The Rose of Winslow Street (29 page)

Mr. Stockdale nodded and began shepherding the neighbors away. She returned to sit beside her father in the grass. His muscles were trembling with exhaustion and he stared weakly at the patch of grass between his bent legs. She waited until the neighbors drifted away, all the while listening to her father's labored breathing. It took a few moments, but he finally managed to catch his breath. While his body may have returned to normalcy, his brain was still racing.

“We will begin working on a demolition plan tonight,” he said. “You can sketch the layout of the house, and I'll make the plan. It is going to create a mess on the first floor.”

She nodded cautiously. “All right.”

“I should be ready to begin work demolishing the chimney by tomorrow. Wednesday at the latest.”

“I will see about hiring someone to help us with the heavy labor.”

“No,” her father said. “I want to do the work myself. I
need
to do the work.” He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the perspiration from his brow. No sooner had he dabbed his forehead than sweat started beading up again, but when he looked at Libby, his eyes were sane. They were burning with anguish, but the madness had vanished.

“I know I sound crazy,” he said. “I have been driven nearly mad by anger and bitterness, but I will work through this, Libby. My home has been violated. The inventions I never wanted released have been sent into the world, where I had no say in how they were built or deployed. Every one of those designs has inadequacies, and those flaws are now laid bare to the world. I know Jasper and that woman think I was foolish to have withheld the patents, but it was my right to do so. My right to continue working on the designs until I was satisfied with them. They robbed me of that chance. And while everyone in this town thinks the treasures hidden in that chimney make for a thrilling bit of mystery, I feel like I have been sharing my house with the enemy for twenty-three years. I
know
how irrational that sounds, but I cannot stop the thoughts and I need to pull that chimney down. If I can do that, with my own sweat and labor, it will be like purifying my house.”

As odd as her father's feelings sounded, the manner in which he expressed them was perfectly logical. “I am not stupid,” he continued. “I see how you look at the Romanian and I know you have hopes to marry him. But before he ever steps foot back into my house, I am going to pull that chimney down and take control back. And then I will
invite
the man in. I will be able to accept Michael Dobrescu as a member of my family once I am back in control of my house.” His eyes were lucid and his voice was calm. The tension drained from Libby's muscles and a glimmer of hope lit her mind.

Her father needed her help to get back on his feet. She struggled to pull him upright, and he seemed every one of his seventy years as he shuffled into the house on trembling legs. He was still shaky and upset, but she did not fear he would do any further harm to the house or himself. She nodded across the street, where she could see Mr. Stockdale silhouetted in his window. At her sign, he returned her nod, and she saw him and his wife retreat back into their home.

She was alone with her father. Everyone on the street had returned to their homes, where soft lights cast warm illumination behind their windows. Mothers were preparing supper while the laughter of children drifted from open windows. All of those women who had gathered in a semicircle around her father had gone home to husbands they could lean on, children they could nurture.

Her life was about to revert back to the way it had always been. She would help her father with his designs and pray his sanity remained. Perhaps her relationship with Regina would thaw enough so she would be allowed to play with Tillie on occasion, but if not, she had her surly cat, Ivan, for companionship. And other people's children she could enjoy watching grow and come of age.

But after spending the most enchanted summer of her life with the big, boisterous Dobrescu clan, she felt more solitary than ever. The trip to Kentucky would take at least a month, and maybe Michael would return for her, maybe he would not. If his sister was destined to live with the nuns, perhaps he would decide to stay.

Michael had come to Colden for a house, and now that he had no hope of ever attaining it, there was nothing left for Michael Dobrescu.

Michael felt the waves of insecurity radiating from Libby with every step they took in the moonless night. His brow lowered as he listened to her recount her father's breakdown.

“He thinks that getting rid of the chimney will heal his sense of violation,” she said. “I don't know if it will or not, but he would have kept smashing away at the chimney until he killed himself if someone had not intervened.”

Michael's heart sank. “There is no way you can come with us to Kentucky then?” He had studied the maps and knew that his journey would take longer than he'd originally assumed. There were no trains that cut through the remote mountain pass where the nuns lived. It would take weeks to walk over the rugged terrain on foot, leading a wagon weighed down with the chests of relics to be delivered to the holy sisters. Now that he understood how long it would take to travel to Kentucky, he feared leaving Libby for such a lengthy journey. But he was compelled to go. It was more than just a matter of returning some old books and a scrap of linen. Mirela was convinced the Lord had directed her path to America, and for some reason they did not yet fully understand, she was going to serve a very important purpose here and it was his responsibility to guide her passage.

