challenge (Christmas Traditions Book 3) Page 9
