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The week passed as slowly as a turtle stuck upside down in its shell. She’d never wanted time to move fast on the farm. Usually, she prayed for the clock to stop so the days wouldn’t rush by and she wouldn’t have to go back to St. Paul. And there was no way she could make Saturday come any faster.
“Patience, Bertie.” Mamaw took the cooled hand-iron from her and set it on the stove. “Staring out the window and letting the iron get cold isn’t going to get the ironing done.” She handed her a heated one and kissed her on the forehead. “The sooner you get done, the sooner you can leave.”
“I know, Mamaw.”
“Now, you’re sure Becky and Les are going to be there today, too?”
Bertha held back a sigh, and rolling her eyes, went back to ironing. If she had a cookie to take on the picnic for every time her grandmother had asked that question during the week, she’d have enough to feed the Army at Fort Snelling near Minneapolis. “Yes, Mamaw.”
****
Hours later, sheets, pillowcases, handkerchiefs, and clothing ironed, folded, and put away, lunch done, and dishes washed, Bertha was finally able to wrap some cookies in a towel and canning jars filled with lemonade into a picnic basket. With the basket in one hand and her fishing pole in the other, she headed down the path to the creek, barefoot and free from worries. Well, except for worrying about whether Sy would kiss her or not. How did life become so confusing?
Disappointment washed through her when their fishing spot was empty. Where were they? Had she misunderstood the time they were to meet? Had they forgotten? Bertha set her pole on the ground, sat on a flat rock on the edge of the creek, and swung her bare feet back and forth in the cooling water.
How she loved the tranquility of the water bubbling over the rocks, the wind whispering through the pine trees, birds chirping, and bees buzzing as they flitted from flower to flower. At least the mosquitos weren’t bad today. Papaw always said when the mosquitos stopped biting, a storm was coming. If it were true, it had to be a long way off. The sky was clear blue with a few wispy clouds flowing across it.
Bertha reached for her long bamboo pole. Might as well see if she could catch anything while she was waiting for Sy, Les, and Becky. Maybe she’d catch a couple for supper tonight. Using a small trowel she pulled from her basket, she dug along the edge of the creek and retrieved a fat earthworm, perfect for attracting a trout or two if the first one didn’t use it for a meal.
After hooking the squiggling worm onto the hook with an accuracy Papaw said he envied, she tossed the line beneath an overhanging branch on the other side of the creek. She sat back on the rock, dipped her toes into the water to wash off the dirt from digging up the worm, and swatted at a fly intent on pestering her nose. At least it wasn’t a mosquito.
The sun’s rays dappled between the trees. The fly gave up. Her eyes grew heavy, but before sleep overtook her, and using a trick her grandfather had taught her, she tied a piece of the fishing line around her ankle. A good tug would wake her, but, unless it was a whale, not pull her into the water. Her last thoughts were of Sy and his kisses.
****
Sy glanced over his shoulder at Les and Becky and put his fingers to his lips. Careful not to rustle leaves, he tiptoed toward the rock holding the girl who kept him awake at night. What was it about her making him crazy? Bertie was not the prettiest female he’d ever seen. Nor was her figure the most voluptuous. Becky was better built than Bertie.
But something about her spoke to him. Was it her smile? Her shining eyes? The way she found joy in the simple things like fishing, butterflies, and birds? He had a feeling her family was well-to-do, but she didn’t put on airs. If she had, he wouldn’t have paid the first bit of attention to her. He’d had enough of that with a few of the girls in New Glarus.
Sy stood beside the rock. Bertie’s chest rose and fell slowly in her deep sleep. He grinned at the line tied to her ankle. He laid his pole on the ground and pointed to the place where Les and Becky usually sat, then picked up a thin stick, broke it into pieces and tossed them at her. She flicked her hand when one landed on her nose.
“Darn fly,” she muttered, but didn’t open her eyes.
Sy crouched down beside her. Did he dare touch her? He glanced over at his brother, who was watching. Les raised an eyebrow. Guess he needed to keep his hands to himself. He picked up a dried, brown maple leaf, and spun the stem between his fingers over her nose. She wiggled her nose and opened an eye.
With a gasp, she sat up and grinned. “Sy, when did you get here?”
