A Stitch in Time Read online

  That sort of romance, it appeared, was dead.

  She shook her head and glanced around the train, trying to find something else to think about. A couple of children were seated with their mother across the aisle, and she gave them a small wave. An older gentleman traveling alone was up ahead, his face buried in his newspaper. The height of the seats didn’t allow her to see much more, and she felt alone, isolated. That wasn’t at all helpful in distracting her from her discouraging thoughts.

  Just then, the little girl from across the way popped up at her elbow. “My mama says you look sad and it’s all right if I come talk to you.”

  Surprised, Miriam glanced over at the mama, who smiled and nodded. “I’m glad you did,” Miriam replied, turning her attention back to the girl. “What’s your name?”

  The child looked thoughtful. “That all depends on who you ask.”

  Well, that was certainly an odd answer. “What does your mama call you?”

  “She calls me May, but my grandma calls me Myrtle.”

  “I see. And what would you like to be called?”

  The girl’s face lit up. “Princess Amaryllis!”

  Miriam couldn’t hide her smile. “Princess Amaryllis?”

  “Yes! Isn’t that the most beautiful name in the world?” She clasped her hands under her chin.

  “It’s definitely a beautiful name.” Miriam looked over at the mama again—the woman seemed a bit embarrassed. “Are you going visiting somewhere?”

  “No. We have to move because my daddy died and my grandma got sick. My mama got a job in Topeka where she can have kids.” The girl leaned forward. “Did you know that at most jobs, you can’t have kids?”

  “That’s too bad,” Miriam replied. The girl spoke so straightforwardly, it was a bit unsettling—it was sad that such a young child should know so much about the hardships of the world. “Is that your brother sitting there with your mama?”

  “Yes, that’s Freddy. And most of the time, he’s not a nice boy.” Princess Amaryllis—Miriam couldn’t think of her as anything else now—shook her head with the air of one who knows everything. “My mama caught him trying a cigar out behind the woodshed. Cigars are stinky, and they turn your teeth brown.”

  “My goodness. I’m glad she caught him,” Miriam replied.

  “Yes. He needed a stern talking-to.” She sounded like a tiny version of an adult. “Oh, I’m not being polite. I’m supposed to ask your name.”

  “I’m Miriam Brown. I’m going to see my grandmother in Topeka.”

  “Topeka is where we’re going to live. My mother says it’s not very different from Kansas City—that’s where I was born. Do you think it’s very different?”

  “I don’t know, actually. I’ve only passed through Kansas City. I’ve never spent any time there.”

  “Oh.” This was apparently all the conversation Princess Amaryllis wanted to have. “It was nice to meet you. Goodbye.” She returned to her seat, and Miriam smiled at her mother again. She imagined life was quite exciting with such a little chatterbox for a daughter, and a son so curious about doing grownup things like smoking cigars.

  At last, the train pulled into the Topeka station, and when it let out its last long hiss of steam, Miriam exhaled right along with it. The ride was over—she could set her feet on the ground and keep them there for a while. She’d probably dream about being on a train that night, but at least that would be in her imagination and not her reality.

  “Goodbye, Miriam Brown!” Princess Amaryllis called out as she and her little family descended the train steps.

  Miriam waved, hoping they would settle in well and find happiness in their new home. She then returned to gathering up her bag and her parasol from her seat. She was dawdling because she knew her grandmother would be waiting for her on the platform, and as much as she wanted to see her, she also had no answer for the inevitable question of how long she was going to stay. She would like to formulate something in her mind to have ready, but nothing was coming, and she couldn’t delay forever.

  Finally, she walked down the aisle, where the conductor greeted her with a smile. “Don’t forget that cherry pie,” he said.

  “Thank you for the recommendation. Safe travels.”

  She grasped the rail and stepped down from the train, taking in a deep breath of the dry Topeka air she was so familiar with.

  “Miriam!”

