“Oh, she must,” said Alice. “But we should agree to keep quiet about this. Especially since Father never mentioned anything.”
“Do we have time to read another one?” asked Jane.
“I don’t see why not,” said Alice as she reopened the book and adjusted her reading glasses.
February 20, 1926. I turned sixteen yesterday. It feels like a big step from fifteen and I suspect I should begin to act more like a man. Of course, no one acknowledged this milestone. My father has never kept track of such insignificant things as birthdays. It was always my mother who would commemorate such events. She would usually make me a small cake and present me with a homemade gift like socks or a shirt, and for that reason the day would feel special. Mostly I tried not to think of such things yesterday. Fortunately, for me, today was much brighter. Mr. Dolton asked me to stay after school. Naturally, I was worried. I did not recall doing anything wrong. I have found after years of being picked on for being “different” it is best to keep a low profile at school. I try to mind my own business and stay out of trouble. It seems to help that I have been growing like a weed lately. I am taller than my father as well as most of the boys in my class. Unfortunately, my trousers are unable to keep up, or perhaps I should say down. They have been let down as far as they can go and they still only hit just above my ankles. But back to Mr. Dolton. I walked down the quiet halls to his classroom feeling nervous and afraid that something was wrong. Was it possible that my father had paid the school a visit and threatened to make trouble? I have not seen my father for a couple of days and I feel certain he is up to no good. But Mr. Dolton was smiling when I walked in. He reached out and shook my hand and asked me to have a seat. “Your high marks and fine schoolwork have come to the attention of Mr. Brant, Daniel,” he told me. “As a result he is recommending you for the Thornton Scholarship.” I have heard of that scholarship before, but I did not know it was a complete four-year scholarship. “But it is a little early,” I said. “I still have two more years of high school left.” As it turns out this is exactly what Mr. Dolton wanted to speak to me about. “I know that your father is resistant to your continued schooling,” he told me. “And you are far advanced for your class. We could easily move you into the junior class, Daniel. Of course, you would need to pass a few tests, but we have no doubts that this will pose any problem for you. What do you think?” I told him I thought it was a grand idea. “The only problem is that we need your father to agree to this,” he finally said. “Do you think he can be persuaded?” I considered this, and then promised Mr. Dolton that I would give it my best try. “I will be praying for you,” said Mr. Dolton as he shook my hand again. I wanted to ask him if he really believed his prayers would make any difference, but at the same time did not want to offend the good man.
I think I was relieved to find that my father was still gone when I got home this evening. I took care of the chores, cleaned the house, cooked some supper and did my homework. Still, my father did not come home. I paced back and forth across the wooden floor in front of the fireplace, trying to come up with an ingenious way to present this new idea to my father, but came up with nothing. I noticed my mother’s old worn Bible sitting by her favorite chair next to the fireplace, and I actually bent down to pick it up. I stood there for a long time just staring at it as I considered reading it. Yet I resisted this unexplainable urge. My only question now is where did that urge come from?
“See,” said Alice triumphantly as she closed the journal. “He is getting closer and closer to calling out to God.”
“It’s interesting,” said Jane. “I never thought that Father and I were much alike or had much in common. Oh, I always knew he loved me dearly, and of course I loved him too. But I had always assumed that Father was born a godly man.” She smiled. “There is something so reassuring about hearing that he too had to struggle to find his faith.”
“I wonder why he never shared this with us,” said Louise.
“I’ve been thinking about that too,” said Alice. “And I think I’ve come up with a reason.”
“What?” said Louise and Jane simultaneously.
“I think he may have been trying to protect us.”
“From what?” asked Jane.
“Well, we lost our mother when we were at the age when he might have started explaining a bit more about his sad past and family history. Since we were trying to recover from our own tragedy, perhaps he felt it would have been too much for us.”
Louise nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. I do recall his using illustrations in his sermons that I now realize probably came from his own life.”
“I’m so glad you unearthed that journal,” said Jane. “It gives us a view of Father that we would never have had without it.”
Chapter Fourteen
There’s something in the mail for you, Alice,” said Jane as she came back into the kitchen. She waved a small envelope as though it were a flag.
Alice dried her hands on a dishtowel and reached for the letter. “It’s not such a big deal, Jane, I do get mail occasionally.”
“Not like this one.” Jane smiled mysteriously.
Alice looked at the return address and saw that it was from Mark Graves, but said nothing, and just tucked it into the pocket of her sweater.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Jane. “Yes.” Alice smiled at her and then returned to loading the dishwasher.
Jane rolled her eyes, then went back to her baking project. “Don’t you want to know what he said, Alice?”
“Yes,” said Alice as she loaded the last plate.
“Well?” Jane dumped another cup of flour into the bowl.
“Anything else you need help with in here?” asked Alice. “Yes, I need help getting a certain sister to open up to me.”
Alice patted Jane on the back. “If I had anything to say, you know that I would say it, Jane. It’s just that you’re blowing this all out of proportion.”
“But he’s your old beau, Alice. He shows up out of the blue and you two seem to get along and now he’s writing you letters—”
“Letter,” Alice corrected. “And it feels quite thin. It’s probably the vet bill for Clara Horn’s pig.”
