Serendipity

by Cathy Marie Hake

  She’d said it back then, and he’d agreed. At least that much was true. Letting out a choppy sigh, Maggie allowed him take her hands. Then she decided better and took back one.

  He rubbed his callused thumb on the back of her hand. “What little we have, we hold in common.”

  Maggie gave him a fierce look. “I’m not sharing my specials and sparkles if you’re going to use it as an excuse to get rid of them.”

  One eyebrow rose. “You brought more than treasures.”

  The man was daft if he thought a businesswoman would leave behind all her stock! Especially since money was an issue, she needed her trade goods. But he had a point. She hadn’t specified that as part of the bargain any more than he specified a few paltry boxes.

  “And so we did not have the same vision of what you would bring.” He had the nerve to wink. “The proof of a man lies in what he does. Here is proof of my honor, Wife – Adam and Eve each have a stall. You brought them, and you will stay here with them.”

  “Then I’m bringing my bed out here.”

  Amusement filled his voice and eyes. “You – and your bed – will stay in our home. And out here, for a while, you will have two stalls for your things.”

  For getting off to such a terrible start, this might yet turn into a worthwhile negotiation. “What about my roses?”

  “Roses require much care. To have fewer here and to share them with your friends – this is wiser. Margaret, you have too much to do.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Roses aren’t work. My legacy is a joy.”

  He dragged her over to some hay bales and sat down. Maggie’s world tilted as he swept her into his lap. Ignoring her gasp, he ordered, “Explain these roses.”

  “The roses must be kept and given only to my daughter. They’ve been passed down for generations. The roses, the recipes, the process for making everything is taught from mother to daughter. Or, in my case, from aunt to niece. It’s a sacred trust.”

  “A trust, ja – but such things are not sacred.”

  She struggled to express it clearly. “It’s a bequest of loving devotion. There are stories for every generation of my roses. Stories of a woman who lost her husband and all four children in one day to smallpox and was courageous enough to love again and have a daughter. Of one who was stone-deaf and could still sing hymns with perfect pitch. Of Moira Andrea, who counted the legacy so important she stood before an army and demanded they ride around the roses instead of through them – and the commander of that army came back and wed her.

  “Generations from now a little girl will hear the stories as she tends the roses. The traits of courage and faith and fortitude take root early in life. As she grows, the virtues illustrated and wisdom borne of experience will guide her through thorny times, and she’ll blossom.

  “My daughter will be told of my mama marrying a man who came to Carver Holler just to hear her people’s stories, and my aunt Maude who couldn’t have a daughter yet took me on as her very own.” Her voice shook. “I’ll be able to pass on their legacy, their lessons of virtue and strength and love. I’ll do it because I won’t give up my roses. They’re not just mine. They’re for all those who follow.”

  He met her gaze and held it. Held her. “For this reason, I would have you plant a fraction now. That much . . . It is right and fitting.”

  She closed her eyes. He didn’t understand. Couldn’t.

  “There is much to do. The water . . . It will barely be enough to nourish such a large vegetable garden. Yielding to emotion when we have so many other considerations and needs would jeopardize everything, Maggie. We will plant three crates – one each in honor of your mother, aunt, and father. I cannot promise more today.”

  Three. Only three. Then again, he’d already shown good faith by going up from two. She couldn’t agree to just three, but he’d proven he’d listen and be somewhat flexible.

  “Rosebushes put down roots. You must, as well. You will stay by my side. And so all points of honor are kept.” He brushed his lips against her temple. “Someday, stories will be told of you marrying me and bringing the roses to Texas.”

  The promise of that shimmered for a brief second, and then he spoiled it. “Margaret, there is only one Mrs. Valmer.”

  Sadly, she shook her head. “You said the proof of a man is in what he does. You’ve shown your mother favor over me.”

  Todd had the nerve to look baffled.

  Then Maggie thought of how her uncles were oblivious to subtleties. The times Ma sniped at her and he’d been silent – had Todd been unaware? She could mention him seating Ma in her place . . . but that problem was solved. Deciding to name the most egregious and apparent, Maggie looked him in the eye. “You gave her the choice of where her bed went.”