Before he could answer, the line around her ankle went taut. He pointed to her bare feet. “I think you have a bite.”
Bertie jumped to her feet, unwound the line from her ankle, grabbed her pole, and jerked the tip up.
“Slow and easy, Bertie. Bring her in slow and easy.”
“Shut up, Sy. I know what I’m doing.”
He didn’t doubt it one bit as he’d seen her bring in fish before, but this looked like a whopper.
Les and Becky joined them. Becky clapped her hands. “C’mon, Bertie. Show these guys how to do it.”
Sy held back a laugh at Becky copying her friend’s every move but adding a few leaps and kicks as if dancing around would help. Les didn’t bother to hold back his laughter, getting a sour look from Becky.
Bertie pulled on the line, backed up a few steps, then pulled again, the large trout flapping and fighting against her efforts. Dare he help her like the first time he’d caught her fishing? He shook his head. Nope. Even though it was hot out, he had no desire to take a swim.
After a few more pulls, she finally brought the fish onto the bank.
“Wow, Bertie, that’s a beaut’. I knew you could bring him in.”
Sy had to admit it was a big one. For a brief second, something close to jealousy flickered through him. He quickly banished the little green monster. Fishing was mostly luck. The fish either bit or they didn’t. A fisherman was either able to hook them, or they got away.
With an efficiency he’d seen only in men, she removed the hook, put a string through the trout’s gills, tied one end of the string to a small sapling, and put the fish back in the creek. “See,” she held out the hook where a fat worm still wiggled. “He didn’t even eat my worm.”
“Good job, Bertie.” Les held up his small shovel. “Now show me where you dug up that magical worm so’s I can get myself one, too.”
So, maybe that was the trick. A better class of worms. The ones he brought from the farm were usually long and skinny, but hers were fat, just right for enticing a fish. “Show me, too, Bertie.”
Before long they had two fish apiece. None quite as big as Bertie’s first one, but not too bad. Between his and Les’ they’d have a good-sized supper tonight, and their mother would be happy. He lay on the grass and tucked his hands beneath his head. Wouldn’t it be great to have Saturday afternoons like this all the time?
Les lay beside him. “This is great, isn’t it?”
“Ya.” He raised his head and glanced around. “Where’re the girls?”
“I think they went to find some berries.”
He lay his head back down and enjoyed the clouds floating across the sky. “Hey, Les?”
“Hmmm?”
“You gonna marry Becky?”
“Probably.”
“You love her?”
Les sighed. “That’s a stupid question.”
“No, it’s not. If you think you’re going to marry Becky, you should love, her. Right?” Anyway, it made sense to him.
“Yeah. I love her.”
“Why?”
Les tossed a stick at him. “What’s with all the questions? You in love with Bertie?”
“Nah.” He tossed the stick back, “Anyway, I don’t think I am. Just can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Yeah. I’m that way about Becky.”
Sy rolled to his side facing his brother and cupped his head in his hand. “What makes them so special? I mean, Becky is cute and everything, but why doesn’t she invade my mind like Bertie does?”
“Beats the heck out of me. When I first set eyes on Becky, I could hardly breathe.” Les sat up and hooked his hands over his knees. “I asked Pa why that happens to men.”
“What did he say?”
“You want his exact words?”
What words of wisdom had Pa given Sy? They were sure to be wise and would help take care of the confusion in his brain and heart. “Sure.”
“He said . . .” Les paused and grinned over his shoulder.
“C’mon. Don’t leave me in suspense.”
“He said, ‘Damned if I know. Just glad God has it figured out, and I’m not one to question God.’”
“That’s it?” He sat beside Les. Those were his words of wisdom? “He doesn’t know? But Pa knows everything.”
“Evidently not.”
Sy raked his fishy-smelling fingers through his hair. “Well, I’ll be. Pa doesn’t know everything.”
“Evidently, not when it comes to women.” Les stood and stretched his arms over his head. “He said even after all the years he and Ma have been married, he still hasn’t figured her out or why he loves her so much. He just does.”
Well, that was something to ponder. Bertie and Becky emerged from the woods, holding their aprons up.
“Look what we found.” Bertie stood before him and held out her apron filled with blackberries. “There was a whole patch of them.”
