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. Oscar 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.”
“Just a dash.” She smiled as she spoke. “I’m glad you like it.”
He ate another muffin and set aside two to share with his father later. He could probably eat more if he didn’t know she liked to take them home for her parents to taste.
She did have a home of her own. As much as he enjoyed having her here every day, eating her food, helping with his honey—pretending they were a couple—she belonged somewhere else. He had to stop the pretense, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of her companionship.
They took a few minutes to clean up from the snacks before they started on today’s batch of honey, the last he had unless he harvested some more. The raw honey was already on the stove when he came in, ready for them. It wasn’t as difficult as he expected, but it was time consuming. Nobody wanted honey with globs of wax or pollen in it. If he heated it too long, it became too thick to pour.
Edie went down the row of jars, checking the seal on them and nodding her approval. She knew, as he did, that they had finished the honey. That he didn’t need her to return tomorrow, or until the laundry was finished. And that left a hole in his heart.
She clasped her hands behind her back. “These should do well at the fair.”
“I was thinking that your honey butter would also attract buyers.” He held his breath.
“It’s so easy. Anyone could do it.”
He counted to five. For such a talented woman, she was overly humble. “But not everyone does, and not everyone can. I would love to sell it with my honey, but it belongs with your baked goods.”
“Oh.” A confused expression crossed over Edie’s face.
Pa brought his hands together in a quiet version of his former vigorous clap. “Work together.”
The idea struck Grant with the force of hurricane winds. Of course! “I think that’s a great idea.”
When Edie didn’t respond, he noticed her hand trembling where it touched the jar of honey. “My bakery.” The words came out in a whisper.
“You’ll still enter the baked goods contest. We can put them together as a business proposition at the fair. Nothing more Vermont than this. Vermont ingredients and Vermont recipes.”
“But if we win? Are you suggesting we go into business together?” The green in Edie’s eyes had died out, leaving them dead granite gray.
“Would that be so terrible? We’ve been a good team these past few weeks, you and I.”
“Is that all this has been for you? A business partnership?” The last glimmer of green winked out, and she removed her apron. “I’ll come back later to pick up my things. One of my parents will bring back your laundry.”
She moved so quickly, he hardly had time to react. When he reached the door, she was already down the porch steps. “Edie. That’s not what I meant.” She had reached the meadow path by the time he came outside. He stood at the steps, yelling, “I love you, Edith Grace!”
He had embarrassed himself in front of God and all creation, and she ignored him, scurrying away as if he were a dangerous varmint. His shoulders slumped, and he sat on the top step of the porch.
Something rattled behind him—the window. Grant twisted around and saw his father standing up from his chair. What was Pa thinking, doing something dangerous like that? Even as Grant sprang to his feet, his father collapsed.
His father had fallen back into the chair at an odd angle. When Grant tried to help, Pa pushed him away. “Go. Edie.”
“Not until I know you’re okay.”
Pa stopped fighting. It only took a few minutes to help him into his seat after that.
“Go.” His father pounded his cane on the floor, rattling the window again.
“I will.” Grant took one step back toward the door. “As long as you promise not to move until I get back.” He took a second step.
Pa lifted his right hand, finger twisted saying okay. Grant kept him in sight until he reached the door. He jumped from the porch and sprinted in Edie’s direction, hoping to catch up with her before she got to her house.
He glimpsed her across the meadow and called for her. She didn’t stop. “Edie! Please!”
She turned around. His heart flew high in his chest and propelled him across the distance separating them. He couldn’t read what was on her face—anger? Hope?
Up close, his heart slowed down when he saw the green gleaming in her eyes. She was as uncertain as he was.
She handed him her canteen. “Here. Take a drink and catch your breath.” The tiny smile accompanying her words gave him hope, but he didn’t know what to say. She waited, not filling the silence with chatter.
Before she gave up and left, before he felt too discouraged to ask, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I feel like Moses, slow of speech. Slow to see what was right in front of me. I have nothing to offer you, Edie Grace, but I hope you’re willing to wait while I prove myself to you.” There. He had said it. He could only pray she would agree.