But it felt wrong to leave Libby. She had already become entwined in the fabric of his family, and it was not right to leave her behind when she was riddled with despair. “If we were to get married immediately,” he said, “would you consider coming with us?”

It seemed the perfect solution to Michael, but Libby appeared stunned by the suggestion. “I can't . . .” She glanced back at the house, then scanned the neighborhood. “I can't leave so abruptly. My father needs me.” The panic faded from her face, to be replaced by an emotion Michael could not understand. Shame? Despair? Whatever it was, it caused Libby to twist her hands and pull away. She wandered over to stand beside an old silver maple tree, leaning against the trunk and turning away from him. She spoke so softly he could barely hear her words. “Michael, I don't think you want to marry me. I can't read, and our children may have the same affliction.”

How desperately he wished he could show her just a tiny corner of his heart to prove what she meant to him, but his English was not good enough to express the bone-deep contentment he felt when he was with her. He moved to the opposite side of the tree trunk so he could see her face. She stared at the ground and he had to tilt her chin up in order to speak to her. “I will rejoice for any children you and I have together, and I don't care if they can read or not. The worth of a child is measured by their strength of character, not academic gifts.”

Libby nodded, but her jaw was clenched. It would be criminal for him to leave her when she was this despondent. “It was not from want of effort that you never learned to read, and to belittle yourself over your inability is to somehow question God's creation. Libby, you are made precisely as God wished you to be.” He folded her into his embrace, feeling her thin frame tremble in exhaustion.

“I can delay our departure for a few days if you are willing to come with us.” Their bags were already packed and his sons had been prepared to begin the journey the next day. Mirela wanted to leave that very evening, but at least he was able to dissuade her from that. “It is not good for two people who have made a commitment to each other to be away from each other so long. I know this from the months and years I spent away from Marie. Already my soul longs to join itself with yours, but I fear this may never happen if I walk away from you at this point. Come with us to Kentucky. Please.”

“I can't go with you,” she said in an aching voice. He did not miss the way she turned her shoulders away from his and she looked around the familiar surroundings of the street.

“Can't go, or do not wish to go?” The distinction was suddenly very important to him. She glanced back at the house.

“I am afraid that if I leave, I might never come back,” she said. “I've never imagined a life anywhere except Colden. Tillie is here. I have responsibilities to my father.”

He glowered at the house. For years it had been something he dreamed of and fought to obtain, and now it was something that was standing between him and the woman he loved. “Libby, I cannot make you promises that I will be able to afford to live in this town. After this afternoon, I have almost nothing left to my name, and I must find a way to provide for my family. The only thing I know for certain is that I can never permit my children to live under the same roof as your father. If you wish to live with me, you must leave your father's house. When I return, I hope you will be able to make that decision.”

When she tried to look away from him, he cupped her face in his hands. “I understand your loyalty to your father will not permit you to come with us now, but you will be in my heart with every mile of the journey. I studied the map and believe I can return in a month, perhaps a little less. It is hard to know how travel over the mountains will go. Were it possible, I would send you letters every day that would spell out exactly my feelings for you, but I don't think your father would welcome reading such letters to you.”

Her voice was hesitant and he had to lean closer to hear. “You could send them to Mr. Auckland,” she said, and his heart soared at the words. He could barely speak because his grin was so wide.

“You would welcome my letters then?”

She glanced up at him. He could not be certain because the light was so dim, but it looked as if her cheeks were suffused with the most stunning blush he had ever seen on a woman. “Yes,” she said. “I would welcome your letters.”

One month was not such a long time. Perhaps it would serve as a test to see if their love was fueled by something more than the excitement of a forbidden summer romance. “Then it is decided,” he said. “I will leave tomorrow and send you letters when I can. And when I return, I hope you will be ready to make your decision.”

