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An odd thought. One she’d examine later.
Callie greeted passersby as they strolled by the variety of shops dotting the main street: Langley’s Barber Shop, Lily’s Millinery and Gloves, Harrington’s Grocery, Cunningham’s Pharmacy. Up ahead the Mitchell Mercantile. A dog sniffed his way along the walk beside her, and then trotted across the street, successfully dodging horses’ hooves and buggy wheels.
Outside the post office, Jacob turned toward her. “I think I’ll look into getting a haircut.”
“Your hair is a bit shaggy,” she said with a smile.
He doffed his hat and plowed his fingers through his ebony hair. “We mutts aren’t groomed as often as those fancy lapdogs.”
“Nothing about you suggests mutt, Mr. Smith.”
His lips tilted up into a soft smile that climbed into his eyes and settled on her with such intensity that her mouth went dry as dust. She glanced away. “The barber is Elise’s father.”
“Thanks for the warning.” He plopped his hat on his head, flashed his dimple, then strode off, turning more than one woman’s head in his direction.
Jacob Smith was all male, more cowboy than any man she’d met. Unable to take her eyes off his lanky figure, she watched until he entered the barbershop. Chiding herself for such foolishness, she pivoted toward the post office and stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust to the dim interior.
Marlene Thompson, the postmistress, looked up from sorting the mail and punched her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose with her index finger. “Afternoon, Callie. How are you feeling?”
“The fatigue and nausea are long gone.” She smiled. “I just felt the baby move.” So much for telling only her friends such personal news, but she couldn’t seem to keep it to herself.
“What do you want? Boy? Or girl?”
“I want whatever I’m having.”
“With that attitude, you won’t be disappointed. Mr. Thompson was determined to have a girl. Five boys later, he decided I was girl enough for him.” She chuckled. “I could’ve told him that a whole lot sooner.”
Callie giggled. “Do I have any mail?”
“Nothing today. Nothing that is, except a question.” She motioned her closer. “I heard Elise Langley’s staying with you.”
“She is.”
“Good.” Mrs. Thompson’s brown eyes warmed with interest. “My nephew Albert and his wife, Sally, would love to have that baby if Elise is looking for a good home for it.”
“I believe Elise plans to keep her baby.”
Marlene’s shoulders sagged. “Well, if she changes her mind, ask her to talk to Sally.”
“I will.”
Callie knew the Thompsons and their desperate desire for a child. They would make wonderful parents. Callie doubted that Elise would consider such an arrangement. Yet her heart ached for the Thompsons. Why did some women long to have a child, yet remained barren, while others conceived babies with no interest in or means of caring for them?
What circumstances had led Jacob Smith’s mother to put her son in an orphanage? Or perhaps she had been forced to give up her child, as Elise’s father was trying to do.
If Callie had questions, she could only imagine Mr. Smith’s desire for answers. Could that be the reason he’d come to Peaceful? She sighed. Why was she getting involved with this man’s life? He’d only bring her grief.
A block down, Callie entered Mitchell’s Mercantile. The cavernous room held every utensil, tool, canned good, fresh-baked good and ready-made article of clothing imaginable. She dreaded running into her father-in-law. Yet, if she shopped elsewhere, the news would get back to him. She glanced around. No Commodore. No customers. Callie breathed a sigh of relief.
Since Martin’s death, her father-in-law had badgered her to move in with him and Dorothy, and Callie suspected he wanted her and her baby to fill the void in their lives after losing Martin. She understood that, but the vehemence of his insistence unnerved her. Did something beside grief motivate him?
At a table piled with an assortment of tiny garments and fabric for making blankets and diapers, Callie plucked a white gown from the stack. Silky ribbons closed the neckline, cuffs and hemline, every detail precious. She couldn’t imagine caring for an infant small enough to wear this. But in four months, she would. Would she even know how to be a good mother? What if the baby got sick? Or—
No, she refused to worry. Just because her parents and Martin had died tragically didn’t mean disaster lurked around every corner. Countless women had children and managed fine.
But alone?
She knew very few who’d handled that responsibility without a husband. She laid a hand on her abdomen. Please, God, keep my baby safe. Help me be a good mother.
If only she could talk to her mother, to ask advice, to share the specifics of motherhood. Her throat clogged. She didn’t have her mother, but she did have a mother-in-law and the ladies at church to advise her. She’d have support.
As she fingered the soft blanket, visualizing cuddling her baby swathed in its folds, filling her arms and her heart with a family of her own, tension drained out of her.
