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  Katherine would have let out a groan if manners had permitted. Why did Mother have to be so helpful? She did her best to recover. “I have always tried to encourage him. He wants to write a history book or an important biography some day.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, and I think he will succeed. He’s quite brilliant in all subjects.”

  “Indeed.” For the first time, Otis seemed vexed.

  “I—I know you’re very smart as well, too, Otis,” Katherine added.

  “Thank you for that.” Otis set his empty plate on the table.

  “Might I offer you another slice of pie?” Mother asked.

  Otis patted the striped vest that covered his belly. Katherine confirmed her first observation that despite his willowy frame, Otis’s abdomen appeared portly for a man under the age of thirty, but she decided extra layers of fat lent him a look of prosperity.

  She set her mind back on the query at hand. “Christopher’s father needs him on the farm, and he’s studied agriculture so they can grow crops more efficiently. But I do hope he will take time to write his book. Maybe in the winter when the work on the farm is less taxing.”

  “Oh, there’s always something to do on a farm. The livestock don’t take a break in the winter,” Mother said. “They still expect to be fed. And the cows must be milked twice a day, and of course there are always eggs to be gathered.”

  Otis pondered Mother’s observation. “Now that you make mention of such tasks, Mrs. Jones, I must say, farming does sound quite different from a normal business. I suppose I had never given working the land for a living much thought. I don’t have it in my blood, as they might say.”

  Katherine hadn’t thought about the idea that her friend harbored no love for farming. Her family had occupied their piece of land for three generations. Her grandfather Jones had granted parcels of acreage to her uncles for their own home sites, and she expected they would further divide up the land so her cousins could live on the same site in peace and comfort.

  Katherine had never thought about living anywhere else or adopting any lifestyle other than that of a farm wife. What if Otis really did think he might cart her off to South Carolina? Would she be happy amid palm trees and in sweltering heat most of the year, even if they did decide to live near the Atlantic Ocean where she could wet her feet and enjoy the cooling effects of the water? Katherine had never seen the ocean. She had only seen pictures of it in books. If the photographs were to be believed, the water met the sky in a never-ending mass. She pictured a scene of uninterrupted blue on blue. What would it look like in reality? She shrugged but kept the idea to herself. Living near a vast body of water held no special appeal to her. The idea of seeing the ocean in real life felt akin to traveling to Europe one day. Both offered a distant fantasy that might be tempting but not appealing enough to pursue with determination.

  “So what is your favorite chore, Katherine?” Otis asked.

  She jerked back into the present. “Chore? Oh, I suppose I don’t mind baking. Although it’s a bit warm to undertake too much kitchen work at present.”

  Otis nodded his head toward his empty dessert plate. “You certainly display a knack for baking.”

  Katherine smiled at his approval. As her mother extolled Katherine’s talents in the kitchen, she resumed her daydreams. She had always pictured herself helping her husband—whoever God planned for her—on a farm. She would assist in tending the livestock, making sure the chickens were fed, the cows milked twice a day, and the pigs slopped so that they would fatten nicely for butchering. She could almost smell salted cured ham, aromatic slabs of bacon, and fried fatback.

  Her thoughts returned to her imaginary future husband. She would help him plant peas, corn, turnips, potatoes, and strawberries in spring. As she thought, she could almost feel plowed dirt give way beneath her shoes. Disturbed from its rest, the dirt left little particles on her feet in protest. After tending to the gardens throughout the summer, Katherine would help with the harvest. She anticipated spending weeks canning the harvested vegetables and making jelly and preserves—strawberry from the small patch they would keep and grape from a few vines she would maintain of deep purple Concord grapes. Like the Proverbs 31 woman, she would keep her family well fed over the winter months.

