by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
Lee easily hoisted the cloth-lined wicker hamper and passed it to the dour woman. She set it on the ground and opened it.
After counting through the plates and cups and utensils, she removed lids from the food containers. Bonnie Swanson looked up at them. “You ate all that food?”
Grant cringed.
“Yes, ma’am. It was right good, too.”
“Delicious,” Grant agreed.
“And you ate it all?”
“Yes’m.” Lee patted the midsection of his coveralls. “Exceptin’ for that half biscuit Mr. Box is enjoyin’.”
A huge smile covered the woman’s face. “How nice to know my efforts were appreciated.”
“First rate—blue ribbon quality through and through.” Grant meant it, too.
Bouncing on her toes, Mrs. Swanson gave a little sound of triumph. Appearing regal as any queen, she held Lila’s hand and took the basket in the other. “We’ll take this to the carriage and then come back to check on Sarah.”
For once, Grant was completely grateful for the irascible woman’s actions. But he couldn’t effusively praise her for checking on her niece. With Mrs. Swanson providing oversight, those hooligans wouldn’t dare get near. Relief coursed through him.
“Mrs. Swanson, let me carry that back for you. Lee, you take Lila to the pavilion, and I’ll bring her mother shortly.”
The tiny woman gasped and looked up at him as though Grant had suddenly grown horns. But then she smiled, offered him the basket, and extended her arm.
They promenaded onto the walkway as though they were aunt and favorite nephew. The notion made him grin. How long had it been since one of his elders, other than Uncle Franklin, expressed any approval of his actions? He’d left home after a parting of the ways with Father and had never looked back. Nor had he received a dime of support from him after Jonetta’s death. But wasn’t that his own fault for not communicating with him?
Monday morning, rested, renewed, and refreshed from their Sunday off, Sarah and Denise practically ran up the groomed walkways to the pavilion.
“I think I might meet my goal.” Denise’s white teeth gleamed in the sunlight.
“Oh?”
“I’m here to meet a husband, and maybe I have.”
“A husband?” Sarah felt her eyes widen. “The fair only lasts a week.” Did Denise think Mr. Hudgins could ask her to marry him in so short a time?
“I know, but there are few eligible bachelors where I live.” Her lower lip protruded in a pout. “Besides, I’ll have been here for almost three weeks before it’s over.”
Sarah didn’t want her friend to be hurt by the flirtatious Southerner. At least both Lee and Grant were churchgoers and had attended yesterday’s service.
Denise huffed out a sigh. “I know Lee might just be practicing his charms.”
They slowed as they neared the building, inhaling the faint scent of new paint. “He seems to get along with you.”
“And Grant with you.”
Sarah raised her hand. “I’ve no interest in a beau, much less a husband.” Although seated in the pew with him the previous day, she couldn’t deny such thoughts had flitted through her mind.
“That’s where we differ. And maybe Lee won’t work out, but here there are all those workmen who built these gorgeous fairgrounds, and most of them young.”
“If that’s your only criterion, come visit my brothers; they’re all under twenty.”
Denise laughed. “I’m too old for them.”
“They’re ornery, sullen, unkempt, and irreverent on occasion.” Sarah arched a brow at her friend. “As are most men.”
“But are they handsome?” Denise’s gaze led to where Mamie DuBeau stood framed in the doorway, a tall and distinguished-looking young man gazing down at her in adoration.
“I don’t think he’s a workman.”
The sun set earlier every evening. After making sure Sarah’s aunt and cousin had driven her home, Grant loaded their bicycle into the back of the horseless carriage. He shoved his goggles into place, wishing his pal would stop aggravating him about Miss Richmond.
“I loved your latest oh-so-clear explanation of what we’re doin’ at the state fair,” Hudgins called over the noise of the engine.
“Do you really think I’d tell her we’re giving balloon rides?”
“Our engines will eventually put massive dirigibles floatin’ overhead. If we keep on your course.”
