The Blue Ribbon Brides Collection

by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene

  Edith picked up two jars. Grant had already returned. He hustled back and forth, finishing two trips to every one of hers. Of course, he probably had a thousand things planned for the day and wanted to take care of this business as quickly as possible.

  Every time he walked through the kitchen, he passed by the dried-apple cake she had made as part of her honey-not-vinegar approach, but he paid no attention to it. She began to despair.

  Soon they emptied the wagon, reaching the kitchen at the same time. Edith stopped in front of the door, blocking the exit. “I was hoping you would sit a spell and eat some of my dried-apple cake. I, um …” The words she meant to say flew out of her head while she stared at him, all muscled and manly, his stance commanding, probably a result of walking on a boat plowing through choppy waves.

  He sat down and ended her quandary. “I smelled this as soon as I came into the yard. It’s been teasing me every time I walked by.”

  Her cheeks warmed. She kept her back to him as she poured cups of coffee, grabbed two plates with cutlery and a sharp knife to cut the cake.

  Since this was a new recipe, she had several questions about his reaction. The original recipe called for rum in the brown sugar icing, but they didn’t keep spirits of any kind in the house. The adjustments she’d tried on the first batch left it grainy and thick, so she used her standard honey glaze on this batch.

  She cut him a standard-sized slice. “Enjoy. You’re welcome to eat as much as you want.” She cut a similar-sized slice for herself and added a small pitcher of cream and another of honey on the table. “If you want regular sugar, let me know.”

  “I drink my coffee black.” He glanced at the pitcher of honey, as if questioning its presence on the table.

  “So do I.” She nibbled on the cake. This latest batch turned out better than she’d expected, raising her hopes for the fair.

  But what did Grant think? He took one bite, then a second, and a third. He ate it all without speaking or drinking his coffee. He crushed the last crumbs under his fork.

  “Have another slice.” Edith cut a larger slice and handed it to him. He could eat the entire cake, as far as she was concerned.

  Grant stared at his empty plate sheepishly. He hadn’t devoured a sweet like that since he was a child and he almost choked on a cookie. “That was good.” He rubbed his stomach to emphasize his point while his mind traced a rabbit trail. “I can’t place the spice, but it seems familiar.”

  A satisfied look crossed Edie’s face. “It should smell familiar. I made it with your honey. You’re eating the meadow.” She paused. “The crops you plant will taste good, but you can’t get honey that tastes like this anywhere else in the world. Unique. Like all of God’s creation.”

  The fork stopped midway to Grant’s mouth. “The glaze.”

  “And in the cake as well. I only use a little cane sugar.”

  Grant took a larger bite. It settled on his tongue. He didn’t know much about cooking. He and Pa managed okay, especially since the church ladies brought them meals at least once a week. “If I thought I could bake it myself, I’d ask you for the recipe.”

  Edie sat up straight in her chair. “Would you go so far as to say it’s the best cake you’ve ever had?”

  The question mattered to her, but he’d play along. “Well, I don’t know, Edie.” He loved the way his use of her old nickname made her cheeks turn pink. “I’ve tasted cakes all over the world.”

  Her shoulders slumped for a second then she straightened back up. “Perhaps I should ask if it’s the best cake you’ve ever had in Vermont. Even in all of New England.”

  “America?”

  Her backbone stiffened again. “Perhaps.”

  “Very well.” He brought up a generous chunk of cake on his fork and took it in his mouth. He let it linger. It was definitely American, familiar flavors like cinnamon and apple, a distinctively American variety that made similar fruits the world over seem like imitations.

  The cake was sweet and slightly sticky. “It does taste like the meadow.”

  Edie clapped her hands together. “So tell me. Is it good?”

  “I’ll take another bite to be sure.” He had fun teasing her, drawing out this interaction. “The best in Spruce Hill, definitely, unless a new baker has moved to town since I left.” He ate a third bite. “The best in Vermont? I’ve eaten at the best restaurants in Montpelier and across New England. I’ve never tasted an apple cake to match this one.”

