A Dream to Follow (9 page)

“The ladies of the church will be serving coffee, punch, and cake immediately following the ceremony, and then the photographer will be taking pictures. As we announced, families who would like their pictures taken may request that after our graduates are finished. Now let us pray.” He waited for the shuffling to cease. “Heavenly Father, thou who knows all things, thou who loves us with unending love, we commit these young people into thy keeping. Do with them as you will that they might be useful in thy kingdom here on earth. As Jesus prayed for his disciples, I pray for you to keep these young people safe. May all that they do be for thy glory. In Jesus precious name, amen.”

The hearty amen that echoed around the room showed everyone’s agreement.

Pastor Solberg raised his hands and declared, “The Lord bless and keep all of us from this day forth. Go in peace and serve our risen Lord.” He made the sign of the cross and nodded to the four. “You follow me, and we will greet everyone at the door.”

As they greeted everyone, Thorliff ’s face felt as if it might crack from all the smiling, and his hand shook from shaking so many hands. When the line finally ended, he let out a sigh that made Anji giggle.

“If you will all get a drink first, then we will go right into the picture taking. Mr. Haganson is setting up his things out in front of the church.”

Manda groaned loud enough to earn a raised eyebrow from their pastor, which set the others to giggling under their breath.

After wetting their dry throats with a quick drink, the four gathered outside the church, where a rumpled weed of a man ducked out from under a black-draped camera perched on a tripod.

“First we will do the group picture and then, ladies first, the individual ones.” A New York accent spoken through his nose brought on raised eyebrows and stifled giggles. “I think we shall have the young men seated, please.”

“That’s because you are too tall for the picture.” Manda elbowed Thorliff, who was already over six feet tall and still growing.

Thorliff felt his ears go red. “Shh.”

“Now you must hold your pose until I release you. I want a formal expression here.”

“He means smile on pain of death,” Thorliff muttered. Manda sputtered, Anji poked him to be quiet, and Jacob choked on his swallowed laughter.

By the time the photographer had finished with them, families were lining up. A photographer coming to town was indeed a rarity.

“Can we open our presents now?” Jacob looked to Pastor Solberg for permission.

“Of course, although I’m sure you’ve guessed what they are.”

Together they carefully slit the wrapping paper and removed Bibles printed in English and signed by both Pastor Solberg and Hjelmer Bjorklund.

“The women of our congregation insisted that you each needed your own Bible now. Those came clear from Minneapolis.”

Thorliff nodded as he read the flyleaf and inhaled the aroma of printer’s ink, new pages, and the leather cover, on which his name was stamped in gold.

“Mange takk.” He had to swallow before he could talk. “Such a wonderful present.”

“I think that shall become a tradition here. You need to thank Mrs. Valders and Mrs. Lars Knutson. They instigated the whole thing.”

“Ja, I will.” Thorliff looked to the line of people where his aunt Kaaren smiled back at him. So many of the books he owned had come as gifts from her.

As the graduates visited and ate their cake, several people slipped envelopes into Thorliff ’s pockets, always with the comment, “So you have money for college.”

After he had walked Anji back home and had trotted across the field to help with the milking, he pondered the day, bringing each treasure to mind.

Ingeborg had set a lamp in the kitchen window. A verse floated through his mind.
“Let your light so shine . . .”

Would he get to attend college like so many wished for him? Where would God have his light shine?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Northfield, Minnesota

“You look tired, my dear.”

“I know, Papa, but exams will be over soon.” Elizabeth toyed with the potatoes and gravy on her plate. The hand holding up her head, braced by her elbow on the table, said as much as her tone. Had her mother been at the table, Elizabeth would be sitting straight and proper. Anything to keep from seeing that pained look her mother put on at similar infractions.

Bosh on Mother. I’m too tired to care
.

“You don’t have to put yourself through this torture, you know.” Phillip Rogers looked over his half glasses and shook his head. Smile lines crinkled around his gray eyes, gray that tinged the temples of umber hair kept short to control the curl. No matter how much good food Cook fed him, he could still be called by a childhood nickname— Bean Pole.

“I know. I could go to work at the newspaper full time like you want and still have time to be the social butterfly Mother wants.”

“Many girls—er, women”—he changed his wording at the glare his daughter sent him—“sorry. Many
women
would be ecstatic to be in your position. You play the piano close to concert quality, you can carry on a conversation with anyone you come in contact with, you are lovely to look at . . .”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Remember, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Be that as it may, I’ve seen young men’s heads turn when you walk by.”

Elizabeth thought to the encounter with Hans and his wayward lips at the newspaper office.

“And, lest all that go to your head, you can set type faster than many a journeyman.”

“But I hate dancing, and poor Mother is about at her wits end trying to teach me how to manage a household, and the only needlework I like is stitching up a wound.”

“Which I’ve heard excellent reports on from the Hardesty clan. The father says you can barely see the scar on his son’s arm, besides the fact that the hand still works.”