  He grimaced. “I didn’t realize it would crowd us. Since she is sickly, the window seemed like a reasonable request.”

  “Reasonable?” She gave him a long, meaningful look. “As Mee-Maw said, ‘When a man says something is reasonable, any sane woman ought to run, screaming, in the opposite direction.’ ”

  “You are sane, but you are not running in the opposite direction.” He was back to looking like a rascal. “So from now on, you will decide what will go where in the house.”

  “Does that include me saying your mother is not napping in our bed?”

  His chest rumbled as he groaned. “I will never do that again.” He heaved a mammoth sigh. “Magpies have special nests, beautiful. To share a nest of a feather bed or of humble hay – either would be beautiful because you are my Magpie.”

  Reaching up to move a rakish lock of hair from his forehead, she whispered, “Don’t be expecting me to believe you the next time you say you’re lousy with words. I guess I’m staying, after all. I really do love – ” she caught herself – “my roses.”

  “Some farmer I am. I will be growing sorghum, wheat, corn, vegetables – ”

  “And roses!” She slipped off his lap.

  “And children.”

  Her cheeks suddenly went hot. “We’d better get to work.”

  “Ja.”

  Relief flooded her. They could cease this intimate talk and get back to the field. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

  He gave her a sweet kiss. “But we will waste no more.” Suddenly he lifted her and carried her toward the ladder.

  “Todd!”

  Climbing up to the loft with her over his shoulder, he let loose a rumble of deep laughter.

  A few seconds later, she gasped. “Oh, Todd! You brought Rose of Sharon up here.”

  From the few bits of hay in Maggie’s hair and the way Todd’s hand lingered at her waist, Helga knew she’d better hurry up with transforming the magpie into a woman worthy of her son. Once Magpie became a mother, she’d be too busy to learn the proper way of doing anything. My body might fail me, but my mind is sharp. I can share my wisdom. Just as Titus exhorts in the Bible, I can edify her in the ways of being a godly housekeeper.

  Housekeeper. She meant housewife. But Helga couldn’t help drawing the parallels. Her grandparents had been well-to-do. They and Arletta employed servants – and every last one was Irish. Just the sound of Maggie’s lilting voice brought back memories of maids drawing baths, making beds, cooking and cleaning. When Maggie sat by her sickbed, changing the linen, tending her and feeding everyone, it seemed right. Temporarily being cared for by an Irishwoman actually comforted Helga.

  But by marrying Todd, the girl reached far above her station. Arletta was the exception that proved the rule: When differing classes married, the better invariably sacrificed his standards and standing. Her own mother went from planning soirées to planting onions. Todd deserved far more than a horse-swapping hillbilly. Whipping her into a good farmwife – that was going to be quite a trick.

  Unable to read any longer, Helga regretted her inability to snatch up God’s Word and go to a passage that would make her point. No doubt, that technique wouldn’t leave Maggie quite as touchy.

 
She’s sensitive. And possessive. Already that girl pushed me away from my place at the table. What’s to keep her from pushing me right out the door? Todd wouldn’t let her . . . or would he? At first, he didn’t have feelings for the girl. Only with each passing hour, he seemed to become more enamored.

  What will I do if she decides I must leave? That’s what Arletta had done. Her own daughter kicked her out. Helga couldn’t return – they weren’t even there. And even if they were, she couldn’t travel alone. She couldn’t do anything alone. And she didn’t have a penny to her name.

  Every second brought another terrifying thought. Should that hillbilly girl stop taking care of me and tell Todd to make me leave, I have nowhere. No one.

  Helga needed to become indispensable. Important. Training Todd’s bride about what foods to cook, tutoring her on housekeeping, explaining etiquette . . . The list went on and on. If she did all of those things, they’d rely on her wisdom and appreciate how she still had a place in the family. On the train, Todd invited her to teach his bride whatever she lacked. Ja. Helga would simply remind him she was following his wishes.

  They left her alone in the house again – Todd out to the fields, but Maggie quickly returned with Helga’s sheets she’d had to launder. “Next time, if you do not let the sheets entirely dry, they’re easier to iron,” she informed Maggie.

