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“If you’re so all fired to do some carpentry, why don’t you finish that mausoleum of yours?”
Her words brought him up short. “An apt description,” he said, glancing at the house he had planned with such enthusiasm. “Is that what they’re calling it around here?”
She didn’t look at him from where she was kneeling at the steps, but he could tell he had her attention. She took a nail out of her mouth, her eyes focused on some point on the steps, and replied in a mumble, as if she were ashamed to admit it. “I just heard the word used once. Folks were sayin’ as how you’ve buried yourself in the place.”
He said nothing, but watched her position the nail on the board. Above the intermittent whack of the hammer, he heard her words. “They say your lady—” bang! “—broke off the engagement.” Bang! “What’s the matter?” Bang! “She decide—” bang! “—she preferred someone else—” bang! “—after you run into your troubles in Boston?”
Silence.
To his own surprise he found himself answering as he watched her pick up another nail from the paper. “As a matter of fact, she did.”
He wasn’t sure if she could hear his quiet words, but her immediate reaction told him she had. She looked up at him, hammer and nail forgotten, her expression stunned as if that was the last thing she’d expected to hear.
“You’re serious.” Her words were as quietly spoken as his own. At his nod, she remained silent a moment, as if truly stumped for the first time.
Finally she just shook her head. “Don’t fret, Cap’n,” she said softly. “The woman’s clearly got no sense.” With those words she turned back to her work.
Caleb was amazed to feel no resentment at her tone of sympathy. In fact, he actually felt comforted. He didn’t have the foggiest idea how some rustic, uneducated woman’s simple words could reach him. Perhaps because for the first time in his life he felt someone’s complete acceptance of him. Even with his friend, Nate, Caleb had struggled to prove himself since the day they’d met. Caleb had been a lad of eight, and Nate, at thirteen, had appeared to him a hero. Caleb had been playing catch-up ever since.
But with the woman kneeling at the steps in front of him, there was no censure, no judgment, and no expectations he had to fill. It didn’t seem to matter to Miss Patterson what his background was, whether he was innocent or guilty of wrongdoing. She accepted him just as he presented himself. No past, no gossip, no stories that had reached her ears seemed to affect her opinion.
Caleb had never experienced this kind of acceptance, and he didn’t know quite what to make of it.
The next day Caleb was thinning his thriving seedlings when he heard Jake’s bark. He turned, amazed to see the dog bounding across his yard making straight for him. The bark sounded exuberant, and Caleb sat back, curious to see what his neighbor and her dog were coming for. Geneva walked more slowly behind her pet, slower than Caleb had ever seen her walk. She always seemed so purposeful, and today, he’d venture to say, she approached hesitantly.
Caleb had begun calling her Geneva to himself. He liked the sound of it. It suited her.
Jake ran around Caleb, and Caleb turned, afraid the dog would step on his new plants, but Jake didn’t even touch the edge of the soil. Caleb glanced up at his mistress, realizing, despite appearances, how well trained the dog must be.
Geneva was carrying a basket in one hand. When she stopped, still a little distance from him, Caleb pushed his hat back. “Good morning. Come to inspect your little ones?”
She looked surprised at his remark. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He made a motion with his head toward the row of plants. “You’ve got a stake in these crops. I expect you want to see how they’re doing.”
She flushed. “’Course not. They’re yours.”
After a short silence, he said, “I wish there was something I could do for you in return. You’ve helped me immeasurably. If you hadn’t come over that first day, I’d have nothing but a big weed field by now and a sore back.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t do nothin’ special.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he answered. Their gazes met, and he realized she was the only villager who hadn’t once looked at him as if he were guilty. “Thank you.”
She gripped the handle of her basket with her two hands, clearly uncomfortable with his gratitude. He knew he’d offend her if he offered her money in payment for her help. “What have you got there?” he asked to distract her.
“This?” She looked down at the basket before holding it out to him. “Brought you some strawberries. They’re wild, my crop’s not ripe yet. But these are better anyway. Sweeter.”
To ease her obvious embarrassment, Caleb stood and took the basket from her. Inside, nestled in some hay, sat a dish full of the reddest, tiniest strawberries he’d ever seen. He popped one into his mouth, smiling at the burst of sweetness and juice. “These are good. Where did you pick them?”
She motioned off to a field up the road. “Up there by the edge of the woods. I’ll show you, if you like.”
“They probably make good jam,” he added, still hoping to put her at ease.
She nodded and looked toward the ocean. “I just picked ’em this morning. Thought I’d bring you some.”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “You wouldn’t be taking pity on me now, would you, after what I told you yesterday?”
Her reddened cheeks made her look so guilty, Caleb felt sorry immediately. Clearly she wasn’t used to offering a person comfort.
Her denial came swiftly, cutting off any chance Caleb had of making amends. “Ain’t none of my business why you’re here or what your lady done to you.” She stuck her hands in her back pockets and looked down at the toes of her boots.
