Authors: Ruth Axtell Morren
“Thank you,” she said in a husky tone.
In the distance they could hear the church bells pealing.
Her eyes grew round. “Oh, no! I’ve got to get dressed and I’m still not half done here.” She looked down at her soiled apron and then around at the kitchen.
“What still needs to be done?”
“I’ve got to make the biscuits—and—and set the table…and leave a refreshment for Papa.”
He took her by the elbow and led her toward the doorway as she was speaking. “Why don’t you go get dressed and I’ll—I’ll—” He tried to figure out how he could help. “I’ll set the table and see what your father needs.” He glanced at the tabletop. “I don’t know if I can help you with the biscuits….”
She giggled. “I suppose I can finish them when I get back from church.”
Before they parted at the dining-room door, she turned to him. “Thank you, Silas.
Thank you.
”
He only nodded, feeling his throat tighten at the grateful look in her eyes. He turned away then, remembering Winslow’s words about his responsibility.
They walked to the service together, along with Jacob. Silas addressed his conversation to the older man, although he was conscious of Cherish all the while at his other side, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow.
She had gotten ready in record time, and still emerged looking as if it had taken all morning instead of ten minutes. All traces of the kitchen were gone. In their place, her skin looked like a porcelain doll’s, her gown spotless and pressed, her hands in their dainty lace gloves as if they’d never been in contact with pastry dough.
He hesitated at the back of the church, intending to sit there, but Cherish tugged gently at his arm and he didn’t have the will to fight her. He argued that with Jacob seated at his other side, it wouldn’t appear quite so much as if he and Cherish were a couple.
When Pastor McDuffie began to preach, Silas forgot all other considerations, his attention riveted by the sermon.
“Some of you may wonder about the circumstances in your life. You may rail at God, or you may simply look up to heaven and despair, wondering why God seems so silent. What is He doing to you? you may wonder. But I’m here to tell you that God does speak to you.
“Job 33:14 tells us ‘For God speaketh once, yea twice, yet man perceiveth it not.’”
The pastor continued his explanation, sometimes exhorting, other times persuasive, using verses to build his case. Suddenly something he said caused Silas to sit up.
“Is God, perchance, trying to root out the idols in your life?” He smiled around the congregation. “‘Who, me? Idols? I’m not a heathen. I don’t bow down to Balaam.’
“You may sit back smugly, thinking you’ve conquered those evils that enslave your neighbor. You don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you don’t beat your wife, you may answer. What idols, indeed? What secret sin? We’re all God-fearing people in this hamlet.
“‘Little children, keep yourselves from idols,’ the apostle John tells us. He was talking to the saints here, to you and me.” He paused to let it sink in, and once again Silas heard the words
present your bodies a living sacrifice
ringing in his ears.
With crystal clarity it came to him. Was his love of boatbuilding an idol?
No! came the immediate internal cry. He refused to even consider it.
The next instant the pastor was talking about Jesus dying on the cross for each and every member of that congregation—and what had they done with that gift?
As Silas left the service, he put the notions the sermon had raised out of his head and greeted people. He thought he’d have an awkward time explaining to people why he was no longer at the shipyard and was working instead at a sardine factory, but Cherish preempted him, telling all those they greeted, as she clung to his arm, “Silas left us just before my father’s attack. Little did he know how much we’d need him. But he’s decided to try greener pastures, just like my cousin Henry.” She looked up at him in admiration. “He’s just waiting for word from Calais. Soon, I have no doubts, we’ll be hearing of his innovative designs coming out of there.”
Whatever people thought of this explanation, they accepted it. They could do little else before Cherish’s charming, ladylike manner. Silas marveled at her social skills, expertly navigating the waters, knowing just how to bring up the subject before
anyone else did and when to change it after she’d given her explanation, whether it satisfied her listeners or not.
With her airy laugh and cheery remarks, she waved goodbye to all and led the way out of the churchyard, Jacob on one side of her and Silas on the other. “Our Sunday dinner will get cold. Aunt Phoebe’s away and I have three hungry men to feed, so I mustn’t linger.”
“I’d better get back to Tobias,” Silas began when they reached the Winslow gate.