Sy took a couple and tossed them into his mouth, enjoying the warm, sweet flavor hitting his tastebuds. “You’re lucky a bear hadn’t found them first or came across you picking them.”
“We made a lot of noise, so he’d know we were there.” Becky tossed a berry at Les’ open mouth.
Bertie licked juice from her lips. “There’s enough left to feed several bears.” After they shared a few more handfuls, she removed her apron. “There’s enough here for Mamaw to make a pie. Papaw loves blackberry pie.” She put the apron in her basket. “I’m going to wash off my hands in the creek.”
He loved blackberry pie, too, but he wasn’t about to demand she make one for him.
Becky copied Bertie and followed her to the creek, the girls whispering to each other on the way.
“What do you think they’re whispering about?” His heart caught in his throat when Bertie tucked the bottom of her skirt into her waistband, exposing her bare legs.
“I don’t know, but I’m not sure I could handle it if Becky does what Bertie just did.”
Sy wiped a hand down his face as Becky followed suit and the girls entered the water.
“C’mon, you two.” Becky waved a hand at them. “Come cool off with us.”
Did they dare? Was it proper? Sy ran a finger around a collar becoming tighter by the minute. Les bent at the waist. “What’re you doing?”
“Rolling up my pant legs and joining them. We have to head home soon, and it would be good to cool off.”
He waited a minute until Les waved him to the creek. What the heck. Who would ever know? But he’d try darn hard to keep his eyes from Bertie’s shapely calves.
Before he’d wet his toes, Becky flicked water at Bertie, who laughed, cupped her hands, and threw water at Becky, but missed completely. Not to be outdone, Becky kicked her foot at her friend, hitting Bertie straight in the face.
Was that laughter in Bertie’s scream? “Oh, you brat. I’ll get you for that.” She plowed through the creek bed, continuously splashing water at Becky.
Les threw back his head and roared. “I’ve never seen a water fight between two girls.”
Becky laughed and rounded on him. “You think it’s funny?” Before he could take a step back, the girls, giggling and screeching, splashed Les until he was soaking wet.
Dripping water down their faces, they stopped their game as quickly as they’d started it. Bertie narrowed her eyes at him. Oh, oh. This couldn’t be good. He retreated a step back toward shore. All three turned on him. With his long legs, Les took the lead, and before he could say no three pairs of arms pummeled him with water. Like he’d done when they were kids, Les grabbed his legs and toppled him into the water. He came up and charged at his older brother, but at the last minute, couldn’t resist Bertie’s laughter. He threw an arm around her waist and pulled her down. The water wasn’t deep, so it was only a second before they were sitting side by side on the sandy bottom.
Her dripping hair covered her closed eyes. Water dripped down the tip of her nose. She shivered.
Good lord, what had he done? She was going to be so angry she’d never want to see him again. “I’m so s—” Before he could finish his apology, she opened her eyes, pouted her lips, and, like a spigot from a hand pump, spewed a mouthful of water in his face.
Her laughter filled the air. Once she wiped the hair from her face, her sparkling eyes held mischief. His heart stopped. He’d been wrong earlier. Bertie was the prettiest thing he’d ever set his eyes on and, he decided right then and there, she would be his wife someday.
****
Still laughing, Bertha led the way from the creek. Her skirt had come out from her waistband and was making it difficult to walk. Once on the bank, Les and Becky went to their blanket. Bertha dropped to the ground and rung out her skirt and tried to rearrange her hair into some semblance of decorum.
She kept her eyes from Sy. What must he think of her silly behavior? “I must look a fright.”
Sy rested his forearms on his knees. “I’m sorry I pulled you into the water like that. It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me. I got caught up in the game.”
“Well, the way we attacked you, I guess I deserved it.”
He leaned over and tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “And no, you don’t look a fright. In fact, you look quite fetching. I particularly enjoyed it when you spit water at me. I expected you to be spitting mad.”
“How could I be mad about something we started and was so much fun?”
“I would love to kiss you again, but we have company.”
“Another time?”
“Of course.” He stared out over the creek. “I’m not sure how much time we’ll have together.”
Bertha’s heart sank. She had only a month left before she had to return home. “Why’s that?”
“We’ll be putting up hay next week. When we’re done at our place, we’ll be helping other farmers in the area. Before long, we’ll be butchering.”
