“And I’m proud of you,” I told him with a kiss. “All you’ve accomplished here. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Unlikely?”
“Oh, Frank.”
But he was grinning at me, teasing, and not upset at all.
“Maybe amazing would be a better word.”
“Blessed,” he told me then. “I think that fits.”
We walked down State Street past many of Camp Point’s shops and businesses. A lot of people knew Frank already and offered friendly waves. He showed me where the People’s Bank was and told me the library was upstairs above it, but he hadn’t been in it yet. We turned on Ohio Street, which Frank said Sam had called “the Avenue.”
“Used to be where the rich folks lived, I guess,” Frank said. “I think people are pretty mixed together anymore, though.”
We walked for several blocks, past some beautiful big homes. Frank pointed out which one the pastor lived in, where we’d be eating Sunday dinner.
“Do you really think he ought to cook for us tomorrow?” I questioned. “He’s got the sermon to think about.”
“I told him the same thing. But he said it’d be fun. He plans to leave something in the oven the whole time we’re at church and pull it out when we get done. He says he’s done it before for folks.”
Hand in hand, we strode as far as that street would take us and then turned west and continued to the entrance of a large park on the edge of town. Frank wanted to go in. So we walked toward the shelter house, enjoying the spring breeze. And then Frank surprised me with a sudden pull on my hand.
“Look at that big rock.”
It was big, all right. Massive.
“Wanna sit on a boulder?” He picked me up, quick as a wink.
“Frank!”
“I can set you right on top.”
Laughing, I let him do it, and there I was, perched precariously on a boulder. Frank backed up and ran at the rock with his limpy gait, zipping right to the top and plopping down beside me with a grunt.
“Whew. That wasn’t as easy as it looked when I seen a kid do it the other day.”
“Are you all right?” He’d landed pretty hard, and I thought immediately about his weak leg.
“Sure. I didn’t plan this, you know. Just bein’ silly.”
“I like it. Nice place to sit. And a new experience. I can go home and tell people you swept me off my feet and I didn’t get back to earth for . . . I don’t know how long yet.”
With his fetching dark hair rustling in the breeze, he leaned close and kissed me, but then we heard children somewhere close and we quit, lest they come into view and see us at it. Frank’s pretty silvery eyes were shining in the sunlight, and he looked dreamy handsome. I wished we could stay together like this for the rest of the day. I didn’t even care if we stayed right where we were on that rock, but the children we’d heard were suddenly in front of us, running toward the swings in our direction.
“Wanna see the pond?” Frank asked. He slid down the face of the boulder like he’d done this before, landed on his feet, and turned around. “Your turn. Slide down. I’ll catch you.”
The front of the rock was sloped enough that sliding down did seem natural. I didn’t think the rough stone could be very good for the backside of our clothes though, but I slid anyway, far more rapidly than I expected to, into Frank’s arms.
“Oh!” I caught my breath and still held on to him, even when he set me on my feet again. “Did I hurt you?”
He shook his head with a little smile. “You’re not very big, Sarah Jean.”
“Big enough to bowl you over, I was afraid.”
“Not near.”
He took me to see the pond, telling me he’d come out here first when the snow was still on the ground, and he’d found it to be a quiet respite. A good place to walk and pray. It was a pretty place. I liked it too, but on such a beautiful Saturday we couldn’t expect to have it to ourselves. There were three big boys fishing. Frank knew one of them and gave him a wave.
“His family’s started coming to our church,” he explained.
Our church.
The words gave me a peculiar sort of feeling inside. Did Frank realize how completely he’d adopted this new town? How long would it take me?
When we got back to the shop, Frank made us what he called “one-pot stew” and served it for lunch along with biscuits from Lawless’s Market.
“I call it ‘one-pot’ ’cause I can only cook one pot a’ something at a time,” Frank explained. “I been makin’ it a lot ’cause it’s easier’n figurin’ how to make something else with only one burner and no skillet.”
I suggested we walk to the dry goods store and buy a skillet this very day. He agreed if I wanted to, and then he told me I should pick my favorite of the stoves in the front of the store. If Mrs. Bellor took hers along to their new house, he’d have the new one installed before he came down for the wedding.
