14

Two days after finding Bud’s shop empty, the mix of emotions running through Fleeta was still more than she could sort out. The horror and disgust that she’d let Bud cheat her out of his equipment and her mother’s brooch kept swamping her. She hadn’t told anyone but Albert about her discovery. Albert scuffed his boot and looked solemn, finally saying, “Maybe he took it all with him to keep it safe.”

Fleeta didn’t believe that for a second, although it was nice of Albert to try to make her feel better. She told herself she’d just have to face up to her mistake and learn this very hard lesson. Storming around and crying—which she could very easily do—were altogether too female a reaction, one she’d already let Hank see. From here on out she’d just have to bear up and take it like a man.

But even as the agony of her mistake began to sink in, she also felt nervous and maybe even excited about Hank coming over to watch her finish his gunstock. He’d been so kind to her, so comforting, and that Scripture he spoke—while it didn’t change her situation, it had soothed in a way she couldn’t quite explain. And in the midst of her pain she was looking forward to seeing the man she’d come to think of—only in the quiet of her own mind—as her Southern gentleman.

Aunt Maisie got supper going and then turned the meal over to Fleeta, which was a good thing since she could hardly fry an egg and hadn’t improved much with practice over the last weeks. There was stewed rabbit—she’d got the rabbits herself—fried cabbage with potatoes, and now she was supposed to make corn bread while keeping everything else from burning. As she mixed buttermilk and eggs into cornmeal, she marveled that wood seemed to just shape itself under her hands while bread felt downright contrary. Once she thought the batter looked like Aunt Maisie’s, she poured it into a skillet with lard that had been heating in the oven. The batter bubbled and hissed in the fat, sending up the sweet smell of corn. She slid it in the hot oven thinking maybe she wouldn’t ruin the meal for once.

She heard voices in the sitting room. Wiping her hands on her pants, she hurried out of the kitchen to see if Hank had arrived. He stood inside the front door talking to Uncle Oscar, which gave Fleeta a moment to look him over. She’d noticed before that he wasn’t especially tall, but he was broad-shouldered, and she itched to push down a piece of his sandy hair sticking up in back—probably because he’d taken his hat off like gentlemen do.

She decided he looked . . . solid. She’d known handsomer men, yet Hank’s looks soothed and unsettled her all at once. A sudden thought shook her—what if Aunt Maisie had given her that blasted brooch because Hank was about to enter her life? Not that she wanted to fall in love with him, but if she had to love someone, he might do. What was it Aunt Maisie said? She should look at the pin and remember that her mother wanted her to fall in love one day. The idea that seemed so awful that day suddenly didn’t feel quite like the death sentence she’d imagined.

Except, of course, the brooch and any influence it carried was now lost to her. She’d as good as thrown it away.

Hank turned, and there was that warmth in his eyes again. Fleeta felt her insides flutter and spin. She started to speak, then rushed from the room back to the kitchen to make sure the cabbage wasn’t burning.

The meal proved as much a success as Fleeta could hope. The corn bread was a little dry, and the cabbage stuck to the pan in places, but nothing was burnt or ruined.

“Ma, you must be feeling better,” Albert said.

“I have been some,” Aunt Maisie answered. “What made you notice?”

“I figured you must’ve cooked supper since it ain’t ruined.”

“Isn’t ruined, and Fleeta did a fair amount of the cooking.”

Albert feigned shock. “It’s a miracle.” He looked at Hank, wide-eyed. “I thought we might starve or die of poisoning the way Fleeta cooks.” He then yelped, thanks to Fleeta’s well-placed foot.

“Albert, don’t tease your cousin so,” Aunt Maisie said. “You know she’s a . . . tolerable cook.”

Fleeta almost wanted to kick her aunt as well, but instead she stood from the table. “Hank, you want to see your gunstock now?”

Looking like he was trying to hold in laughter, Hank nodded and followed her into what Aunt Maisie liked to call the parlor. It was a little-used room, especially in winter when it wasn’t worth the trouble of keeping up another fire. Fleeta had cleaned the room from top to bottom that morning, telling herself she was doing it to distract herself from thinking about throwing her dream away. She added coal to the fire she’d built before supper to keep the cold at bay. She’d set out Hank’s shotgun and her tools on a towel laid over her aunt’s tea table. She preferred a sturdier worktable, but it would do.

Hank already had the gun in his hands, running callused fingers over the carving that was almost complete. Fleeta didn’t have much experience feeling nervous about her work, but the way Hank was examining every detail made her hands start to sweat.

“It’s not quite done,” she said.

