Peaches in Winter (2 page)

A church yard?

“It’s not—not just about a church yard, of course,” she added quickly. “It’s about the people who go there. Someone to be buried, and someone to be married, and
how their lives might intertwine. Well…well not the buried person, of course—but a man who goes there to visit his dear wife’s grave on a cool autumn day, and a girl who goes to the church nearby to be married o-only her fiancé doesn’t show up, and she runs over to the graveyard to—to get away from everything—and they meet.”

She stopped for a moment, her face deep in thought. Jake did not interrupt. For an instant, he could visualize her scene: the windy fall day, the leaves curling and blowing and lying.

“He would wear black,” she said, in reverential tones, “and she is wearing her wedding dress, of course, which is white. He’s too sad to even notice her at first. Then he sees her crying. They talk, and he tells her about his wife—a-about how wonderful she was, and the girl starts to cry again, and says, ‘No one ever loved me that much.’

“He notices she’s wearing a wedding dress and realizes what must have happened. He offers to lend her his coat and drive her home. She says no because she thinks she might throw herself over a bridge. But he-he finds her, somehow, and stops her.” Her gaze came back to reality, and with it, her cheeks
colored slightly. “I think they get married in the end.” She said it almost apologetically.

Jake stared at her. He was surprised and a little disturbed that she’d grown so deeply involved in her little story and pulled him along. Somehow, he’d been her captive audience, until the guff about the bridge. Then the spell had broken. Still, he was surprised by her narrative ability.

“It’s not bad,” he said at last. “But I don’t write romance.” He didn’t know what else to say. Besides, it was true. He didn’t.

The color deepened in her cheeks, and she made a little motion with her hand, as though brushing something away. She stirred slightly in his chair. “No, of course not.” Then, seeming to shake off the mood of melancholy, she brightened visibly and looked at him. “What do you write?”

“Mysteries.”

“Oh good!” she cried, clapping her hands together, her smile lighting her entire face. “I love mysteries! I’ve only read one, of course, but—”

Jake goggled at her. He rubbed his eyes. This girl was starting to give him a headache. She was positively seething with contradictions. Loved mysteries but had only read one? Impossible!
She
was impossible.

“I was afraid you were going to be a library—no, that’s not what I mean…lit…literary writer.” She shook her head. “I just can’t understand them. I was afraid I would mess you up taking dictation, because I might not be able to spell all the words.”

She continued cheerfully. “The mystery I read was called
Murder at the Vicarage
. It was set in England,” she confided, as though that was important, and she felt knowledgeable for knowing it. “I didn’t guess who did the murder, of course—not even close—but-but I couldn’t quite believe the story, either.” She bit her lip slightly.

Jake remembered the book. It was supposed to be one of Agatha Christie’s best. He didn’t remember any problems in it. “What was it?”

She stared at him. “Why, the-the murder, of course. Could-could anybody really hate someone that much, for weeks, maybe even longer, and plan ahead all that time, just to kill him? I couldn’t believe it.”

He stared at her. “That’s kind of the point of a murder mystery,” he said. “That someone died, and the detective has to find out who it was. As for if anyone could premeditate and kill someone else, I think the whole of human history bears it out.”

She shuddered. “It seems so wicked!”

He just stared at her. It was the first time he had thought of it that way—murder being ‘so wicked.’ It was, of course. Murder, in stories, and in real life, simply ‘was’ in his philosophy. The world was evil, and people were evil, and they did what they could get away with. He didn’t especially like it, but he’d never have grown almost teary-eyed about it the way she seemed to be doing.

For a brief moment, he saw the world the way she must—a good place, where even if things were hard, even if your fiancé left you at the altar or your wife died, you would find a happy ending. He realized he envied her.

“But I’m sorry,” she said, smiling at him, rather regretfully. “We’re supposed to be plotting your story, and here I am distracting you.” She positioned her fingers over the typewriter and looked at him expectantly.

~*~

He licked his lips and cleared his throat. He glanced at her, and swallowed. “I suppose I could use your original scene, the one in the graveyard—if you didn’t mind.”

“Oh no,” she assured him with a vigorous shake of her head. It send her curls wobbling here and about. “That would be wonderful! An idea of mine in a real book. And my teachers always said I wasn’t too smart.” She beamed up at him, fingers at the ready over the typewriter.