It made sense. “Papaw was saying the same thing last night. I know he has his own crew coming in, but is there any chance you’ll be helping him this year?”
Sy shook his head. “No, but it’ll be only about two weeks before we’re done. There will still be time to get together before you have to leave.”
She put a hand on his forearm. “I’ll take whatever time we can. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you so much.”
“I do have a question for you.”
“What’s that?”
“If for some reason we can’t get together again this summer, will you be back another time?”
Bertha nodded. “We usually come for Thanksgiving and then Christmas.”
“Good. We always have a big dance at the school to celebrate the holidays.”
“I remember, but Mother never wanted to spend time with what she considers the lower class.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, huh. She can be a bit snobbish.”
“Will you please come this year?”
Her heart skipped a beat. A chance to see him again? She’d fight her mother tooth and nail to attend this year. “Of course, I will.”
Sy linked his fingers with hers. “I feel like we’re saying good-bye and the summer isn’t even over, but this time of the year can be extremely busy.”
“I feel the same way. Like there’s a cloud hanging over us ready to burst.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Just in case we don’t get to see each other again, will you save a dance for me?”
“I’ll save all my dances for you.”
“Will you write me?” Sy glanced up at her through his long eyelashes.
“Of course, I will.”
“And I’ll write you back.”
“As soon as I find out where I’ll be teaching, I’ll send you my address.”
Sy peered over his shoulder, then leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. “I’ve been wanting to do that all afternoon.”
Her heart nearly burst from her chest. “I’ve been waiting.”
“Hey, Sy.” Les stood over them, his hair still dripping. “We need to get going. Remember Pa and Ma went into Hastings after lunch. They didn’t know if they’d be back in time for chores, and we can’t leave Chester to do them alone.” He squinted and peered through the trees. “Plus, the sky is darkening to the west. Looks like a storm is coming.”
Sy stood and tugged Bertha to her feet. “Les is right, we need to go.”
“Mamaw is hoping for fish for supper, too.” She pulled the string with her two fish from the water and waited for the rest to do the same.
Even though they all needed to get home, they dragged their feet. Where were these thoughts of impending doom coming from? At the crossroads they stopped. Bertha averted her eyes when Les kissed her friend. With a wave, the brothers turned toward home.
When the men disappeared around a bend in the trail, Becky sighed. “I’m in love.”
What did one say when a friend made an announcement like that? Should she congratulate Becky? Squeal with delight? All she had was a blank mind.
“What’s wrong, Bertie?”
“Aren’t you too young to be in love, and how do you know you’re in love?”
With eyes lit up like a winter fire, a smile that would make the fire seem dim, Becky cupped her hands in front of her and swayed back and forth. “I can’t stop thinking of him.” She giggled. “He’s fun to be with. My heart nearly pounds from my chest and I can’t catch my breath whenever I’m near him. And his kiss . . .”
Bertha’s face heated. Heavens to Betsy. If that’s the way one felt when they were in love, then she was in love with Sy. She had all the symptoms. Becky closed her eyes. Was she going to swoon? She’d never known her friend to do so, but evidently the body changes when one is in love.
“Besides, does the heart know how old you need to be to fall in love?” Becky opened her eyes and wrapped her arms around her waist. “I mean, does the heart know you’re ten, seventeen, thirty, or even sixty? Why, Mr. Jones just got married to Mrs. Silversmith. Their hearts didn’t tell them they were too old, did they?”
Becky had a point. She knew girls who married at fourteen, but in her opinion, that was way too young. As far as she was concerned, seventeen was too young, too.
A bolt of lightning spiked across the sky, followed by a rumble of thunder. Becky crouched down as if making herself smaller would prevent getting struck. “We’d better get home before we get struck by lightning.”
Bertha couldn’t argue. Mamaw would be worried about her getting stuck in a storm. “I’ll see you at church tomorrow.” Thunder cracked across the field like a whip snapping in the air. The storm was moving rapidly. After taking a few precious seconds to drop the fish into the basket, she held the carrier against her chest and picked up her steps, racing down the path, past the barn and chicken coop. She didn’t slow down until she reached the front porch as the first, fat raindrops fell. Whew, she’d made it in the nick of time, although a good soaking would have washed off her dirty feet and skirt.