Elizabeth thought back to the day they brought the young man into the doctor’s surgery. While Dr. Gaskin had been out bringing another baby into the world, young Hardesty was losing blood fast on a tear from wrist to elbow. Elizabeth put a tourniquet above the elbow and stitched the wound closed with nearly a hundred stitches. All the while she checked the blood flow, and when they removed the tourniquet, nary a drop of red leaked out. She’d read about sewing nerves back together too, but near as she could see with all the blood in the wound, the major nerves and blood vessels were intact.

“I was lucky, and so was he.”

Phillip shook his head. “No, child, that was all by the grace of God.”

“Well, if God had been watching over that young man like his father said He was, the accident wouldn’t have happened. And I . . .” She blinked at the remembered panic that had surged through her at the first sight of the wound. Then she’d taken a couple of deep breaths, considered waiting until the doctor returned, and went ahead on her own. The fact that gangrene had not set in pleased her more than the fine stitching.

“You did one good job.” Her father reached for her hand and cupped it palm up in his own. “Not that long ago you were hanging on to my hand with these long fingers so adept now.”

“Years ago, Papa.”

“I know, but years pass by so swiftly, too swiftly.” He slipped into the shadow-focused look that told his daughter he was thinking of an editorial.

Phillip Rogers would rather write than run a newspaper. The fact that the newspaper gave him a platform for his writing was all that kept him at the helm. That and the immutable fact that he couldn’t afford to hire a manager. He’d dreamed of his daughter’s assuming that role on a permanent basis after seeing the skill with which she helped out. During each summer break from school, she managed to bring his accounts receivable current and to increase his ad revenue by charming everyone who came into the office to take out more inches, allowing her father more time to write. The quality of his editorials improved too.

“Mother is a good manager.”

“I know.” He’d tried to get his wife to help, but she detested the whole environment, including the smell of ink and the noise of the press. Besides, she felt she was busy enough taking care of the house and the gardens and raising a daughter who was far too independent for her own good. And as a Doncaster, she had a certain role to fulfill in town and in the church. She drew the line at politics.

Until her husband chose to run for city council. Then she had campaigned quite energetically, helping him with teas and soirees as fund-raisers and convincing the women to persuade their husbands to vote for him. Phillip’s solid reputation in the community helped also.

Elizabeth fought back a yawn. She couldn’t sleep yet. She had reams of notes to go through first. “Excuse me, Papa, I must get back to my books.”

“Of course, my dear.” He rose when she did, and together they headed for the library, he to enjoy his cigar and newspaper, she to the books she had scattered all over the desk and table.

When her mother returned from the symphony she’d attended, she found them both writing furiously. He at one end of the walnut table, Elizabeth at the desk.

“Well, my dears, you look positively industrious.” She crossed the room to drop a kiss on her husband’s cheek first, then on her daughter’s. His only response was a nod and the half-snort, half-grunt male greeting that said, “Hello. I’m glad you’re safe at home again but please don’t bother me.”

“Did you enjoy the evening?” Elizabeth asked, feeling as though she was being pulled out of a fog.

“Yes. I’m just sorry you couldn’t attend with me.” Annabelle leaned against the edge of the walnut desk and pulled her gloves off, finger by finger. Elegant with her dark hair smoothed in the usual chignon, she fulfilled the picture of classical beauty, but for the detested dimple in her chin. “Though I believe you play better than the pianist they had.”

Elizabeth tightened against the words she knew were coming. In the secret place of her heart she wished she could be the daughter her mother dreamed of.

“If only you would give your piano playing the concentration you apply to your lessons. Why, with a . . .” Annabelle dropped her extended hands back to her sides and sighed.

Since they’d discussed this topic to death more times than she cared to count in the last couple of years, Elizabeth just nodded. Much as she loved the piano and music, she loved medicine and helping people get well far more.

Annabelle sighed again. “Would either of you like a cup of tea?”

Elizabeth made herself look up and smile. “Yes, please.” When her mother left the room, she and her father exchanged a glance. Tea was not necessary, but quiet was. Fighting the guilt that stalked in on stiff cat legs, Elizabeth struggled to get back to her studies. Her mother could say more with a sigh than a ranting politician could say in an hour.

Three days later Elizabeth staggered home from her last exam and collapsed to sleep around the clock. She woke to someone tapping on her door; in her dream the tapping had been the sound of her pencil against the desk as she failed her biology test.

“Yes?” Blinking her eyes open, she pushed back the covers and stared out the window. Dusk? But she was in her nightdress. The last she remembered was promising herself a nap.

“I was getting worried about you.” Her mother crossed the room to sit on the end of the four-poster bed. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“No.” Elizabeth stretched her arms above her head, then pushed herself up enough to sit against the pillows she punched behind her back. “I feel like my head is full of wool, but other than that . . . did you come put me to bed, or did I dream it?”

Her mother nodded. “I couldn’t let you sleep in your clothes.”

“Thank you.”

“I haven’t put you to bed for many years. Brought back good memories, it did.” Annabelle clasped her hands around one knee and leaned against the bedpost. “You talked with me, but I knew you had no idea what you said. You were sound asleep again before I even turned out the lamp.”

Elizabeth rubbed her grumbling midsection. “Will supper be ready soon?”

“As soon as you get dressed and come down. Since it will be just the three of us, if you’d rather stay in your wrapper, you may do so.”