In Grant’s Bible study, as well as at church, the Holy Spirit had nudged him to reconsider his plan to create engines that could power massive balloons. “One day. But we really don’t need to discuss our business with her. She’s just here for the quilting exhibition. Leave it at that.”
His partner laughed into his gloved hand. “As if you believe she didn’t spark your interest.”
“Probably too much like her aunt Bonnie.” Although his uncle’s neighbor was turning out to be quite a peach, after all. By Mrs. Swanson’s report, she’d stuck with Sarah like glue all day.
“Do ya think Sarah is the same one Mrs. Swanson said buried two or three of her beaus?”
“We know about the one for sure.” Two or three? How did anyone get over that? He’d wondered how such a comely young woman could still be single at her age. She had to be nearing her late twenties.
“Denise told me it was some kind of bad accident and reported it in all the papers up north. But she didn’t say anything about another beau or two dyin’.”
Grant gripped the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle around a deep rut in Holt Road. “Mrs. Swanson, obsessed by death as she is, likely exaggerated. And yes, if I was a betting man I’d wager this prototype that this is the very niece she was discussing.”
“Want to take a chance on being number three or four, old man?”
Hudgins acted as though Jonetta had never existed. He had no intention of discussing this with his friend. It was off-limits. Wouldn’t serve any purpose to dredge up. He frowned as a heavy weight of sadness settled on his chest.
The two rode on in silence, save for the engine noise and the gentle wind. They’d had to light the battery-powered headlamps, and it helped but didn’t fully illuminate the road. They were operating on prayer and faith God would get them home, especially in some parts of the country road, rutted from wagon wheels.
“There’s the Swansons’ farm. Swerve to the left and miss that pothole.”
Grant maneuvered the vehicle around it then turned into the Swansons’ drive. Light glowed in the kitchen window. Sudden warmth burned in his heart. How soothing it must be to come home to a light in the window and loved ones waiting for you. With Jonetta, their home would have been an estate near his father’s, and their life a whirlwind of social engagements. Yet now, somehow, his heart longed to arrive and find Sarah opening a jar of her aunt’s famous peaches and adding a dollop of fresh-churned ice cream she and the children had made.
What a dolt I am. He had no children. What was he thinking? He had no wife. And he certainly didn’t farm, nor would he ever.
Lord, if You’re moving me in that direction, give me some kind of sign. I’m afraid. You know it. I can’t hide anything from You.
He parked the car and left the engine running, not wanting to restart it given they were simply dropping off the bicycle.
The screen door swung open. Lila waved to them, a lamp in her hand. She hung the kerosene lantern on the side of the house. “Come on in and see what we made!”
“Sure thing, sunshine!” Lee hopped out, removed the bike, and rolled it over beside the house.
Grant removed his driving gloves, lagging behind.
The door reopened. Sarah stood, lamplight illuminating her lovely face and feminine figure. Looking at her felt like coming home. Although he tried to shake off the feeling, Grant couldn’t. Chills coursed down his arms.
“Grant. Come in.”
“I’m coming.”
“Lila and some of her friends churned ice cream for the last hour, h
oping you’d stop in.”
Mrs. Swanson popped her head out behind Sarah and waved. “Hurry up, if you want any of my blue ribbon peaches! Lee is about to pour himself the whole mason jar.”
Grant’s jaw dropped open. He’d asked. God had answered. Never had he thought the message would come via the state fair. But it just had.
Chapter 6
They exited Uncle Franklin’s house to a morning crisp and clear. Sunshine illuminated the maples like a summer’s bonfire with oranges, reds, and yellows. Each color vied for prominence. Grant couldn’t linger. He hopped into the driver’s seat as Lee, already hunkered down beside him, pulled his slouch cap over his eyes.
Grant planned to spend as much time as he could with Sarah. Her aunt and cousin were busy today canning spiced apples, an all-day affair. His stomach growled.
As though reading his mind, Lee groaned. “Wish I had me some of Miss Bonnie’s cinnamon apples topped by whipped cream right now, instead of waitin’ for dinnertime.”
“At least we’ve been promised that as our dessert this evening, so don’t complain.”
