Chapter Sixteen #2
Melody suddenly felt rather foolish that her own troubles consisted mainly of the pros and cons of a life with the likes of Eustace Sinclair, should he ever decide to propose, while Elsie had to manage a giant house with an invalid mother; a gruff, controlling grandfather; a pack of children consisting of her younger siblings plus Anna; and a handful of what looked to be elderly servants.
All this as a fairly recent bride. By her own comparison, Melody’s life sounded ridiculously silly.
She wondered if Elsie viewed her the way she herself now tended to view Cynthia and the gang at times, as adolescent and shallow.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Melody tried to say with a little laugh. “Let’s talk about you now. Tell me everything! How’s your mother?”
Elsie gave her a forgiving smile. “I agree; Eustance certainly seems perfect. You must follow your heart, though, Melody. Do you love him?” She took a sip of her now somewhat cold tea.
But that was just it! She wasn’t sure.
“Perhaps you just need more time,” Elsie continued. “You can’t rush affairs of the heart. And you’ve only just met him, really.”
Yes. Maybe she was rushing things.
“Is it really over with Douglas?” Elsie’s expression was concerned. “You seemed to have so much fun together.”
Melody sighed. “Yes, that’s all over. He’s with Vivian Anderson now, though he doesn’t seem all that happy.”
“Hmm.” Elsie peered at her over her teacup. “And is there no other?” she asked softly.
“No, of course not!” Melody forced out a little chuckle.
The grandfather clock chimed four, then, and with a sigh, Melody set her cup and saucer on the little table. Eustace would be arriving at Philomena soon to take her to a new gallery opening, and she still had to dress.
“I should go,” she said, standing, and Elsie followed suit.
“Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner? It’s a little chaotic with the children, but you’d be most welcome. Gunther would love to speak with you, and we’ve recently gotten a new cook. She’s quite good. Much plainer meals than the old one. I think she’s preparing meatloaf tonight.”
As tempted as Melody was to have a meatloaf dinner (her favorite, actually) and to spend a little more time in this house that exuded peace and hominess, it was impossible. Eustace had been looking forward to this opening forever, and he would be cruelly disappointed if she canceled.
“Another time,” Melody promised.
“Perhaps you might bring Eustace.” Elsie’s eyes were bright. “Does he play rummy? We could have a game.”
Melody cringed at the image of Eustace eating a meatloaf dinner and sitting down to anything besides bridge or whist. “Yes, maybe,” she said noncommittally.
The fact that she knew Eustace would probably not approve made her not a little sad.
It was a decided point against him, if she were indeed tallying.
***
The bus ride home provided more time for Melody to consider her future, and she eventually concluded that she would follow Elsie’s advice to give it time.
She was being too hard on Eustace. After all, people didn’t just immediately fall in love, and she did, in fact, very much enjoy his company.
He was perfect for her, as Elsie herself had agreed, and it was just a matter of time before her heart caught up with her mind.
When she stepped off the bus at Sheridan and Kenmore, it was nearly five o’clock.
She would have to hurry. Even so, she paused at the front desk to check the mail basket.
She quickly rifled through, hoping for a letter from home just as she used to long for letters from Cynthia while stuck back in Merriweather.
How the tables had turned! Rarely did she get a letter from her family, except an occasional note from Mums that told her little beyond Helenka’s daily routine, as if Melody cared about which days Helenka scrubbed the kitchen floor.
Didn’t Mums have anything else to write about?
Her committees? Her women’s clubs? Before Melody left for Chicago, she had gotten her mother to promise, albeit reluctantly, to try to go back to all of her old activities, but Melody saw no evidence of that, at least in her mother’s letters.
Melody worried that her mother might never be able to shake the depression she had fallen into, and she internally scolded Freddy and Bunny for not doing more.
Ah! There was a letter for her! It was from Harriet, as usual. Harriet, who despite her horrible penmanship, had proven thus far to be Melody’s most faithful correspondent.
Melody hurried up the main staircase and dumped her books on her desk before plopping onto her bed. She ripped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of lined notebook paper just like they had used in school. Harriet had obviously not graduated to stationery.
Dearest Melody,
How are you? Things here are the same as ever for the most part.
It has been raining a lot, which is delaying the farmers from getting the fields ready, though it has been good for the daffodils, which are blooming in record numbers.
But maybe it’s just me taking extra notice of them this year because I am so happy.
That’s strange, isn’t it? (Not my happiness, but that when someone is happy, they notice pretty things more, don’t they?).
Anyway, I hope things are going well for you and that you are enjoying all your studies.
We (well, I) certainly miss you at the Merc.
Fred is not an unkind boss, but he certainly has different views on things.
He and Mrs. Haufbrau have formed what you might call an alliance.
They are “tightening up this bloated ship” is how they phrase it.
Never thought someone as ancient as Mrs. H.
(I’m just going to write Mrs. H. now to save time and ink.
You don’t mind, do you, Melody?) could get along so well with such a young man.
Mom says it must be because Fred reminds Mrs. H.
of your dad. In looks, yes (though Fred is thinner and has more hair, of course), but in personality, no.
(I mean no offense.) He doesn’t seem to have “the gift of the gab” for customers like your dad did.
