Yuletide Treasure Page 3

  Chapter Four

  Nathan

  “Interesting.”

  Nathan turned to look at his grandfather. While he’d tried to ignore the silence since the young woman left, he’d sneaked peeks over his shoulder to see his grandfather studying the broken toy. “What is?”

  “Not what, but who.” He fitted two pieces of the wooden figure together and held them up.

  Nathan waited and when it seemed nothing more was forthcoming, returned to his work on the violin. “I assume you are referring to the young woman.” To whom he should have been far more polite yesterday. Guilt nagged like an aching tooth. Where had he left his manners? What was there about her that brought out such a contentious reaction in him? After all, he’d been turning away females all his life, most of them more interested in the family fortune than who he was. He knew he was good-looking—any glance in the mirror told him that—but since the accident his face had become more rugged, as if a wood-carver had chiseled away any surplus skin and flesh to reveal harsh bones and thundering eyebrows. What used to be laugh lines had been dug down to slashes, some of them carved by pain and possibly something he was not ready to admit, even to a mirror. Explosions were life changing if one was fortunate enough to live through the event.

  He unclenched his hand from the sanding block and after inhaling a deep breath and letting it all out, stretched his fingers, clenched them again and repeated the action. The doctor had warned him about remaining in any one position too long. He needed to keep moving and stretching so that he didn’t end up crippled. Not that he wasn’t already, if only on the inside.

  “Aching again?” His grandfather’s voice came softly from down the workbench.

  “Not enough to worry about.” Nathan held the piece he was working on up to the light and stroked his finger over and around the smooth surface. Smooth yes, but not yet finished quality. Something like much of his burned and healed skin, mostly hidden by long-sleeved shirts buttoned nearly to the collar and long underwear that helped hold the Minnesota winter cold at bay. The back of his left hand wore the only visible scar.

  The way he’d treated that young woman was evidence of the internal ones.

  The smell of wood glue permeated the room. Between that and the scent of the cherry wood he was sanding, the place smelled of home and comfort and love. Scents to be found only here and never in St. Paul—at his father’s house.

  He glanced over to see his grandfather placing one part of the broken toy into a vise and painting the broken edges with the glue. “You can fix it?”

  “Of course. Louise will never know of the accident when I am finished.”

  “You know her grandmother, then?”

  “Yes. We were good friends—at one time.”

  Had Nathan not been paying close attention, he might have missed the final words. Was there a story here he’d never heard? Not that he’d have heard any of the family stories, if his father had his way. When he left his father’s home near Fargo, he’d resolved never to look back. Said there was nothing there to bring him back. Nothing, including his own father, his mother having died years earlier. That he’d allowed his son visits to Willow Creek in the summer was due to providence, something his grandfather referred to as God’s intervention, giving them both a gift.

  Nathan watched the old man daubing glue most precisely and decided to pursue the topic. “What happened?”

  “Life got in the way, I s’pect.” Lawrence fitted the opposing piece into the wood, matching up each jagged piece like a surgeon putting a bone back together. Then after studying it, he tightened the clamp, checked it again and nodded. “How about a cup of coffee? Mrs. Mueller sent us a portion of her prize stollen.”

  Nathan crossed to the stove and inserted several chunks of wood into the firebox, then set the stove lids back in place. He pulled the coffeepot forward, lifted the lid and checked the contents. At home, Cook would have thrown out the remainder and started over, but his grandfather refused to be so profligate with his stores, even reusing coffee grounds. He abhorred waste of any kind, from coffee grounds to people who overlooked important things like love and family. Nathan fetched the stollen from the intricately carved bread box, and after cutting off several slices, set them on a plate and put the plate in the oven. Ah, the lessons he’d learned since coming here to Willow Creek. Learning to live without servants had not been the ordeal his father had predicted.

  As they finished their coffee, Lawrence turned to his grandson. “I think it time you begin to work with the lathe. I have some nice pieces of wood for bowls once you get good enough.”

  Nathan nodded. While he’d rather work on his violin, he had agreed to learn all the skills his grandfather could teach him. Turning wood with the lathe was a good next step.

  “When I was in the cities, I looked at an engine that would turn it for us, but for the moment you must learn the old way. I remember I had more trouble getting the rhythm of the treadle than I did with the actual piece. I have some branches out back that will do for starters. We’ll need to spend some time tonight sharpening gouges.”

  Nathan nodded. Gouges carved the pattern in turned wood. They never had enough turned spindles for all the tables and chairs they made. Why, one could spend all day at the lathe. He probably should have volunteered to start on that some time ago. He rinsed out their coffee cups and turned them upside down on the counter. The stollen had hit the spot. He had a feeling Mrs. Mueller would like to provide more than occasional baked goods, but his grandfather always kindly rebuffed her.

  The hours his mother had made him spend in dance class put him in good stead as he rhythmically pumped the treadle to start the wood spinning. Holding the gouge steady was another matter.

  “You take off all the bark first with this one.” Lawrence handed him a flat inch-wide gouge. “Just hold the sharp end against the wood and move slowly to your right. Sort of like peeling an apple.”