“You know you’re thinkin’ the same thing.”
“I am,” Grant growled. “Uncle Franklin’s oatmeal mush may be filling, but it lacks taste.”
“Filling?” Lee straightened in his seat. “I can hear your stomach growl over the motor.”
He grinned. “I’ll buy you some cookies and hot cocoa from the Italian boy.”
“I’ll accept that offer.” He settled back into the seat and didn’t look up again until they’d arrived.
After they’d garaged their horseless carriage in a barn at the edge of the field, Lee stretched and yawned. “Inspection time.”
The balloon was secured where today it would be filled.
Grant and Hudgins set to work. They examined each seam of the balloon, the ropes, the basket, and all the apparatus to ensure everything was in working order, as they had done every day since they’d transported it to the fairground.
“If only we could get our engines workin’ well enough to fly this balloon up north, over the Straits of Mackinac. I reckon we could drop down on Sarah’s family.”
Spine stiffening, Grant straightened. “Why?” He’d just read of an accident in Germany, where a respected engineer’s motor caught on fire and caused his death while aloft in the countryside. Surely his friend didn’t wish to prematurely try their motor on such a long trip, although Grant, too, had been tempted. “Would you wish to spy on her people?”
“To help you out.” Laughing, his friend pulled on a brass fastener, which held tight. “I wouldn’t call it spyin’.”
“My father sailed in a balloon up over the James River in your beloved Virginia. What would you call his endeavor?”
“That was war, my friend, or Northern Aggression, but your pa may call it reconnoitering.”
“He’d been discharged by his superiors to do his patriotic duty.” Grant rubbed the back of his neck, which, despite the cool day, was damp with sweat from his work in the enclosed building reeking of dust, engine oil, and decaying wood. “What you propose is simply snooping.”
“Snoopin’?” Hudgins wiped his brow with a red handkerchief. “Why, that’s what your uncle called Miss Bonnie’s visitation, but that ain’t it at all.”
“Anyway, how would learning more about Sarah’s family behoove me?”
“You really are dense in the head sometimes, Bentley.”
Grant feigned a swat, and his friend ducked. “Come on, let’s go set up our booth.”
The two men carried the bulky wood structure out onto the pasture at the end of the fairground. In the short time it took them to secure it, several young women had clustered together on the edge of the field, gawking at them. Grant swiveled away. Women seemed to be getting bolder, even the well-dressed ones, as these were.
“I think Miss Bonnie comes to the fairground to see what is transpirin’ between you and her niece.”
“As long as she keeps an eye on Sarah, that’s fine.”
Nothing needed to happen to that pure-hearted young woman. Recalling the feel of her form in his arms brought about desires to find a wife he’d thought long passed. He’d lost Jonetta and never wanted to suffer that way again. But lately in studying the Word with his uncle at night on the farm, something stirred in his heart. Maybe it was just the love of God. The answer from the Lord he’d received last night at the Swansons’ farm had him ready to seek out Sarah and keep watch over her.
“Grant? Grant Bentley?”
“That filly’s headin’ straight for us. What do you want me to do?” Hudgins moved between Grant and the oncoming woman.
Grant swiveled to face Mamie DuBeau. Despite her beauty, she failed to draw him as Miss Richmond did. She continued toward them, accompanied by the other young women he’d spotted earlier. He didn’t need this schemer to spread the word he’d one day inherit a large estate in New York, the son of one of the wealthiest families in the Hudson Valley—if Father didn’t disinherit him.
“There’s trouble,” Hudgins drawled.
“You’re not kidding.” Grant exhaled loudly.
Soon the women were upon them. He nodded briefly to each, eliciting giggles from two.
“Miss DuBeau.” He inclined his head in her direction. She’d never forgiven him for rejecting her interest in him, and he’d always feared she’d extract retribution.
“It is you!” The schemer pulled her skirt aside, revealing elaborately decorated shoes unfit for a field.
“What brings you out into the field?” Lord, please don’t let Stollen be here.
She peered around him. “Is that a balloonist booth? I’m sure Heinrich will be delighted.”
