Chapter Four
Four
Ornetta was sitting on her front porch on that faintly chilly September morning, wrapped in her shawl and watching the town come alive as the doors of the bank and the saloon and the general store were opened to the day’s business.
In the distance, the school bell rang, a shrill sound.
Clang-clang-clang.
A horse whinnied farther on up the road, and two mules, tied to the hitching rail in front of the saloon, commenced to bickering, nipping at each other, braying and trying to kick.
Smoke rolled and billowed from the chimney in John Avery’s blacksmith shop, which stood on the property behind her own, and Ornetta heard his hammer striking the anvil, a steady beat that reminded her of music.
Doc Gannon passed by in his buggy, off to make a call on some ailing soul, Ornetta supposed, since he was heading away from his office above the general store, not toward it.
Spotting Ornetta, he smiled and tipped his hat to her. He was a handsome Easterner with a preference for privacy and quiet ways.
Ornetta lifted one work-worn hand in greeting.
She’d woken up even earlier than she usually did that morning, feeling all jumpy and brimming with a sense of expectation and challenge. She was an old woman, yes indeed, and it had been a long time since she’d anticipated—and feared—anything the way she did now.
What was it, coming at her from who-knew-what direction?
She didn’t know for sure, but she reckoned she’d find out soon enough.
Her boarders, six of them, had passed out of the house one or two at a time, nodding and offering a kind word as they went by.
Sam Ernshaw, the bank clerk, Mrs. Ellie Moore, the elderly librarian, Miss Helen Denny, the schoolmarm, Miss Nelly Carlyle, who was Miss Helen’s niece and worked at the Statehood Hotel, John Avery, the blacksmith-preacher and, finally, shy Stella MacIntosh, who worked in the general store by day and played the organ at church every Sunday.
Ornetta had wanted to reach out and clasp Stella’s hand that morning as she hurried by, hold it tight for a few moments, just to let that poor young woman know she was among friends.
But she’d hesitated in the end, as she always did, because Stella, reticent as she was, would have flinched at Ornetta’s touch, and not because Ornetta was colored, either. No, sir. It was because Stella MacIntosh, no older than twenty or so, was scared to death of something or somebody.
The girl was painfully timid and clearly alone in the world, and knowing that bruised Ornetta’s all-too-tender heart.
Thinking of Stella, Ornetta shook her head sadly.
She was about to rise from her rocking chair and head on inside the house to help her granddaughter, Pearl, clear away the breakfast dishes, pump and carry water for the two copper boilers, one upstairs and one down, dust and make beds and air out rooms, when the copper-haired young woman she’d seen stepping down from the jitney the day before appeared at Ornetta’s front gate, flanked by two young children.
Ornetta marveled at the suddenness of it; one moment, the woman hadn’t been there, the next, she was, as if she’d been conjured, looking flushed and earnest and just a little bit frightened.
“Mr. Whitfield said to come to you, if we needed to,” she blurted, clasping a bulging valise in one hand and the boy’s hand in the other.
She swallowed, raised her chin a notch, and she sounded breathless.
Ornetta hadn’t noticed that before, but when she spoke again, the matter was clear.
“I can pay, of course,” she rushed on. “And we’ll share a room, the three of us. ”
Ornetta didn’t actually have room to spare—the place was full—but this woman was obviously in need of help and shelter, and so were those precious children.
If they cleared out Pearl’s room, she speculated silently, and Pearl moved in with her, they could make space.
“Come on inside,” Ornetta said. “I’m Mrs. Ornetta Parkin, but you can just call me Ornetta if you’re respectful about it.”
“My name is Lizbet Fontaine,” the young woman replied, stepping back so the little girl could work the latch on the gate, “and these are my sister and brother, Frankie and Jubal Keller.”
“Come in, come in,” Ornetta urged, standing now, holding the screened door wide open. “You can have some refreshments in the kitchen while Pearl—that’s my granddaughter—and I prepare a room for you.”
Lizbet Fontaine was beautiful, that was for sure. Taller than most women, but not so tall that she’d loom over a man or anything like that, and slender, with a trim waist and a shapely bosom.
Her skin was clear, her eyes cornflower blue.
The children resembled her, and for a moment Ornetta wondered if she’d given birth to them, despite her claim that they were her siblings.
But, no, Ornetta decided as they passed her, entering the house one by one—the boy, then the girl, then Miss Fontaine herself—she was not the kind to lie.
Ornetta led them through the front parlor with its stone fireplace, clean but worn rugs, oil-burning lamps and sturdy, plain furniture, through the dining room, where Pearl was stacking dirty plates, and then, finally, into the kitchen, where there was another, less formal table.
Pearl carried in the pile of plates and silverware, her look curious as she took in the new arrivals. The crockery rattled as she set her burden down on the long counter next to the big sink, and her lips moved, though no sound came out.
Poor Pearl had the mind of a small, wary child, but Ornetta loved her more than life. Her granddaughter was all the kin she had left, and these days, it took the both of them just to keep going.