“Oh, Alice.”
“Now, if there’s nothing more I can do for you, I promised to pay Vera a visit today.”
“How is she?” asked Jane.
“It’s off and on. One day she is well enough to go to school and the next day she’s down.”
“And they still don’t know what it is?”
Alice shook her head. “Vera feels certain it’s cancer.”
“Oh no. Didn’t her mother die of cancer?” asked Jane.
“Yes. And an aunt.”
“Well, it does run in families. I read an article the other day about a very rare cancer that is easily missed in tests.” She paused to think. “I may still have the magazine. Do you want me to go look for it?”
“Yes, when you have a moment. It may be a shot in the dark, but I’ll read it to see if the symptoms sound like hers.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. Would you like to give her some of that ginger marmalade that I made yesterday?”
“That’s a great idea, Jane. Ginger is good for digestion, and that seems to be one of Vera’s biggest problems lately. She’s lost about ten pounds since this started.”
“Not a fun way to lose weight.”
When Alice arrived at Vera’s, she found her friend despondent. Vera had no interest in Jane’s ginger marmalade or much else for that matter. Alice tried to get her to work on the braided rug with her, but Vera declined.
“It’s your day off, Alice,” Vera finally said after Alice unsuccessfully attempted to engage her in conversation. “Don’t stick around here with me. I know I’m depressing.”
“You’re not depressing, Vera,” said Alice as she set a fresh cup of herbal tea next to Vera. “But I do think you’re depressed.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” said Vera in a flat vo
ice.
“I know it’s hard.” Alice bustled around the living room, picking up old newspapers and folding the afghan and plumping the pillows. “I hate sounding like Pollyanna, but you’ve got to look at the bright side.”
“The bright side?” Vera frowned. “And what, pray tell, is the bright side?”
“Well, your tests are negative. You have the whole community praying for you. That has to be some consolation.”
Vera’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Alice, everyone has been so kind, but this is weighing me down. Sometimes I wish that I could just close my eyes and not wake up.”
“Oh, Vera, you don’t mean that.”
“Maybe I do. We all have to die sometime.”
“But think about your daughters. Don’t you want to be around for their weddings … and then for grandchildren? Can you imagine what fun it will be to have little ones running around your house at Christmastime?”
Vera closed her eyes, leaned back on her pillow and smiled ever so slightly. Then, looking at Alice, she said, “You are a Pollyanna, Alice, but you’re sweet and I love you.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Now, do me a favor and skedaddle. I need to take a nap.”
Alice straightened up Vera’s kitchen and bathroom and then, discovering Vera fast asleep or doing a good imitation of sleeping, Alice quietly exited. Outside it was overcast and chilly, which probably had not helped Vera’s spirits much. Alice prayed for her as she buttoned up her sweater and headed back toward home. As she walked by the park, she slipped her hands into her pockets and discovered her still unread letter from Mark Graves. Despite the nip in the air, she decided to take a moment in the park to read it. It was not that she wanted to hide anything from Jane, but her younger sister’s curiosity about Mark Graves was unsettling. Alice sat on a bench and opened the envelope. A small handwritten note was inside.
Dear Alice,
I cannot begin to describe how wonderful it was to see you again. I chuckle to myself when I remember how we performed late-night surgery on Daisy the pit-eating pig. I must say you are a most capable assistant. Of course, your training and experience is probably superior to that of others I have worked with (since you work on humans).
I realize it has been many, many years since we dated, Alice, and perhaps I am out of line for even asking, but could I see you again? I will understand if you’re not interested. After all, it has been almost forty years. Even as I write this, I cannot say what I am actually suggesting or where I think this might go, but I thought I should at least pose the question.
Sincerely and with admiration,
Mark Graves
Alice reread the note and then read it a third time. Finally, she folded it and slipped it back into her pocket, thankful that she had chosen to read it in private. She could not begin to imagine what Jane would say. Of course, her sister would probably encourage her to write back immediately and nag her until she did so. Alice did not know what she would do. Certainly, she liked Mark and was glad that he had given his heart to God. Still, she was not sure of much else.
She stood up and stretched, glancing up to the trees overhead. She was surprised to see that they were finally beginning to turn color. The green leaves tinged with russet and gold contrasted prettily with the dull gray sky. It would be only a matter of days before they would be ablaze with color. Too bad the Parkers had not planned their fall foliage tour just a week or two later. On the other hand, Alice was relieved that they had already come and gone, and she hoped they would not decide to come again. But if they did, she would do her best to be hospitable. Perhaps she would even stock the inn’s library with a few western titles.
As Alice walked home, she tried not to think about the letter in her sweater pocket. Part of her wanted simply to pretend that it had never come. She imagined herself tucking it deep into a drawer and forgetting about it. Yet another part of her felt a sense of nervous excitement. She felt almost giddy. Alice smiled to herself. Now, that would be something—sixty-two-year-old Alice Howard, spinster, nurse and church board member, acting giddy. No, she thought, giddiness would definitely not become her.
“Did you read the letter?” asked Jane before Alice had even a chance to hang her sweater on the hook by the back door.
