The Blue Ribbon Brides Collection

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

  Grant rapped his fingers on the desk. Most of this year’s crop was average at best, given the intermittent care. But if the honey was as good as Edie claimed it was, maybe, just maybe, they had a product to enter into the fair. If it won, he could sell the honey at a heightened price.

  Suddenly he wished he had all six hives instead of the three that he had once vowed to plow under.

  The flyer gave details about the various competitions and what products belonged in which category. He’d have to give that some thought. And he’d have to learn quickly how to transform honey from the comb to the honey found in a jar.

  On the opposite side of the flyer he found a list of amusements, as well as the always popular pulling contests. He ran his finger down the list. Yes, there was a strength contest for men. Not lifting weights, but pulling loaded wagons, the yoke across his neck instead of his faithful oxen’s. Did the contest offer prize money? Yes. Not as much as the unique Vermont product, but every penny would help.

  He shook his head. Not if he injured himself.

  Before he left to join Edie in the meadow, he gathered supplies and checked on his father. A part of him wanted a fence, craved that precise definition, like the markings on a uniform indicated rank. The same way he wished his father kept better accounts.

  At least this path, leading from his house to the meadow, followed a well-defined pattern. They had crossed from house to house often enough to wear the grass down.

  “We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.” Edie was singing at the top of her voice, as she sometimes did when working outdoors. He chuckled. Did the irony of the words strike her the same way it did him? She wouldn’t be pleased if he grew sheaves in her fair meadow.

  At the edge of the meadow, he admired her from a distance. The ribbons on her hat fluttered in the breeze. As she raised her arm to hammer the wooden post, her form was alluring. If the fair gave a prize for feminine beauty, she would win.

  The fair’s strongest man and loveliest lady—some would say they were made for each other. If only Edie could agree.

  Chapter 7

  E die!”

  At the sound of Grant’s voice, Edie smiled. She hoped he couldn’t see how widely her mouth stretched or the heat that entered her face as soon as she heard his voice. Instead, she pounded the hammer once more to give herself a chance to cool down.

  When she straightened, he stood less than a yard away from her, and she knew he had seen every expression on her face, just as she could see a simmering excitement in him. Did she dare hope she was the reason?

  He took another two steps forward, and she smelled the mixture of masculine cologne and sunshine that she had come to expect from him. “My name is Edith.” She said it more to put some emotional distance between them than because she disliked the nickname.

  He shook his head. “Edith is the name of a schoolteacher or a heroine in a play or maybe a ticket taker at a theater.” He pointed a finger at her before continuing. “You are Edie, all sunshine and summer and happiness, no matter what the time of year is.”

  That statement doubled the heat in her cheeks. “While Grant is the name of a United States president who won the Civil War, saved the Union, and freed the slaves. Very appropriate for a man who chose to join the service.”

  “He led the army, not the navy.” Smiling, Grant shrugged. “But today I am the Grant whose ancestor received a land grant from King George.”

  She giggled.

  He opened his toolbox and checked the post she had hammered into the ground, ringed with stones wedged to keep it in place. He nodded as if to say “well done” before walking two feet farther down the property line.

  Their silly exchange about their names reminded her of more carefree times when they were friends and he would laugh at her jokes, even though the girlish thoughts of a fifteen-year-old must have struck him as foolish. But he had never made her feel foolish. He took her seriously. Which is why she had expected him to understand her desire to succeed at the state fair.

  His hammer pounded the wood, the muscles in his arm outlined under his skin as he drove it into the ground. He could finish the job in half the time without her and do it better. Did he want her company? Another short burst of heat tickled her neck.

  While he worked, he began whistling a song she didn’t recognize. The melody and rhythm reminded her of the sea. She had only seen the Atlantic once, when they had taken a week’s trip to Old Orchard Beach in Maine. The rhythm of the waves pounding the sand, the white sails skimming across the water were imprinted on her mind.

  She made a notch in her post and slid the thick twine into it before tying it in place and walking in a straight line to Grant. It wouldn’t hurt to treat Grant like a friend and not like an opponent. “I like that song. Is it one you learned in the navy?”

  He flashed white teeth in a smile. “Life aboard a ship can get tedious, and music helps keep us focused. Although I’d rather not repeat the words in the presence of a lady.”

  “Grant.” She laughed, slightly scandalized.

  He shrugged. “I once heard that the melody to ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God’—you know, Martin Luther’s song?—was bar music.” He banged the post one last time. “This one’s ready for your rope.”

  He watched as she cut a notch in the post and secured the rope. “I got a notice about the Rutland State Fair today.”

  She tightened the rope. “I didn’t think you were interested in the fair. Do you plan on going?”

  “I believe I will. I may even enter one of the contests.” He took the paper from his back pocket and handed it over. “Because it’s the fiftieth anniversary of the fair, they are offering fifty dollars for the best Vermont-based product. If my honey is as good as you say it is, maybe it could win.”

  Talk about a surprise. “That’s a good idea.” But fifty dollars for the best Vermont-based product? The thought buzzed around Edith’s head as loudly as a bee. If she could win the baking contests and convince them of the seriousness of her business plan—if she won, she could open her business right away.