Jacob looked at him in surprise. “Ain’t you stayin’ for dinner, Silas?”
He looked helplessly at Jacob and then Cherish, who didn’t say anything, but whose expression reminded him afresh of his dream of her. He wanted to say yes, but he knew he was putting himself in an untenable position if he did.
“You can visit some more with Papa,” Cherish suggested quietly.
He nodded. “I suppose I could stay a while longer.”
The three walked up the path toward the house.
Cherish immediately left them to finish her biscuits and check on her roast.
She called them about three-quarters of an hour later. The table, which he had set that morning, looked inviting. Cherish had added a bouquet of lilacs. The chicken smelled delicious. A mound of mashed potatoes in a silver dish was set beside it, with another bowl of steaming carrots farther down the table. A snowy-white linen napkin covered the biscuits. A dish of preserves added a deep crimson.
Jacob carried up a tray for Mr. Winslow, and then they sat down to eat.
“Would you say grace, Silas?” Cherish asked him.
They bowed their heads and he gave thanks for the food.
“Silas, you may carve and pass me the dishes to serve the vegetables.”
He took up the silver-handled cutting knife, reminded sharply that this was Mr. Winslow’s task. He felt like a usurper. He passed each plate to Cherish.
Despite the appetizing appearance of the food, the contents didn’t live up to Mrs. Sullivan’s table. The chicken was dry, the mashed potatoes lumpy and the biscuits hard. The carrots had a slightly scorched taste to them.
Silas said nothing, but continued eating, grateful for the change from his own fare of fried eggs, bacon and canned beans.
He heard Cherish drop her fork. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s pretty awful.”
“Aw, no, Miss Cherish. It’s right good,” Jacob piped up immediately.
She smiled sadly. “No, it isn’t.” She got up from the table, her plate only half-empty. “Well, I’m happy to tell you that dessert is Aunt Phoebe’s. There’s some pie left from yesterday. I’ll bring you each a piece, if you’ll excuse me.”
Silas made sure he cleaned his plate, and he noticed Jacob did the same.
“Poor thing,” Jacob muttered. “She’s been trying to do the best she can since ol’ Winslow fell ill. He’s put her in charge of the shipyard, and her only a young slip of a thing.” He shook his head. “Why did you leave, Silas, just when you’re most needed?”
Silas swallowed down the last piece of stringy chicken meat, which threatened to stick in his throat. He coughed and took a sip of tea before answering. “I guess Winslow and I just didn’t see eye to eye on some things.”
One
thing.
“Well, can’t you smooth things out, even if it’s only till he’s well enough to take over again? Though I don’t know as he’ll ever be able to run things the way he used to. Doc Turner thinks he’s got a weak ticker and the thing could stop at any moment. The fellow could drop dead before our very eyes.”
It was a sobering thought, and Silas remembered Winslow’s ashy demeanor in bed that morning. Not wanting to dwell on such a thought—or what it would do to Cherish—Silas pushed back his chair and stood, his plate in his hand.
“Let me take these things out to the kitchen,” he told Jacob.
Jacob, accustomed to being served at the table by womenfolk, made no move to join Silas. Silas stacked the older man’s plate atop his own and left the dining room.
The kitchen still looked as if a whirlwind had passed through it. Cherish stood in the midst of the chaos, a neatly ordered tray in front of her, with its pie plates and china coffeepot and matching cups and saucers. She looked up with a rueful smile. “I hope this makes up for dinner. Although I don’t know about the coffee. I hope I didn’t burn it.”
“Dinner was fine,” Silas said quietly. “It sure beats my cooking,” he added.
She returned his smile. “If you care—or dare—to try my cooking again, you can come anytime. You’ll probably get Aunt Phoebe’s fare next time.”
He cleared off the dishes and set them in the sink.
“You don’t have to do that,” she told him. “Go on in and have your pie.”
“I’ll be right there,” he answered, ignoring her request. When he returned to the dining room and noticed her begin to clear off the table rather than sit with them, he told her, “Sit down. I’ll help you clear after.”
“Nonsense. I didn’t invite you here to clean up after yourself.”
“If you don’t sit down, I’ll get up and help you clear up right now.”