“Well.” He looked away. For some reason, his throat felt husky.

He closed his eyes for a moment and considered. The graveyard was a scenic place for someone to visit. There would be no wedding, of course, but someone visiting a grave, maybe they would see another one, a grave of someone who had
died under suspicious circumstances. Then the hero or heroine could wonder about it and decide to investigate.

He thought for a full minute, setting the scene in his mind. “Here we go.” He opened his eyes, squinting to see if she was paying attention. She was, almost too much. He closed his eyes again and began to dictate, setting the scene with her wind, and leaves, and gravestones, and adding a few embellishing details of his own.

He had spoken only a few sentences—just starting to become involved in it—when it dawned on him he wasn’t hearing anything like the amount of typing he should have heard. He opened his eyes and stared down at his blonde secretary.

Sure enough, she was hunting and pecking—seeking out the letters one at a time and typing them with two fingers.

“I thought you said you could type?”

“Oh—well I can, just not real fast. To be honest, it’s faster for me this way. Don’t worry, I’ll catch up.” She gave him a winning smile.

It’s a wonder she graduated from secretarial school
. Then he wondered if she even had; served him right for not asking for her credentials.

“Never mind. Let me sit down. I’ll do it myself.” He did not miss the relieved expression that flicked across the girl’s face.

“Oh, that’s awful nice of you, Mr. Watterson. Can I help you by doing some filing maybe? I’m real good at filing, almost as good as the other girls were at typing. Miss Mabel said maybe I shouldn’t apply for a job where I had to do too much typing...”

He took back his seat. The leather was now warm. He began typing rapidly. The sound of the typewriter only partially dulled her voice. She was still chattering, but he barely heard it.

One last sentence made it through his concentration: “I’ll just go make you some lemonade then, okay?”

He said, “Hm...” noncommittally and began to type again.

A plot, albeit a sketchy one, unfurled itself in his imagination. It centered on this visit to a graveyard and someone realizing he didn’t know how his great-uncle had died. The circumstances looked suspicious, our hero decided to investigate, and eventually unearthed a few old skeletons in the family closet.

~*~

It was only later, after several good hours of work that he realized Matt’s devious plan had worked. Jake had actually written something.

The girl ‘helped’ in her own way—by plying him with drinks of lemonade (which was surprisingly good). She helped even more, in his opinion, when she kept quiet.

He was barely aware of her most of the time.

Whenever he surfaced for a sip of lemonade, or to pause and think, he looked around vaguely to see where she was. She gave him a friendly wave once and opened her mouth as though to start talking again.

He quickly dived back into the story.

Another time, he saw her curled quite contentedly in his biggest armchair, one of his own books in her hands and a frown of concentration on her pretty face. Her lips moved slightly as she read.

She really was quite good-looking when she wasn’t talking, he realized. That thought sent him diving back into his work even more quickly.

At the end of the day, he had a surprising amount of work done. The plot was, at least, a possibility. He’d done more with less.

When he stopped typing, he glanced at the grandfather clock on his mantel and blinked at how late it had gotten. A glance at the windows showed it was indeed dark outside. He’d worked for nearly five hours.

He frowned slightly. He had the distinct feeling he was forgetting something. He looked around—and then leaped to his feet, one eye twitching.

It was the girl. He’d forgotten the girl.

She sat slumped rather forlornly in a big easy chair, asleep, her purse clutched in one hand.

A quick glance at his watch reassured him it was only 6:00 p.m. Still, it was dark out, and he’d kept her late. She was probably too shy to say when it was time for her to leave, even though he obviously hadn’t needed her.

He walked over and looked down at her sleeping face. For some reason, he stopped and did not immediately waken her.

She looked almost like a child.

A peaceful, yet somehow sad expression graced her artless face. She clutched a pillow by her side and stirred slightly in her sleep.

Then Jake’s throat felt strange. “Wake up,” he said gruffly.

He did not touch her.

The moment her eyes opened—startled flecks of blue, searching around—he backed away. “Time for you to go home.”