“Forget about all that. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.” Caleb set the basket down on the ground, then straightened, rubbing his two hands together, deciding it was better for both of them if he changed the subject. “I’d like to repay you for all the help you’ve given me with the planting. You seem bound and determined not to let me help you with any physical labor. Isn’t there anything I can do for you, in return for all you’ve done for me?” He laughed ruefully and gestured toward the basket. “Including these beautiful berries you picked for my breakfast?”
“You don’t have to do nothing for me.”
“I know that. But neither do I want to be in your debt. I’ll never feel I can ask you another favor, not even to show me exactly where you picked these berries—”
“You could teach me to read,” she blurted out before he could finish persuading her.
“What?” She’d said it so fast, he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
She continued looking stubbornly at her feet. “You heard me.”
Caleb hid his surprise and said in a neutral voice, “I thought I heard you say I could teach you to read.”
“That’s right.” She began tapping one foot, as if at any moment she’d be off.
“I’m not sure whether I could teach anyone to read or write,” he said carefully.
She finally looked at him, jutting out her chin. “What’s the matter? It’s not too difficult, is it?”
Her tone was belligerent, but that didn’t fool Caleb. He realized what treacherous ground he was treading on. “No, it’s not too difficult. It’s just that you have to be specially trained to teach someone to read.”
Her focus returned to her feet. The toe of the boot that had been tapping now began to dig into the dirt. “You think I’m too stupid to learn.”
Caleb held back a sigh. Whatever he said would probably be wrong. “I think you’re very intelligent.”
At that she looked at him.
“I’m the one who’s probably too stupid to teach you. It’s like planting. Did you think it would be so easy to teach an ignorant seaman to plant a garden?”
She considered, then shook her head. “But I did, didn’t I?”
Poor example, he said to himself. To her he said, “Yes, you did, and you did a fine job. Except for neglecting to warn me about those cutworms.” He let out a breath at seeing her reluctant smile, a smile that transformed her from dour farmer to fresh-faced lass.
Against his will, knowing it would probably end badly, he said with a sigh, “If you’re willing to risk it with me, I shall try to teach you. Only, I don’t guarantee anything. You must promise me that if I can’t teach you, it doesn’t mean you can’t learn, just that I’m not a very good teacher. Is that agreed?”
She nodded.
“I only have a few books and they wouldn’t be suitable—technical things on sailing.”
“That’s all right,” she interrupted. “I have a book.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It was my ma’s.”
He wondered what kind of woman her mother had been. He’d heard about her father from the villagers, but he hadn’t heard much about the maternal influence in her life. Whatever it had been had made an impact, judging by the reverent tone of voice she used when she mentioned her mother’s book.
“Good enough,” he agreed. “It’s settled.” He held out his hand.
After a second’s hesitation, she brought forth her own hand. He felt the long, slim fingers wrap around the edge of his palm, and he remembered once again their soft touch upon her pet.
“Bring the book this afternoon and we’ll start with our first lesson.”
Geneva took the cloth off the rough-hewn chest and lifted the lid. The pungent smell of cedar brought back a sharp reminder of her mother. Geneva had knelt at her feet whenever her ma had opened the chest. Geneva’s pa had made the chest for his bride, and in it she’d kept the few items of her former life. Over the years, her mother had added the quilts she’d made. Geneva lifted those out first, remembering her mother’s hands as she’d sat in her rocker and sewed the squares together. Bits of pale yellow and lavender and moss green formed a pattern of flowers against a white muslin background.
Next came a couple of woolen sweaters her ma had knitted for herself and her husband. Geneva often wore them in winter now. There at the bottom of the chest lay her mother’s few personal possessions—some old dresses, the cloth worn thin from so many washings. Geneva had never been able to bring herself to cut them up for rags.
Geneva’s hand smoothed the brown wool skirt of her mother’s best dress, the dress she’d been married in. She and Pa had married in November. The sisters at the convent had made the dress for her. That was the last thing they’d given her before sending her back out into the world. They’d received her as a little girl, from her Indian father who’d just lost his white wife.
Geneva set the dress aside. Below it was a thick roll of fabric, which her mother had purchased for a new dress. She remembered her excitement as a little girl that last spring before her mother had become bedridden, as her mother told her she’d bought enough fabric to make a dress for the two of them for summer. She’d told Geneva they’d be like twins instead of mother and daughter. The fabric had remained in one piece and would probably stay that way until it began to crumble at the folds with decay.
Geneva pushed aside the fabric and uncovered the object she’d come to get. A soft, brown, suede-bound volume with gilt letters. Geneva opened the book upon her crossed legs. Neatly printed letters in black upon white. She could recognize most of the letters, but could make nothing of the groupings. She’d tried and tried over the years.
