Bitter Harvest

by Sheila Connolly

  “I can go back and get a bag of kibble.”

  “Seth! You want to go back out in that?” Meg waved out the kitchen window, which showed nothing but white.

  “Why not? It’s daylight, I’ve got the snowshoes, and I know the way. Give me lunch and I’ll be ready to brave the storm.”

  “If you say so,” Meg said dubiously. If it had been up to her, Max would have eaten whatever she could find. “Ham and cheese work for you?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Once lunch was over, Seth donned all the pieces of clothing he had taken off.

  “Are you going to take Max with you?” Meg asked.

  “I don’t think so—he doesn’t have snowshoes, and it’s getting pretty deep out there. Besides, if we got separated, I’m not sure I’d find him again. He’s never seen snow, and I’m sure you’ve noticed he’s easily distracted.”

  Meg conjured up an image of doggie snowshoes and laughed. “He’ll be okay here. Won’t you, Max?” Max responded by drooling on her hand. “How long will you be? Just so I can send out the Mounties when you don’t show up.”

  “This isn’t the Arctic, Meg. I’m walking home and back again. I’ve done it a thousand times, even in the snow. An hour, maybe? I’ve got to make sure my place is secure, too. Don’t worry—I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Maybe you should start cooking dinner—that at least will keep the kitchen warm. We’ll wait to build a fire until I get back. Anything else you can think of that we need?”

  “Just you.” As he headed for the door, she grabbed his coat and pulled him back and kissed him.

  When she let him go, he smiled and asked, “What was that for?”

  “I’m sending you off into a howling blizzard in search of dog food, a truly noble calling. Thank you for humoring me about staying here.”

  “Hey, I get it. Although you may find one experiment as Meg Corey, Pioneer Woman, is enough for you.”

  “Take care.” He gave her a salute then strapped on his snowshoes. She watched him as he disappeared into the driving snow—it took him only a couple of seconds to vanish. She turned to the dog. “Well, Max, what shall we make for dinner? How does minestrone sound to you?” Max wagged his tail enthusiastically. “Minestrone it is.”

  Seth had been right about a warm kitchen. She kept all the doors closed, and put a large pot of water on the back of the stove before she began chopping vegetables and opening cans. She had it easy—at least she had fresh vegetables, not to mention store-bought cans of beans and tomatoes. A century or two ago, people would have eaten what they raised—period. Probably December wouldn’t have been too skimpy, but she could imagine that February might be grim, after the fall harvest crops had run out. The apples would have survived that long—dried, maybe, and she thought she’d seen some mention of putting them in barrels, well packed in straw, and submerging them in a pond over the winter. It sounded a bit extreme, but what did she know? She had modern refrigeration.

  The soup started to smell good. It was hard to go wrong with the basics: onions, carrots, beans. The nice thing about minestrone was that you could toss in whatever you had on hand, and no one could argue with you about messing with the recipe. And it was kind of cozy to be working in the warm kitchen while the snow swirled around the house. The windows were steaming up. Lolly slept on, and even Max was quiet at the moment, which was a blessing. Should she make something to go with the soup? Corn bread? Did she have cornmeal? She couldn’t remember. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really cooked. She’d been so busy with the harvest, and so exhausted at the end of each day, that she and Bree had relied mostly on takeout and microwave foods, even though she shuddered at the salt and sugar content. Rachel had taken care of Thanksgiving. So this was really the first chance she’d had to indulge in cooking for pleasure. She could make the corn bread, and then leave the oven on and try for an apple pie. At least she knew she still had apples.

  After an hour and a half Meg began to wonder if she should worry about Seth. Sure, he knew his way around, but she’d read stories of Arctic explorers who got disoriented in the snow and lost all sense of direction—and sometimes their frozen corpses weren’t found for decades. That was not a comforting thought. Still, up until now, if Seth said he was going to do something, he did it, with a minimum of muss and fuss. And usually three other things at the same time. Besides, she had no idea what she would do if he didn’t reappear soon. Call the police? Then there would be multiple people wandering around in a blizzard, which only increased the chances of someone getting lost, with possibly fatal consequences.