  She jumped up and covered her face with her hands, laughing gleefully.

  “But I had an apple cake in Washington State that might give it a run for its money.” He gobbled down the rest of the slice and reached for the knife. “I need another slice to make up my mind.”

  Edie laughed. “You can eat the whole cake if you want to. I may have to meet the lady in Washington State at some point in the future. If they ever hold a national fair.” She picked up a jar of honey from the pantry. “I intend to sweep the baking competition at the Rutland State Fair so I can raise the money to start my own business. And honey from the Oscar farm is going to get me there.”

  Her posture, her voice, could have come from a boat’s captain rousing the ship’s crew to battle. Perhaps she should be a politician and not a baker. Then again, with her spirit, she’d run a successful bakery.

  He wished he could let her have all the honey she wanted. She had spunk, and he admired spunk. But his family’s needs came first. “Look. I don’t know how much honey you need. I hope you have enough for the fair and beyond.” With all the pint jars in her pantry, she shouldn’t run out any time soon. “And of course, once we harvest the rest of the honey, before we plow the field under, you are welcome to purchase the rest.”

  “That is your right, of course.” She took the cake plate from the table and wrapped it loosely in a towel. “Make sure your father gets a slice. He’s said it takes him to the meadow in his dreams.” After standing uncertainly for a moment, she sat back down. Her fingers trembled where she held the coffee cup. After a bite of cake, a smile had replaced her tears. “I’d love to hear tales of your days at sea.”

  Her smile might be a mask, but he applauded her courage. “I joined the navy to see the world. The world turned out to be weeks on the open sea, with nothing in sight but water, water, everywhere. I did see many interesting sights.” His stops at ports around the world had mostly reminded him of the need for the Gospel, both in places that had never heard and places with churches over a thousand years old. He hungered to share the Gospel with them.

  Only now he was back in Spruce Hill, farming. Edie wasn’t the only person whose dreams were in danger.

  Chapter 4

  A week had passed since Grant had tasted Edith’s apple cake with a honey glaze and declared it the best he’d eaten. That fact made Edith ridiculously pleased and afraid at the same time. Because just as surely as he liked her cake, he intended to destroy the source of her honey. Something was driving him to destroy the meadow, God’s masterpiece of color and sound and taste.

  Edith wanted the meadow to stay the way it was. Too much was changing in 1896. Every day something new was invented that every American wanted. Why, just in her lifetime, look at the telephone, electric lightbulbs, cars that ran without horses, and even pictures that flickered on a screen like real life. The next century, less than four years away, was bound to have more changes to come.

  Maybe they would have better ovens to cook with. They might even come up with a way to bake that didn’t involve measuring ingredients and all the little touches that made her cakes unique. That would be unfortunate.

  Taking the meadow away would be another change for the worse. How could she change Grant’s mind when she hadn’t seen him once in the past week, not even at church? Maybe he had stopped attending while he was away.

  Instead of worrying, she busied herself in the kitchen, testing recipe after recipe, adjusting for honey instead of sugar. Today marked her third attempt to use honey in sugar c
ookies.

  “I should just give up.” Edith sat by the table, resting her elbows on the flour-covered surface, her face on her hands.

  “I heard that.” Mama pulled up a chair next to Edith and put an arm over her shoulders. “You might have better luck making a molasses cookie.”

  “I already did that,” Edith mumbled between her fingers. “What’s the point? Sooner or later I’m going to run out of honey. Sooner or later everything’s going to change. And I’ll be an old lady stuck in the past, who couldn’t succeed at the one thing she wanted.” And who couldn’t find love, but she wouldn’t say that out loud.

  Her mother stood. “Get out of that chair and take off that apron. Dust yourself off. It’s time you get out of this kitchen.”