  At night she would relax by crocheting blankets, mittens, hats, and scarves for her own children and extras for any babies her friends might be expecting that year—just as she was stitching a pair of white booties for the baby Vera’s sister Alice expected to arrive soon. She would sew clothes from colorful fabrics she had ordered from the Wish Book or saved from patterned flour sacks. When snow covered the ground, she would embroider a fine seam so the family would have fresh linens for the summer. She would bake for Christmas and inhale the scent of a freshly cut cedar tree decorated with strings of popcorn and peppermint candy sticks. Her children would find nice round oranges and walnuts in their Christmas stockings, and each would have a new pair of mittens and socks she fashioned herself.

  “My, Katherine, but what are you thinking about?” Mother interrupted.

  She startled. “Oh, nothing. Just about crocheting.”

  “Crocheting? Oh, yes, you must show Otis that blanket you’re fashioning.” Mother leaned toward him. “It’s the most beautiful shade of red. I am trying to convince her to enter it in next year’s fair.”

  “Perhaps she should.”

  The fair. Was there such a thing in Charleston? She wondered what life in Charleston would be like in comparison. Perhaps she would be expected to patronize a seamstress instead of buying fabric and a sewing pattern from the dry goods store. Maybe a laundress would come to her house to wash her clothes and iron her linens and Otis’s shirts. Katherine had to admit that was one chore she wouldn’t miss. Standing over a heavy, hot iron while trying to coax wrinkles out of starched cotton wasn’t her idea of a fun way to pass an afternoon. Nor were sweeping and dusting, two chores that always seemed to beckon. Maybe having others to help in the city would be a blessing.

  But then she thought about how her friend Vera once told her about the rank odors of Baltimore: manure, garbage, too many people crunched together. Katherine stole a glimpse at her beloved front yard, flush with magnolia trees that stood fifty feet high and were covered with waxy, dark green leaves. The back and both side yards were equally majestic and offered a lush array of trees that God Himself had planted before her grandfather’s birth. She recalled the sweet, cool, fragrant breezes that descended from their boughs.

  Though Otis never wrote in so many words that he planned to court her, she suspected that he wanted to visit her home in Maryland in part to see if she would one day make him a good wife. After all, they had been writing letters to one another for years, and she had not as of yet been spoken for.

  She wondered how many trees Charleston could hold in a yard. Few if any, she imagined. Could she make herself content with a window box planted with small flowers, maybe petunias? She wanted to scrunch her nose at the thought.

  Light shone through Mother’s spotless windows and fresh curtains. Who wanted to smell foul odors all day when the country offered open air and sunshine? Then she remembered how she adored newly picked vegetables and fruits. Vera had once mentioned friends in Baltimore who rented a plot of land so they could have a garden. Imagine! Even then, she couldn’t see how a city garden could hold the capacity to produce much of a crop. She speculated that Otis was wealthy enough to purchase a house with a yard that could be called spacious in a city. Yet at the same time, she imagined that on such limited space, she could put up a few jars of jelly at most.

  What about meat, milk, and eggs? She’d have to purchase those at a market, she supposed. In any town, raising her own chickens and cows would be out of the question.

  She held back a sigh. No wonder city women had garden clubs and society meetings. The city offered nothing for them to do all day!

  At that moment a chicken that had ventured closely to the ho
use clucked, a sound she heard through the open parlor window. The clucking seemed to beg her to stay.

  What is the matter with me? Why are my thoughts running wild? What has this visit from Otis put in my head?

  She knew as soon as the questions entered her mind. His presence introduced new possibilities for her future. Possibilities she had never considered.

  “But of course, though farming is not for me,” Otis explained to Mother, “I give farming and farmers my highest respect. Working the land is a noble profession.”

  “I’m sure that’s what Katherine thinks, don’t you, Katherine?” Mother prodded.

  “Indeed!”

  “Is that all you have to say?” Mother chuckled and shook her head. “You’ll soon find my Katherine is seldom so silent.”

  Katherine felt her cheeks flush. “I’m sorry.”

  “Never you mind,” Mother assured Otis. “She’ll start talking soon enough.”

  Katherine resisted the strong urge to turn her gaze up to the ceiling and back, but such a motion would only make her seem to be the little girl her mother portrayed her to be.