Alice nodded. “Do I smell ginger cookies?”
“Yes. It’s almost time for the first batch to come out.” Jane tossed her sister a mischievous grin. “Wanna trade? Cookies for information?”
Alice decided to play. “I’ll have to see the cookies first.”
“Right this way,” said Jane. With a flourish, she slipped on a black and white gingham oven mitt and opened the oven door. “Voilà!” She held out a sheet full of generous sized, red-brown cookies that smelled heavenly. She waved the tray in front of Alice in a tantalizing way.
Alice caved in. “All right, all right, you win.”
“Win what?” asked Louise as she came into the kitchen. “Hmm, those look good, Jane.”
“Come join us,” offered Jane. “And you can hear the latest about Dr. Graves.”
Louise’s brow lifted with interest. “Dr. Graves? What is there to hear?”
“Alice got a letter.” Jane put the cookies onto a cooling rack.
Alice pretended not to listen as she filled the teakettle.
“From Mark Graves?” asked Louise.
“Uh-huh.” Jane went for another cookie sheet. “Is it serious?” asked Louise.
Alice turned on the gas under the kettle, still not answering.
“That’s what I want to find out,” said Jane. “I’ve bribed Alice with cookies.”
“Yes.” Alice turned around and faced them both. “You can be sure that I would never tell you without the cookies.”
Jane smiled. “Oh, I knew you’d give in, Alice, I just thought they would sweeten the deal.”
Louise sat down at the kitchen table. “Why is Mark Graves writing you letters, Alice?”
Alice put three cups and saucers on the table and then sat down. “Just being friendly.”
“Just friendly?” Jane turned from where she was putting tea leaves into the pot.
“Yes, it was simply a friendly letter, saying that he enjoyed his visit and would like to come again sometime.” Alice thought that was mostly the truth.
Louise nodded. “Sort of a thank-you note then?”
“Yes,” said Alice as she fingered the fringe of the red and white placemats on the table. Had he not expressed appreciation over her help with the surgery? Besides, why did she have to tell her sisters everything? After all, this was something she did not completely understand herself.
“That was all?” Jane set a plate of cookies on the table with a look of disappointment.
“What more did you want?” asked Alice.
Jane shrugged. “Oh, I just thought maybe….”
“Maybe Dr. Graves had notions of romance?” Louise asked.
“I don’t know.” Jane returned to the stove for the teakettle.
“Despite what Jane says sometimes,” said Louise in a slightly lowered voice, but loud enough for Jane to hear, “she is a hopeless romantic.”
“So what if I am?” Jane set the teapot on the table and pulled up a chair for herself. “I think that Mark Graves is a nice man.” She winked at Alice. “If I didn’t think Alice was interested, I might even go for him myself.”
“Jane!” scolded Louise.
“I’m just kidding. Besides, he’s way too old for me.”
“Yoo-hoo,” called Ethel from the back porch.
“Come join us, Auntie,” said Jane. “You’re just in time for cookies and tea.”
Ethel grinned. “So nice living next door to one of the best cooks in Acorn Hill.”
“One of the best?” said Alice. “I thought Jane was the best.”
“Oh, we don’t want to go getting the big head now,” said Ethel as she sat down.
“Jane’s head will never get big,” said Alice. “She does everything beautifully an
d yet she never even seems to notice.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Jane as she poured her aunt a cup of tea.
“So what are you girls gossiping about today?” asked Ethel.
“Gossiping?” said Louise raising her brows. “We were simply discussing Alice’s friend.”
“Alice’s friend?” repeated Ethel with interest. “Are you referring to that nice veterinarian who was here last week?”
“That would be the one,” said Jane.
“Well, let me tell you, Clara Horn thinks that young man is the next best thing to sliced bread.”
“Young man?” said Alice. “Mark Graves is sixty-five years old.”
“It’s all about perspective,” said Ethel. “So why exactly are we discussing Mark?”
“We’re not discussing him,” said Alice. “We’re simply having cookies and tea.”
“He’s a fine-looking man,” said Ethel with a slight nod of her chin.
“And distinguished in his field,” added Jane.
“Yes,” said Ethel. “According to Clara, he’s the best vet in the country.”
“One of the best,” said Alice.
“The word around town is that Clara’s pig would be bacon by now if not for that valiant rescue last week,” said Ethel.
Jane nudged Alice with her elbow. “See, he’s even a hero.”
“Not necessarily, Jane.” Ethel set her teacup down with a clink. “Tsk, tsk. The truth of the matter is most folks would’ve been relieved to have seen the last of that little porker.”
“Oh, Aunt Ethel,” said Jane. “That’s not very nice.”
“It’s the truth.” Ethel nodded vigorously now, causing her chins to tremble with the motion. “Like it or not, your hero has only managed to prolong the inevitable.”
“How so?” asked Alice.
“Lloyd is already working with the town council to get something on the books forbidding farm animals within the town limits.”
“That won’t necessarily apply to Daisy,” said Jane. “She was here before the law was enacted. I’m sure Clara Horn could get some sort of grandfather clause to exclude her.”
Hidden History Page 12