  She looked up and saw her grandmother hurrying toward her, arms outstretched, and she opened her own arms to receive the hug. Warmth enveloped her from head to toe as she felt the unconditional love emanating from this woman, and she closed her eyes, feeling it trickle through her senses and seek out her broken bits to mend them again.

  “Oh, Miriam, I’m so glad to see you,” Esther Brown said when she finally released Miriam from her embrace. “I’ve never been so excited in my life as I was to get your letter.”

  “Not even on your wedding day?” Miriam teased.

  “Hmm.” Esther looked thoughtful. “I’ll need to ponder that a bit more—that was a long time ago. It’s definitely a close tie.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “You look beautiful, my dear. Have you been well?”

  “Mostly,” Miriam replied. “I had some chest congestion over the winter, but it didn’t last long.”

  “That’s good. Have they taken your trunk off yet?” Esther looked over the growing mound of baggage being placed on the platform by the handlers.

  “I have three, actually, and yes, they’re right there.”

  Esther raised an eyebrow. “Three trunks? That seems like rather a lot to bring on a visit, doesn’t it?”

  Miriam hesitated. “Well, it is . . . because it’s everything I own. I’ve left my home in New York and won’t be returning to it.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  Miriam braced herself for the inevitable slew of questions, but they didn’t come. Instead, Esther moved over to the ticket window to speak with Mr. Hoover about arranging a cart for the luggage, and Miriam was stunned. Why wasn’t she being peppered with questions? Why hadn’t her grandmother pounced on that information like a cat on a mouse?

  Esther turned back with a large smile. “It’s all arranged. Now, are you ready for some baked chicken and buttermilk biscuits?”

  “I’m always ready for your baked chicken, Grandma.”

  “I thought so. Let’s go, then—Mr. Hoover’s boy will follow along shortly with your things.”

  Entering her old room was like opening a door and stepping into the past. Miriam walked around, touching the things on her dresser, noticing that everything had been kept the same. It had been dusted regularly, though—that was easy to tell, and the scent of lavender told her that fresh linens were on the bed.

  Esther had sent her upstairs by herself to get settled in, claiming that she needed to get the biscuits in the oven, but Miriam recognized that she was being given the chance to sort through her feelings alone. Her grandmother had always known when she needed that time—she knew Miriam much better than Miriam knew herself. God had definitely blessed her by giving her such wonderful grandparents in the absence of her mother and father.

  That was what it all came down to in the end—her mother and father were gone, and she’d never been able to understand why. Who really understood anything about life and death at six years old—or at twenty-three? When the fire was discovered, her father had carried her out of the house, set her under the jack pine tree in the front yard, and then gone back in to get her mother. Seconds later, the roof caved in. Miriam clearly remembered the sparks flying into the black night sky, the sound of the crashing wood, and then the voices of neighbors as they converged on the scene. They had been too late, every one of them, because the cabin was set back from the main road.

  This room was where she’d been brought that night, wrapped in her grandmother’s quilt and tucked against her grandfather’s chest. This room held all her memories of loss and confusion as well as her memories of being loved, and she didn’t k
now how to let the good ones chase out the bad ones. It was all balled up in one room just as her feelings were all balled up in one person.

  While she was here this time, she’d see what she could do about working through some of that. She was good at untangling balls of yarn—she’d done it for Esther dozens of times. She’d pretend her emotions were the same and start at the end, following the threads back until they made sense again.

  She heard a voice downstairs and stepped toward her door to listen. If it was someone she knew, she’d go down, but otherwise, she’d stay upstairs and start unpacking.

  “So, she’s here? Did she have any trouble on the train?” an older female voice was asking. Miriam smiled—she knew who that was. Thora Barton was one of her grandmother’s dearest friends, and Miriam would love to see her. She glanced in the mirror to make sure her hair wasn’t too badly mussed from taking off her hat, and then she trotted down the stairs.