“Maybe you need it in the back room here,” I suggested.
“Nah. I make it fine. And this is temporary. Less than two months to go.”
He was delighted with the thought, I could tell. I sat on a chair he’d made, with my dish on a table he wasn’t finished with yet, and enjoyed that stew immensely. It was some of the best I’d ever had. Between the three of us, we almost cleaned the pot out.
Dad had carved a little pine canoe in the time that we were gone and had started on a tiny wooden man to go with it. I’d always thought my father was good at such things, but he was right that Frank had gotten even better. This store looked like the domain of an artist.
As soon as he finished eating, Frank rose to a work desk and pulled a ledger book from his drawer. “You both bein’ family and so close connected to the business, maybe I should show you my records so far.”
“You don’t have to,” Dad told him.
“At least I wanna show Sarah. An’ I don’t mind you seein’. I got nothing to hide. You know me. There ain’t gonna be no surprises.”
But there was one. He’d made a simple agreement with Mrs. Haywood to help him with the books, and I could see where she’d made a small start. I was used to Frank’s system, and when I considered that he’d been working here alone since February, I expected his books would be badly in need of an organizing touch. But they were clear and current, at least to someone who understood Frank’s homemade shorthand. I was pleased.
But Dad looked more at the content than the system. “Looks like with expenses, you’re coming barely ahead of breaking even.”
“’Bout what I expected startin’ out,” Frank assured us. “I’ve had to buy wood till I can find a place to cut some of my own, and with turning on the town utilities, fixing the roof, and otherwise gettin’ the shop ready, it’s been costing me more to get goin’ than it will to keep on.”
Dad nodded, and I fought away an uneasy feeling.
Don’t worry
, I told myself.
This is just like any business starting out. Frank’s right. It’ll get better.
I started to clean up the stew pot and our dishes, but Frank wouldn’t let me, at least not alone. So we finished the cleanup together, using the lavatory sink because there wasn’t any other one. Frank would surely be glad to get into our house. It’d be taxing on the patience to live this way very long, even though the shop had running water.
I’d brought the book I’d given Frank at Easter. Thoreau’s
Walden
. When we were finished cleaning up, I read a chapter aloud, and then we went to buy a skillet. It was kind of nifty picking out something together that we’d probably use for years.
Frank took us uptown for supper. I wondered if he ought to spend the money, but he said it was Saturday night and a very special occasion, having us here. He wanted to take us to a restaurant, to celebrate. Camp Point had seemed so quiet earlier today. But come evening it filled up and got lively.
“Saturday night,” Frank said by way of explanation. “Everybody comes to town.”
There were so many vehicles there were scarcely any parking places left along the square. And not just cars and trucks. A few people had come in farm wagons. One with a tractor. And two horses stood side by side, tethered near the front of the opera house.
“Lot of farmers around here,” Frank said. “Just like back home.”
There was a lot of music too. And dancing going on in at least one place we walked past. Frank didn’t suggest going in. Instead we had a nice dinner in a restaurant on the square and then started across the park on our way back to the shop. There were people on the sidewalks and people on the bandstand.
“I don’t come up here most Saturday nights,” Frank told me. “Got work to do.”
Did he come sometimes?
I wondered.
Did he take to the jumping Saturday-night crowds of his new town as well as he took to everything else?
Just then, a young woman with a striped dress came out of a store with two or three friends and gave Frank a gigantic wave and a smile. He appeared not to notice, but she came straight in our direction, followed by her friends, all of them pretty and dressed like they were on their way to a party.
“Frank Hammond,” the girl called as soon as she knew she was close enough to be heard. “Is this the gal you were telling me about? Can we meet her? Peggy and Janet didn’t believe I’d actually talked to you enough that you’d tell me anything so personal, but I told them you wouldn’t deny it.”
I didn’t like that young lady. She was far too forward for no good reason. Frank was polite enough to comply with her intrusive request, but no more. “This is my fiancée, Sarah Wortham. Sarah Jean, this is Shirley . . . uh, I don’t remember if I learned your last name.”
“Bates,” the girl said with a smile, sticking out her hand. “I’m Shirley Bates. Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you too,” I said and immediately felt guilty. That had been a lie slipping out before I could think about it. But what else could I say?
