A Basket Brigade Christmas (34 page)

He remembered his first thought as the train took up speed, widening the space between them and cementing the finality of his decision.
What have I done?

He took full responsibility for breaking their engagement. Yet since then, he held Zona accountable for not responding to any of his letters—letters sent from the war, in which he’d declared his love, asked for forgiveness, and begged for patience until he returned and they could talk about their shared future.

He cleared his throat, letting the old anger shove the sentiment away. He hadn’t been totally surprised at her stubborn silence. In truth, he’d been guilty of his own obstinacy. That their combined vices had totally destroyed a shared future was an ache that never left him, dogging him with an unrelenting pain that surpassed the constant throbbing of his injured knee.

Cardiff saw the soldier from the platform enter his car and nodded to him as he found a seat. His black hair reminded Cardiff of his friend who’d tempted him to go fight Mexico.

Unfortunately, the friend had died in the first battle, and Cardiff had been wounded, his knee shattered. So much for adventure.

Yet the wound that still plagued him had changed his life. For as he recuperated, he found that he had a penchant for medicine, and when Dr. Niles had asked for his assistance in treating the soldiers, he’d readily agreed.

After the war, when that same Dr. Niles had asked Cardiff to apprentice under him in his St. Louis practice, Cardiff had jumped at the chance. It would be a way to start over and forget Zona.

All had turned out. Hadn’t it? He was successful and had taken over the practice when Dr. Niles retired. He’d created a good life for himself—he lacked no material thing. He lived in a lovely home.

An empty home.

He shook his head against the traitorous thought that poured salt upon his wound. He applied his usual tourniquet, trying not to think about what could have been. Zona was surely married by now, with three children, just as she’d planned.

They’d each chosen their own way. Their own wrong way.

Cardiff stared out the window of the train. A flurry of snowflakes had begun to fall when he passed through Decatur, and he hoped it wouldn’t worsen. The last thing he wanted was to be stranded in a strange town. He wrapped his overcoat tighter around himself and hunkered down to sleep. Perhaps when he awakened, he’d be in Chicago.

Was Zona still living in Chicago?

He was just dozing off when he felt a presence nearby and opened one eye. A little girl of six or seven stood in the aisle near his seat.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello yourself.” She didn’t move away, so he continued. “May I help you?”

From behind her back she presented him with a pitiful rag doll that only had one eye, a lone button.

“What happened to her other eye?” he asked.

“She lost it in the war.”

He wanted to laugh, but the serious look on her face stopped him. “I’m so sorry.”

Then she presented him with a far more serious problem by holding up the doll’s left arm. “It’s loose.”

“I see that.” Its odd dangling indicated it was being held by just a few threads. “Maybe your mama can sew it back on.”

She shook her head no. “Mama doesn’t have time.”

“Why not?”

“She’s morning, and even though it’s afternoon, she says she’s still in morning.” She cocked her head, making her blond curls bend against her shoulder. “I don’t understand, but she says to hush and I should be in morning, too.”

Cardiff looked over his shoulder and saw a woman who was staring out the window. She was dressed in black with a heavy veil.
Mourning.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Daddy isn’t coming home, so we’re going to Grandpa and Grandma’s house to live.”

“I hope you’ll be happy there.”

She shrugged. “I’d be happier if Betsy’s arm wasn’t falling off. You’re a doctor. Fix it, please.”

“How do you know I am a doctor?”

She pointed to the shelf above his seat. “I saw your doctor’s bag. Doc Headly had one just like it.”

“You’re very observant.”

“So? Will you make her well?”

How could he refuse? He retrieved his bag and pulled out some suture and a needle. “First off, I should know your name.”

“Dorothy. What’s yours?”

“Dr. Kensington.” He held out his hand and shook hers. “Nice to meet you, Miss Dorothy. Now, will you prepare the patient for me by removing her dress?”

She nimbly removed the blue calico, leaving the doll wearing only pantaloons and a chemise.

Cardiff gently took the doll and laid her on his leg. “There now, Betsy. Soon you’ll be good as new.”

“To comfort her, can I hold her hand—her other hand?” Dorothy asked.

Although it would make his sewing more difficult Cardiff said yes. Within minutes he’d reattached Betsy’s arm. Dorothy let out a breath and pulled Betsy to her chest, giving her a hug. “There, there, you made it through.”

“You can get her dressed now.”

As Dorothy put the calico back on, Cardiff had an idea. He unbuttoned a portion of his shirt and clipped off one of the buttons. “May I have her back, please?”

Dorothy handed her over, and Cardiff sewed the button in the place of the missing eye. It was a little larger than the other and a whiter white, but …

“There,” he said.

Dorothy grinned. “She can see again!”

“Good as new.”

Dorothy surprised him by giving him a hug. And then a kiss on his cheek. “How can I ever thank you?”

You just did.

Chaos. Happy chaos.

Zona relished the commotion and exuberance that came with the first rehearsal. It was a time of excitement and anticipation, as all those present could bask in the knowledge that they were
chosen.
Zona heard a few whispers about those less fortunate but let it go. That was part of it, too.