She looked at him sharply and, judging that he meant it, took her seat. “Very well.”
“This coffee is excellent,” Jacob said, smacking his lips and sitting back in his chair.
“Well, one item out of five is a start, I suppose,” she replied with a small laugh.
After dessert, while Silas and Cherish cleared the table, Jacob went up to retrieve Winslow’s tray. Ignoring Cherish’s protests, Silas rolled up his sleeves and poured hot water into the dishpan to begin washing the dishes.
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’m developing quite a knack for this.”
Seeing she would get nowhere with him, she tackled the mess in the kitchen, bringing him all the bowls and pans that needed to be washed, putting away the leftover food and shaking out the tablecloth from the dining-room table. When she finally came to stand beside him, she took up a dish towel and began drying the stacked dishes.
“How are things at the boat shop?” he asked casually, swishing his rag into a cup and then dunking the soapy cup into the rinse water before setting it upside down to drain.
“All right,” she answered.
He looked across at her, but she didn’t meet his gaze, concentrating on polishing the glass in her hand.
“The dories delivered?”
“They’re coming for them tomorrow.”
He nodded and turned back to the next cup in the sink.
“The schooner?”
“I spoke to the men and Ezra will try to keep them on schedule.” She set the glass on the table and took up another. “I promised Papa I’d report to him every afternoon, and he’ll give me the orders for the next day.” She hesitated. “I don’t know how much to tell him and how much to keep back. Dr. Turner was adamant that he mustn’t be disturbed.”
“Look, Cherish, if I go up and see your father now, and if he agrees to it, I could stop by after my shift and help the men for a few hours on the schooner.”
She met his gaze over the glass and dish towel in her hand. “Why should you do that after how Papa has treated you?”
He swallowed, realizing he would be doing it for her, and her alone. He shrugged, turning to take a pot caked with mashed potato and dunking it into the water. “I’ve been at the boat shop so long, I guess I find it hard to leave it all behind.”
“It sure misses you.”
He glanced at her again. She hadn’t referred to herself. “Do you want me to talk to your father?”
After a second she gave him a tentative smile. “I’ll pray for you when you go upstairs.”
The word
pray
brought back reminders of church and Silas frowned.
“What’s the matter?” she asked immediately.
He turned back to the pot, scrubbing at its insides. “This morning’s sermon—didn’t you find it a bit extreme?”
She considered. “No-o. I think Pastor McDuffie is a true man of God. I think he desires with all his heart to see his flock discipled in the things of the Lord.”
Silas concentrated on the pot, dissatisfied with her answer.
“Do you feel you’re doing all you’re supposed to be doing when it comes to serving God?” he asked as he rinsed out the pot.
“No,” she answered, humor evident in her tone. “There was a time I did. Right after Mama died and I genuinely began to seek God. He made Himself very real to me one night. I prayed with all my heart that He would show me that He was real, and I felt His presence, right in my bedroom. I knew then that He indeed was and that He’d never ‘leave me nor forsake me,’ as He promises us in the Bible. I also had the comfort and assurance of knowing Mama was with Him and that I’d see her again.
“It was after this that I began to take a real interest in things in church and to listen to what Pastor McDuffie preached and taught. He was new here then. I began to understand how someone could give himself heart and soul to his calling.”
Silas looked at her curiously. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
She shrugged, her face reddening. “I don’t know. You seemed so wrapped up in things at the boatyard, and I went away to school. I found it hard to imagine that I could get you to understand. I think I was a little afraid that if you weren’t impressed by what I’d experienced that it would diminish it in some way. So I kept it to myself—I only shared it with Pastor McDuffie and his wife.”
“And now?”
“Now?”
“You know, are you still so…so devoted?”
She fixed her gaze on the handful of silverware she was drying. “I thought I was…until this summer, that is. This summer has taught me that somewhere I left my ‘first love’ and things became unbalanced in my life. I don’t know how or when it started—somewhere between the rigors of boarding school, trying to shine at Cousin Penelope’s social gatherings and then holding my own in Europe.”
“But you’re a good person. You’re an example to the community. Everyone admires how you’ve come back such a lady.” He flushed as he said the words, but she didn’t seem to notice.