  Two ladies stood in the entryway chatting with her grandmother instead of just one, and she heard the second one saying, “I tried to get him to come, but he was digging the manure under the front flowerbed and looked a sight. We’ll just have to arrange it another time.”

  “Who was digging manure?” Miriam asked, and all three ladies turned toward the stairs.

  “Oh, Miriam!” Thora came over and gave her a hug. “We’re so glad you’re home!”

  “It’s good to be here,” Miriam said with a smile, then turned toward the second lady, Nola Johnson. Another of her grandmother’s friends. Her friend too—they all were. This reunion was just a little less comfortable—not because of Nola herself, but because of Nola’s infuriating grandson, who was yet another male person Miriam refused to think about. “Hello, Mrs. Johnson. I didn’t mean to interrupt—what were you talking about? Manure or something?”

  Nola looked completely flummoxed, and Miriam had no idea why. She was the one with the reason to feel uncomfortable, not Nola. The older woman glanced at Esther as though looking for the right words.

  “She’s having some help with her flowerbeds this year,” Esther said brightly. “I’m sure they’ll put ours to shame—I haven’t fertilized properly in some time.”

  “And I haven’t even planted flowers,” Thora chimed in. “I really need to put in some perennials—I did annuals for years, but that’s when Victor was alive to help me.” She gave a little sigh that was so slight, it was almost unnoticeable. “Miriam, we won’t stay long—we know you’re about to eat your supper. We just wanted to come by and tell you how glad we are that you’re here.”

  “But we do want to hold a welcome home party for you,” Nola said. She seemed a little more at ease now, for whatever reason. “We hope that tomorrow afternoon isn’t too soon, but we thought if we waited longer, everyone would have already seen you, and then what would be the point of a party?”

  “And we must have a party because . . . well, because parties are wonderful,” Thora finished up.

  Miriam glanced at her grandmother with amusement. “Well, I have absolutely nothing on my calendar as of yet, so I imagine that tomorrow will be fine,” she replied.

  “Oh, good! I’m glad you said that because everything’s all arranged.” Thora looked simply overjoyed at the prospect. “We’re going to hold it here in the backyard, and we’ll be here at eleven to start setting up. The party itself won’t be until one, but we need time to hang the bunting—”

  “Bunting?” Miriam held up a hand. “Please tell me you haven’t gone through a lot of trouble—a simple cake and some punch is really enough, isn’t it?”

  “Cake and punch and cookies and little sandwiches and pie,” Thora replied. “But we’re all helping—it’s not just one person—so it’s really not too much trouble at all.”

  Miriam sighed. She wasn’t going to be able to talk them out of their grandiose plans, so she might as well smile and go along with it. “Thank you,” she said. “It means a lot to me to be welcomed home by my friends.”

  “You still like chocolate, don’t you?” Nola asked.

  “Does anyone ever stop liking chocolate?” Miriam gave a laugh. “Of course I do.”

  “Well, I’m bringing some chocolate cake, and I hope you like it.” Nola paused. “Other . . . people . . . who have tried it really liked it.”

  The woman was acting strangely again, like there were things she wanted to say, but couldn’t actually say them. Miriam was going to ask her about it, but then decided against it. Whatever it was, it was Nola’s business and not hers. “I’m sure I’ll like it too—you’re such a good cook. Are you sure you can’t stay? I’ll bet Grandma made plenty—she always does.” It seemed odd, having a long conversation in the hall without inviting them to dinner or at least to sit down.

  “Oh, no, dear, but thank you for the invitation. We’ll see you tomorrow!” Thora gave her a smile, and the two ladies bustled out the front door.

  As soon as the door was closed, Miriam turned to Esther. “Did Nola seem a bit out of sorts to you?”

  Esther blinked. “Out of sorts? What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say, but she seemed uncomfortable, like she was keeping a secret.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Come along to the kitchen—I had just pulled the biscuits out when they arrived. I hope everything’s still hot.”