Victory was meant to be celebrated but came at the price of hard work. And so she took center stage and looked out over her cast, who were seated in the chairs of the audience. The auditorium was also set with tables as there had been a city meeting in the space the previous week, but there was time enough to set the tables against the wall to allow for more chairs. The Christmas musicale always played to a full house.

Zona clapped her hands. “People? Come now. Everyone take a songbook and settle in. Women in the front row and men in the back.” She pointed at the two little boys who were eight and ten. “You sit with the ladies, please.”

“But I’m a boy,” the older one said. “I don’t want to sit with the ladies again.”

“I realize that, Seth. But you two will sing the melody, which is the soprano line.”

Seth reluctantly sat in the front with his cohort, the ladies making room for them in the center. The boys pushed the women’s offending skirts to the side, as if the touch of their feminine fabric accentuated that this was not a row for males.

Twelve singers sat before her, most veterans of the musicale.

She was a little concerned that Mr. Pearson needed help sinking into a chair, his legs obviously weakened over the past year. He had to be near eighty, his rumbling bass voice providing a dependable and strong foundation to every song, especially “Good King Wenceslas.”

A slightly younger Mr. Fleming was a strong tenor, his only fault being that he was enamored of his own voice and sang too loudly.

The giggling Martin sisters continued to try her patience—would they ever grow out of it? Despite their annoying ways, Anabelle and her sisters had been a melodious addition for the past three years.

Two new women had been added: Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Schmidt, whose children were finally old enough to fend for themselves during the time their mothers needed to be at rehearsal. And three additional women had proven themselves to be very reliable ensemble singers.

Most noted were those who were absent. Richard and three other men were missing from the cast because they’d gone off to war.

If only she had Johnny.

Her musing was interrupted when the accompanist took her place at the piano. Zona gave her a nod, and the opening strains of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” filled the space.

“Page four of the carol books, please. Women, divide into soprano and alto. Mr. Pearson and Mr. Fleming, take up the men’s parts.”

Zona began to direct, assessing the balance of the voices. She noticed Seth wasn’t singing and stopped the song. “I will not condone pouting, Seth Green. There are plenty of other boys who would love to take your place.”

“No there isn’t,” he said.

Mrs. Schmidt poked his leg. “Behave yourself, young man.”

“But it’s true. I saw how many boys tried out, and we’re
it.
” Zona had to nip this rebellion in the bud. “I assure you that the musicale can and will go on without you.”

Seth bit his lip. The other boy, Gabriel, looked at him imploringly. But Seth had more to say. “I don’t want to sit with the ladies no more.”

Mr. Fleming rose. “They are welcome back here with us, Miss Evans. We’ll keep them in line.”

Seth’s hopeful eyes did Zona in. “Fine. Go sit with the men, but there will be no more complaints, is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The boys quickly moved their chairs next to their savior, Mr. Fleming.

“Now, can we continue?”

Both boys nodded.

Zona was just about to begin again when the door to the auditorium opened a few inches. Johnny Folson slipped in.

Saints be praised!
“Johnny! Come join us!”

He shook his head. “Can I talk to you, Miss Evans?”

Her hope on hold, she looked to the accompanist. “Begin again, please.”

The singing that ensued was marginal, as each head turned to watch Zona take Johnny aside.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she told the boy. “We’re just starting rehearsal, so you haven’t missed a thing.”

He shook his head, his eyes on the floor. “I want to come. I want to sing, but it ain’t going to work out. There’s not time enough in the day.”

The words sounded as though they came from an adult. “So you talked with your grandpa about it?”

A nod. “He says schooling takes enough time, and this music stuff being after school is just too much. With Pa gone to fight, he needs me at the stables.”

Decatur was abuzz with similar reasoning. Now more than ever, children were expected to help their parents, especially if the business was family owned.

“So he doesn’t object to the singing itself, just the time?” Johnny cocked his head. “I told you he doesn’t like to hear me sing because it reminds him of Mama, but he didn’t specifically say anything about the singing this time. Just the time away from work.”

Zona had an idea. “Can you read music?”

“Mama taught me.”

“Wait here.” Zona went back to the stage and returned with the book of carols. “Take this with you and learn the songs on your own. Can you do that?”

He leafed through the pages. “Which part?”

“The melody.” She pointed at the book. “And I’d like you to sing a song as a solo.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“You can, Johnny. I know you can.”

He eyed her a moment. “Which one?”

“‘O Holy Night.’”

“I’ll take a look.” He glanced out the window, as if remembering that time had passed. “I need to get back.”

She opened the door for him. “Come by any time and I’ll help you.”

He nodded, stuck the carol book inside his jacket, and ran out into the cold.

Zona returned to the stage with renewed enthusiasm. “Well then,” she said, as the singing stopped.

“Is
he
going to be singing, too?” Seth asked.

Although she hated to lie, she didn’t want word to get back to Mr. Folson. “Probably not,” she said.

But she certainly hoped so.