Yuletide Treasure Read online

  “I…I’ll see you tomorrow…if the weather permits.” Her voice sounded strange, even to her own ears. Husky, as if she had a sore throat. Only she’d felt just fine—up to that moment.

  “Yes,” Nathan said. But the smile had left his voice, leaving the grumpiness before.

  “Men,” she muttered to herself as Mr. Hanson tucked the heavy robes around her in the sleigh. Whatever had possessed her back there?

  Chapter Eight

  Nathan and Arley

  “Shame she had to leave so abruptly.”

  Nathan looked up from his soup and took a bite of his buttered bread. “Yes. We were coming along well on it.”

  “Delightful young lady.” Lawrence stared out the window. “Shame Louise has been so hard on her.”

  “Louise. Thou darest call the queen by her given name?”

  Lawrence shook his head, his eyes twinkling above rosy cheeks. “I knew her long before she assumed the throne.”

  “I feel there is a story there.”

  “Many stories.” The old man’s eyes left off delight and wandered faraway pastures, not all of them sunny, from the look on his face. “We met in church, which was the social center, too. That, and the schoolhouse. When we grew old enough for schooldays at our one-room school, Louise was never short on ideas, some good and some that got us all into trouble. One of our teachers left in the middle of the year, due to, as the story goes, such willful children.”

  “You, willful?”

  “Hopefully age and experience bring on the wisdom the Bible promises. I asked for that many times through the years. Pleaded, in fact.” He set down his soup bowl and picked up his coffee cup, cradling it between fingers scarred by the knives and splinters. “I thank God daily for His bountiful answers to prayer.”

  Why did he get the feeling, Nathan pondered, that there’d been something between his grandfather and Louise? Might as well take the bull by the horns, as his grandfather often said. “Did you fall in love with her?”

  Lawrence shook his head. “No, I didn’t fall in love with her. I loved her from the first and it just grew through the years.”

  “So what happened? You married Grandmother and had my father.”

  Lawrence got up and threw more wood on the fire. “We better get back to our labors here. If you’d rather spend the afternoon on your violin, I understand.”

  Nathan gathered up the dishes and set them in the sink. There’d be no more reminiscences today, of that he was certain, but what he’d heard had sure stoked his curiosity.

  “Think I’ll see if I can’t get that roof done first,” Lawrence said. “Would hate to lose some of those pieces.”

  “I’ll bring the cedar in,” Nathan offered. “And fill up the wood box while I’m at it.” While they stored much of the cured hardwood upstairs on storage racks where the air was the driest, a shed outside held more, along with firewood Nathan had spent hours splitting while his burned body healed. Using the injured back muscles had kept them strong and limber in spite of the doctor’s predictions that he’d make them worse. The labor had also healed his mind, driving out the fury, sending it into the wood rather than letting it eat away at him. In spite of his mother’s pleas, he’d known that he’d find healing at his grandfather’s house and not at home, where his father told everyone how many times a day to breathe. It sounded as if his father and Arlene’s grandmother Louise had a lot in common. How a gentle man like his grandfather had raised a son like Nathan’s father was beyond him. Had his father listened to the suggestions of his superintendent, the explosion might never have happened. He knew for certain that if he returned to work, he and his father would be fighting constantly. It wasn’t worth it.

  By the time he’d brought in all the wood, his lungs burned from the cold. Most likely it would get below zero this night, if it hadn’t already. The wind sucked up the snowflakes and compressed them into stinging ice pellets.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hanson. I’m grateful I didn’t try to walk home in that.” Arley had set the boxed nutcracker in her basket and laid a cloth over the trappings needed for the dollhouse rooms. She’d brought it all back with her since there was a real possibility that they’d be house-bound by morning. Surely she could hide out in the sewing room, and perhaps Henny would like to help, too. If they could stay away from the housekeeper, Mrs. Iverson.

  Entering the house through the kitchen door seemed much safer. Besides, it was closer to the carriage house, where the horses were stabled. In former days of glory, when her grandfather was still alive, there had indeed been a carriage out there, along with buggies and sleighs and a wagon for hauling things out behind. The big wagon was still there, the iron wheels rusting into the ground because they weren’t being used. Her grandmother had sold the carriage and all but one buggy, a sleigh and a horsecart. Traveling on the train was far easier than using the carriage. Her grandmother deplored wasting money.

  “Get in here before you catch your death.” Mrs. Hanson bustled around, taking Arley’s cloak first, then scarf and coat, and draping them over a chair.

  Arley laughed. She felt just as she had when she was little and had been out playing in the snow with the other children of Willow Creek. “I think we just stepped back fifteen years or more in time.” She dropped a kiss on Mrs. Hanson’s plump cheek. “Mange takk.” All those friends of hers were married now, or had moved away. But then, when did she have time for friends, other than social calls, anyway?

  “Get on with you.” Cook peered at the basket and whispered, “Did you get it?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “She’s been looking for it, said her favorite was missing.”

