The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (11 page)

S
arah finished
straightening up the bedroom, accompanied by the tick-tick-tick of the
cuckoo-clock. She glanced over at the glossy wooden timekeeper. Nearly nine
o’clock. Time to get the bread dough mixed and set out to rise. She’d bake this
afternoon when the noon heat of the September day had died away. No
ready-sliced, store-bought bread for Sarah; she baked hers from a sourdough
starter. Fact was, the bread that Sarah baked descended from her mama’s bread
starter. When Sarah’d married Charlie Picoletti – What? Twenty years ago now?
Only fools and young lovers kept track of such dates – her mama had given her a
cupful of bubbly yellow flour and water, ripe with the scent of yeast. Since
then, twice a week, Sarah had made all her bread from that starter.

Glad to be left
alone on her baking days, Sarah often used the silent hours to remember her own
mama, gone now for more than a decade. Her mama had birthed many children, even
more than Sarah had: Four sisters and five brothers made their homes throughout
the Northeast and the Midwest. One brother had even moved out to Canada.
Quebec, Sarah thought, but she hadn’t heard from that brother since 1924, a
year after their mama’s death.

Passing the
dusty dressing table with barely a glance, Sarah moved with heavy steps into
the kitchen.
Good thing is, my bedroom’s downstairs.
No long steps to
climb. Though only in her fourth month, Sarah didn’t feel like trudging up a
steep flight of wooden stairs.

Funny. When had
she begun to refer to the bedroom which she and Charlie shared as “hers?”
Used
to be “ours.”
She shook her head as her hands reached for the flour
canister that sat ready on the kitchen counter. And when had her hands become
so wrinkled? So full of brown spots from hours spent plucking chickens on the
back step and hanging out wet laundry on the line?

Nothing turned
out the way it was supposed to.
Retrieving her mixing bowl from the
cupboard, Sarah added a splash of starter, then shook a good heaping of flour
into it. She’d always scorned the use of a measuring cup. And she’d always
mocked – once upon a time, long, long ago – the idea that her Charlie –
laughing and sparkling-eyed – would cheat on her like this.

Blinking back
the tears threatening to march to the front of her vision, Sarah rummaged
around for her long wooden spoon to stir up the mixture into smooth, sticky
dough. She found it and plunged it into the bowl, remembering how her own mama used
to remind her to scrape the sides.

Mama had liked
Charlie when Sarah had brought him home with her a few years before the Great
War. From that first evening he’d sat in their kitchen, complimenting Sarah’s
mama on her chewy cookies and drinking two full glasses of milk, Charlie had
seemed like he just… belonged in their family. And Sarah… Well, seventeen-year-old
Sarah had felt like she’d belonged to Charlie. That he’d protect her. Stick by
her. Especially since her first love – actually, her first fiancé - hadn’t.
But, well, that was best left forgotten, stashed away like her wedding dress
deep in an attic trunk.

And the early
years with Charlie hadn’t been bad. They had their arguments, but all couples
did. And the babies came one after another. Sarah remembered the pride etched
in Charlie’s face when the midwife had presented him with their firstborn son,
a fiery boy they’d named after Charlie’s own grandfather Benjamin. And Lou and
Nancy soon followed, twins whose appearance heralded a strain on the family
finances. Sarah made reductions in her food budget to help scrape by and had
exclusively breastfed the twins until they passed their first birthday, despite
the stress to her own body.

Lucky I did,
too,
thought Sarah, sprinkling more flour across the wooden table surface.
Otherwise,
I would have had another one even sooner.
As it was, she’d become pregnant
again before she could catch her breath. Charlie’d seemed a bit uneasy about
it, though he said he was glad. Work at the lumber mill that employed him had
increased, but the owners kept hiring more immigrant workers who would accept
lower wages. That cut into Charlie’s hours some. So Sarah tightened the
financial belt even further to make up for the lost pay.