  Edith didn’t want to move, but she didn’t want to mix any more ingredients either. She dusted herself off as much as she could. Hopeless. She’d better not run into anyone after they left the house. “You’re not taking me to town, are you?”

  “No. We’re just going for a stroll.” After they filled a couple of canteens, they headed for the family cemetery, where their ancestors were buried. The land had belonged to Mama’s family, and she had inherited it as the only child of her parents’ old age, just as Edith was her parents’ only child. She’d like three or four children herself. Sniffling, she drew her still-floured hand across her nose. There she went with her foolish dreams again.

  They stopped along the way, picking flowers that might have been there when her ancestor received the land from the Crown for service in the French and Indian War. The latch squealed a little as they went. “We’ve been coming here all my life.” The fence was a recent addition, when Papa put it in a few years ago. Edith headed for the same grave she went to every time, a pair of twins who had died at birth, and placed the tiny Queen Anne’s lace at their tombstone. Her family had replaced the original crosses with small headstones. There weren’t that many graves for one hundred twenty-five years of family history. She pulled away the encroaching grass, showing that someone remembered.

  Mama placed her flowers by the earliest grave, the first wife of the first settler. “You know, Edith, this place that is so special to us was once a forest, thick as those bees who make all your honey. And there were no paths to mark the way. Even a trip to get water meant danger.”

  Edith knew the story. That first wife had fallen in the river on a cold winter’s night and died from fever.

  “Close your eyes and imagine this place like it was back then.”

  Edith stretched the tendrils of her mind to the past, to stories she had heard.

  “My grandmother spoke to me of days spent clearing trees and burning the stumps and how hard it was to plant even a small garden. But they did it, because that was their dream.” Edith felt her mother’s eyes on her. “I expect the Abenaki who used to live in these forests were upset with the change.”

  Edith opened her eyes, taking in the acres growing gleefully by the grace of the sunshine and water God provided. “And someone brought the bees.”

  “Ah, yes, and helped spread flower seeds. Especially after our two families decided to leave that meadow untouched, to separate our farms and to enjoy the land together.”

  Was her mother saying the meadow belonged to both families?

  “It’s time you get to know the property that will be yours one day. Years ago, fathers used to take the boys along the boundaries, pounding on rocks along the way, memorizing the land that belonged to them. Nowadays we look at a piece of paper and numbers, but nothing beats walking it.” Mama opened the gate.

  “Let’s start today. Head to that meadow you prize so much. And remind yourself what the changes meant to this family.”

  Smoke had driven bees out of the first log gum, giving Grant access to their private treasure. The protective veil made clear vision impossible, and the super dripping with honey was heavy. He couldn’t imagine how the petite Edie had managed on her own. But she had, until he knocked her over, and the pail with her.

  He had spent the past week checking the status of the crops already growing. Work he’d expected to take two days took four instead. After that, he checked if any crops planted in early August could grow before frost set in. In some parts of the country, they could grow two crops a year. Not here, and certainly not in August.

  On Sunday he’d taken time to slip into church during the hymn singing and left during the pastor’s final prayer, not wanting to get caught up in conversation. Or to run into Edie again and struggle with guilt over making her dream so much harder to accomplish.

  The task of harvesting the honey, which he had expected to take a day, was moving as slowly as everything else this past week. So far he had filled a gallon and a half from this single super, and he might finish another one before lunch. He replaced the super on top of the log and headed for a stump by the side of the field to rest for a minute.

  “Yoo-hoo! Mr. Oscar.” An unrecognizable lady’s voice penetrated his headgear, but he didn’t dare take it off this close to the bees.

  It wasn’t Edie. He would recognize her voice anywhere, unlike the hundreds of men and women he had met around the world. “Mrs. Grace?” He hazarded.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Five yards north. Maybe ten west.”

  He thought that’s what she said. He walked north, stopped. “Do I turn here?”

  “Yes.”

  Did he dare take the bonnet off yet? No bees buzzed around his head. The memory of the bees who fed on Edie’s hand sprang to mind.