  Stop it, Meg! Why was she getting so morbid? A minute ago she had been cheerfully chopping vegetables; now she was envisioning frozen corpses in the snow. Seth knew what he was doing—didn’t he? She trusted his judgment. If he said he could walk home and back in a howling blizzard, she was going to believe him. Until when? Two hours? Three?

  Her increasingly frantic thoughts were interrupted by a stamping at the back door. Seth looked like an abominable snowman, his winter jacket and hood covered with an inch or so of the white stuff. The image was exaggerated by the large pack he was wearing on his back. How much dog food had he brought? Was he preparing for a long siege?

  She pulled open the door as he was brushing the last of the snow off his legs. He took off the snowshoes and left them leaning against the house outside the door before stepping in. “Something smells good.”

  “You took long enough.”

  Something in her tone made Seth look at her more closely. “Sorry. Were you worried? I was making sure my place was closed up tight, and I checked Mom’s, too. Oh, and when I was coming back I noticed one of your cellar windows had come loose. I didn’t notice that when I looked at the furnace earlier. But it was probably held in by one of those old hook-and-eye rigs, and since the wood is old, a good gust of wind could have knocked it loose. I wedged it closed, but I’ll take a look at it from downstairs. Hi, Max—you being good?”

  “He’s been asleep, mostly—you woke him up. Have you seen or heard any updates on the storm?”

  “The weather forecasters are having a great time outlining disaster scenarios, but they’re paid to make news,” Seth said. “Why don’t we turn on the TV and check on the latest?”

  Meg flipped on the small television she kept in the kitchen. Not surprisingly all channels were running continuous coverage, and she watched in fascination, flipping among channels, as each outlined details of a storm that exceeded anything she—and they—had ever heard of.

  “Wow. They’re saying it could go on for another day, with record snowfalls. So, what now?”

  Seth smiled. “You want me to show you how to build a fire in your fireplace?”

  “Oh, goodie. Yes, please. You’re sure it’s safe?”

  “The biggest risk for chimney fires is when you have a buildup of creosote inside. Since nobody seems to have used this for years, and since I’ve already made sure there are no obstructions, I’d say we’re good. You do have a fire extinguisher, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.” She noticed he was smiling. “Oh, you’re joking. Okay, big man, make the little woman a fire.”

  “Piece of cake,” he said. Coatless, he went out the back to the adjoining shed and returned with an armload of split logs and smaller pieces of wood for kindling. “Get the door, will you?”

  Meg obliged—and was shocked at how much colder the dining room was than the kitchen. She led the way through to the front parlor and stood and watched as Seth laid a fire.

  “You have any newspapers?”

  “I thought that was cheating.”

  “It’s not my favorite method, but they’ll do in a pinch. Yes or no? Otherwise I’ll have to start using those historic records you’ve been sitting on. I bet they’d catch fast.”

  “Don’t even think it. Yes, I have some newspapers. They’re even stacked up for recycling.” Meg went back through the kitchen and collected a stack of papers, marveling again a
t the differences in temperature. She returned to the parlor and thrust them at Seth. “Here. Will these do?”

  “Just fine, thank you,” he said, turning his attention back to the fire. In a couple of minutes he had a nice small fire going, and he watched it carefully to make sure the smoke was going up the chimney. Finally he said, “It’s drawing nicely. The old builders knew what they were doing. Of course, if this was your only heat, you kind of had to get it right. Now, close off the doors to the hall and the dining room to keep the heat in. We don’t have a whole lot of wood, and we don’t know how long this storm might last.”

  “Surely not more than a day?” Meg said.

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t count on anything.”

  “This is kind of scary,” she said, shivering.

  “Why?” he asked. “We have food, heat, electricity, and companionship. What more do you want? Do you happen to have any oil lamps handy?” When she stared blankly at him, he went on. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “You’re thinking we’ll lose power?” she said.

  “It’s possible. I think there are some old lamps out in the barn. The question is, is there any kerosene for them? Only one way to find out.”

  “What, you’re going out in that again?”

  “It’s going to get dark soon. It’s better to be prepared now than to fumble around later.”