  Working the foot pedal and keeping the shavings flowing evenly were two different things. At a knot in the wood, the gouge jumped out of his hands and went spinning across the counter.

  “You have to look ahead to see what is coming.”

  “Talk about a metaphor for life,” Nathan grumbled to himself the third time he had to fetch the gouge. But finally he had the bark off and a fairly clean planing surface. He took his foot off the treadle and stepped back. “What do you want of this?”

  “Let’s make legs for a hassock.” The old man dug in a drawer and pulled out a well-worn pattern. “This is easy for a starter. The piece is long enough to make two legs at a time. Start with the half-inch gouge. You need to mark the center with a pencil.”

  Nathan did exactly as he was told, but several hours later, his finished pieces bore only a faint resemblance to other similar pieces.

  “You did well.”

  “No, I did not do even tolerably. Those two legs will never appear on a hassock or anything else.” He shook his head. “Although they will make good firewood.” He glanced down at the pile of wood curls at his feet. “You ever thought of bagging this stuff up and selling it as fire starter?”

  His grandfather rolled his eyes at the suggestion and took his place at the lathe. “Just watch.” Within minutes the grooves were smoothed out and the ridges sharpened up. The pieces would need far less sanding to attain the finish needed. “It just takes practice.”

  Nathan clamped in another piece. No sense getting out the saw until he had several to cut apart. He shrugged to work out the tightness in his shoulders and set his foot to the treadle. Good thing he didn’t need a lathe to craft his violin.

  The next piece of wood shattered and sent slivers in every direction, including his chin. He leaped back, muttering some words he’d perfected in the hours of dealing with pain from the burns. One piece had flown clear over by the fireplace; others were scattered on the bench and floor.

  “Here, you better let me bandage your chin,” Lawrence suggested.

  “Why?” Na
than swiped at his chin and stared at his hand. “I’m bleeding!”

  “That’s why I suggest the bandage. This kind of thing happens sometimes. I should have warned you.”

  “I thought it was pine wood, not dynamite.” Nathan sat down in the chair his grandfather indicated and pressed his fingers against the wound to stop the bleeding.

  Lawrence fetched the medicine kit and after cleaning the gash, applied cotton folded into a square and taped it in place. “There, that ought to hold it.” He pulled some splinters out of his grandson’s hair and brushed them off his arms and shoulders. “Good thing you have a long-sleeved shirt on.”

  “Is there any way to tell from looking at a piece of wood how much it will splinter?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But this one was a mite dramatic. Wood is somewhat like people, you know. You can’t always tell by looking on the outside what’s in their hearts.”

  Nathan hung his head and ran his fingers through his hair, releasing more wood bits. That piece of wood was just like his life, shattered under pressure. Not that he’d been happy starting at the bottom and working up into being head of the company but he’d been doing it, following the training path his father had laid out for him. But after the fire, he hadn’t shattered just in body, but in mind, too. Soon his father would insist he return to his position.

  But he couldn’t go back. No, he wouldn’t go back. His father had men who would love to run the Twin Cities Coal Company. They just weren’t his son. His only son. Besides, his father had plenty of years left in him yet to keep the company growing and making more money for both him and the investors. While he, Nathan, stayed here and convinced these pieces of wood that they would like to become part of something either beautiful or necessary or some blend of the two.

  He heaved himself to his feet. Another hour, another turned spindle, leg or whatever. He would learn this.

  The pile of shavings had grown huge before he stopped for the day. He took his turned pieces of wood to the window. Outside, the setting sun was sending ribbons of light that flickered off the snow-laden branches of the hardwood forest behind the house. He inspected the pieces of wood, eyeing them for matches in size and patterns, and looking for faults.

  His grandfather stopped planing a walnut board and joined him at the table, watching as Nathan divided the work into three piles. “You’ve come a long way for your first day.”

  Nathan gestured at the piles in turn. “These are keepers, these need more work and these will help keep us warm tonight.”

  Lawrence chuckled. “We have firewood aplenty.” He picked up one piece that was thicker than the others. “This could become a pair of good candleholders—the fatter, more decorative kind.”

  “Who uses candles any longer? In the city there is electricity now, as well as gaslights. Candles are passé.”

  “There is nothing cheerier than candlelight. Let me finish them and you will see.” Lawrence studied each of the others. “A few days of this and you’ll be ready to work on oak and maple. You’ll find each wood a bit different to work with.”

  “I think I like fitting pieces together, like the clocks and my violin. You know I dream of creating violins that will rival Stradivarius.”

  “I know, but sometimes one has to learn skills to keep a roof over one’s head and food in the belly in order to live long enough to make a dream come true. It’s like all the years you’ve been learning the coal business, to make your father happy and have a livelihood.”

  As if there was any chance this dream of his could come true.

  “Why don’t you play for me while I make the supper?”

  “I think it is my turn to cook.”

  “As I said, why don’t you play for me?” His grandfather’s eyes twinkled.