Despite his
decreased hours, Charlie wasn’t home much. “Looking for work,” he always told
her as he pushed his cap over his golden curls each morning and headed out the
door. But his steps were unsteady when he arrived home at night and his pockets
even emptier than when he’d left that morning. Sarah would sigh and cut the
bread a little thinner for hungry-eyed Ben and the two toddling twins. At least
they had their own cow for milk and cream. Secretly, Sarah had begun to sell
some of the butter and soft cheese which she made, thanking the Sweet Mother of
Jesus that she had customers for it.

Remembering it,
Sarah couldn’t bring a blush to her cheeks when she thought of her own relief
at losing that third pregnancy. True, the doctor had put her on bed-rest for
two weeks because she’d lost so much blood. She couldn’t keep down more than a
mouthful of chicken soup sent over by a kindly neighbor. But Sarah had paid Doctor
Philips no mind in the end. So weak that she could feel her legs shaking
together, she’d gotten out of bed in four-days’ time. Even today, more than
fifteen years later, Sarah couldn’t suppress a mirthless laugh from escaping
her lips. Stay in bed for half of a month? With a three-year-old boy running
around the house and two one-and-a-half-year-olds? Sure, her mama had come to
help out. Sarah’d only been in her early twenties, after all. But Sarah told Mama
that she could handle everything herself, that she’d be fine on her own.
Really, though, she hadn’t wanted her mama to see what kind of a man her sweet Charlie
had shaped out to be.

She’d thought it
wouldn’t get any worse. But then Sarah had peered out the front window one day,
pulling the bleached curtains to the side to let in a little sunlight during
that tired winter. She’d been waddling around with Cliff in her belly then; Grace
was just a very little girl, barely wobbling around on her unsteady legs. Sarah
had put lemon squares in the oven, Charlie’s favorite dessert, and the sharp
citrusy-scent brightened up the day considerably.

Through the rain
slamming against the old panes, she’d seen Charlie’s car chug up the road. It’d
been a black Ford, she remembered now as her hands massaged the dough. Sarah had
wondered at her Charlie arriving home so early in the afternoon.
Must’ve
been cut… again!

Funny, when they
were first married, his early arrival home would have brought a leap of joy
into her young heart. But now Sarah felt nothing but anxiety at the sight of
Charlie’s familiar form behind the steering wheel: Would his measly paycheck
cover their bills? How would she ever save enough money for shoes for Ben? He
needed them for school! Never mind Sarah’s hair, which hadn’t been styled for
months and grew around her neck like an untended brambly bush.

She’d been about
to let the curtain fall back into place when she realized that Charlie hadn’t slowed
down so that he could take an easy turn into their curving driveway. Curiously,
she looked at his moving car closely as it approached the house, traveling
along the lazy side road. She could make out a figure in the passenger side. A
woman.

They had driven
on by the house, surely never thinking that child-saddled Sarah would be
peeking out at the rain-sodden world. But she had been. And that was the first
in a long series of similarly-rooted events that choked what was left of Sarah
and Charlie’s marriage.

But that was 1921.
This was 1934, and Sarah had bread dough to put on the windowsill, allowing the
sunshiny lumps to rise in the warmth.

Wish Grace was
at the age to quit school,
she thought. Having someone with whom to share the
household chores would certainly help, especially when the new baby came.
Come
to think of it, Grace’ll have to stay out of school once February comes so that
she can help me with the baby.

A little pang of
guilt struck Sarah, but she pushed aside the feeling.
It’s not my fault Grace
can’t finish school. I need her here. Lou and Nancy are no help with the house,
too hoity-toity for it. And Evelyn’s going to live with Mary.
Sarah tied on
a fresh apron with unnecessary firmness. Grace’s pleading face appeared in her
memory: her middle daughter’s wide eyes begging to join that foolish singing
group.
“Practices are only on Fridays,”
Grace had said, the hope
practically spilling out of her mouth along with the words.
“Ben said…”

In the empty
house, Sarah let out a snort. “Ben said!” As if that should make a difference!
Sarah’s eldest son, who lived from day-to-day on the odd mix of gambling
earnings and fairly-earned wages at a horseracing track, of all places! And he
thought he could get his mama to change her mind…

Yet, he almost
had done it. Grace would never know that Sarah hadn’t made her final decision
until her daughter actually had asked for her permission. Well. Good thing
Sarah had thrown out all cotton-candy feelings, all warm remembrances of her
own youthful yearnings in the face of Grace’s supplication. Only an unloving
mother would allow such nonsense to fill up her children’s heads. Better that Grace
learn early that the world was a hard, cruel place which would ruthlessly crush
any dreams she might possess.

