Weddings at Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Truman nodded as he spooned apple crisp onto his plate. “I measured your building after church last Sunday, and we’ve dug out enough dirt to pour your slab when the concrete truck comes—which might be tomorrow or Saturday.”

  “That is so cool!” Maria exclaimed. “I’ll be glad when I don’t have to drive to Cloverdale so early in the mornings to start my baking.”

  “Seems like you’re back a lot sooner than usual today,” Beulah said. “I hope that means you sold every single roll and pastry you made.”

  “I did. The principal from the school wanted a lot of stuff for a staff meeting, and he cleaned me out.” Maria gazed at the bowls and platters of food on the table. “Mind if I fill a plate? I haven’t had a real meal today.”

  “Dig in,” Ruby said. “Whatever you eat now won’t be leftovers we eat this evening.”

  Christine laughed along with everyone else, but it was Monroe’s secretive wink that made her pulse speed up. After Truman’s men had finished eating and Maria had taken her dinner upstairs, she and Mattie and Rosetta began stacking the dirty dishes and carrying the platters and bowls back to the kitchen. She was surprised that Monroe followed them with the breadbasket and the peach cobbler—or what was left of it.

  “May I have a word?” he asked as he set down what he’d carried. He looked around tentatively. “Dare I ask what’s kept Leola occupied while we’ve been eating?”

  Rosetta began running hot water into the sink. “Phoebe and Laura took her out for dinner and to get some material for more dresses. Nina’s Fabrics in Forest Grove has a nice selection—and Leola was wanting some more pieces to embroider, too,” she added. “She’s really very gut at handwork.”

  Monroe nodded. “I’m glad she’s finding projects to keep her busy,” he said, “and I appreciate the way your girls have become her friends, Christine. In Macomb, where folks have known Leola all her life, she doesn’t have many gal pals. The girls her age have married, or they have interests that don’t include somebody who requires a lot of patience and understanding.”

  Christine smiled as she scraped the dinner plates. “I’m proud of Phoebe and Laura. They’ve always taken the side of the underdog and the unfortunate.”

  Monroe stepped closer to her, under the guise of carrying her scraped plates to the sink. “Still on for Saturday?” he whispered.

  She nodded. “Got a plan?”

  “My place. Four o’clock.”

  Christine smiled as she scraped the last plate. “What shall I bring for supper?”

  “Just yourself.” He nodded at her sisters and stepped away from her. “Gut to have you with us today, Mattie. Glad Amos hasn’t chained you to the stove at home.”

  Mattie laughed. “You think I’d let him get away with that?” she teased. “I love being a wife again, but sometimes I miss cooking with my sisters and friends. This kitchen is a lot livelier than mine.”

  Christine smiled at her elder sister. Someday soon she hoped to be wearing the same expression of married contentment that softened Mattie’s face.

  On Saturday, Christine, her girls, her sisters, and Leola spent the morning making pies and preparing the dinner that would be served on Sunday after the church service. She couldn’t help wondering what secret plans Monroe had for their supper this evening—and she couldn’t keep a smile from her face as she and Rosetta mixed up a big batch of sweet and sour bean salad. “It’s nice to be serving summery foods in February,” she remarked as she stirred oil and vinegar together for the dressing. “We’ll no doubt have another flurry or two of snow, but this bean salad will hit the spot alongside the fried chicken Mattie’s making.”

  Rosetta glanced across the big kitchen to where Laura and Leola were taking pies from the oven. She lowered her voice. “Puh! The thing you have for the bishop will melt any snow we get, birthday girl.”

  “I’m not the only one with a date tonight,” Christine shot back softly. “I take it you’ve settled your differences with Truman?”

  Rosetta’s cheeks turned pink. “He, um, sort of settled them himself. I was wrong to doubt him.”

  “Glad to hear it. Maria may be young and pretty, but she has nothing on you, little sister.”

  When they finished the baking and cooking for Sunday, Christine and the rest of them gathered around a dining room table to share slices of the lemon birthday cake Phoebe and Laura had made as a surprise for her. Christine chuckled as her older daughter began lighting the five candles arranged in a circle. “You’ve done me several favors, not putting forty-one on here,” she said.