  Everything was hot, and it was delicious. Her grandmother’s churned butter melted into the biscuits in little golden puddles of sunshine, and Miriam couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a meal that was so satisfying. But of course, that had everything to do with the magic of being home.

  Home.

  That word again.

  It wasn’t so confusing this time.

  Chapter Three

  Toby dug the tip of his shovel into the dirt, lifted, and flipped the load over, pushing the manure down a level and making a nice fertile circle around one of his grandmother’s prize rose bushes. She’d been a little irate when he’d first brought the manure home, but in truth, he really could have stored it somewhere better—even he had to admit that having a kitchen filled with such powerful odors was unfortunate.

  Today was the first chance he’d had to work on it since he’d brought it home, and he’d jumped at the opportunity. He hated to leave a task lying around undone, but he’d been needed for a rush job at the sawmill, and he had to go where the paying jobs led him. That’s how it had to be if he ever wanted to build the little house he’d set his heart on.

  That’s why he’d had to turn his grandmother down when she’d asked him to come along on her errands that afternoon. If he didn’t take care of this now, he had no idea when he’d be able to do it. He knew he’d disappointed her, but he’d also disappointed her by making this mess, so he was in trouble no matter which way he looked at it. It was better to get it cleaned up than to delay it even longer.

  “Hey there! Need a hand?”

  Toby looked up at the voice and saw Peter Thomas walking across the grass toward him, carrying a shovel of his own. Peter had been his friend since his school days. “I’ll take all the help I can get,” he called back.

  Peter chose a spot a few yards away from where Toby was working and dug in. “I’m glad for the chance to get out of the house,” he said. “My grandmother finished Eliza’s birthday dress and brought it over this afternoon, and there’s been nothing but prancing around ever since. One should not give a little girl who is already so vain such an elaborate gift.”

  Toby laughed. “You don’t understand much about little girls, do you?”

  “No, not a lot. That’s what comes of having mostly boys in the family.” Peter shook his head. “So, that sort of thing’s common, is it?”

  Toby moved a few feet down the row and started the next section. “All I know from growing up with my two sisters is this—if you give a little girl a new dress, she will twirl around in it. She has to see how big the skirt floofs out.”

  “Floofs? Are you sure that’s actually a word?”


  Toby shrugged. “I don’t know what to call it. How about, the total circumference of the fabric when subjected to aerodynamics and having been cut in a circular shape.”

  Peter chuckled. “I’ll accept ‘floofs,’ Mr. College Graduate.”

  “Thank you. And then, when the little girl happens upon another little girl, be she a friend or a sister, they must both twirl around to see whose dress floofs bigger. There’s a hierarchical order to this practice, you see.”

  “So, whoever has the floofiest dress wins?”

  “Exactly.” Toby pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “This bed is the last of it. Do you want to come in for some lemonade?”

  “I haven’t worked long enough to deserve it, but sure. I’ll have some.”

  They leaned their shovels against the side of the house and wiped off their boots, then entered the kitchen. Toby found the lemonade and pulled two glasses from the shelf, then paused. “Oh, look. Grandma made a chocolate cake, too. Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  Toby cut them each a generous slice, then they sat at the table.

  “So, what do you hear from Carol?” Toby asked.

  Peter started to choke on his bite and grabbed his lemonade to wash everything down. “You shouldn’t ask me potentially dangerous questions while I’m eating.”

  “Sorry. Have you swallowed? Is now a better time?”

  Peter shook his head in exasperation. “I’d rather not talk about her at all, but I can see that you’re not going to let me out of it.”

  “You’ve guessed correctly. Now, out with it.” Toby enjoyed seeing his friend uncomfortable. It was too bad that he’d also choked—that had been accidental—but after all the times Peter had teased him about one girl or another, it was nice to turn the tables.

  “Carol has decided not to accept my offer.”

  Toby was about to tease Peter even further, but something made him pause. Peter seemed troubled, which was very unlike him. Maybe Toby should ease up a bit.