  Arley heaved a sigh. “Just in time. I’ll go put it out now.” She removed the box from the basket, opened it and unwrapped the nutcracker, checking carefully for any signs of the accident. None. The soldier looked good as new—in fact better, since he’d received a good rubbing and perhaps a coat of wax. She sniffed. Sure enough. She should probably do the same for the rest of the collection to help them remain in good condition.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Up in her room, said she was going for a bit of a lie-down.”

  “How long ago?”

  Cook looked at the clock. “Maybe half an hour.”

  “Good.” Arley held the nutcracker in one hand and pushed open the door to the butler’s pantry that led into the dining room. She’d put this one right in the middle, where it usually stood.

  She had laid the nutcracker on his side for safety’s sake while she’d moved the others around to give this one room. Glancing back, she noticed two initials were carved in the base. L.G. Lawrence Gunderson. Had he made this for her grandmother years before? She recalled the look in his eyes when he’d removed the broken pieces of it from the box. He’d remembered but not said a thing. Were they good memories or bad? Shaking her head, she set the nutcracker in the place of honor.

  “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Arley fumbled to keep from knocking another figure over at the sound of her grandmother’s voice. Then, with all the nutcrackers secure, she turned to smile at the woman coming through the door.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Just rearranging the nutcrackers. I’ve been taking them into the kitchen one at a time for a good polishing.”

  “Oh, I knew one was missing.” Louise peered through her glasses at those on the buffet. “There he is.”

  Lord, that was just a very tiny white lie, surely not enough to worry about. And I am going to polish them all now.

  Louise turned and stared at her granddaughter. “Where have you been? I was getting worried.”

  “Now, remember what I said…”

  “I know what you said. But you could at least tell me when you are going to be gone. I had some things for you to do.”

  “Perhaps I can do them now, or at least I can make a list.” Arley took her grandmother’s arm. “Let’s go into the library and have He
nny bring us in some tea and cookies. I think I’ll have a sandwich, too. What about you?”

  “No, cookies and tea will be fine. You wouldn’t be willing to read to me for a bit, I don’t suppose.”

  Arley thought of her basket and the curtains for the dollhouse parlor she wanted to make out of the red velvet leftovers from a dress she’d had years ago. On the way home in the sleigh, she’d figured out how to make gold tassels from embroidery thread. “Of course I’ll read to you.” She could always make the tassels after her grandmother went to bed. “And, Grandmother, I would love to hear some of the stories of when you were growing up. It’s been a long time since you’ve told me any. Especially stories of Christmas.”

  “You have to remember,” Louise said after they were seated and served, “we didn’t live like we do here. My father owned the general store in town and my mother helped him as much as she could, while raising their five children.”

  “And you were the oldest?”

  “So I helped at the store. That’s where I learned so much about business.” She paused for a moment, looking back. “One Christmas when I was little—Willow Creek was hardly even a village then—I wanted a real doll, not a doll made from scraps like my mother had made for me. I must have seen a picture of one.” She shook her head. “Funny, since I don’t remember playing much with the doll I had. As the eldest, I helped with the new baby. I guess dressing him was like dressing a doll. Selmer was a good baby.”

  “Did you ever get the doll?”

  “Oh, no. There was no money for such extravagance. But I did get new hair ribbons and a shiny little mirror. I wonder what happened to the mirror? But thanks to my father and his trading with Indians, we all received beaded deerskin moccasins that year. I think all five of us wore those until they fell apart in spite of the patches.” She gazed into the fire. “Will you read now?”

  As she flipped to the book marker, Arley felt like crying. She’d never heard that story before.

  Much later, when Arley finally headed for bed after working on furnishings, dollhouse-size, she parted the heavy draperies over the window of her room so she could look out. Swirling snow hid the Christmas star. She sighed and let the draperies fall back. Ice on the window made her grateful for the warmth coming up through the floor radiator. Were Nathan and his grandfather warm enough in their log cabin? He’d offered to have him play his violin just for her. The thought made her spirit soar. “Soon” wouldn’t be soon enough.

  Chapter Nine

  Nathan and Arley

  “’Pears to me you’re worrying about something.”

  Nathan glanced over at the table where his grandfather was carving spindles for the porch railing. “What makes you think that?”

  “Two things—the frown wrinkling your forehead and the pile of shavings.”

  Nathan looked down, then at the piece of wood still in his hands. If a customer wanted to buy a toothpick, he had done a mighty fine job of making one.

  “Thought you might like to talk about it. Always helps.”

  Nathan considered where his thoughts had been and decided he might as well talk. Discussing things with his grandfather had worked before, surely it could work again. After all, his grandfather knew his father well, better than Nathan did.

  “I’m dreading the letter that I know will be coming any day now.” He blew out a breath.

  “Take no worry for the morrow. A day’s own troubles are sufficient for the day. That’s a bit of a paraphrase, but the wisdom is there.”

  “Easier said than done.” Nathan snapped the toothpick between thumb and forefinger, then dropped it into the shavings pile.

  “Have you a plan?”

  “Vaguely.” Nathan tipped his head back and gazed at the ceiling. “I don’t want to go back. The thought of living in the cities again, going to work every day in that office—with him, doing what he orders even when I violently disagree—making money hand over fist…”

  “Making money is not such a bad thing.”