  Grant had already moved to the next post. And now he intended to enter his honey. She pulled the rope tightly as she walked to him. “If we both entered honey from our side of the boundary line, I wonder if they would taste the same.”

  The hammer came down on his thumb, and he bit back what might have been a curse word. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Of course not. Even though they might taste different, depending on how the raw honey is processed.” She lifted her chin. “But I will enter baked goods from Edith Grace’s bakery, and they might win.”

  He was holding his hand, and she felt bad for worrying about the fair. “Let me see that.”

  When he held it out, she could see a large bruise forming on his thumb. “That’s nasty. You might lose your fingernail.”

  “It’s happened before.” He pulled a canteen from his toolbox and took a swig. “Why do you want to open a bakery? Do you plan on leaving the farm?”

  Because she didn’t plan to wait for some man to rescue her from spinsterhood, and she wanted to do something besides help her mother around the farm. “Because I’m a good baker, and I believe people will want to buy what I make. I’d like to start small, with a shop in town, perhaps, but I would like to see the day when my pastries are served in restaurants all throughout New England.” She sighed. “Fifty dollars would go a long way toward getting me started.”

  Of course Edie wanted to win the money, to start a business. Sitting at home had never satisfied her. She needed a passel of little ones to keep her busy. Why hadn’t she married? Were the bachelors of Spruce Hill blind to her beauty and sweet nature? She didn’t just want a career like teaching; she wanted a business. And he couldn’t deny she made the best baked goods he had ever tasted.

  Why did he ever think he could win? He couldn’t even pound in a post without ruining his thumb. He pressed on it. It didn’t hurt, much. He could finish the job.

&
nbsp; Edie had already tied the rope and headed for the first spot where the boundary turned north. Kneeling down, she dug in the earth with a spade. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to win. He admired her for it. Of course, it was possible neither one of them would win.

  She finished with the hole and stood. “It should be ready for you.” She looked at the ground, a light pink dusting her cheeks. “I decided it was foolish for me to pound in the posts when you do it so much better than I do.” She glanced at his hand, where his thumb had begun to swell. “Unless you’re injured.”

  “I’m okay.” With that, he stuck the pointed end of the post in the ground and aimed the first blow on the top. Edie watched until he finished the job, then took over with tying the rope. “I’ve decided it’s okay if you call me Edie. What you said was so sweet.”

  “It’s true.” His voice sounded gruff, and he cleared his throat. “You’re also graceful, so your name suits you marvelously.”

  “If you keep saying things like that, people may think you are courting me.” She flickered eyelashes at him, the green in her eyes dancing like fireflies.

  Would that be so terrible? The words trembled on his tongue, but he caught them in time. Sooner or later, she would learn about the perilous state of the farm and might think his primary interest was financial so they could join their farms. “As long as we remain friends, who cares what people say?”

  The green light in her eyes died. “Your father was afraid you might come home with some foreigner for a bride.” Although she said it as a sentence, he could hear the implied question.

  “I never met that one. Never had time to get to know anyone. I’m hoping I might find someone, now that I’m home.” Let her puzzle that out. Was he talking about her, or not?

  Instead, she appeared to ignore that statement. She finished tying the knot and walked halfway to the next corner, which left her only a few feet away from the beehives. “Are you still planning on plowing your side of the meadow under?”

  “I haven’t decided.” Which was the truth. “There’s a lot of things to fix around the farm. I’m starting to think I should get everything in working order before I decide what to do with the meadow.” No matter which way he put his mind around the problem, he couldn’t find a way to make quick money. He pounded his frustration about the situation into the post, and his thumb throbbed in protest.

  “What does the doctor say about your father?” Edie tightened the strings of her hat and stepped a few feet farther away from the bees. “I’m the one who found him after his stroke. I was scared you would be coming home to a funeral.”

  Grant shook his head. “It’s day to day. I should spend more time with him, working with him each day.”

  “You’re doing so much. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “I should be able to do more. I have to do more.” He didn’t want her pity. Platitudes designed to make him feel better boomeranged, heaping an extra helping of guilt on his back.

  As soon as he finished the post, she claimed it with her busy hands. “You can’t do it all yourself—run the farm, make improvements, help your father. We haven’t been over there since you came home, in case you’d think we were interfering, and we heard you let Mrs. Phillips go. You know if you ever need help—”

  “I only need to ask. I know.” The problem was, what they needed most was cold, hard cash. And Grant Oscar wasn’t a beggar. Neither one of them was.

  They turned their backs on the hive and headed for the corner, the bees leaving them alone. “Are you scared that the bees will want a second helping after what happened the last time?” One of the critters chose that moment to leave his stinger in Grant’s sore thumb.

  He dropped the hammer, which landed between them, the wooden handle tapping the toe of his boot. The post tilted sideways, and he grabbed for it. It pushed against his thumb before it reached the ground. He wrapped his knuckles over the throbbing joint and stopped the pretense of working.

  Edie had already moved away from the log gums, in the direction of his house. “Get away, before they bother you again.”