  “By any chance were you a Boy Scout?”

  “How’d you guess? Look, you stay here and I’ll go check in the barn. I’ll take Max along—he probably needs to go, and he can burn off some energy.” Seth went back toward the kitchen, whistling.

  He was actually enjoying this! Meg stood in front of the fire as it began to cast some heat into the room, her arms wrapped around herself. She was pretty sure that the house would survive; at least she knew it was structurally sound. The barn? The roof was pretty iffy, but the skeleton was good—Seth had checked when he installed the apple holding chambers. So she might be cold, but she wasn’t in any danger, and there was plenty of food. And companionship. She was going to have a sleepover with Seth. Sure, they’d spent nights together, but not prolonged periods of time with little to distract them. They’d actually have time to talk, unless Seth went into his manic fix-it mode. Was this good or bad?

  Good, Meg decided. There were issues they’d both been tap dancing around for months, and maybe now they would have time to explore some of them.

  Seth was back in minutes, and after stamping off the snow—again—he came from the kitchen bearing two remarkably rusty but intact oil lamps that Meg dimly remembered hanging in the barn. “We’re good. You might collect any candles you have. Dorcas and Isabel said hi.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “They’re fine. Probably bored. Listen, you should also bring down blankets and pillows—I don’t think you’ll want to sleep upstairs.”

  “Even with a bed warmer?”

  “Even with.” He smiled.

  She went upstairs and started collecting quilts and pillows. He was right: it was freezing upstairs, and it wasn’t even dark yet. She wondered briefly if she had a chamber pot lurking in a dark corner. Making a trip to the bathroom later wouldn’t be pleasant. Maybe a bucket?

  Downstairs she dumped her trove of bedding on a chair. “So now what? What did people do in the old days?”

  Seth prodded the fire carefully. “When they weren’t working, you mean? Read. Sewed, since clothes were scarce and probably needed a lot of mending. Knit. Sat around the pianoforte singing. You don’t happen to have one of those, do you?”

  “Sorry, no. I’m not particularly musical anyway. And I’m not very good at knitting.”

  “Well, there are games—cards, backgammon, cribbage. Poker, if you want to be more modern. You have any games or cards?”

  “Maybe, although I’d have to hunt for them. I never had time for that sort of thing in Boston. Everyone I knew was always working, and even when we had time off, we’d usually just go to a bar or restaurant or watch a DVD.”

  “There are plenty of games at Mom’s house.”

  “Seth Chapin, don’t you dare go out in this weather just to get a cribbage board or whatever! Worst case, we can make our own playing cards.”

  “Now there’s the pioneer spirit!”

  “Can we leave the fire unattended? Because I was thinking of baking something.”

  “As long as there’s nothing flammable nearby, I think we’ll be okay—you’ve got a good, broad slate hearth here. Can I help?”

  “You can lick the bowl, if I can figure out what dessert is.”

  “Sounds good. Let me go downstairs and check that window, and you go start whipping up something in the kitchen.”

  “Yes, master.”

  5

  While Seth poked around in the cellar—again—Meg inventoried her supplies. What was she in the mood for? The idea of peeling all those apples, and then trying to make a piecrust, had lost its charm. She wanted something solid and sugary. Not cookies: cake. Or gingerbread. Did she have molasses? She rummaged in her cupboards and triumphantly pulled out a sticky bottle. Yes!

  Seth came in, looking perplexed, as she was melting butter in a pan.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I don’t know why that window came open. The wood was pretty sound, all things considered, so it would have taken some real force to pull the eyebolt out, which is what happened. A freak gust, I guess. What’re you making?”

  “Gingerbread. I thought it fit the scene. You know, real Currier and Ives stuff. You know anyone with a one-horse sleigh?”

  “Sure, but he’s over in Hadley, remember? I don’t think he’ll be stopping by tonight.”

  They spent a companionable hour cooking, or rather, Meg cooked and Seth watched and commented.

  “You know, this is pretty sexist,” Meg said, as she slid the gingerbread into the oven and set the timer. “Me doing all the housework and you sitting there and kibitzing.”

  “How about I wash the dishes?”