“Small, aren’t they?” Commodore’s gentle, almost reverent voice startled her. “Takes me back to Martin’s arrival.”
Surprised by this sentimental side of Commodore, Callie met his moist gaze and smiled. “From the pictures I’ve seen, Martin was a beautiful baby.”
“Sure was. And strong. Why, he held up his head that first week.” His voice sounded gruff, thick with emotion. “If you want material to make our grandbaby anything, I’ll, ah, wrap it up.” He shifted. “No charge. Get some dresses, too.”
“Thank you. That’s most generous.” Callie had no idea how she’d manage it, but somehow she’d find a way. “I’ll work here on Saturdays to repay you.”
“Nonsense. We want to help. We still have Martin’s crib, high chair, baby carriage. Dorothy saved everything he touched.”
Commodore’s effort to build a bridge between them softened Callie’s wariness. “I could put the crib in the small bedroom.”
His gaze hardened. “If you’d move in with us, we’d see to your and the baby’s every need.”
At the familiar argument, a constant sting between them, Callie sighed. Could she make Commodore understand? She had to try. She took a fortifying breath. “I need a place of my own to raise my child and make a life. Not to shut you and Dorothy out, but to have my own traditions, my own routines.”
“You can do all that at our place. Why are you being stubborn? You used to be reasonable, someone we could talk to.” He exhaled impatiently. “Why not be honest? All you can think about is housing that Langley girl.”
“That’s part of it, but not all. I wish you could understand.”
“I understand, all right.” He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “You’d rather remain in a house that caused Martin’s death than move in with us. My son would want you and his baby with us.”
As if Commodore had known Martin’s mind. They’d been at odds for years. Fighting to control her emotions, Callie inspected several baby things.
“Commodore, I appreciate your concern about the house, but I want to assure you I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile. “I know the house’s every flaw and will be careful.”
“I can’t stomach the sight of it.” Commodore’s tone was harsh, condemning. “If not for that eyesore, my son would be alive today, not laid out in Walnut Grove Cemetery. But no, you had to have this house. Nothing but that monstrosity would do.”
Callie wrapped her arms around herself. Did he blame the house for Martin’s death? Or was he dancing around the fact that he blamed her? “I’m heartsick about Martin’s fall, his death.” A sob tore from her throat. “But leaving my house won’t bring him back. Nothing we do will bring him back.”
Her nagging had cost Martin his life. If only Callie had asked someone with experience to replace the shingles, instead of fussing about the cost, about yet another bill they couldn’t pay.
Perhaps living with Martin’s parents would be her penance. But she couldn’t cope under Commodore’s accusing eyes. Decrepit or not, she had to keep the house, the one place where she felt at home. The one place she could recreate the family she’d lost.
And fulfill the promise she’d made to Nell. The promise she’d made to God to provide for unwed mothers.
“Commodore, please. Martin saw our home as a perfect place to raise our children.”
“It hardly makes sense for Dorothy and me to rattle around in that big house of ours, while your place drains you dry. From where I stand, you’re going to lose it anyway.”
His words tore through Callie and ricocheted in her chest. How would she provide for Elise and two babies, once they arrived? “I’ve got to go.” She whirled toward the door.
If God wanted her to give Elise a home and others like her, He’d show her a way to handle the expense, just as He’d brought her a carpenter to make the repairs.
It would all work out.
She was sure of it.
Chapter Four
Sporting a new haircut and a surly attitude toward the barber who’d shorn him like a spring lamb, Jake returned to demolishing the porch. Elise’s father had bombarded him with questions. No doubt suspicious of a newcomer. Or, if Jake chose to think the best of people, perhaps Langley merely was making conversation.
In any case, Jake admitted that he was renovating the Mitchell place and had met the barber’s daughter. Neither spoke of Elise’s condition, though obviously her father had her on his mind. He’d had the gall to suggest that Callie Mitchell had persuaded his daughter to move in with her. Jake had leaped to her defense, raising Langley’s ire. The man used his scissors to emphasize his points. Jake was fortunate to still be in possession of his ears.
Mrs. Mitchell opened the screen door. “Do you need the fruit jar refilled?”
Did this woman never stop thinking of others? “I’d appreciate it.” He carried the jar to her, promptly getting lost in the depths of her dazzling blue-green eyes.
“Did Mr. Langley say anything about Elise?”
“He’s not happy she’s living here.”
Her eyes dimmed. “I know.”
An urge to teach Langley a thing or two for upsetting Mrs. Mitchell this way gripped Jake. But what did he know about being a father? About dealing with an unwed daughter in a family way?