“Are you ready, dear?” The matron in charge of the tea and coffee service wheeled the cart toward Sarah.
Part of her work at the fair was offering tea, cookies, and sandwiches from a rolling cart.
“I think so.” This should be easy compared to farmwork.
“Here’s your apron.” Mrs. Burgi passed a frilly white apron to Sarah.
Sarah eyed the top piece’s narrow, lace-edged rectangle. “I don’t think that will fit.” It wouldn’t begin to cover Sarah’s ample bosom.
“It fits anyone. The ties all adjust.” Mrs. Burgi untied the top and, eyeing Sarah, resecured a knot that allowed the apron to lie lower. She slipped it over Sarah’s head.
Patting the midsection, Sarah examined where the fabric stretched across parts not needing accentuation. Across from her, she caught Denise’s startled gaze. Subtly, her friend shook her head no.
The registrar tied the apron’s waist so tightly Sarah gasped.
Sarah’s cheeks heated. At least Miss DuBeau wasn’t there.
“Now, first go up to the officials’ table and offer them tea or coffee. Then pastries or sandwiches.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Richmond, you’ll do fine.”
But as Sarah wheeled the cart toward the judges’ station, she grew aware of most of them, male and female, blinking at her torso. This is how God made her—wasn’t that what Mama always said? She was meant to be a curvy woman and had no reason to be ashamed. Drawing herself up tall, she kept her features serious and, whenever possible, met people’s direct gaze. No apologies for God’s handiwork.
No apologies from Arnold when taken home by God to live with Him forever.
She blinked back tears. Sarah sensed in her soul she’d expected Arnold to apologize for something he had no control over. He’d been in an accident, injured, and couldn’t fight the infection that set in. It wasn’t his fault, even though he’d chosen to go along with the Wild West Careeners’ invitation to ride with them. He’d grown up riding horses almost every day. His parents owned a Percheron farm. But when something spooked his borrowed horse at the performance, he’d been thrown. His life was soon gone and hers altered forever.
“Miss?”
“Hmm?” Sarah looked into the war
m brown eyes of a portly gentleman attired in a tweed suit. His name tag indicated this was Hershel Thomas, the chairman.
“Might I have what you’re offering?” His face was kindly, like Papa’s, and there didn’t seem to be any insinuation in his voice.
She blinked at him.
Mr. Thomas pointed to the tray.
“Oh! Yes, sir. Let me pour.”
From somewhere behind her, she heard men’s low voices as someone neared. She bent to retrieve a cup and saucer from the bottom of the cart.
Someone snickered behind her. “Got us the best view in the whole house, fellas.”
Choosing to ignore the comments, her hands shook as she poured coffee.
The judge’s dark eyes widened as he looked past her and then slightly beyond.
“Hey!”
She heard a scuffling sound. The other officials gasped. Sarah turned to see Grant and Lee hauling several large men out of the pavilion, the rude men’s arms twisted behind their backs. Sarah sucked in a deep breath, her heart pounding. But she had to perform her duties, so she turned back to face the next official.
A middle-aged woman in a snug pink day suit pushed her spectacles up her narrow nose. “At least we have good security.”
Mr. Thomas nodded then addressed Sarah: “I’m sorry I didn’t speak up for you, young lady.” The judge patted the unusual arms of his chair. A wheelchair. “War injury has prevented me from keeping up my gentlemanly responsibilities.”
After having served the officials, Sarah scanned the pavilion. Quilts dotted the entire building, giving the place a beautiful, homey feeling, despite its cavernous size. Personality and artistic style reflected in each creation. Clearly the quilt Miss DuBeau entered was the most beautiful.
There’d be no blue ribbon for Sarah. No money for the clinic. Reconsidering her unacknowledged anger toward Arnold, she wondered, did her motivation stem from anger toward Arnold and not from the godly desire to improve the small hospital? Part of her hoped to embarrass the staff. But they’d operated on a limited budget in a rickety old building and were doing the best they could.
God help me. Make my heart right.