“So you’re getting married in June?” she went on glibly when she should’ve been introducing her friends. “Only two months away. Does it worry you to be so far apart?”
“No,” I answered a little too bluntly. “Why should it?”
“No reason.” She turned to one of her friends and actually giggled. They said their names far too quickly to expect me to remember them, and I noticed they were looking at Frank most of the time. They hurried off down the street, but the encounter left me with a lingering discomfort.
“How long have you known them?” I asked Frank.
“Don’t think I ever seen but the one before,” he said. “She come in the shop to look around.”
“Not only at carvings, I’ll bet.”
Dad looked my way.
“They were acting like schoolgirls,” I went on.
“Yeah,” Frank said simply. “Can’t argue with that.”
His manner and his answer didn’t give me the assurance I needed. So I decided to ask a very direct question. “How many times have you been up here on Saturday nights?”
He stopped walking and seemed to be studying me. “Just once besides this.”
“What happened then?”
“Nothin’ special. Mrs. Haywood had a root beer float.”
Dad smiled. I didn’t reply. But I knew exactly what I was feeling. Jealousy. Big and ugly, not just toward those foolish girls, but also toward Mr. Willings, Mrs. Haywood, the church, even this whole town because they had Frank’s attention when I wasn’t around to claim it. And it might not be any different even when I was here.
“You want an ice cream?” Frank suddenly asked.
“Okay.”
We stopped at the drugstore for cones, and when we stepped back out to the sidewalk, I saw the same three girls watching us from across the street. Frank noticed them too. “Maybe they ain’t never seen a woman lookin’ so fine as you,” he suggested.
“They’re not looking at me,” I countered. “They’re noticing my handsome beau and probably wishing I’d disappear.”
I was surprised that Dad didn’t reply to that, but he didn’t.
“They’re likely just curious ’cause we’re strangers in town,” Frank suggested. “Hard for me to picture anybody thinkin’ me handsome. Tell you the truth, I always figured you to be so pretty there’d be danger a’ young fellas better lookin’ than me tryin’ to sway you away.”
My stomach knotted, and I glanced at Dad. “There aren’t any better-looking fellows. And even if there were, I care a lot more about what’s on the inside than the outside, anyway.”
Frank didn’t answer right away. He held my hand and took a lick of his ice cream cone. My heart pounded. Did he know about Donald Mueller?
He cocked his head and glanced toward me. “You care more ’bout the inside, huh?”
“Yes, of course. But I still think you’re handsome.”
“Well, then . . .” He grinned and his eyes twinkled. “Maybe I don’t need to shave tomorrow.”
“Oh, Frank.” Relief spilled over my insides. “You’d better shave. For church.”
He’d been joking with me. He was in such a lighthearted mood. I tried to act as though I were the same way, but the guilt of my stupid secret was a heavy weight to carry. Dad was probably wondering why I hadn’t mentioned Donald’s foolishness, unless he already had. And then Frank might be pretending he didn’t know and waiting for me to bring it up. I’d have to tell him. But how would he react? He had so much to think about, so much to do, I hated to trouble him with something so childish. Donald Mueller could be taken about as seriously as those three giddy girls. There was really no use.
Dad was admiring some of the buildings and gardens as we walked. Frank finished his cone and started talking about furniture stores in the town of Quincy. It’d be silly to trouble the conversation now. We walked back to the store as the evening light faded. Dad asked a question about the church, and my thoughts moved there quickly. Tomorrow we’d be meeting lots of people, and eyes would be on me, watching the girl who was engaged to marry their beloved Frank Hammond. Would they think me worthy of him? Surely not, if they had any inkling of the things that went on inside my head.
I stayed over with Mrs. Haywood again that night. The next morning we went together in Frank’s truck to the church. They had no piano or organ. Just the voices of the congregation blending together in songs selected from the hymnbooks. I loved it and it made me nervous all at the same time. I was used to the piano at our church. And our small but voluminous choir. Here, I felt like I could be heard so easily. Everyone could. Most of them didn’t care and sang out freely, even loudly. Including Frank. But I felt so self-conscious. It was easy to tell that I was one of only a very few sopranos here, and that made my voice stand out all the more.