Hank finally turned to look at her, then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. “I swear I can smell it, that magnolia’s so real.” Finally he blew out a breath, the gun still in his hands. “Magnolias have a sort of clean citrusy smell. Makes you wish you could just breathe in and never exhale.”

Watching him made Fleeta feel dizzy. Maybe she could smell it too. “You like it then?”

A slow grin spread across his face. “That I do.” He studied the intricate carving, robbing Fleeta of the warmth in his eyes. “I can’t see what more there is to do, but I’d sure enjoy watching you carve whatever it is.”

Fleeta wiped her damp palms on her shirt and took the gun, pulling over a stool. “I’m not quite done with the crosshatching on this—what is it? A seedpod?” She indicated the spot near the trigger. “This is a good place to give you some extra grip.”

Picking up a small chisel, she began removing slivers of wood in a crosshatch pattern. She became so absorbed in the work, she almost forgot Hank was there. It wasn’t until she sat back to take in the overall effect that her eyes flicked to his once again. What she saw there shook her.

She swallowed hard. “That should just about do it. I’ll sand it some more, but it’s pretty much done if you’re satisfied.”

Hank gave her that slow smile once again. “Oh, I’ve rarely been so satisfied as I am right at this moment. You have a remarkable gift.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I hope you don’t mind, Fleeta, but I went into town to see the sheriff about Bud Lyons.”

Fleeta stiffened. “You spoke to the sheriff?”

“I sure did. He said there’d been a complaint or two about unpaid bills, but nothing to cause much concern. Then I asked if there’d been any problems in other places with someone making promises, then skipping town. That rang a bell.” Hank settled back in his chair. “Sheriff had a notice about a fella over in Cabell County who was buying and selling guns, found himself a partner with a nice bankroll, and then skipped town. His name was Bill Lynch, yet his physical description was awful close to the one Albert gave me for Bud Lyons.”

Fleeta felt dizzy again. “You asked Albert about Bud?”

“I did. Didn’t want to involve you unless I thought I was on to something. And now I think maybe I am. This other fella earned the trust of the locals and found an individual who wanted to start a business and ‘sold’ his going concern.” Hank rubbed his hands on his knees. “And here’s the kicker—when I was at the sheriff’s office, a fellow came in to report that just yesterday Bud had tried to sell his wife a piece of jewelry this fellow thought might have been stolen. He said it was a heart pin with a purple jewel in it.”

Hank grinned. “And would you believe he said there was a crazy blue jay hounding that man. Kept flying at him until he got in his truck and drove away. You think that might be Jack?”

Fleeta stood like she might fall over if she didn’t do it just right. “Here’s your gun,” she said, thrusting it toward him. “Should have some finishing oil brushed over the carving, but if you’ll do that yourself, we can call it even.”

Hank frowned. “But I still owe you money.”

“No. You don’t. You’ve paid me for my work and then some. I appreciate your business.” She turned, exited the parlor, and walked upstairs to her room where Hank would surely not follow. She didn’t even look out the window to watch him drive away. The nerve of that man, sticking his nose in her mess, talking to people about her mistakes. And just when she was thinking she could like him.

Hank tried to pay attention as James and Grace showed him their favorite holiday traditions. They’d all trooped out into the woods the day before and cut not one but two evergreens. The prettier of the two was stabilized in a bucket of rocks and sand. Then Abram drilled holes into the trunk, cut branches from the second tree, and inserted them to fill out the first one. The result was a remarkably full and uniform Christmas tree. Hank marveled at the ingenuity while continuing to kick himself for upsetting Fleeta.

“Stepped all over her pride,” Abram said after Hank shared his tale.

“What can I do to fix it?” he asked.

Abram shrugged. “Women,” he said. “I’m still trying to figure Lydia out and she’s not half so contrary as Fleeta Brady.”

Now Hank gave his host family about a tenth of his attention as he pondered what he could do to make things right with Fleeta. Lydia bumped his elbow and handed him a darning needle with a long length of heavy thread. She pushed bowls of popped corn and cranberries toward him.

“You’re too distracted for anything trickier than this,” she said. “Don’t worry about a pattern, just put on some corn and then berries—it’ll look nice once you’re done.”

Hank gave her a grateful smile. “Lydia, when’s the last time you were put out with Abram?”

“Oh now, the secret of a good marriage is not telling when you’re mad at your husband.” She laughed. “Or your wife. Doesn’t do anyone good to air dirty laundry.” She gave him a sideways look. “Although once you’ve washed it, you’ve got to hang it out to dry.”

Hank raised his eyebrows and strung several kernels of fluffy corn on his thread, followed by two berries.