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Jones, I find Katherine’s speech to be quite charming.”

  Mother sent him an approving smile.

  Flattered, Katherine ventured an observation. “One good aspect of farming is that you have a chance to rest a little in the winter, along with the land.”

  “Hello! Do I hear voices in the parlor?” Father’s tenor grew a little louder with each word as he made his way toward them from the kitchen.

  “Yes you do, dear,” Mother called.

  Father crossed through the archway.

  “Father!” Katherine rose to her feet. “Otis is here.”

  She noticed the contrast between Otis’s pressed suit and Father’s denim overalls. His shirt had started out the day crisp and clean, but now the sleeves were filthy and the collar filled with dust. Out of consideration for Mother, he had wiped the mud from his boots, but the smells of the outdoors hung about him and wafted into the parlor, mixing with the pristine and feminine atmosphere of the formal room.

  Otis rose. “Good afternoon, Mr. Jones.”

  Katherine couldn’t help noticing that Otis, on the other hand, could have posed for a gentleman’s shaving lotion advertisement in a fine periodical. Not a hair strayed out of place. The part in the middle looked so straight that it could have been the model for a school child’s ruler. His deep-hued hair shone, and his fashionable dark mustache had been tamed into place with a liberal application of wax. His white collar held so much starch that there was no danger of it bouncing out of place. Likewise his dark suit could carry him into the finest dining establishment with ease, complemented by shoes that appeared never to have journeyed a mile.

  She could only hope that her father would be impressed by Otis’s immaculate appearance. He peered at the young man standing by the sofa, but what Katherine saw in his eyes didn’t bespeak overwhelming approval. In fact, she couldn’t discern by the look on his face what Father thought. She wondered why.

  “Oh, yes. The war hero and avid letter writer. Afternoon, Otis.” Father took off his hat, spotted with sweat on the brim, and wiped his brow. “We’ve heard good things about you from our Katherine.” He smiled and extended his hand in greeting. Then he looked at his dirty, sweaty palm and decided to wipe it against soiled denim overalls. “Uh, maybe we’d better shake another time.”

  “I don’t mind a little dirt.” Nevertheless, Otis withdrew the right hand he had offered. A shadow of relief crossed his face. “I was just remarking to the ladies how I think farming is a noble profession.”

  “A noble profession.” Father seemed to contemplate the notion. “I reckon it is at that. Only I don’t feel like I look so noble at the moment.” A chuckle escaped his lips.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Jones. Sometimes office work doesn’t leave one looking, or feeling, so noble, either.” Otis broke out into an affable grin. For that, Katherine felt grateful.

  “Why don’t you wash up and let me fix you a big piece of cherry pie?” Mother suggested to Father.

  “The one Katherine baked?”

  “Yes, sir,” Katherine answered.

  “Sounds good.” He winked at his daughter and then exited, intent on his task.

  Katherine allowed herself a grin. Food. Sustenance, especially a cherry pie with delightful red fruit filling and a buttery crust, could turn many an acquaintance into a lifelong friend.

  Since he had been promised a treat, Father didn’t dawdle but returned right away.

  “I’m not surprised you baked the pie yourself, Katherine,” Otis observed. “Your cooking skills are indeed splendid.”

  “And that’s only the beginning,” Father promised. “Katherine will be preparing fried chicken for dinner tomorrow. You’ll see then that she can also make a superb cake.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.” Otis patted his belly.

  “I understand you brought us a collie? Betsy seems quite enamored by him,” Father observed.

  “Yes, indeed.” Otis smiled.

  Father nodded, and both men soon were talking about the merits of the breed.

  As the afternoon waned, Katherine could see that despite Otis’s difference in outlook on life, he was a brother in Christ and showed respect to her parents. By the time five o’clock rolled around and the cows beckoned for their second milking of the day, Father seemed to embrace Otis—if not wholeheartedly, at least as well as could be expected for a man he had met only that afternoon.

  Who could ask for more?