“Oh—I’m, I’m sorry! I fell asleep. I thought it might be time for me to go, but I didn’t want to disturb you, and I’m sorry I fell asleep. I’m awful sorry.”

There she was again, chattering!

“Don’t worry about it,” he said brusquely. “I’ll take you home. You shouldn’t be out so late alone.”

It was easier, he thought, to think of her as a child. It let him tolerate her talkative nature, the fact that she couldn’t type, and the almost-too-innocent air about her.

“Oh, no, I can’t let you!” She jumped up, a slight flush entering her cheeks. She smoothed down her rumpled skirt as she spoke too fast. “I could-couldn’t possibly let you do that—not after I made such a pain of myself. I couldn’t even type fast enough, and you didn’t send me back. No, sir, I-I’ll be fine. I’ll just walk fast.”

“Nonsense,” he said, his voice made abrupt by annoyance. “I can’t let you walk home alone when I kept you here so late. Now don’t argue, it’s my fault for being distracted. If you don’t want me to take you home, I’m at least calling a cab.”

She protested a bit more, but he ignored her. He strode to the kitchen, called a cab, and waited by the front door with her until it came. He made her accept the loan of his overcoat. It hung almost to her knees.

When the taxi arrived, he paid the driver and waited until the girl was safely in and the vehicle had started away before raising a hand and waving.

As he climbed back up the steps to the brownstone, he realized it was the first time he’d been outside in weeks.

It was snapping cold but pleasant out. The stars shone above. He looked around the empty street, rubbing his arms to keep warm, and then headed back indoors.

When he bolted the door for the night, he realized how silent and empty the big house felt.

Chapter Three

Jake got up early the next day. He dressed right away and started work at his typewriter as soon as he finished his orange juice, thinking he could finish something before Betty Ann showed up and interrupted his concentration.

Two hours later, he sat back in his chair, raking his fingers through his hair and scowling at the typewriter. Maybe it had been a false start, a mistake. Last night the idea had seemed inspired, and this morning it seemed so stupid. Stories did that sometimes. They died.

He couldn’t choke down the taste of bile in his throat. No more stories for him, probably, until spring; she hadn’t broken his dry spell after all. He found himself oddly disappointed. She hadn’t, actually, been the magic cure-all Matt had touted. Despite his annoyance at Matt, he’d wanted to believe it—and he’d been starting to.

He drummed his fingers on the desk, occasionally chewing a pencil, trying to think what he could possibly do to make this winter pass faster. After last night’s possibilities where work was concerned, he felt himself doubly saddened by the thought of not being able to write anything until spring.

Lost in his thoughts, Jake didn’t notice how much time he’d spent brooding, until—

The doorbell rang.

Jake jumped up and dashed for the door, before he caught himself.

What are you doing, Jake Watterson?
He slowed his walk to a stroll, tugged at his shirt and straightened his shoulders.
Honestly. Rushing to the door like an eager date. Next thing you know, you’ll start looking forward to seeing her!
He straightened his tie, irritated with himself.

“Come in.” He yanked the door open with a glare.

Today she wore a decrepit red coat and once again had a big smile on her face.

The jacket he’d loaned her last night was draped over one arm. And she held a bouquet of flowers.

Daisies, by the look of them.

Jake drew back, swallowing and trying to keep the surprise off his face. What did she think this was, a
date
? What was it about this girl that could make his life so surreal and make him instantly uneasy?

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Watterson. Did I startle you?” She held the flowers up, apologetically. “I brought these to remind you of spring. It’s coming soon!”

She stepped into his home, wearing the same dress she’d worn yesterday underneath an unbelievably ratty barn
coat. The arms were too short, and it had been patched with an almost-matching red fabric near the hem.

She handed him back his borrowed jacket with an apologetic smile, slipped her coat off, and hung it on a hook. She was right. It was horrible. “I’ve been meaning to buy a new one,” she said. “I’ll be able to afford it soon.” She headed again to the kitchen, carrying the daisies, and talking.

“I can’t wait for spring. This morning I woke up; I honestly thought I could smell the peach trees blossoming out my window. I guess I must be homesick. I surely do miss Ma and Pa, and Grandpa, and my brother Sam.