  “I’ve got to get out there and stir the beans, and your ticking’s aired, so I’ll stuff it. The sheets’ll just have to go without ironing this once.” Draping the halfway-folded sheets over the footboard, her daughter-in-law didn’t seem in the least bit ashamed of such shoddy housekeeping. It wasn’t all that long before Maggie coaxed the freshly stuffed mattress through the door and dumped it on the bed. She started making the bed with the wrinkled sheets.

  “Wait! Use the sheets that were on it earlier.”

  “No, ma’am, I won’t. Both of these sets here are yours, clean and sunshine fresh. You didn’t sleep in the other sheets, so I’ll fold them and put them away. Their corners are embroidered to match my newlywed quilt, and I aim to keep them special.”

  So I am not special. A wagon rattled outside, kicking up a gigantic dust cloud. “Take off your apron. It is rude to wear one when company comes calling.”

  Opening the door, Magpie called out, “Mr. Walker, don’t trouble yourself to climb down from that there wagon.” She promptly closed the door and shot a grin at Helga. “Ma, he’s going to be slicker ’n snot on a glass doorknob. But he tried cheating us, and if he still wants the chair, I’m a-gonna teach him a lesson.”

  Sure enough, someone knocked. Maggie let out a beleaguered sigh as she opened the door. But for pete’s sake! She still had on her apron.

  “Mr. Walker, I don’t have time to waste with someone who lies to me. I told you not to come down off that wagon.”

  “Now, Mrs. Valmer . . .”

  Magpie being called Mrs. Valmer was a pitiful truth. But there she stood, dickering in the open doorway.

  “Let him come inside, Magpie.”

  Maggie half turned. “I’d be crazier than a rabid raccoon if I let a liar into my house. A home is for kith and kin. This feller here’s neither.” She pivoted back, heaved another sigh, pulled her apron over her head, and instead agreed to go out and look in his wagon.

  From the window, Helga saw Todd striding to the front. Good.

  He needed to handle this.

  “Todd,” Magpie singsonged, “Mr. Walker’s come back. If you go take the door off the outhouse, it’ll save you a trip to town.” What did she think she was doing? Todd’s appearance should have sent her scurrying back inside. Not fifteen minutes later, she sashayed into the house carrying a kerosene lamp and set it in the middle of the table. Instead of a clear hurricane glass, blowsy cabbage roses covered this porcelain one, and a big white globe that bore matching roses topped it.

  Here was a simple problem Helga could correct without much fuss. “Do not use that. It will burn up far too much fuel. And that is a parlor fixture. Diners cannot see through it. Simple and plain is best on the table.”

  “I love my lamp.” Running a fingertip over the piece like a child about to be deprived of a favorite toy, she pouted, “Old Mee-Maw Jehosheba painted it for me herself. Nothing in the world beats a rose for beauty.”

  “Other than you.” Todd stood in the open doorway. “You started as a Rose and are now the gorgeous Mrs. Valmer.”

  “Todd! You scared the daylights out of me!” Maggie laughed instead of thanking him for the compliment. Did she have any manners whatsoever?

  He tilted her face to his and gave her a lingering kiss. “My rose by her new name still smells as sweet. Sweeter.” Todd’s grin proved that the woman had bewitched him. He lifted the lid on a pot and sniffed. “Did you settle with Mr. Walker?”

  “Sure and enough, we came to an understanding. He was very motivated because there’s to be a poker tournament tonight. With the train strike, the lumberyard isn’t due for a shipment until sometime next week, but he reckoned I wouldn’t take an IOU for Ma’s porch, so he brought eight bags of gravel, eight of sand – ”

  “Sand will blow away, and it is too hard to push my chair through gravel! I know I told you anything was better than dirt, son, but – ”

  “Hold your horses.” Magpie grinned. “And I got us ten bags of Portland cement. We can have a nice, smooth porch and do the space in here by the window and under the table!”

  Todd’s jaw hardened. Helga waited for him to tell Magpie how much work it was to mix and pour cement. Or that he could provide for them. He said nothing, so she did. “There’s nothing wrong with a dirt floor. My son built a fine house.”

