Let me get some ice for that hand,” Grant said. He disappeared from the room.
He’d better run away. Edith had been the one to find his father on the floor, as still as death, on Easter Sunday. Mr. Oscar was so proud of his son in the navy—just look at the photograph of him in uniform.
The problem was that after Mrs. Oscar had died, Mr. Oscar had gone into a steady decline, and his son wasn’t there to do anything about it. Even after the stroke, Grant hadn’t made it home for almost four months.
“Miss Grace.” Mr. Oscar struggled with the words, but his smile was all that mattered.
“Sit down so I can take care of you properly.” Grant stood behind her, water dripping from the towel wrapped around an ice chip he had broken from the block of ice in their kitchen.
Mr. Oscar was getting agitated, probably wanting to know what had happened. “The bees got to me today.” She held out her hand, swollen and red. How much worse it would have been if Grant hadn’t taken care of her.
Of course, if Grant hadn’t surprised her, she probably wouldn’t have been stung in the first place.
Mr. Oscar indicated that he wanted to be turned around, and Grant complied. His eager eyes watched every movement his son made, as if ready to take over if he didn’t do a good job.
The ice provided instant relief to the heat, and he gently laid her affected hand on the arm of the sofa. “Keeping it elevated a little will help.” Grant grabbed one of the pillows his mother had embroidered. “Try this.” He slipped it under her arm.
It felt awkward, and uncomfortable, but Edith agreed with the course of treatment. She had studied the appropriate treatment for bee stings when she had decided to harvest honey by herself. She should thank him for helping her.
He frowned. Once he was satisfied she was as comfortable as possible, he plopped down in a well-worn chair by the fireplace. “Pa, did you know Edie is taking the honey from the meadow?”
All the good feelings Edith had fostered for Grant soured. “Taking your honey? Do you think I’m stealing it?”
Grant looked at her as if she were the one who didn’t know what was happening. “My grandfather put up those log gums, on our land. You’re the one who told me that.”
Mr. Oscar was trying so hard to say something that she feared he would have another stroke, so she rushed to explain. “Of course I know the log gums are on your land. I talked with your father about it, last winter.” She didn’t want to explain her reasons—her dreams—to this man who seemed determined to think poorly of her. She would approach it as she had with his father.
“I had researched the market price for honey. I asked if I could possibly have a discount if I harvested it myself. He insisted I take what he had already brought in for free. I refused.” She smiled at the memory. Maybe the father and son had something in common—stubbornness. “We compromised. I agreed to take it for free, and he agreed to let me harvest it.”
“And look how well that turned out. Your hand stung so badly you can’t use it.”
“You ran into me, as I remember, and knocked over the pail I was using to collect the honey, so all that work—and pain—was for nothing.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you thought you could use all the honey this year since he’s in no shape to harvest it himself.”
What had happened to the young lad who always had a kind word for her, to make him so suspicious? “As a matter of fact, I intended to ask if he wanted me to bottle all of it and sell it at the farmers’ market. Bringing him the money earned, of course.”
Mr. Oscar nodded and banged his hand on the chair. Even Grant couldn’t ignore his father’s approval.
Grant tipped his head to the side, doing some kind of mental calculations. “What happened this morning is unfortunate. Give me a few minutes.” He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and returned with a picnic basket filled with jars of honey. “Hopefully this will replace the honey you hoped to gather today.”
“It’s too much—”
“Don’t thank me yet. Use it wisely, because there won’t be any more honey coming from that meadow.”
“I’d be happy to pay, if that’s the problem.” The particular assortment of plants and flowers gave that honey—and therefore her baked goods—the best taste in the county. She intended to prove they were the best in the entire state at the Rutland Fair in September.
“Money isn’t the issue.” Grant shook his head. “We’re going to plow it under and farm it.”
“But what about the bees? The honey?” The answer to her question dangled there, but she didn’t want to grasp it.
“There won’t be any more honey after we harvest the last of it. It’s time that field starting earning money.”
“But you sell the honey….” The more Edith sputtered, the redder Grant’s face grew. He didn’t care about the honey. He didn’t care about the beautiful meadow, alive with sights and sounds and aromas.
“Who owns that meadow, Miss Grace?” Her name sounded like an expletive.
“God.” The word came out of her mouth before she could call it back. “His name isn’t on the deed, but He made it, perfect just the way it is.”
Grant’s mouth flapped open then he closed it and swallowed. “And I suppose you’ve left your property the way it was before the first settler came to Spruce Hill? Do you know there were no bees in America until Europeans brought them here?”