  “No, it’s not. But doing so on the backs of others less fortunate and not giving them adequate recompense or even a modicum of politeness—I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Can’t?”

  “Can’t and won’t. He will never understand that.” Nathan stared at the old man. “Where did all his drive, selfishness come from? Look at you. Why can’t he be more like you?”

  “God hasn’t had time to soften his heart yet.”

  “Meaning?”

  “My son has always done well for himself. His mother pushed him to succeed, and between them they were quite a pair. She always wanted more and she in-grained that way of living in him. When she died, he decided to honor her memory by continuing in the same vein and becoming highly successful.”

  “But what about you? Why are you so different?”

  “Heartbreak can change a man.”

  “When your daughter died?” His father had told him about the little sister who’d died of typhoid when his mother did, along with a baby son and half the town. His father had been away at school and missed the epidemic.

  “I found that Jesus himself is the only solace. I could become bitter…”

  “Like my father?”

  “Or I could let the good Lord heal me and lead me in whatever direction He chose.”

  “Well, the peace you learned is why I came to live with you. I believed this was my only chance.” Nathan glanced toward the workbench. “Music has been my surcease for many years. You know how I dreamed of becoming a concert violinist…” His sigh echoed in the quiet room. “Might have made it, but we’ll never know. And now I feel I might have a second chance, at life, anyway. My father wants to take that away from me according to his way, which he thinks is best. He’s given me one year to recover and return.” Nathan paused, thinking back on the conversation with his father when he was struggling to recuperate. His father had said he would keep the position open until the end of the year, which was fast approaching.

  “So what good is worrying about this doing you?” Lawrence said.

  “None whatsoever. In fact it’s giving me a headache.” Nathan set his knife on the arm of the chair and stood to stretch both arms above his head, his fingertips touching the ceiling. “Give me one of those pieces of wood and I promise to make a porch post, not another toothpick. Then I’ll play for a while if that’s all right with you.”

  “Listening to you play is more than all right with me.”

  “Do you think Miss Dexter plays the piano?”

  “Most likely. Her grandmother would have insisted she learn all the appropriate social graces. As for her skill, you would have to hear her play.”

  “She says what she thinks—surely that didn’t come by training.” Most women he knew did everything they could to be agreeable, at least on the surface. How refreshing it was to talk with a woman who was not afraid to express her thoughts. Not that he appreciated the tongue-lashing he’d received that first day, no matter how much he deserved it. “Do you suppose she has any idea who I really am? I mean, we are well known in the cities.”

  “I doubt it. I don’t believe her grandmother knows she has come here, though if she did, Louise would put two and two together.”

  “And get five. I’m not that man any longer.” Not that Nathan was certain deep inside that he ever was the socialite people expected. He hoped and prayed he took more after his grandfather than his father.

  The storm started up again about the same time Nathan picked up his violin. It was hard to say which sang more fortissimo.

  Arley had awakened more than once to the sound of the wind, but it had blown itself out by morning. When she tried to look out, she had to scrape the ice off the window first. The rising sun set the frost fronds on the glass to sparkling. Arley watched, entranced, as sun fire danced from crystal to crystal. How could a storm that sounded so evil leave such beauty behind? Shivering in spite of her flannel nightdress, she hurried behind her screen to don long johns, wool stoc
kings that came to her knees, an underpetticoat, a heavy quilted wool petticoat, an overpetticoat and her wool serge skirt. Grateful for the heat blowing up the vent, in spite of the edict not to start the big coal furnace down in the basement until the sun was up, Arley reminded herself to thank Mr. Hanson for warm air and warm water. While her grandmother was one of the first in town to install running water with a water heater in her home, she hated to use expensive coal to excess.

  With her hair brushed and bundled into a snood, Arley tiptoed past her grandmother’s door and made her way downstairs to the one room that was always cozy—the kitchen.

  “Cold enough for you?” Mr. Hanson raised his coffee cup in greeting.

  “Thank you for warming early. At least it is not snowing.” Arley glanced out the window. “Perhaps I should ski over to Mr. Gunderson’s shop.”

  “Herself would have my head if I allowed you to do such a thing. Are you sure it wouldn’t be best to remain in the house today? She is getting mighty curious.” He smiled up at his wife as she refilled his coffee cup. “Takk.” While the Hansons spoke Norwegian and had taught Arley to speak it, too, they rarely used it around others. Another decree from her grandmother, although she’d learned the language as a child, too. Most everyone in Willow Creek was of Norwegian descent, at least the older families.

  “The cinnamon buns are ready.”

  “Oh, yes, please. I could tell you were baking from the moment I awoke.” She gazed down at the perfectly formed roll with icing dribbling down the sides. “You are an artist with all things edible. Not that your sewing skills are anything to sneeze at, either.”

  Mrs. Hanson pulled a basket off a shelf and set it in front of Arley. “Wish we had started earlier on this, but I’ll do more this evening.”

  Arley lifted out a miniature velvet quilt, navy, with the squares stitched in white and white trim around the edges. “For the master bedroom?”