“Bertha Mae Jorgenson, what do you think you’re doing?” A woman’s high-pitched voice rose above the wind and rain.
She stopped on the porch floor, letting the rain pour down behind her. Her heart dropped. Mother. What in heaven’s name was she doing here? And . . . She peered between the strands of hair covering her eyes. Mr. Woods. Why would he be at the farm? Heat rose up her neck to her cheeks. This wasn’t going to bode well for her. “Hello, Mother.” Was this why she’d felt something bad was going to happen?
Papaw and Mamaw sat on the front porch swing, her grandmother’s face devoid of emotion. Was she angry her daughter had shown up unexpectedly or had she known about it beforehand? No. Mamaw would never keep a secret like this from her. What Papaw thought, she couldn’t tell.
Mother must have decided to surprise them, which wouldn’t be so bad if Mr. Woods wasn’t standing beside her, arms akimbo, a smirk on his face. Did he think her disheveled look was funny or disgusting?
Mrs. Jorgenson took a step back and eyed Bertha. “You’re a mess, young lady, and look like a hoyden. Where are your shoes? What have you been doing?”
“Fishing.” Knowing how much her mother hated fish, live or dead, she opened the basket and held the rope with the fish in the air. “I caught enough for supper.” She glanced at her grandparents. Papaw’s eyes twinkled as if he was finding this situation funny. “With the storm coming, I didn’t have time to clean them. Once the rain slows down, I’ll take them to the shed and gut them.” There, maybe that would send her mother back home. A proper young lady would never say the word gut in mixed company, let alone doing what the word implied.
“You’ll do no such thing, young lady.” Mrs. Jorgenson stretched her lips in a tight line before glancing sideways at Mr. Woods. “I hope you don’t think ill of my daughter for looking the way she does.”
Mr. Woods eyed her from the top of her head, moving down her body, hesitating at her chest, then stopping at her bare toes before grinning at her. “Not at all. I find it . . . refreshing.”
Bertha held back a shudder at his words. It wasn’t so much what he’d said, but the way he said them, like he wanted to do something to her she wouldn’t like. Why had Mother brought him?
Mrs. Jorgenson removed a handkerchief from inside her sleeve and held it to her nose . “Give those . . . those things to your grandfather to clean and set that basket down. You’re going upstairs right now to bathe and make yourself presentable.”
“But Mother. The fish. A fisherman always cleans his own catch.”
Papaw winked at her. “That’s right, Frieda. You remember it’s what I’d always told your brothers.”
Frieda folded her arms over her chest, glared at her father, and tapped her booted foot on the porch floor. “Did you and Bertha Mae catch what you both said?”
“Um. That I needed to take a bath and not clean my fish?”
“You both referred to males. Fisherman. Brothers.” She wiggled her finger like a worm between them. “So, that means you both are fully aware that females should not be catching or cleaning fish.”
“But, Mother, I always go fishing when I’m here.”
“And your being here is part of the problem. Fishing was fine when you were a young girl, but you’re a woman now and it’s time you started acting like it. Especially when I’ve brought a gentleman caller for you.”
“Frieda.” Mamaw’s voice held a hint of warning.
“What, Ma?” Frieda’s voice was sharp and irritated. “I’m talking with my daughter.”
Mamaw stood and faced her daughter. “And I’m talking with my daughter and don’t appreciate your being snippy with me.” Mamaw nodded at me. “Elmer, the rain has stopped. Why don’t you take Mr. Woods out to the barn and show him your horses? I’m sure a man like him would be interested in prime horseflesh.” When the men left the porch, Mamaw gave Bertha a small grin. “Bertie, go upstairs and freshen up like your mother told you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With her head down, Bertha opened the front door. Would Papaw clean those fish before they spoiled? It was doubtful Mr. Woods would dirty his hands with such a task.
“I’ll help you, Bertha Mae.” Her mother’s skirt swished behind her.
“Stay, Freida. I want to talk with you.”
“But, Ma . . .”
Bertha closed the screen door softly. What was Mamaw going to say to Mother? Holding up her wet skirt, she raced up the stairs. With her bedroom window open, she might be able to hear what they were saying.