“Yoo-hoo! Callie!” A twig of a woman, white hair frizzing around her face like a windblown cloud, lurched up the walk pulling a loaded wagon, impressive for someone surely approaching eighty.
“Mildred, whatever are you toting in that wagon?”
“Memories, dear. Births, deaths and everything in between.” The lady’s hand swept the stacks of newspapers and scrapbooks crammed to overflowing. “Some of this memorabilia dates back to the town’s beginnings.”
“That’s nice but…I don’t understand why you’re bringing all that here.”
“You will as soon as I explain.” She tilted her head toward Jake. “You’re that fellow who stopped at my place looking for work. I’d have hired you, but I’m not sure of my plans for the house.” Jake nodded.
“It’s about time you got help, Callie, before this house falls down around your ears. Not an easy way to get them pierced.” She gave an unladylike snort.
“Mr. Smith’s already replaced the roof shingles.”
“Ah, a hard worker and easy on the eyes.” The woman winked. “I may be old as dirt, but I can still appreciate a good-looking man. Not why I wed my dear husband, but I enjoyed that handsome face of his more than dessert after a meal.”
At Mrs. Uland’s perusal, Jake’s neck heated. The feisty older woman merely grinned, as if enjoying his discomfort.
“This old Victorian sat empty too long. All it needs is someone who cares like Callie here and someone with the know-how to give it life.” Her approving gaze rested on Jake. “Appears that’s you, Mr. Smith.”
“Sitting empty isn’t good for a house,” he said.
“Sitting in an empty house isn’t good for a person, either.” Mrs. Uland laughed. “I’m not in mine, more than I have to be.”
He motioned to the wagon. “Let me help with that.”
“Oh, a knight in shining armor.” She wagged a knobby finger. “Just keep your nose out of them. Took me hours to get those issues in order of publication.”
“They’re safe with me.” His mind raced like a hound dog after a fox. The information in this wagon could possibly unlock his birth mother’s identity. If he examined these newspapers, he might find his birth announcement.
“I’m not following you,” Mrs. Mitchell said, looking slightly dazed.
“Of course, you’re not, dear. If you have time for tea, I’ll explain.”
“I do.”
Jake scooped up an armload of newspapers. “Where do you want these?”
From the flicker of dismay in Callie Mitchell’s eyes, she didn’t want them anywhere, but she didn’t let on. “Follow me,” she said, gathering the scrapbooks, then taking the older woman’s arm. “Watch your step, Mildred.”
They picked their way across the dilapidated porch. “A strong man around the place comes in mighty handy.” She lowered her voice, but not so low that Jake couldn’t hear. “Maybe you can find a way to keep him around permanently.”
For a moment, Mrs. Mitchell hesitated, and then hurried her elderly neighbor along, as if fearing what would come out of her mouth next.
The women entered the house and led him down a wide hallway, the wooden floor gleaming, past a magnificent staircase nestled into the curve of the outside wall. The house was an extraordinary example of Victorian architecture.
At the back of the house, they stopped at a door opening into a small library, the book-laden shelves rising from floor to ceiling. He stacked the newspapers on the large desk, a desire to look at them building inside him. As soon as he finished the porch, he’d ask permission. He suspected both ladies would question his interest. But he wouldn’t open that Pandora’s box.
With the contents of the wagon stowed in the library and the wagon back in Mrs. Uland’s yard, Jake returned to the porch.
Inside, Callie Mitchell sat across the table from her neighbor, a pot of tea and some kind of secret between them.
Callie poured Mildred’s cup of tea. “What’s this about?”
“I’ve spent days rummaging through every nook and cranny in my house searching for that memorabilia, then getting it in order.”
Callie’s usually dapper neighbor looked like she’d gotten into a brawl and lost. Her hair appeared uncombed. The lapels on her dress tipped like a bird in flight. Her stockings were drooping around her ankles. Finding and putting those newspapers in order had taken its toil.
“I’ll tell you it wore me out. I’m not what I used to be. Why, last week I had to rest while weeding the garden.” She smiled. “Isn’t the early lettuce yummy? I love wilting it, though it’s tender enough to eat straight out of the garden.”
Though she had a sharp mind, upon occasion Mildred went off on some tangent and forgot the point of the conversation.
Her eyes met Callie’s. “Oh, sorry, dear. You asked about the newspapers.”
“Why did you bring them here?”
“Those newspapers and scrapbooks are records you’ll need.” Her voice had a slightly impatient tone, as if unable to understand Callie’s dim-wittedness.
“Why would I need them?” Callie asked gently.