Beneath the spreading branches of the silver maple tree, he kissed her, praying this would not be the last time he held Libby in his arms. Never had he known his soul could long for a woman so badly, a combination of joy and hurt that he wanted to feel for the rest of his life. If he thought it would work, he would toss her over his shoulder and carry her with him all the way to Kentucky. Instead, he breathed deeply of the scent of her skin, imprinting it on his memory to last him through the weeks ahead.

I
t took less than twenty-four hours for Willard Sawyer to outline a plan for dismantling the chimney, removing two fireplaces, and repairing the outside of the house. Although the work did not appear to be complicated, Libby did not believe a seventy-year-old man was capable of the amount of backbreaking labor it entailed.

She believed wrong. Within a week her father had managed to bring down the bulk of the chimney, climbing ladders and working crowbars into the mortar that fastened the bricks to the side of the house. Throughout every hour, Libby worked in tandem beside him. When she climbed on the roof, she wore clothing she borrowed from the Barclay boys down the street; after the debacle in the windmill, she was not willing to risk her life over entanglement with skirts.

As the days passed, her skepticism about her father's plan eased. After the initial surge of rage on the evening when he attacked the chimney, he approached the work as logically as any engineer. She helped him dismantle the joists, cart bricks, locate tools, and prepare boards to cover the scar left after the removal of the chimney. She sanded, painted, and hauled. Her father treated her with respect, asking her opinion on how best to blend the newly constructed boards with the old. When he needed supplies, she drove the wagon into town and purchased the necessary paint, plaster, and carpentry tools.

One week after the project had begun, she stopped by the library to ask Mr. Auckland if any letters from Michael had arrived.

“Not yet,” he said. He reached out and gave her a reassuring pat. “Don't look so crestfallen. I am certain he will write. The morning they left for Kentucky, Michael stopped by the library and told me himself he planned to send you letters. Sounded very emphatic about it.”

She stood a little straighter. “He did?”

“Oh yes. He had all sorts of questions about Kentucky too. He wanted to know the price of land, the type of agriculture best suited for the climate of Kentucky. That sort of thing.”

The breath in her lungs froze. Why would Michael need to know such things? Wasn't he only going to drop off Mirela and then turn right around and come back to Massachusetts?

She clenched her teeth. Why would that big strapping man come back for the illiterate spinster with the unstable father? She forced her tone to remain calm. “And how is the price of land in Kentucky compared to Colden?”

Mr. Auckland laughed. “No comparison. They are practically giving land away in Kentucky.” He went back to reshelving some books, while all Libby could do was stand in a daze. For a cash-poor man like Michael, the allure of cheap farmland would be more tempting than Aphrodite and her entire retinue of half-naked nymphs.

Mr. Auckland turned around and must have noticed the stricken expression on her face. “Don't worry,” he said kindly. “That man is carrying a torch for you, and there is no need to fret about his return. He promised to write you letters, and I am confident he will.”

Over Mr. Auckland's shoulder Libby saw Sally Gallagher, eavesdropping with wide-eyed enthrallment. Fabulous. The news of her jilting by a man who preferred farmland in Kentucky to the town spinster would be splashed across the newspapers by morning. Libby met the woman's gaze and forced her tone to be gracious. “Have you overheard everything you need, or are there any questions I can answer for you, Mrs. Gallagher?”

Mrs. Gallagher stuck her nose back into a book. “Just reading up on how to replace a
massacred
rose garden,” she mumbled, her stony opinion of Michael as hard as ever.

Libby remembered her own outrage at Michael's destruction of her mother's roses. It seemed like years ago, but now that she understood Mirela's history, Michael's crude actions were a classic example of his forthright sense of protectiveness. She dipped her head so Mrs. Gallagher would not see her smile. Mama would approve of Michael Dobrescu. True, he had ruined her prized roses, but given a little time, Michael would create a garden with a profusion of jasmine, orchids, and wisteria. Michael would show the same fierce protectiveness toward Libby as he did the rest of his family, and her Mama would definitely approve.

Libby's spirits lifted when a flurry of letters from Michael began pouring into Colden. Although she was enjoying her strengthening relationship with her father, each day she was racked with nervous tension as she walked to Mr. Auckland's house to see if any mail had arrived for her. After the incident in which Mrs. Gallagher overheard her conversation in the library, Mr. Auckland suggested they would have more privacy if she called on him at his home. The arrival of the letters was sporadic and sometimes they arrived out of order, but she treasured each one. It was pathetic how her entire day could be colored by a note from Michael. On days she received a letter, she felt more beautiful than Venus de Milo, more skilled with a paintbrush than Rembrandt. Her heart soared and she wanted to scale mountains. On days there was no letter, she was only the frumpy spinster wearing a paint-stained smock who deserved the dead mouse her cat laid at her feet.