  “She did us all a favor,” Mattie teased. “Think how many holes all those candles would’ve made in our cake!”

  “We figured that one for each decade, plus one for the extra year, would be enough,” Laura explained when flames danced on the candles. “Make a wish, Mamm! And make it a gut one.”

  Closing her eyes, Christine leaned close enough to her cake to feel the warmth of the burning candles. I wish . . . I wish Monroe would ask me to marry him—and find a bishop to perform our ceremony—very soon. And I wish the same happiness for Rosetta.

  She inhaled deeply and blew out all the candles with one breath. As everyone clapped, Phoebe plucked out the smoking candles so Laura could cut thick slices of the cake.

  “Too bad Ruby and Beulah are making cheese today,” Rosetta remarked as she added scoops of lemon sherbet to the plates of cake. “We’ll have to save them back some of this luscious cake.”

  “What’d you wish for, Christine?” Leola asked excitedly.

  Christine smiled as she accepted her generous piece of cake with a double scoop of sherbet. She knew better than to admit her wishes about Monroe—especially when Leola appeared as happy as a girl at her own party. “If I tell, my wish won’t come true,” she replied. “When’s your birthday, Leola?”

  Leola smiled around a mouthful of yellow cake. “April second!”

  Mattie spooned up some ice cream. “We’ll have to have a party for you.”

  “Or maybe you’ll be home with your family by then,” Rosetta put in, smiling kindly at Leola. “I’m sure your mamm hopes to celebrate your birthday with you.”

  “Jah, she says I’m her special girl,” Leola replied wistfully. “But then, I’m her only girl. And we’ve got no boys.”

  Christine sensed some homesickness in Leola’s words, and she prayed that the young woman would indeed be home with her parents to celebrate her birthday. Leola had been at Promise Lodge a little more than a month—a long time to go without her mother and her medications. She appeared to be nearly normal and in control of her emotions today, but they all knew she could change in a heartbeat with the slightest hint of a subject that upset her.

  After they’d finished their cake and ice cream, Christine went upstairs with her daughters and Leola to finish the two dresses they’d started earlier in the week. It was gratifying to see the delight on Leola’s face when she tried on the royal blue dress and its matching cape.

  “I could be a bride!” she said as she turned from side to side in front of the full-length mirror. “It’s really pretty. Denki for sewing it for me.”

  “You’re welcome, Leola,” Christine said. “We all enjoy new clothes, and it may be a while before your mamm can make any for you. Have you heard how she’s doing lately?”

  Leola pressed her lips together, shaking her head dolefully. “Last time Aunt Polly talked to Monroe, Mamm wasn’t quite ready to go home. Maybe soon, though.”

  “We’re keeping her in our prayers,” Phoebe put in. “I’m almost finished hemming this green dress so you can try it on one last time.”

  A short while later, Leola was smiling at her reflection again. “I’m going to wear this to church tomorrow,” she said. “It reminds me of green grass in the summer sunshine.”

  “And it’s a nice knit that won’t need to be ironed after you wash it,” Phoebe said as she began putting away her pins and sewing scissors.

  Christine folded the sew
ing machine down into its cabinet and closed the lid. Once the three girls left her apartment, her thoughts turned to what she’d wear for her date with Monroe . . . perhaps a dress a deeper shade of green than Leola’s, because it accentuated her eyes. It was three thirty, so she changed into the fresh dress and slipped a white apron over it.

  The mirror confirmed her hopes: in her crisp white kapp and clean clothes, she appeared no older than forty-one—and she felt a lot younger, anticipating her evening with Monroe. Had they not both been previously married, going to his house alone would’ve been considered improper, but she planned to use her unattached state to best advantage. As she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and slipped down the back stairs unnoticed, she intended not to be a widow for much longer.