  He picked up the hammer with his left hand and placed it in the toolbox without further mishaps. “I can’t even pound a few posts in the ground without making a mess of things.”

  “When you were in the navy, you didn’t have to pound posts into the water.” Edie kept a straight face as she said the words.

  His aching thumb cut his laughter short. “You’re right. Anchors drop through the sea, eager to reach the end of the rope.” He cast about for another topic to occupy his mind. “Would you mind showing me how to get the raw honey ready for human consumption?”

  Green glowed like question marks in her eyes. “It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done out there.” They reached the lawn in front of the house. “But when we go to the fair, I intend to use every means at my disposal. I want that grand prize.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Grant grinned. “May the best man—”

  “—or woman—” Edie said.

  “—win.” Grant offered his right hand, his thumb still throbbing, for a handshake. Edie pressed back, strongly. She would be a formidable opponent.

  Chapter 8

  Whether or not Grant wanted help, Edith wouldn’t leave them to manage the house on their own. Before he returned home, she had spent time daily with Mr. Oscar, fixing him meals, helping him eat when needed, encouraging him to talk. At first she had to beg him to get out of bed.

  Grant’s homecoming had perked up his father’s spirits tremendously, but he still enjoyed her company. How could she stay home, knowing Mr. Oscar was sitting in his chair, waiting for her visit? She hoped she helped him—his speech had improved slightly—but the blessing she received far outweighed the price. She didn’t think she would be so content in his situation.

  Especially since his son stayed too busy to take care of his father. She wanted to confront Grant, but how could she, when he had his hands on something every minute? The daily farm chores overwhelmed him, but he was doing them all by himself. No wonder he acted crazy.

  She opened the door to his bedroom, as she did each Monday, and grabbed the sheets for the laundry. The furnishings were sparse and never seemed to move. The bookmark in his Bible changed places, suggesting he read it.

  Maybe that came from living in close quarters on a ship. Without brothers and sisters to share the space, she had filled the emptiness with knickknacks and moved her favorite things about.

  She carried the sheets downstairs. Mama washed the Oscars’ laundry with their things. Her family didn’t mind, but people were beginning to link her name with Grant’s.

  “If he doesn’t hire that housekeeper back pretty soon, Edith girl, I’ll have to ask him what his intentions are.” Papa had said that two weeks ago. He wouldn’t leave it much longer.

  Edith would like to know the answer as well. His long johns hung on her clothesline. Things didn’t get much more personal than that. But he kept her at a distance, hardly friends.

  She carried the bundles to the wagon and came inside to visit with Mr. Oscar for a few minutes. Grant should be here in—she glanced at the grandfather clock in the parlor—seven minutes exactly. They were in the process of canning the honey, every morning at nine thirty.

  “Good morning.” Mr. Oscar enunciated his words more clearly all the time. “Pretty.”

  He said things like that all the time, but they still brought heat to Edith’s cheeks. “You’re looking dapper yourself, Mr. Oscar.” She took the seat beside him. “It’s too bad you can’t see the fields from here. Your son has done a good job taking care of them.”

  Mr. Oscar waved that concern away. “He worries.”

  “I’ve noticed. I’ve reminded him a time or two that God sends the sunshine and the rain. You can work hard, but God makes the plants grow. And He delights in giving us good gifts.”

  Sorrow crossed Mr. Oscar’s face. “Hard.”

  Edie sat back. Mr. Osca
r had lost his wife, his older son, his remaining son had left home, and then the stroke. Even her own parents had struggled with not having children. She knew of three tiny graves, and there had been others, before she was born.

  Grant had no wife or children, so what troubled him so? Men. Who could understand them? And magazines suggested men found women difficult to understand.

  Mr. Oscar held up a penny and gestured at her, a question in his eyes. A penny for your thoughts?

  She gestured to the sky. “I was just thinking that God is the only one who can truly understand men and women. Because we don’t understand each other very well.”

  Mr. Oscar garbled in what was his version of a chuckle, and Grant came up the porch steps, right on time. A smile swept across his face when he spotted her in the window, and she wiggled her fingers in response. History and proximity tied them together, as well as friendship and a common faith in God. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome as well. She held back a sigh.

  She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with her latest recipe, honey blueberry muffins, with a special honey butter. She couldn’t serve the butter at the fair, but it made the hot bread so much tastier.

  She tried out a different recipe every day on her greatest competition.

  If only the fair allowed two winners.

  Grant sniffed the air appreciatively as soon as he opened the door, trying to place the aroma. Edie liked playing a game with him. Strawberry? Definitely not. Raspberry—no. “Blueberry.”

  “I can’t fool you.” Edie clasped her hands under her chin, her cheeks a rosy red, excited as always when she offered a new treat. He hoped she got the bakery she wanted, because it brought her so much happiness—and her food would spread it around.

  “Oh, and more honey butter, please.” He split a muffin in half and spread butter on it. The honey butter might sell even better than honey by itself, but that put their two products in the same bin.

  A single bite indicated a new ingredient. “Cinnamon.” The word came out of his mouth as garbled as his father’s speech. He should know better than to talk with his mouth full. He swallowed and tried again. “The cinnamon is good.”