“H
i, Grace.”

The cheerful
male voice broke into Grace’s near-stupor. She’d been sitting at her desk in
Mr. Kinner’s class, just moments after the last bell rang. Startled by the
interruption of her thoughts, she raised her eyes to see who addressed her.

It was Paulie
Giorgi, Mr. Perfect-Score. He stood, inclining his head a little bit so that
his warm maple-syrup eyes could look into Grace’s face. “You look like you’re
deep in thought,” he smiled, bringing out those beautiful dimples again.

“Uh, yeah,” she
stammered. “I was just… thinking.” Truth was, she’d been sitting there trying
to figure out a way to tell Mr. Kinner that she wouldn’t join his special choir
after all. A way, that is, in which she wouldn’t have to admit she’d fudged
Mama’s signature.

“Well, don’t sit
there thinking too long,” he grinned, all-out friendly. Grace felt like the sun
had just spread its warm beams on her, despite the drizzle that pattered
outside the classroom windows. “I heard you’re joining Mr. K.’s after-school
chorus,” he continued.

Now where did he
hear that?
Grace wondered. “I… I…” she trailed off, not knowing whether to nod or shake her
head. After all, she wasn’t joining now. Mama had refused to let her. But she
didn’t want to get into that with Paulie Giorgi. She didn’t even
know
him!

“Teddy Bulger
told me,” Paulie went on, not seeming to notice Grace’s sudden-onset speech impediment.

Well, that made
sense. Teddy chummed around with Ruth Ann’s brother, and Grace had let the news
slip to her school friend.
Boy, Ruth Ann can’t keep her mouth shut to save
her life, can she? Not that I asked her to keep it a secret, but for Pete’s
sake!
Grace nodded to show that she understood.

“What part do
you sing?” Paulie asked, and Grace wished he would just go away. Her stomach
hurt with him standing there, smiling down at her.

She swallowed
and managed to mumble out, “Soprano, I think.” Her hands twisted themselves
into knots beneath her desk.

“Mr. K. tested
your voice?” Paulie questioned, not looking like he planned on moving until she
did.

“Uh, yeah.” The
sound of shuffling books caught Grace’s attention. Mr. Kinner stacked and
placed his books in his satchel up front. She had to tell him now that she
would not be able to join the chorus, but Paulie’s solid body hemmed her in.
She’d have to ask him to move, but the words wouldn’t come to her lips.
Couldn’t
he just go away? Why is he talking to me, anyway?

Mr. Kinner
finished latching his satchel. Paulie said something about a song he hoped the
choir would sing, but Grace was too preoccupied with Mr. Kinner’s actions and
her fast-disappearing chance to explain the situation to the teacher privately.
She heard none of Paulie’s words.

Realizing that,
satchel in hand, Mr. Kinner approached the classroom exit, Grace began to glare
at Paulie. He apparently didn’t notice her angry look, however, and kept on
chattering.
Mama would say he talks the hind leg off a mule! Never heard a
boy blabber so much!

Grace’s
frustration overcame her timidity at last. She rose to her feet, slipping from
the seat worn smooth by hundreds of schoolchildren’s bottoms. Doing so forced
Paulie to step back so that Grace didn’t bump right into him. Surprised, he
finally stopped talking for just a moment, his eyes following her gaze,
directed toward the classroom door.

But it was too
late. Mr. Kinner disappeared into the corridor, and Grace had lost her chance
to explain, to make everything right. Sort of.

“You needed to
talk to Mr. K.?” came Paulie’s friendly query.

“Yeah.”
Fleetingly, Grace noticed that even though Paulie abbreviated their teacher’s
name, he attached a respectful title to it. She glanced at Paulie. “Guess it
will have to wait,” she ended, filling with hopeless panic. Today was the first
rehearsal. Mr. Kinner needed to know she wasn’t participating. Today.