  Christine’s heart danced as she strode up the road to Lester Lehman’s house. Farther up the hill, flagged stakes marked the freshly poured foundation of Monroe’s new home. My new home, too—if my wish comes true, she thought as she went up the walk toward the man she loved.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monroe’s heart pounded as he stood at the door watching Christine come up the walk. Her smile looked years younger than when he’d met her last Christmas. The spring in her step told him she was as eager to be with him as he was to have her to himself for the evening. In some ways, he was more excited about courting and winning Christine than he’d been when he’d gotten engaged to Linda. This time around, he knew what marriage was all about, and he’d learned how important it was to make his woman feel special.

  When Christine knocked, Monroe suppressed a grin as he looked out the door’s high window at her. She saw him then, laughing as she held his gaze. When she nipped her lip in anticipation, he could wait no longer. He had to taste those lips, show her how much he loved her. Wanted her.

  “Get yourself in here, birthday girl,” he teased as he opened the door. He took her in his arms and turned, leaning against the door to close it.

  “Where’s my present?” she demanded playfully.

  Monroe lowered his face toward hers, stalling as long as he was able, gazing into her green eyes. When he kissed Christine, she rose on her tiptoes to return his fervor. The rest of the world ceased to exist for the long moments they shared their affection, until Monroe finally eased away. “Marry me, Christine,” he murmured urgently.

  She gazed at him for the longest time. “Jah, Monroe, I will. I’d be honored to be your wife,” she said solemnly. Then she chuckled. “Maybe because something smells awfully gut. A husband who cooks is a real catch,” she teased. “What’s for supper?”

  Monroe pulled her close and kissed her again, deeply pleased that she’d agreed to be his, now and forever. “I learned to cook a few easy things out of desperation, after Linda passed,” he explained. He took her hand and led her toward the kitchen. “I figured out that hamburger and spaghetti noodles and a big jar of sauce—and shredded cheese—make a casserole that lasts me a few meals. I confess that the salad is out of a bag, and that I had Maria make your cake at her bakery.”

  When he gestured toward the counter, Christine’s eyes got wide. “Roses! The biggest red roses I’ve ever seen—and so many!” she exclaimed as she rushed toward the huge bouquet. She closed her eyes and sniffed them, sighing ecstatically. Then she looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “And what if I hadn’t said jah?” she teased.

  Monroe laughed. “Actually, I’d planned to propose a little later in our evening, with those roses as an enticement,” he admitted. “But the words just popped out. I couldn’t wait, Christine. I—I love you so much.”

  “Oh, Monroe,” she said with a sigh. “You make me a happy, blessed woman. I love you, too.”

  He joined her at the counter as she looked at the round, two-layer cake frosted in white with Happy Birthday, Dear Christine in green letters across the top. She picked up the card beside it, appearing absolutely delighted. “Two cakes in one day,” she murmured as she broke the envelope’s seal with her thumbnail. “I’ll be waddling back to my apartment—”

  “Have I ever told you about my favorite form of exercise?” Monroe teased, wiggling his eyebrows at her. “A hint: it’s not jogging around a training ring with a Clydesdale. And it’s something I hope we’ll both enjoy often.”

  The rising color in her cheeks made him wish he could sweep Christine into his arms and carry her upstairs—but this wasn’t the time or the place. He would wait until they were married and his new home was built . . . or at least until the walls were in place.

  She leaned into him as she pulled out the birthday card with a bouquet of lilacs and sweet peas on the front. “‘To the woman I love,’” she read aloud before opening the card. “‘May your birthday bring you sunshine and blessings to last a lifetime. All my love, Monroe.’ Oh . . . roses, and a cake, and a pretty card. This is my best birthday ever.”

  When Christine looked up at him with a tear trailing down each cheek, her face alight with adoration, Monroe knew his life was about to take a major turn for the better. He gently thumbed away her tears. “So now I have to keep making each year even better—and I look forward to doing that for you, sweetheart.”

  “And your birthday is when?”

  “August first. By then we’ll be settled into our new home, sitting in the porch swing and looking out over green pastures where my—”

  A loud knock at the door made them both jump.