“You really ought to see a peach orchard in spring, Mr. Watterson. I guess it sounds rude to say so, but I think you just haven’t lived until you’ve seen one. It looks like all the trees are going to a wedding and dressed up all fancy for it. And then there’s the wonderful smell—”

The steady stream of words continued to issue from her mouth.

She just can’t stop talking, can she?
He watched her in wonder. Once again, he found himself following her into his kitchen.

He stood by her side as she filled another glass jar with water and the daisies. The activity didn’t slow her flow of reminiscences. She talked on, describing the farm, talking about peaches, and discussing what her family was probably doing at just this moment.

He listened to her, amazed and appalled. As far as he could tell, she didn’t stop for breath. He listened, trying to catch it, but he couldn’t.

Suddenly she stopped and turned to him with round eyes. “I’m sorry! I’m doing it again, aren’t I? You’ve got to just tell me to stop when I keep talking and—” She stopped again, and laughed. “I’m doing it again!” She covered her mouth.

He couldn’t help smiling in return. “That’s all right,” he found himself saying.

She cast him a grateful smile and finished with the flowers. She set the vase on the kitchen table. He had to admit, if only to himself, that they really did brighten the room and remind him of spring.

He wondered, suddenly, how much they had cost—and how she’d been able to afford them. With her coat in that condition and wearing the same dress two days in a row, he highly doubted she was financially well-off.

He cleared his throat. “Let me pay you back for them,” he suggested.

She cast him a slow, surprised glance. “Oh, no, Mr. Watterson. These are a gift. You don’t pay somebody for a gift!”

Jake frowned. He didn’t know how he could argue with that, and he decided not to try. “All right,” he agreed, “but if you want to buy anything like that again for my home, get the money from me first. I don’t want you wasting your salary on silly things.” He realized that probably sounded rude, but it was true. Jake, at least, could afford to waste a little money.

She blinked. “All—all right.” She looked a little chagrinned. “They do brighten the room, though, don’t they?” She tilted her head slightly, admiring the blooms.

“Yes,” said Jake quietly. He was thinking they weren’t the only thing that brightened the room.

She turned to him again.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep yesterday.” She spoke quietly, and her eyes were large and serious, apologetic.

“That’s fine,” said Jake.

“Is your story going all right?” She looked as though it mattered to her.

Once again, he found himself distracted by her good looks. She had a wholesome prettiness, legs that looked both strong and lithe, and a round, earnest face that was open and sun-kissed. He had no doubt her curls were natural, if only because he doubted she would have thought to use curlers.

Or succeed if she tried
. Then he felt bad for thinking that. She might not be the smartest girl, but he shouldn’t mock her, even privately. She obviously had a kind heart.

“No,” he said, surprising himself. He regularly lied to Matt and sundry others about the progress of a story. But he couldn’t lie to her. “No, I haven’t been able to write anything this morning. I think the story died.” He shrugged, almost apologetically, and turned and trailed into his writing room, leaving it up to her whether she followed him or not. “I’ll try again, though.”

“Maybe I can help?” she offered, hurrying to his side. Her fingers twitched slightly, as though eager to begin a new campaign of attack against his typewriter.

“No thanks,” Jake said hastily. “I’ll manage.”

“But, Mr. Watterson, I’ll be cheating you if I don’t do some work!”

“Perhaps you could do something in the kitchen,” he mumbled, sitting down and slipping a pencil from behind his ear. Come to think of it, a couple of things he’d written down last night needed changing. He could at least do that.

“Say, that’s a great idea, Mr. Watterson!” she exclaimed with such force he jumped, and one of his eyes twitched.

He stared at her. “Oh. If you want to.” He hadn’t meant the suggestion as a serious one. It was just the first thing to come to mind that would keep her out of his way.

Is Matt paying her, or am I?
Either way, they could afford to keep her here a few more days, even if she didn’t do anything secretarial. At least until she could afford a new coat.

Half an hour later, he sat sprawled in front of his desk, chewing on a pencil, frowning at the words and sometimes scribbling out a phrase. Occasionally, he looked over at his machine and typed something. He was not working fast, not sure the story was going anywhere—but he was working again.

From the kitchen, he heard occasional, ominous thumping sounds. He did his best to shut them out and not think about what they might mean. If she cooked as poorly as she typed, it could spell disaster. But for the moment, he was just glad to have her occupied but nearby.