Keeping one ear peeled to the voices coming through the window, she stripped down to her chemise and poured water from the white ceramic pitcher into the matching basin on her dresser top.
“What are you doing here, Frieda? I don’t recall inviting you.”
Good, so Mamaw was innocent. Bertha looked at herself in the mirror and cringed. Like her mother had said, she did resemble a hoyden. She removed the tie holding what little hair had not loosened and pulled a stray leaf from her tangled mass of hair.
“I came to fetch may daughter. When you didn’t answer my letter and she hadn’t shown up when I said, I assumed you weren’t going to send her home.”
How was Mamaw going to answer? Was she going to lie like Papaw suggested? She set down the washcloth and stood by the window to listen better.
“I’m not sure which letter you’re talking about, Frieda. We can’t always count on the post to get our mail to us.”
“It was a letter saying I wanted Bertha Mae to come home by this past Wednesday. She needs to start attending the social events to find a husband.”
“Bertie is too young to marry.”
“Ma, stop calling her Bertie. Her name is Bertha Mae.” Her heels clicked on the wooden floor of the porch as if she were pacing. “By the time she comes home from staying here every summer, she doesn’t even answer to her proper name. It’s time for her to grow up and become part of society.”
“Is this for her good or yours?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
In her mind’s eye, her mother was not looking at Mamaw, but toying with her necklace, trying to hide the fact Mamaw was right. Everything was about being seen as correct in the eyes of society. Mamaw’s sigh came clear over the porch roof and through the window.
“I never understood your need to be something other than what you are, Frieda.”
“And what am I, Ma? Some hick farm girl who should have married a hick farm boy and lived on a farm with ten or twelve equally hick children and wither away until I die?”
That sounded good to her. Why, Mamaw had raised ten children of their own and so far, she hadn’t withered away. If she had a man like Sy, she’d probably be happy until the day she died, surrounded by oodles of children and even more oodles of grandchildren.
“It may have been good enough for you, Ma, but it wasn’t for me. And it isn’t for my daughter.”
“Have you asked her what she wants?”
“Oh, she has some idea of following in your footsteps—being a wife and mother to some boorish farm boy.”
Her mother’s laughter seemed a bit shrill, like she wasn’t sure she believed what she was saying.
“There is nothing wrong with that, if it’s what makes her happy.”
“I believe I know what’s best for my daughter, not you.”
“And what you think is best is this Mr. Woods you dragged out here with you?”
“Yes. He’s rich and can give her everything she needs in life. He’d make her a fine husband.”
What? Bertha stepped away from the window and dropped to the edge of her bed. Her stomach pitched and its contents slid up her throat. Marry Mr. Woods? What was her mother thinking? Why, she didn’t even know the man. She’d spent more time with Sy than she had with the man she was supposed to marry. She went back to the window to hear more.
“Frieda, she’s too young to marry. Give her a chance to grow up a bit more. Have some fun before she’s tied down.”
“Have fun here? I saw what type of fun she’s having. Fishing, for heaven’s sake. Women do not fish. You probably even let her ride horses like a man.”
“You seem to forget, Frieda,” Mamaw’s voice held a steely edge to it, “that you went fishing as a young girl and rode horses astride with your brothers.”
“Maybe I did, but I want more for my daughter. She is coming home with me tomorrow, and she’ll marry Mr. Woods.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. If she were going to marry anyone, it would be Sy, not some old man who happened to have money.
“Bertha Mae Jorgenson,” her mother’s voice carried up the back stairs. “Are you about ready? Mr. Woods will be waiting for you. And make sure you have something on your feet, and your clothes are clean, and . . .”
Bertha tuned her mother’s demands out. Mr. Woods was waiting for her for what? With a deep sigh, she swiped at her tears, washed her face, put on a clean chemise, blouse, and skirt, and pinned up her still damp hair as best she could. If she were able to get away with it, she’d make herself look like an old hag. A harpy. A crazy woman. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue in the mirror.
She huffed a breath. Her mother would never let her get away with such a thing. For the first time since arriving at the farm, she donned her fancy boots and hooked them up. Her toes screamed at being confined. Her mother could spit and snarl all she wanted, but she was not going to wear these awful boots. She replaced them with her dark blue Sunday slippers and, with one look in the mirror, went to meet her fate.