But, regardless, he and Mrs. H. are two peas in a pod now and have changed the shop window displays to what they used to be before you came and rearranged them.
They also got rid of our little supply of ladies’ dresses, cardigans, and stockings, saying that it was ludicrous for a mercantile to stock ladies’ wear.
But isn’t variety the point of a mercantile?
Personally, I think it was Mrs. H.’s way of getting rid of all the fancy hats and gloves and scarves you purchased.
Nothing was specifically said, of course, but that is just my guess. (But aren’t I wicked to think so?)
The biggest change (and, Melody, you aren’t going to like this, I’m warning you now) is the cider.
Mrs. H. has convinced Fred to stop selling it.
Fred was hesitant, but somehow Mrs. H. got her claws into him and convinced him otherwise.
So, the cider, for now, is gone. Which is a shame, because we had people coming in this past week asking for it.
Melody stopped reading. How dare Mrs. Haufbrau!
Likewise, they have done away with all the homemade products—Kate’s baskets and Imogene’s soaps and candles.
Frank has tried to offer his suggestions, but Fred seems not to value them.
I have never seen Frank so dispirited as when he looks around the Merc now, but, thankfully, he has Julius, and his guests, Henry and Mary Crawford, to keep him otherwise occupied.
The Crawfords, by the way (you remember them from the potluck, don’t you?) seem to have acclimated to the town very quickly and are often out at the Kerwyn farm, though I’m not exactly sure why.
I asked Kate the last time she was in, but she said she hadn’t the slightest idea.
You know how she is. Speaking of, I haven’t seen Kate in a very long time, which in some ways is a good thing because I haven’t the heart to tell her we’ve no more need of her baskets.
John and I are very busy getting ready for the wedding.
He is a perfect gentleman and so kind. I know you didn’t approve of him at first, Melody, but I hope you might grow to admire him as much as I do.
He’s not just a farmer; he reads, too. In fact, he has a collection of books.
And he spends every Friday evening at the cottage with me and Mom for dinner and a game of cards, and I spend every Sunday with his family.
Oh, Melody, he is a dream! I can’t wait to be married.
He has a little spot of land picked out for us, and he’s going to start building as soon as the ground thaws a little more.
He won’t be done by the time of our wedding, of course, so I’ve agreed to live at his parents’ until the new house is finished.
I suppose I don’t have much other news. The Merc, besides what I’ve told you, is the same.
Many customers have asked after you and asked me to send their best wishes.
Mrs. Borman, Mrs. Portzen, Mrs. Dixon, and .
. . Oh! I can’t remember them all! But you are missed, Melody, which is such a nice feeling, isn’t it? To be missed?
And speaking of missing people, the only one I’ve missed mentioning, I suppose, is Cal.
As usual, he keeps to himself, and Fred doesn’t bother much with him.
I did hear Cal tell him, though, that his Uncle Lyle would be ready to come back soon.
Apparently, he’s well enough to work now and wants his old job back, so Cal told Fred he’s going to be moving on.
Which is sad, isn’t it? I’ve always liked Cal, and I know you do, too, Melody, despite the fact that the two of you are always arguing.
Always arguing?
You know, I did once think that maybe you and Cal might end up together, but I guess it wasn’t to be.
You’re in Chicago with all of your lovely friends, and Cal’s leaving anyway.
Well, I should go. Mom needs help getting the spring onions in the ground.
And I have no more news. Write when you can, but I’m sure you’re very busy.
Your friend,
Harriet
Melody let the letter slip from her fingers, thoroughly distressed. How dare Fred stop the cider sales? Did he not know how hard she had worked to produce it?
She stood up and began to pace. And what about all of the local products and the plan with Frank and Julius to make the Merc a part of a new artisanal version of Merriweather?
And how dare Fred call the Merc a “bloated ship”!
And why would Cal not stay on to make sure Lyle was up to the job?
She was tempted to immediately dash off a letter to Fred, but what good would it do?
As for Harriet’s insinuations about her and Cal, she decided to simply ignore them.
She went to her tiny window and looked out at Sheridan Road below, the cars rumbling by.
It was raining again. Why was it always raining?
She couldn’t remember a soggier April. But why had Harriet said that about her and Cal?
She tried to conjure up an image of Eustace instead, of the two of them in a romantic embrace, like the Cupid and Psyche sculpture in the Sinclair statuary, but it was not Eustace she saw over her, it was Cal, strong and taut and poised like the Jason, his dark eyes boring into her as he pushed his dark hair back with a calloused hand, his lips parted slightly . . .
There was a swift knock, and she jumped.
“Melody?” It was Sharon from down the hall.
“Yes?” Melody called, her heart pounding.
“Sr. Joseph sent me up to tell you your ‘gentleman caller’ has arrived.”
Melody groaned. She hadn’t even started to dress.
“And you should see the flowers he’s brought! They’re absolutely gorgeous!”
Melody sighed. “Tell him I’ll be right down!”
As Sharon retreated, Melody went to her closet and pulled out a bias-cut red silk gown from Fields. Granted, it was not designer, but it was quite stylish. She wasn’t sure it was the right choice for tonight, but it would have to do. As for her worries about home—they would have to wait.