He bent over his work again.

~*~

Humming quietly to herself, Betty Ann put the finishing touches to the cobbler, slid it into the oven, and stepped back, dusting her hands and smiling.

There
! It wouldn’t be as good as if she’d had fresh peaches, but the canned ones she’d found in the cupboard should work well. Like Grandpa said, you worked with what you had. He was right.

She went back to the door of the writing/sitting room and peeked in. Mr. Watterson was bent over his desk, hard at work. His brown hair stuck up in soft-looking tufts where he’d run his fingers through it.

She smiled and moved back into the kitchen. He was really smart and diligent, if he could keep at it and write books as long and complicated as the one Betty Ann had tried to read yesterday.

She hadn’t been able to make it past page five, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.
It’s probably because I was distracted
. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

And she had been. He seemed to think so hard about his writing that it was impressive just to watch. Between watching him and running out to the kitchen to refresh his lemonade every so often, she hadn’t sat still for very long.

She turned to the sink and cleaned the dishes she’d used to make the cobbler, along with the others that had been sitting there. She kept checking the clock over the kitchen table while she worked.

When enough time had passed, she pulled the cobbler from the oven and set it on the stovetop to cool.

Betty Ann smiled.
At least it smells good!
She went to the gleaming new electric ice chest and pulled open its spiffy white door. Looking inside, she peered around for milk but didn’t see any.

Perplexity wrinkled her brow. Surely he must have some milk in the house! Then again, he was an author, and they were liable to be eccentric. Well, you couldn’t eat cobbler without milk. She thought for only a moment before making her decision.

She walked into his writing room, hearing the tap-tap-tap sounds of slow, thoughtful typing. “Mr. Watterson, you’re out of milk. I’m going to the grocery market down the street to buy some. I won’t be long.”

She waited a moment for his response. When none came, she said, “‘Bye, Mr. Watterson. I’ll be right back.”

She took her coat off the hook and headed out the front door. He really was a nice boss, she thought. He hadn’t sent her away even though he obviously didn’t need a secretary.

He needs a cook, though
. She couldn’t believe he’d run out of milk and not bought more. And there hadn’t been much food in the icebox, either.

She tried to imagine him standing in the kitchen, cooking himself a meal. She couldn’t.

Back on the farm, they hadn’t needed to buy milk at all. Bessie and Molly, the two farm cows, kept them supplied with what they needed. It was a chore to milk them every morning, but Betty Ann hadn’t minded. In a way, it was easier than going to the store and shelling out perfectly good money for milk.

She wondered if Ma minded doing the milking, now Betty Ann was gone. She wondered if the cows missed her in the mornings.

“Thank you!” She smiled as she handed over her next-to-last dime to the grocer for a pint of milk. Payday was tomorrow, and anyway, Mr. Watterson would probably be willing to pay her back. Either way, she couldn’t let him have peach cobbler without milk!

She walked back to the brownstone, humming to herself.
Miss Mable was wrong
.
I did get a good job!

Of course, it wouldn’t last long; she realized that. But at least she wouldn’t starve or be forced to go back to the farm before she was ready.

Coming straight from there to the big city had been hard. It was a huge adjustment just getting used to the crowds of people, the huge buildings, and the fast, heavy traffic.

Secretarial school, in many ways, had been harder yet. She’d barely graduated, and only then, by working twice as hard as the other girls seemed to need to. She’d never learned to type very fast, and she still took dictation poorly, even in shorthand.

After she’d barely passed all the tests, on her third try, Miss Mable sat her down and talked to her in her office.

“You know, Betty,” she’d said, “not every girl is cut out to be a secretary. Some girls would be much happier marrying a nice man and living out their lives on a farm. I think you might be one of them.”

Betty Ann had taken her time responding. Miss Mable was so sincere in her kind warning—it was definitely a warning—that she couldn’t answer too quickly in case she sounded flippant or angry. She knew she wasn’t as good as the other girls, but somehow it was important to her not to give up.

“I know,” she’d said at length. “I might be. But I want to be a secretary first.” She looked straight at Miss Mable. “I think that’s what I’m supposed to do.”