“I’ll tell you a secret.”

He leaned in closer and kept to his work.

“The main thing any woman wants from a man who’s upset her is . . . an apology.”

Hank paused, a red berry in his fingers. “You mean just walk up to her and say ‘I’m sorry’?”

Lydia nodded as she continued sifting through a box of ornaments. “That’s a start, sure enough. But the best apologies have something to hold them up. Maybe a bunch of flowers you cut out in the woods, or a tin of tea from the store. The words are the main thing, but it’s nice to have something to remember them by.” She smiled and touched a basket of pinecones on the end table beside her. “Doesn’t need to be fancy, just from the heart.” She tapped Hank’s chest. “The heart’s where healing lives.”

Hank nodded and strung some more popped corn.

The whole family went to church on Christmas Eve. Fleeta deigned to put on a dress, but that was as far as her efforts went. She didn’t have anyone to dress up for. And she was pretty sure the whole community knew how Bud Lyons had taken her for a ride—although Albert and Hank were the only ones who knew the extent of it. Unless, of course, Hank had been telling folks. She shuddered at the thought.

She was still hanging on to the slenderest thread of hope that there might be some sort of explanation for the empty shop, while fearing she’d never see Bud Lyons or her mother’s brooch ever again. And somewhere deep down, she might even be afraid that the brooch had taken her only chance at true love with it.

“Sit up, sweetheart.” Aunt Maisie gave her a mock stern look. Fleeta tried not to slouch, but it was hard when all she wanted to do was curl up and cry. It was bad enough she’d cried in front of Hank. She sure wasn’t going to do it again in the fourth pew during the Christmas Eve service.

She saw the Markley family enter and sit on the opposite side of the church, Hank in their midst. The two children rushed to sit on either side of him, making Fleeta smile, until she remembered how Hank had meddled in her business. She wished she’d never gotten in his car that day—now he knew better than most how big a fool she’d been. He looked up and tried a shy smile. She quickly looked away before he could read her eyes. Goodness knows what he’d find there—betrayal, anger . . . longing.

Someone rang the bell three times, and the congregation settled in to listen. Pastor Lyman stood and held his worn Bible aloft. “‘The true light that enlightens every man was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world knew him not. He came to his own home, and his own people received him not. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God; who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.’”

He lowered the Bible and rested it on the pulpit. “Most of you were probably expecting to hear the Christmas story from the book of Luke, but this year I want you to remember what John had to say about the birth of Christ. About how He brought light into a dark world and adopted everyone who dares to believe.”

Fleeta felt as though her wildly spinning world had slowed to attend to those verses. She knew the preacher had more to say, but she was stuck. Flipping Aunt Maisie’s Bible open, she turned to the book of John, and there in the first chapter she found the words the preacher just quoted.

“The power to become children of God.”

What in the world did it mean? She was an orphan, had been so most all her life. Uncle Oscar and Aunt Maisie took her in sure enough, but she wasn’t really their child—their daughter. She thought about Jesus and how He wasn’t received, was rejected even. That was how she’d felt her whole life, as though her own parents had cast her aside. She’d always called herself a Christian, but she felt like she was really paying attention to what that meant for the first time. Had she received Christ? And if so, did that mean she was . . . God’s child?

The very idea left her breathless. Could it be that she was wanted like that? All because of a baby born on Christmas morning a long, long time ago? Light came into a dark world, and even now it shone into the dark places of her life. She’d been dwelling on her problems—the loss of her savings and her mother’s amethyst pin, the loss of her dream of independence. But if she truly did belong to God, well, didn’t she belong to Him no matter what?

Fleeta sat up straighter. Smoothed her skirt over her knees and tucked a tendril of loose hair behind her ear. She guessed maybe she was somebody after all. Just as good as anyone with two parents still living. Just as good—no, maybe better, or at least more blessed—than that bad man Bud Lyons, who had to cheat and steal to find anything of value. She suddenly had the notion that what Bud thought was most valuable really wasn’t.

She slanted a look at Aunt Maisie, who smiled and patted her hand. Uncle Oscar sat a little farther down the pew, a look of supreme contentment on his face. Her cousins lined the rest of the pew, varying looks of attention and boredom on their faces. Fleeta found she wanted to burst with the thoughts tumbling through her. Bud might have stolen her earthly possessions, but she still had what she needed. More than she needed.

She dared look beyond her own family to where Hank sat with an arm around James’s shoulders, with Grace fighting sleep against his side. And if she had what she needed, maybe she should take another look at what she wanted—brooch or no brooch.