  “Yes, Todd, the house is expertly fitted and chinked.” Maggie stroked his arm. “But you didn’t anticipate a wheelchair. How could you? It leaves ruts, and when Ma begins to walk, those ruts will be dangerous.”

  He looked at the floor. “So.”

  “On the morrow, I’ll do the last section of the vegetable garden so you’re free – ”

  Ma snapped, “It is the man who assigns the work. A wife listens and obeys.”

  “Tomorrow . . .” Todd paused. “Tomorrow is Sunday.”

  “Glory be! I lost track of the days. We’ll actually be going to a real church! When the one back home burned down, it seemed silly to build one for so few of us.” She turned and gave Todd a smack on the back of his hand for trying to pilfer food. “We’ve got just about an hour until we eat – or at least, that’s what I planned on since we know John’s a-coming over.”

  John? “It is proper that you call him Mr. Toomel,” Ma advised. “A married woman must be above reproach.”

  “My man’s invited his best friend to join us at the table whenever he has a hankering. When someone’s that familiar, why, they’re practically family.”

  Fresh-mouthed. The girl had no respect whatsoever. “Remember, though. Your uncles – you called them by their surnames.” There. That would help her understand.

  “On account of me being of a younger generation. The aged deserve respect. Just like Linette – she calls you Mrs. Crewel, but she calls me Maggie. Were I to start calling John ‘Mr. Toomel,’ he might figure I’d gotten fed up with him. We can’t have that – especially since I already started calling the Van der Vort brothers Piet and Karl. We all just got the handles set that first night.”

  Todd left without weighing in on the matter, probably reluctant to correct his bride in front of her. So Helga held her silence. Soon her brash daughter-in-law would discover that she’d been given sage advice.

  At the supper table, Maggie mused, “The porch – pouring it isn’t really work, is it? To my way of thinking, it’s an act of love.”

  Mr. Toomel wiped his face. “The little lady’s got a point. Toss in Sunday supper, and I’ll come help.”

  To Helga’s mortification, news of Maggie’s bartering had attracted a pair of men. Bad enough, she’d haggled like a penny peddler in the Ozarks. Helga thought the trade to
rid them of that gambling chair wasn’t ideal, but she’d agreed out of necessity. Folks were gossiping already if these men came to examine Maggie’s goods. Not only did Magpie wrangle deals with the men, she’d invited them to supper. Now with the temptation of Sunday supper, they didn’t wait a heartbeat to volunteer to help with the porch. Ma couldn’t see Todd’s face. Maggie’s ridiculous lamp blocked her view. Her daughter-in-law was enticing all four men to break one of the Ten Commandments.

  The tallest cleared his throat. “With you gone for such a spell, seems to me, the ox is in the ditch. May as well do the inside, too.”

  “Are you calling me an ox?” Helga blurted out the question, then prayed he wouldn’t answer. If she didn’t weigh so much, the wheelchair wouldn’t be causing ruts to form.

  “Now, Ma, it’s nothing more than an old saying.” Maggie plopped more beans on the men’s plates as she continued, “What we’re discussing brings to mind when all those brawny men cut a hole in the roof and lowered their crippled friend to Jesus.”

  “This thought gives me peace.” Todd pounded the table, and everything on it jumped. “Tomorrow it will be done!”

  “Just like in the Bible, Ma.” Maggie couldn’t silence her chatter even after she got her way. “Only Todd’s friends aren’t taking the house apart, they’re fixin’ to make it better.”

  But I’m the cripple, and I’m not going to be healed.

  Dumping brown sugar on his oatmeal, Todd mused, “You wear that cameo more than the others.”

  Maggie’s hand went to her throat, and her fingertips grazed it. “It’s my favorite because of the story behind it.”

  “All your nonsense about stories.” Ma Crewel made a face.

  “See the woman here?” Maggie asked. “She’s supposed to be Rachel, watering her sheep. In Bible lands, a well is out-of-doors and ringed by stones. Often, a large stone covers it to hold in the water. When Jacob came close to remove the stone for Rachel, it was love at first sight, and this cameo is to commemorate the event. But the carver didn’t understand how his well differed from those in the Holy Land. That’s why there’s a cabin and a tree here. It’s a well house. The man who created this worked according to his understanding, yet it was wrong.”