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OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Rose took her time really making her little house what she had envisioned. As she put her linens in order, she found her mother’s letter in the stack of towels:
Dearest Rose,
I cannot begin to express my concern over this unexpected and inadvisable lifestyle you have undertaken. As you requested, we have sent your things—but Rose, dearest, you are so far from your family and acquaintances, even the very manner of living in which you have been raised and are accustomed. It has been difficult to explain to my friends just what it is you are doing and your purpose in doing it.
Let me encourage you to consider returning home after you have rested and had your little “experience,” but certainly before winter. We understand how you must be struggling to begin life again; just please remember that your real home is here with us, your family.
We will be waiting to hear from you soon, darling.
With love,
Mother
Rose folded the letter carefully and put it in her lap desk. It was the kind of response she had expected, and it did not hurt her.
“Mother will not understand, at least for a while, why I won’t be coming home, but she will be consoled by her friends, and Tom is there for her,” Rose concluded.
She laid her personal things neatly in drawers. Most of her dresses and suits, too fine and therefore out of place, she covered and hung on hooks to preserve them. Doilies and scarves, cut-glass lamps and vases, knick-knacks, books, music, and an exceptional old clock all had their places now, and the windows were hung with frothy white-lace curtains.
Even the floor boasted two beautiful, thick carpets, one in her parlor/bedroom, the other in her dining room/kitchen. A plain throw rug was laid in the kitchen to stand upon while working and foot mats were at each door.
All of this did not take precedence over her yard, though. Rose knew that any starts to survive the trip and the lateness of the season must be planted in the cool of the day. Because of this, she dug their holes during the day and, when the sun went down in the evening, she began to plant. The roses and the trumpet vine went in first, followed by several varieties of flowering shrubs and climbing vines. Mr. Thoresen had built two trellises on the porch as she requested; one was on the northeast end just to the left of the front door. She planted a sturdy trumpet vine trunk there. The other trellis was on the south side of the porch right in front of the parlor window, and she set a climbing rose there. In addition, she planted lilac, forsythia, wisteria, and Virginia creeper starts. Abby had sent more than she’d asked for, and Rose earmarked several for Amalie and Fiona. One risky extravagance on her part had been fruit trees. Only four out of eight looked to have survived—a cherry, two apples, and a plum. Without other cherry and plum trees in the neighborhood they wouldn’t bear, but Rose planted them anyway, promising to acquire “mates” for them next year.
She looked fondly at the four tiny saplings on the far side of her garden.
“Maybe someday there will be a real grove of fruit trees here, even if it does take five or six years,” she predicted.
By nightfall all the shrubs, trees, and starts were in and watered. Sad and sickly looking though they were, Rose believed enough of them would endure to make the effort worthwhile, and admired them for their expected effect on her homestead.
Early, before the sun rose, she watered again. The thirsty ground drank the moisture greedily so after chores Rose watered once more. To her gratification, a few bushes with straggly leaves appeared a little “perked up.” She stared skyward anxiously—if it was tremendously hot today her new arrivals might all die anyway, still in shock from the trip and transplanting. Since she would gain nothing by worrying she went about her other yard work, sowing flower seeds and planting bulbs in the bare beds beside the house.
Along about two-thirty she was delighted to see a thundershower begin to form up. There had been several of those in the last weeks—Rose was getting good at recognizing the signs: hot, humid, still air and thick, dark clouds that piled up overhead like railway cars plowing into each other. Around four the weather broke and large drops of water pelted the ground for an hour. Afterwards, a twilight sunset took place and the sweet, steamy smell of warm earth filled the evening. Rose felt sure her plantings had benefited from the cooling shower and would now start well.
—
ON SUNDAY NEXT, ROSE invited several of her friends to have a special lunch at her house: Berta and Vera from town, Amalie, Sigrün, and Fiona from the neighborhood. Meg was working as usual and couldn’t attend.
“Uli must come too,” Rose insisted, delighting that little person. Rose had more than one reason in mind for including Uli. She wanted to be able to talk with Amalie and enjoy her conversation and her companionship, and Uli was indispensable in that capacity.
The menu was to be special too, but not too elegant. Rose planned cold chicken salad; assorted muffins, biscuits, and crackers; and cool tea. And as a distinctive treat, a plate of exquisitely fine chocolates, a gift sent by Tom to his sister, found packed with care amid the other household goods.
Rose laid a delicate beige lace cloth and added her fine patterned china and silver candlesticks, transforming her plain wooden table. Rose had brewed tea, light and lightly sweetened that morning. It was chilling in a pitcher set in a bucket surrounded by cracked ice. The ice had been a block in Brian’s icehouse that Rose had tried to pay for. Truthfully, ice became scarce as summer went on, and Rose deserved to pay for it, but Brian set his jaw in mock resentment and insisted on giving it for the festive occasion.
“That is the way it is out here,” Rose mused. “There is a tremendous gift of giving at work in many people—and instead of having less, they seem to always have more. God blesses them for blessing others.”
Her guests were scheduled to arrive at one o’clock, late enough to have set their men’s dinners before leaving for the afternoon out. Rose dressed with care, rechecked every detail, and was in a dither of excitement before they arrived. Fiona was first, heralded by the Baron’s deep barking. She was carrying baby Sean, and Rose hugged her warmly when she stepped through the door.
“Oohing” and “ahhing,” Fiona examined the house. She was still exclaiming over Rose’s finely crafted kitchen cupboards when Berta and Vera drove into the yard at the same time Amalie and Uli crossed the creek. The Baron ran circles around the house, baying the whole time. Rose and Fiona hugged and welcomed the other ladies while Amalie and Uli dried their feet and put on their shoes and stockings. Laughing and gay, they entered the cabin. The women spent twenty minutes admiring Rose’s home and its changes and ornaments, but nothing took their attention like the piano. Vera was spellbound.