“Pearl,” Ornetta said, after indicating that the copper-haired woman and her brother and sister ought to sit down at the table, “leave those dishes for me to wash. I want you to go upstairs and move your things from your room to mine, so these good folks will have a place to stay. I’ll come up in a little while and help you change the sheets and tidy up a bit. ”
Pearl, who was slight, with lighter skin than Ornetta’s, said nothing. She just nodded once, twisting the front of her apron in both hands and then left the room.
Her heavy shoes went clomp-clomp-clomp on the bare wooden treads of the rear stairway. Those shoes were ugly and cumbersome, but they kept her crooked feet pointed straight ahead.
Ornetta smiled fondly as she stood at the sink, pumping water into a teakettle. “I hope you’ll be patient with Pearl,” she said. “Her mind isn’t quite right, but she’s got a fine heart.”
Miss Fontaine half rose from her chair. “Of course,” she agreed, flushing again. “But please let me do up those dishes for you.”
As she crossed the room to place the kettle on the surface of the big old black stove with its shiny chrome trim, Ornetta placed a gentle hand on Miss Fontaine’s shoulder and pressed her back into her chair.
“We’ll take care of that, Pearl and me. We don’t ask our tenants to wash dishes or do any other household chores. They’re paying to live here and we want them to be comfortable.”
Miss Fontaine nodded, but she’d gone a little pale, Ornetta thought, and she clasped her hands together on the tabletop so firmly that her knuckles were white.
It was then that Ornetta realized the dear thing hadn’t slept well last night, and quite possibly for a number of nights before that.
She wanted to send her off to bed for a good, long rest and tuck her in like a child. Maybe even kiss her forehead.
“You want to tell me what brings you here?” Ornetta asked, once the tea was brewed and the children were consuming tall glasses of milk and putting away oatmeal cookies like there was no tomorrow.
The young woman looked even more uncomfortable and indicated the children with a slight nod of her head. “I’d rather speak with you privately, if that’s all right.”
“Of course it is,” Ornetta said, because it was.
Sometimes it near broke her, this strange, sweet tenderness that came over her now and again, usually when she met a person who might be in trouble, and almost sent her straight to her knees.
It was love, she knew that, and it came when it would, all but swamping her with its strength.
The children grew restless, once they’d finished their cookies and milk, fidgeting in their chairs.
“I wonder if you’d like to see my birdbath,” Ornetta stated with buoyant kindness, smiling at the little ones. They weren’t as nervous as their elder sister, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety beneath their politeness. “Folks say it’s lucky. They like to toss in a pebble and make a wish.”
The boy’s eyes widened, as did those of his sister.
They both turned to Miss Fontaine.
“Can we go out and see the birdbath, Lizbet?” the little girl asked hopefully.
“May we,” Lizbet corrected, without much conviction.
“I want to make a wish,” the boy pronounced.
Ornetta was already holding open the back door, her gaze resting on Lizbet Fontaine now. “There’s plenty of room to play out there,” she assured her new boarder, “and there’s an eight-foot brick wall to keep them safe, too.”
Miss Fontaine swallowed visibly, then nodded.
Ornetta waited while the children scurried past her, onto the porch and then into the yard. When they were alone, she and Lizbet, she returned to the table and refilled the other woman’s teacup.
“You’re very kind,” said Lizbet Fontaine.
“I try to be,” Ornetta answered. Upstairs, she could hear Pearl thumping around in her weighted shoes, busy at her task, and she felt her weary old heart swell a little at the thought of her dear girl.
“Would you mind calling me Lizbet?” The question was cautious, softly presented. But whatever was disturbing this woman, Ornetta thought, it wasn’t shyness.
Lizbet was uncommonly strong, for all her hesitancy.
“If you’ll call me Ornetta,” she answered, with a corresponding nod.
“Thank you, Ornetta.” Lizbet let out a long breath, and her shoulders slumped a little. Then she reached into the pocket of her simple cotton dress and produced a thin fold of currency. “I’ll pay in advance for a month’s stay.”
Ornetta nodded, named a modest figure.
Lizbet counted out the money, gave it to Ornetta and stuffed the little that remained back into her pocket. “I hope to find work right away,” she said.
For some reason she couldn’t have explained, Ornetta thought not of likely employers for her boarder but of Gabe Whitfield and that big, lonely old house of his, where he rattled around all by himself, except for his dog.
He was a sad man, having lost his wife, whom he’d adored, and their little daughter, both on the same day, but he was young and strong and handsome, too. It was past time for him to put the losses behind him, terrible as they were, and get on with things.
Take himself a wife.
Like Lizbet Fontaine. She’d suit him fine, and he’d suit her, too, if he’d just let go of the past.
“Who are you running away from, Lizbet Fontaine?” Ornetta asked, putting aside thoughts of Gabe for the time being. She figured she knew the answer, having seen Lizbet and the others hauled off in Henry Middlebrook’s fancy surrey the day before.
Lizbet told her about Henry’s echoing mansion, the bedroom that connected with his, and how, as it turned out, her stepfather expected her to marry that lecherous old coot.
No great wonder that she’d run away.
And if Henry Middlebrook or anybody else came for this lovely young woman—a teacher, she said—they’d have Ornetta Parkin to deal with.
Ornetta Parkin and her rusty old shotgun.