What had made her think that this time it would be any different? What had possessed her to ask the captain to teach her to read? She could feel the heat suffusing her face as she thought once again of her request. The captain had acted so cordial. He’d seemed practically like his old self, the man she remembered on the wharf, so genuinely interested in doing something for her. But to spill out her most shameful secret? What had possessed her?
Having already spent the day agonizing over her behavior that morning, Geneva gave herself a shake and replaced everything in the chest, except the book. She stood and straightened her shoulders. She’d already washed her hands and face and combed her hair and changed her shirt. There was nothing left but to face the situation head-on. She gripped the book and marched to the door.
The afternoon sun was still high in the sky, causing the ocean at the end of the Point to shimmer in a thousand brilliant lights. Geneva could list a dozen things she should be doing instead of whiling away the afternoon poring over a book.
Jake started to follow her. “No, boy. You’d best stay home,” she told him, giving her yard a look of longing. How much she’d give to take her foolish words back and spend the afternoon on her soil, with the things she knew. “Your mistress has got to have all her wits about her this afternoon.”
Jake was no longer listening to her words. He turned his head away from her and began to bark. Geneva followed his gaze.
She stifled a sigh of annoyance at seeing her neighbor, Mrs. Stillman, bearing down her way, carrying a bundle wrapped in a dishcloth.
“Geneva!” Mrs. Stillman’s shrill voice reached her from the road.
Geneva sighed again and walked to meet the woman.
“Good afternoon.” Mrs. Stillman’s voice was breathless from her hike down the road.
“Afternoon.” Geneva remembered too late that she was still holding her mother’s book. She didn’t know whether to rest it on the stone wall in back of her, or just hang on to it, hoping it would go unnoticed. She decided the less movement she made with it, the better.
“You haven’t been by to collect any milk.” The farmer’s wife readjusted one of the pins in her abundant gray roll of hair. “I brought you some fresh butter. Sarah just churned it this morning.”
Sarah was Mrs. Stillman’s oldest daughter and Geneva’s age. Geneva had detested her since the two had walked to school together and Sarah had whispered things to her sisters, pointing and giggling at Geneva the whole way.
“Thank you,” Geneva mumbled, reaching out to take the proffered butter, laying the book on the stone wall in the process.
Mrs. Stillman smoothed her starched apron. “Is everything all right with you? You haven’t been by the farm.”
“Right as rain. Been busy with the garden is all.”
Mrs. Stillman nodded.
Geneva shifted the covered crock of butter from one hand to the other.
“Your new neighbor hasn’t been botherin’ you, has he?”
Geneva glanced at her. “Who?”
Mrs. Stillman’s glance strayed down the road to the Point. “The captain. I’ve seen you over there.”
Geneva started. “What’s wrong with giving him a hand?”
“Now, Geneva, I know you don’t like anyone interfering with what you do, and land sakes, you don’t live the kind of life I’d like to see any of my daughters live, but listen when I tell you, that man’s not someone you should get friendly with.”
Geneva straightened her shoulders. “There’s nothing wrong with Cap’n Caleb. He’s a decent, honorable gentleman.”
Mrs. Stillman’s lips tightened. “A woman’s got only one reputation and she’d better do her best to keep it spotless.”
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to be ashamed of. That’s more’n I can say for the rest of Haven’s End.”
“Don’t get your dander up. I’m not saying you are. But the less time you spend over there, the better.”
Geneva glared at her but decided she’d said enough.
When Mrs. Stillman saw that Geneva wasn’t going to say anything more, she sighed and smoothed down the front of her apron once more.
“Well, I’ve spoken my piece. I’ll leave the butter with you. You make sure you come by and get a pail of milk. Need to put some meat on your bones.” Her neighbor looked her critically up and down. She’d long ago stopped admonishing her to wear a dress, but never managed to hide her looks of disapproval.
“What’s that you got there?” Mrs. Stillman’s chin jutted toward the book perched on the flat stone.
“Just a book.”
She chuckled. “Where are you going with a book?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You aren’t going…to lend it to a neighbor?” Her gaze traveled down the road toward the captain’s house.
Geneva looked down at the broken clamshells at her feet, noticing how green and damp the grass was along the edges of her path.
“A young woman oughtn’t be visitin’ a man alone. It’s not proper.”
Geneva wished she could just walk off and leave her nosy neighbor, but she didn’t want to do anything to cause harm to the captain. People were condemning him enough as it was. She thought of the way he’d told her that Miss Harding had broken the engagement and gone with another man. He had stated it so simply, but Geneva had sensed the pain behind the admission.
The captain didn’t need her adding to his woes. He needed her protection from the villagers’ gossip.
She cleared her throat, looking Mrs. Stillman in the eye. “Cap’n Caleb hasn’t done nothin’ that wasn’t proper and decent. I just offered some help to start his garden. There hasn’t been any more to it than that.”