“Oh, Rose! How did you ever? May I play it, please?”
The other ladies were quick to add their hopes so Vera sat down, sheer joy on her brow. The minute her fingers touched the keys, Rose realized that Vera was no dilettante on the instrument. From her hands flew Mozart, Bach, Chopin. Enchanted, the women listened on. Even Uli was transfixed.
When Vera finished, tears stood in her eyes. “I am sorry,” she apologized. “I truly thought it would be years before I played again.”
“You have a gift, Vera,” Rose stated. “And you gave it up to come out here.”
“It is worth it,” Vera replied.
Rose took her hand and kissed the young woman’s cheek.
“I salute you,” Rose whispered. Out loud she announced lunch and seated her guests. Every possible contrivance for sitting that Rose owned was at the table, including an upended crate for herself. That’s when she at last realized they were one seat long.
“Amalie! Why, where is Sigrün?”
Uli answered for her mother.
“Sigrün was too busy to come today, but Mor says really it’s because it’s too hard for her to be with all the ladies. She’s sorry for the trouble.”
“No, it is no trouble at all; I will merely clear this setting off and now you can have the chair, and I will take the stool, and we will put this box in the corner, all right?”
Rose poured iced tea into the glasses, garnishing each serving with ice chips and mint sprigs. Then she seated herself at the head and served the salad and passed the breads. With everyone enjoying themselves, it was tremendous fun for her, too.
“Amalie,” she remarked when an opening came in the conversation, “Mr. Thoresen worked so hard and did the most excellent work on my cupboards and porch. What a blessing it must be to have a husband so skilled. He did a wonderful job of your kitchen, too.”
While Uli translated, it became very quiet, and Rose glanced around curiously. The other women were staring at her with puzzled expressions—even Uli.
“Aye, who could ken that?” Fiona chuckled.
In fact, they were all beginning to laugh.
“What is it?” Rose demanded, her face reddening.
“What ye said,” Fiona choked out. “Oh, ’tis rich, ’tis!”
A gale of laughter rocked the table at that. Gradually the women recovered their decorum. Rose insisted they explain. Amalie took charge, swamping poor Uli with explanations.
“Mor says,” Uli began seriously, “that surely you knew that Onkel is not her husband.”
“What?” Rose was astounded, and the ladies roared in hilarity. It was several minutes before Uli could go on.
“Mor says, did you not know that Onkel is my papa’s brother? Didn’t you know that, Mrs. Brownlee?” she added of her own.
Rose shook her head, too stunned to answer.
“But Mrs. Brownlee, how can Onkel be my papa if he is my Onkel?” Uli persisted.
Onkel. Uncle. Rose finally connected it.
“Mor says to tell you that before I was born, my papa died. So did Onkel’s wife, Aunt Elli, and my cousin Kristen. I told you about Kristen, remember?” she added.
The women were sober now and listened respectfully as Amalie explained and Uli translated.
“Onkel and my papa came to America together with their families and filed those two farms.” She pointed across the creek. “There was Onkel Jan, Aunt Elli, Søren, and Kristen, Papa, Mama, Sigrün, and Little Karl, Arnie, and Kjell. I wasn’t born yet when the plague came. Then a lot of people got very sick and Papa, Aunt Elli, and Kristen died.”
Rose was watching Amalie’s face as she spoke. The reality of her tale came home to Rose when she saw the sad light in Amalie’s eyes.
“Sigrün was a little girl then, just my age,” Uli continued. “She had the fever, too, but got over it. Only, after Papa died, she never talked anymore.”
Amalie sighed and went on. Uli nodded in agreement. “Mor says, she thinks there’s nothing wrong with Sigrün why she cannot talk; but she just wouldn’t afterwards and hasn’t since. She’s very shy too.”
The story was over and the ladies were quietly finishing their lunches.
“I . . . apologize, Amalie,” Rose managed at last. “I had no idea . . . Mr. Thoresen is so good with the children and everything . . .” She still couldn’t grasp it all.
Fiona chuckled again. “Aye, he’s bein’ a wonderful father for Karl and Amalie’s children, and Amalie has been grand for Søren. Ah, Rose. If’n ye could’ve been seein’ your face when she told ye.”
“I guess we all just assumed you knew, Rose,” Vera put in kindly and added, “this chicken salad was delicious!”
Gently recalled to her duties as hostess, Rose set all this new information aside and got up to brew coffee. Vera cleared the table while Rose laid the coffee service and called Uli to her.
“Look, Uli,” whispered Rose. She lifted the corner of a linen napkin covering a footed crystal plate. The elegant assorted chocolates were arrayed temptingly underneath.
Uli’s eyes grew large and her tiny mouth said “Ooooh!” so softly.
“Would you like to pass these as I serve coffee?” Rose’s expression was shining at Uli’s obvious pleasure.
“Oh, yes’m!” she whispered back.
Uli administered her charge scrupulously, enjoying the guests’ exclamations and praise over the unaccustomed treat.
“Frau Brünlee,” Berta uttered, savoring the melting delight, “ist wunderschön!”
The other accolades were sweet to Rose’s ear too. “They are a gift from my brother Tom. He was very extravagant, was he not? But I shall tell him how much they were enjoyed, and it will please him greatly.”
They lingered over their coffee another half hour, sharing and chatting. Not many such days of leisure could be afforded by busy farms and businesses. Rose knew her luncheon was a success.
~~**~~