Mr. Auckland read Michael's letters to her, while she committed every word to memory. She took each of them home, not because she could make any sense of them, but she found it reassuring to watch the stack of letters grow taller with each passing week. She wished she could reply to his letters, but there was nowhere for her to send them.

Some of the letters included sketches of the plants and trees Michael found interesting. Her favorites were when Luke or Andrei sent along drawings. Neither was a talented artist, but she loved the rudimentary drawings of the wagon, the buildings in New York City, the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania.

One day she arrived to see that Michael had sent her a small package. Libby's spirit soared. No man had ever given her a present before, and her heart thudded with excitement as she tore open the wrappings. Inside were wads of crumpled newspapers to provide padding for a much smaller box. She hoped he had not wasted his scarce resources to buy her anything of value, but what on earth could it be? Michael did not seem the type to buy jewelry, and it certainly could not be a book. Art supplies? Candy?

But when she lifted the lid of the smaller box and pulled away the cloth, a smile lit her face.

Perfume!

“What a lovely bottle,” Mrs. Auckland said as Libby lifted it from the box. A note was included, but she was too anxious to open the bottle to worry about what it said. The moment she lifted the stopper, the air was filled with a delicate, fresh scent that energized her spirit. Libby knew nothing about perfume, but this scent was magnificent, an impossibly beautiful fragrance that wafted through the air and enveloped her in a sense of well-being.

Mr. Auckland opened the note, and she calmed herself enough to listen to the words:

Libby,

The perfume industry in New York is thriving. Forgive me, but we dallied a full week here while I explored the possibilities. I had to sell the jasmine essence. It will not last much longer, and since I had no chance to tap the red juniper trees, I was forced to sell it. It was a disappointment, but I was able to get a good price for it.

While in New York, I hunted for essential oils that reminded me of you, and have blended them into a perfume that is a reflection of your spirit. I know you have little knowledge of perfume, so I will explain the layers of fragrance that are in the bottle.

The major scent is from an evergreen essence, because this is a deep green fragrance that reminds me of the hours we spent walking through the woods. For top notes, I used the essence of apples and blackberries. You often smell of blackberries after you make jam, and I included the apple scent because your skin has a faint scent of fresh green apples. On hot days, the entire town of Colden carries the scent of cranberries on the wind, so I have added a bit of that oil as well. All of these scents remind me of you. And of course I added a drop of my night-blooming jasmine, because it is the most beautiful fragrance known to mankind and I could not resist. I have kept a small vial of this perfume because it reminds me of you and I enjoy smelling it.

Luke is jealous and wishes me to think up a perfume for him. I explained to him it is not manly to wear perfume, but still he is jealous and pesters me for some.

My memories from our summer together are like gold to me. My perfume is only a pale imitation of what I think of you, for you are God's creation, perfectly and beautifully made.

The pale amber liquid in the bottle was vibrating, and Libby realized it was because her hands were trembling as she cradled the most precious gift she had ever been given.

“Well!” Mrs. Auckland exclaimed. “If you had any doubts about Michael, I certainly hope the bottle you are holding in your hands drives a stake through them.” She cast a glance at her husband. “You never made something like that for me.”

Mr. Auckland rubbed his chin. “That man has definitely raised the bar for displays of affection. This makes the gold bracelet I gave you for our thirtieth anniversary look like a piece of string.”

The Aucklands continued to trade good-natured barbs, but Libby was too enchanted with her gift to pay them any mind. Even more precious than Michael's gift were his words.
“God's creation.”

It would be arrogant to think of herself as such, but it was time to stop belittling herself for a failing she would never be able to change. She might never understand why God made it impossible for her to read, but surely there was a reason. Perhaps it had served to make her more sympathetic to the difficulties of others. Or maybe it was so that she would learn to develop her talent for art. Whatever the reason, she would always be grateful to Michael for helping her to understand and accept God's will.