  “Are you saying my cooking is not much better than my work at the lathe?”

  “Do not try to put words in my mouth.” Lawrence pointed at the violin case resting safe on its shelf. “I do like to hear you play. It comforts me, and fills my heart with contentment.”

  Nathan blinked. Never had anyone said such things about his violin playing. He knew he was good at it and he knew it did those same things for him, but he also knew he could not be the concert player he had dreamed of being years ago. Then, he’d had to take his place in his father’s empire. And as his father had said more than once, “Put away childish things.” Even his father could quote scripture when the need was there.

  As always, playing calmed him, and he went to bed floating on the peace his grandfather said he felt, too. Until visions of a young woman kneeling in awe at the kitten nursery left him lying awake.

  Chapter Five

  Arley

  “You think we could ever have a house like that, miss?”

  Arley gazed down at four-year-old Nettie, who was still stroking the book Arley had been reading and now had lying in her lap. Arley started to say something, but one of the other girls gave Nettie a push.

  “Don’t be a ninny. Orphans don’t get no dollhouses like that.”

  “Orphans don’t get dolls.”

  “I had a doll once.”

  “Ah, you’re lyin’.”

  “I did. My ma made it for me afore she died.”

  Arley leaned forward and spoke softly into the circle of girls ranging from the two-year-old sitting on an older girl’s lap to the ten-year-old who should have been down in the kitchen helping prepare dinner but had wheedled her way into coming to story hour. “Now girls, let’s not argue. After all, Christmas is coming and who knows what Saint Nicholas will bring?”

  The girls all stared at her, mouths hanging open, as if she were speaking a foreign language. The older ones started shaking their heads and, one by one, rose and left the group. The little ones stared after them, then turned back to Arley and gave her sad smiles. When Nettie was the last one still leaning against her knees, Arley stroked her head. What could she say? Sure they all attended church and she and other townspeople brought gifts at Christmas. They made sure everyone had a good dinner, but they all went home to presents under the tree, more food than anyone could eat and games and singing. Families had memories to share, along with the cookies and candies.

  If only her grandmother would let her bring some of these children home with her, at least to visit, to have a hot bath and perhaps a new dress. But the old woman was adamant. They would do what they could for the poor, but not in her own house.

  Arley lifted Nettie onto her lap and stroked the wispy near-white hair back from a broad brow. “I’m glad you like the story.”

  “Oh, I do. Will you come again to read to us?”

  “Yes, next week.”

  “So far away?” Nettie stroked the lace on one of Arley’s cuffs. “So pretty.”

  “Thank you.” Next week Arley planned to come with hair ribbons for all of them, something pretty of their own to have. She picked up her book and the two of them stared at the dollhouse on the cover. What if? Her mind leaped into the game. What if she brought the children a dollhouse? Where could she get one this late in the season? What if she made it? Who would help her? Would her grandmother like to help? She shook her head at that. This wasn’t a useful gift, the kind her grandmother always insisted upon. But what if she gave the dollhouse to the girls at the orphanage in her grandmother’s name, as a gift from her? The whole thing would be her own gift to her grandmother. Would it evoke her grandmother’s displeasure again? Arley bit her lip, thinking. Even if Grandmother was unhappy with Arley’s decision, at least the orphanage would have a dollhouse. She could also commission another nutcracker from Mr. Gunderson to add to the collection. Could he get one done in time?

  And the most important question of all, would the wood-carver help her make the dollhouse? Did she dare ask? This was too exciting an idea to keep to herself, and she couldn’t tell her grandmother. But if he was willing to help her, what about the Viking? She could just see his look of contempt for a prosaic dollhouse that would take time away from his wor
k on his violin.

  At the ringing of a bell for preparing for supper, Nettie slipped to the floor, dropped a kiss on Arley’s hand and scampered off.

  “Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Teigen, the head of the orphanage, said as Arley drew her cloak around her shoulders and prepared for the frigid walk home. Had she realized it was so cold she would have allowed Hanson, her grandmother’s all-around man, to bring the sleigh when he’d offered.

  “You are welcome. I so enjoy my time with them.” Arley refrained from mentioning the dollhouse until she was sure it would happen. Surely she didn’t need permission to bring a special gift at Christmas. “See you next week?”

  Mrs. Teigen glanced outside. “Of course. Are you sure we shouldn’t call your driver for you? It’s snowing.”

  “No, I love to walk in the snow.” Arley tucked her scarf in around her neck and her book into her pocket. With her hands snug in her mittens, she stepped out the door and paused at the top of the steps to soak up the beauty around her—big fat flakes of snow drifting down, covering the old dingy snow with new white fluff. The clouds seemed close enough to touch, blotting out the sun, bringing a dusky light in the middle of the afternoon.

  Arley struck off for home, running a few steps and sliding when she was sure no one was watching. But the more she thought of the dollhouse, the faster she walked. If it weren’t late, she’d have gone by the wood-carver’s shop right then and asked for his assistance. How could she bear to wait until tomorrow?