  “Deal. I hate washing dishes. Was yours a traditional household? I mean, your mother cooking, your father doing the heavy stuff?”

  “Kind of, even though Mom usually had a job. Well, early on she was working for Dad, doing the billing and accounting. She trained us kids to do a lot of the housework, although we bickered about it.”

  “Forward-thinking woman,” Meg said approvingly. “I don’t think I ever saw my father with a sponge in his hand. We did have a cleaner who came in once a week. I know it sounds kind of pampered, and I guess it was. It was a rude shock when I started living on my own and realized that things got dirty and stayed that way until I did something about it.”

  “You poor thing! So did you hire Merry Maids cleaners?”

  “I did not! I learned. Good thing, or I’d be totally lost with this place. And now I’ve acquired even more skills. You ready for minestrone?”

  “Starving.”

  “Good.”

  She fed Max and Lolly—putting Lolly’s dish on the countertop, since she didn’t trust Max not to scarf up any food he could reach—then dished up the minestrone. “I think there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. Should I open it?”

  “Why not? I promise you I’m not driving anywhere tonight.”

  Meg realized she hadn’t heard a vehicle pass for quite a while—not even a snowplow. “I don’t think anyone else is either. Who orders the plows out? The selectmen?”

  “You’re looking at one, remember. The answer’s yes, but the snow-removal budget has been cut each year for a while now. And right now, if we sent out the plows—all two of them—the snow would blow right back over the roads in minutes. It’s a judgment call, but the plan is to wait until morning and see what’s what. Of course, the state is responsible for the highways, so they’ll do Route 202—when they feel like it. Don’t hold your breath.” Seth dipped into his soup. “Hey, this is great.”

  After dinner Seth cleaned up the dishes as promised. Back to the front
parlor, Meg found that the fire had burned down to coals. It might have been sixty degrees in the room, but after passing through the unheated dining room it felt almost balmy. She’d managed to find a deck of cards in a drawer, and when Seth arrived they quibbled for a while, trying to find a card game in which they were evenly matched.

  “Look, I played hearts in college, and then bridge, but we just weren’t into poker,” Meg grumbled. “Are we going to be reduced to Go Fish? War?”

  “Kind of mindless, aren’t they? You ever tried Russian Bank? Spite and Malice?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never even heard of them. Did you play a lot of cards with your family?”

  “On and off. Dad was always very competitive, and not particularly patient. But Mom and the three of us kids used to play, back in the Dark Ages before video games. I guess we kind of outgrew it. I know we stopped before I went to college.”

  “My folks played with some regular bridge groups, but I didn’t have sibs, so that was kind of limiting—just three people. We did jigsaw puzzles for a while—I think Mother still has all of those, in the attic.” She hesitated a moment. “You know, we could just talk.”

  Was it her imagination or did he stiffen slightly? “About what?”

  “Don’t go all funny on me—that’s talk with a small ‘T,’ not a capital one. It’s just that you and I have been through a lot, some of it pretty intense, and we’ve been physically intimate, but there’s a lot I don’t know about you, or you about me. That’s all. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” When Seth didn’t answer immediately, she wondered if she’d done something wrong.

  Finally he said, “Let me take Max out, and you can figure out whether you want to leave Lolly in the kitchen. Oh, and check the weather forecast one last time. Is there any of that wine left?”

  “I think so. I’ve probably got another bottle.” Was that an agreement to talk, or an evasion?

  “Good,” he said. He stood up abruptly and Max followed, and Meg could hear him putting his boots back on and slamming the door. She followed more slowly. If Lolly was going to stay in the parlor with them, she needed to bring the litter box along. The cat’s dish was empty, so she wasn’t hungry. Meg decided they might need all the warmth they could get, so she carried the box into the front room. It was definitely warmest in front of the fire, so Meg arranged the quilts and blankets in what looked like a large, messy nest on the floor, then went back to the kitchen. She found another bottle of wine and collected a corkscrew and two glasses and made another trip to the front of the house, setting them on a low table. Then back again to the kitchen. Seth and Max came in, and Meg shivered at the cold wind they brought with them.