  Monroe reluctantly excused himself, wondering who could possibly be at the door. Lester and his family weren’t due to return for another couple of weeks—and he’d told no one Christine was coming over, wanting no interruption of the romantic evening he’d—

  “Monroe ! Look what I made you!”

  When the door swung open, he regretted that he hadn’t locked it. Leola was beaming at him, holding out a cherry pie with a lattice crust as she hurried toward him. Monroe swallowed his frustration and quickly prayed that Christine wouldn’t take this the wrong way—as though Leola made a habit of visiting him. Something in the young woman’s furtive smile told him she hadn’t chosen this particular arrival time out of coincidence.

  He crossed his arms, determined not to get angry—but not to allow this intrusion to end his date with Christine, either. “Leola, why are you here?” he asked firmly. “You know it’s not proper to come into my house by yourself.”

  Leola stopped a few feet in front of him, still holding out the pie. “But I didn’t!” she crowed. “I saw Christine come over, so I knew it would be all right to bring you a present.”

  Monroe crossed his arms tighter, quelling the urge to grab her slender shoulders and escort her out the door. Leola’s shining eyes told him she knew exactly what she was interrupting. He wasn’t surprised to hear Christine coming from the kitchen, and when she stopped beside him, she appeared even more infuriated than he felt.

  “That’s one of the pies Rosetta baked for the common meal tomorrow,” she stated. “She always makes a lattice crust like that.”

  Monroe raised an eyebrow. “So you didn’t bake the pie for me, Leola. Your parents taught you better than to lie about—”

  “Nuh-uh!” she protested with a quivering chin. “Why do you believe Christine instead of me? I want you to have it, Monroe! I just wanted us to have a piece of pie together!”

  He shook his head slowly, wondering how to avert the crisis that was about to flare like an unattended grease fire.

  “Why did you follow me?” Christine asked tersely. “You have to understand that, unless Monroe invites you, you have no reason to—”

  “I love Monroe! And I’m going to marry him—not you!” Leola shrieked. “You leave! Not me.”

  Monroe stepped forward, but Leola moved faster—and she heaved the cherry pie at Christine. Christine caught it against her snowy white apron, exasperated but managing to keep it in one spot.

  “That’s it. You’re going back to the lodge,” Monroe said as he turned Leola toward the door. “You’ve really made me angry this time—”


  “But I love you!” Leola cried out as she struggled to keep up with his stride.

  Monroe stopped, holding her at arm’s length, praying he would say the right thing. He knew he could crush her spirit with harsh words, but somehow he had to get his message across. “Leola,” he began, curbing the tone and volume of his voice, “when you love somebody, you don’t throw a pie at his friend—or at his fiancée. And you don’t come to his house when you know he has company—or when he hasn’t invited you. I know you understand this.”

  Leola gawked at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. Then she burst into tears. “No!” she wailed. “I love you and I’m going to marry you.”

  “No, you’re not, Leola. Please get that through your head.” Monroe didn’t dare look behind him to see how Christine was reacting to this awkward scene. Would she think less of him because of the way he was treating a mentally and socially disadvantaged young woman? “I’m old enough to be your dat—”

  “No! Dat is way older than you, Monroe.”

  She was right. And he wondered how he kept talking himself into a maze of words that had no exit. “Never mind that. We are not getting married,” he insisted as he steered her toward the door again. “But we are getting you to a doctor this week.”

  He maneuvered Leola through the doorway, pausing to glance back at Christine. Where she had removed the pie from her midsection, her white apron had rows and columns of little red patches. She was nipping her lip in frustration.

  “Please stay,” he pleaded softly. “But I can sure understand why you wouldn’t want to.”

  For a moment she looked ready to cry, but then she glanced at the pie in her hands. “I’ll come with you,” she said hoarsely. “This pie’s a little the worse for wear, but we can still eat it tomorrow. I’ll turn off your oven.”

  Monroe thanked God for Christine’s understanding, her practical outlook on life. As he accompanied Leola down the stairs and along the walk, he vowed to take up where he’d left off with the wonderful woman who’d agreed to be his wife.