She hadn’t known that. “I apologize. I had no right to say what I did.” Now that she had humiliated herself, she wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. “My hand is much better now. I’ll go home.” She looked at the basket brimming with honey. Oh, how she wanted to take it with her, but she didn’t trust her arms to handle the weight. “I appreciate the gift, but I’ll have to come back for it.”
Mr. Oscar struggled to say something. Edith hugged him. “It’s all right. Everything will work out.”
She wanted to walk out of there without another word, but her upbringing demanded better of her. “Welcome home, Mr. Oscar. Your father is very glad to have you here.” She unwrapped the towel and ice from her hand and laid them in the sink. “Thank you for taking care of me.” She headed for the door. Was the man going to let her go without saying another word?
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring it to you.” Grant wasn’t ready to say good-bye. “I’d like to hear why this honey is so important to you.”
She flicked a glance at his father and shrugged. “Will it make a difference?” Those soulful, gray-green eyes said more than her words. It mattered to her, a great deal. She crossed the porch and descended three steps. Once her feet landed on the ground, her back straightened and she turned around. Her eyes now more green than gray, she said, “If you bring the honey in the morning, you can stay for breakfast.”
The way she moved, musical perfection in a female form, made him want to watch. He was as bad as a man on shore leave, ready to marry the first woman who looked at him kindly. He had withstood that temptation, but his years at sea had worn away his comfort in the presence of the opposite sex.
Something about Edie—Edith—Miss Grace—confounded him, at a time he could least afford any distractions. “Bother.” He went inside and shut the door.
“No.” When Pa shook his head, his whole body wobbled with it. He didn’t like Grant’s ideas for the farm, but they had to do something to save the only home his father had ever known.
“We’re talking again tomorrow.” Grant headed for the kitchen to fix lunch. If he gave every penny he had saved, they could postpone the inevitable. But they needed a longterm solution. And what about his own dreams? He didn’t want to spend money on a farm that had been on the brink of financial ruin for most of his life. His father had the heart of an angel—that is, if an angel lived in a poorhouse because he gave everything away.
Including the honey. Grant would have to call on all the discipline he had developed in the navy to cope with neighbors who were taking advantage of a sick old man.
Even Miss Grace? Especially Miss Grace, if she was using the honey for her own gain.
Pa’s head had fallen forward as he was sleeping. Grant brought a bowl of vegetable soup to his father’s side, and his eyes fluttered open.
Grant pulled up a chair and guided his hand to his mouth. “I know you want Miss Grace to have the honey, as long as she wants it. You don’t want to change a single thing.” Grant looked out the window at the front lawn. The lilac bushes were a little more straggly than when Mama was alive, and the rosebushes should be dug up and thrown into a mulch pile. Things had already changed, and his father didn’t see it.
“Work out.” His father steepled his fingers together in prayer. “God.”
Where was God in all of this? The question Dad raised all day and into the morning when Grant headed for the Grace farmhouse. The neighbors had pulled together to plant the crops after Dad’s stroke, but the fields looked neglected. Weeds choked the edges, and everything needed irrigation. The farm would earn a smaller return than usual, and their medical expenses had risen. Was there an end in sight?
If he hadn’t gone to the navy, would things have gotten this bad? Grant shook this head to clear those thoughts away. “What if” questions didn’t matter. What if his younger brother hadn’t drowned when he was ten years old? That’s when he’d first become friends with young Edie. She missed Grant’s brother as much as he did.
Ma, the perfect farmer’s wife, died of grief a few years later, which helped push Grant out the door to the sea. Somehow Pa had lived past all that loss with a smile in his heart, even now with the stroke. That was Grant’s one reason in trying to save the farm. Losing it might be the one loss his father couldn’t survive.
He rounded the corner and found himself a few feet away from the front door to the Graces’ home. He checked his appearance, making sure his shirt was properly tucked at the waist, ran a hand over his hair, and rubbed his smooth chin—why he would take all that trouble for a woman who had given him nothing but trouble yesterday, he didn’t know.
Delightful smells wafted through the air, the scent of baked bread and spices and something else that was tantalizingly familiar. He was drawn to the house as certainly as Hansel and Gretel found the witch’s gingerbread house.
Only his witch was a young woman with hair the color of red cedar and emeralds sparkling in her granite-colored eyes. She appeared on the doorstep. No wonder the children had succumbed to temptation.