  Four

  Later that night, Katherine knelt beside the twin bed, fat with quilts sewn by her mother and her mother’s mother. She kept her favorite on top. The red, white, and blue octagons alternated in a pleasing patriotic pattern. Even though early summer weather meant the coverings weren’t needed for warmth—demonstrated by a pleasant breeze that blew in through crisp curtains—she liked to keep them on her bed for the familiarity and comfort of home. Never mind that she kicked them off the bed during her sleep and had to straighten them each morning.

  Before she shut her eyes so she could concentrate, she glanced at her shelves. Her book collection was sparse but meaningful to her: a copy of the King James Version of the Bible and several well-known novels. On the next shelf down was a collection of display dolls—four in all. Two had been gifts from an aunt as souvenirs from trips. A Cajun doll hailed from faraway New Orleans, and a Betsy Ross doll reminded her of history lessons she learned about Colonial America. The third—a blond Southern belle she named Rosemary and had begged for over the course of several months—had been a Christmas gift. And the last—another Southern belle who could have been Rosemary’s sister—she had bought with money she had earned from picking berries and selling them at the market in town one summer. She had named the fourth doll Cherry. She wondered if Otis would mind if she brought her doll collection to South Carolina, or if he would think her babyish for wanting to hold on to mementos of her girlhood. She knew Christopher wouldn’t mind. Most likely he could recall the story behind each doll.

  Christopher. There he was again, occupying her thoughts.

  Closing her eyes and bowing her head, she would remember to thank God for His bountiful provision and for Otis’s safe arrival in Maryland. The stiff braided rug was digging into her knees. One day, she would own a soft rug so she could pray in comfort. Or at least, relative comfort. She shifted her position and pondered Otis. As she expected from their lively and lengthy correspondence, he fit right in as though he had been living with them all his life. And there she was, planning to make him think she was accomplished in a number of pursuits. Maybe she shouldn’t push her plans forward. Not even for Miranda. Was her idea of friendship misplaced?

  ❧

  The next day Katherine heard a horse clomping up the drive. She pulled back her curtains and was surprised to see Christopher ride up on his gray and black horse, General Lee. To
her shock, her heart lurched. What was Christopher’s mission?

  Just as quickly, her excitement turned to vexation. No doubt he had come to visit Otis, to see what he was like. Why, Christopher even carried a gift. Judging from the shape of the wrapping, the offering was a jar of Mrs. Bagley’s famous damson plum preserves!

  Like a Ferris wheel going around and around, her emotions for him softened. How nice of him to be so thoughtful.

  Thoughtful because he was curious. Hmm.

  Wishing to change out of her plain housedress and into something that made her feel more presentable for company, she hurried to her oak wardrobe, which offered six dresses. She had worn her fashionable yellow one yesterday, so that wouldn’t do. A beige Sunday dress complimented her slim frame but was much too showy for everyday.

  She regarded the remaining four clean housedresses. The first was the color of a soft pink rose petal. The second would be considered more fashionable, but it had been sewn from a less showy but good sturdy natural cotton. The third and fourth were too heavy for spring wear, so she ignored those and opted for the more fashionable lightweight garment. Slipping into the cream-colored dress in a hurry, she then pulled on her stockings and tied up her boots. With deft fingers she twisted her hair into a chignon. The result was agreeable. Her hair looked like a soft, dark pillow framing her face, with wisps falling attractively along each side. She pinched her cheeks in the right places to heighten the pink color and bit her lower lip a few times. Pleased with the result, she hurried downstairs to greet the men.

  They were chatting like old friends before she even set foot across the parlor threshold. Christopher appeared to be relaxed as he swayed back and forth in the rocker. Otis looked nonchalant, poised on the sofa.

  Her stomach lurched. Had Christopher already told him about Miranda’s plan? But no, Otis looked too congenial to have just experienced disappointment. She sent Christopher a fearful glance, but the look he returned to her indicated no intrigue. So he wouldn’t betray her! Or did he hope she would change her mind and go back on her plan? She imagined the second scenario was more to his liking.