  “You’re here.”

  Grant removed his headgear. Edie had come, with her mother. “Good day, Mrs. Grace. Ed—Miss Grace.” Her nickname kept wanting to escape his tongue, but she deserved better. “How lovely to see you again.” Even as he welcomed them, he wondered what they wanted. One more thing to slow down his progress on the day that was already stretched too thin.

  “You look parched,” Edie said. The name suited her, suited her voice. Full, strong, yet sweet and comfortable. She handed him a canteen. “We brought two.”

  “Thanks.” He poured a generous portion into his mouth, let it swish around, and swallowed. “Will you need any more honey? I expect to finish harvesting this by—” When? “—tomorrow, I hope. Should I set aside any of it for you?”

  Edie and her mother looked at each other. “Before we talk about the honey, we have another issue to discuss with you. We were going to come by later, but since you’re already here …” Edie took a deep breath. “I just learned part of this meadow belongs to my mother.”

  What? “This meadow has always been Oscar land. Everyone knows that.”

  Mrs. Grace shook her head. “We’ll have to get a surveyor to determine the exact boundary line—”

  A surveyor?

  “—but my parents said the two families kept the meadow as a buffer between them, where they could meet or enjoy the peace of nature. It’s only a few square feet of the total acreage after all. When the bees came, that was an additional blessing. We were happy to let your family have the honey, since they set up the equipment.” Her facial expression turned serious. “But, yes, part of the land belongs to me.”

  Grant’s temples pounded, and he felt light-headed. This meadow might not belong to his family? His one last slender hope shredded. He closed his eyes and fought for control.

  “Are you all right, Grant?”

  Grant locked on to the granite in Edie’s eyes like solid rocks to support him. “If that’s true, why have I never heard about it?”

  Her eyes remained a steady gray, only a few flecks of green. “I never heard about it until today either. I can’t say I’m sorry about having a say about what happens to the meadow.” A small smile played around her lips, but she suppressed it. The green flecks flashing in her eyes suggested her feelings were stronger than her words. “But I do regret that it came out now. I know you are seeking to do the best for your father and your family’s future.�
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  What future? He almost blurted the words out but caught himself in time. They walked such a thin line of losing the land. In the depths of Grant’s heart, he knew his father needed to remain on his land in order to recover.

  But Grant had learned one thing from his years in the navy. Never show weakness, whether to an enemy or to those in your command. “I will have to verify what you are saying.”

  Edie nodded, but her mother spoke up. “The county clerk’s office has the record of the property lines. But as far as the meadow goes, the decision to leave it fallow was no more than a verbal agreement.”

  Edie cocked her head at Grant, her eyes shading toward a pine green. “Whatever is done with the meadow must rise not only out of what is legal but what is right.” Her injured hand was clenched at her side, as if prepared to do battle.

  Chapter 5

  A week later, the Graces prepared to meet with Grant and the land surveyor to determine exactly where the boundary line stood. If the Lord saw fit, the log gums would stand on Edie’s side of the boundary line. She glanced at her bee bonnet, wondering if she should bring it with her in case walking the property involved getting close to the bees.

  If only Mr. Oscar could come to the meeting. If he knew about the common property, it explained his willingness to give her the honey. Grant was a different matter altogether. When they spoke last week, he stood as if at attention, a man used to getting his way. Even though he was of average height, his demeanor commanded respect. But underneath that solid exterior, she sensed fear. His father’s health? Something more?

  “Are you ready, dear?” Her mother called up the stairs.

  “Coming.” Edie brought the bee bonnet, in case one of her parents wanted it. She trotted downstairs. “Thank you again for letting me accompany you.”

  Her mother looked her up and down and smiled, as if aware of the extra pains Edith had taken with her appearance. “Of course, you must. It’s your inheritance. In the same way Grant Junior must take part. We don’t want a shadow of uncertainty hanging over the next generation.”