A Daughter's Quest (7 page)

Could there be some other, less legal reason she wanted to find the man? That thought kept nibbling at him, making him feel unsettled.

They arrived back in Browning City mid-afternoon. Constance felt tired. She didn’t think she would have been so exhausted if she’d been able to get the man to carry on a conversation on the long trek. As it was, she felt that Hans didn’t quite trust her. Maybe he guessed that there was more to her promise than she had told him. There was, but it wasn’t really any of his business. Talking about unimportant things would have made the time go faster.

She tried to get him to notice the country they drove through. His monosyllabic answers effectively cut any conversation short. Constance would have just as well traveled alone for all the company he was.

Hans stopped the wagon in front of the hotel and hopped out. By the time Constance stood up, he was on her side of the wagon, ready to help her down. This time, he took her hand and held her steady as she stepped over the side onto a spoke of the front wheel.

When she stood on the ground, she looked up into his face. “I appreciate the way you helped me today.”

“Constance…Hans.” Mary came out the front door of the hotel. “I’ve been looking for you. I guess I didn’t realize it would take this long to go to the farm.” She stood on the boardwalk and smiled at them.

Hans offered Constance his arm and escorted her to the steps where the boardwalk broke for the alley. By the time they were at the top of the steps, Mary stood beside them.

Constance let go of his elbow and turned to the pastor’s wife. “Why were you looking for us?”

“Actually, I was looking for you.” Mary took Constance’s arm and pulled her toward the hotel lobby. “Let’s sit in here so I can tell you what I found out.”

After the two women waved at Hans as he departed, they sat on a sofa beside one wall. A tall bushy plant made the spot feel secluded.

Mary looked as if she were about to explode with excitement. “Mrs. Barker owns the boardinghouse.”

“I’ve noticed it on the other side of town.”

“Well, she’s a really good cook, but she doesn’t like to bake. She had a woman who did all her baking, but the woman fell and broke her leg. Mrs. Barker needs another cook. I thought you might like to do it, if you know how to bake, that is. You would get a free room at the boardinghouse, and she’d pay you some, too.” Mary talked so fast, Constance couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “I know you won’t be here long, but maybe you could stay until the other cook is on her feet and able to work again.” When she stopped talking, she turned an expectant expression toward Constance.

Baking was one of Constance’s favorite things to do, and she was good at it. She wanted to stay in town until she could locate Jim Mitchell, anyway. Maybe she should do something to bring in money instead of spending so much of her savings.

“That sounds like a good idea.” Constance smiled at Mary, joining in her excitement. “I know how to bake lots of things.”

Mary stood. “Do you want to go meet her right now?”

When they arrived at the boardinghouse, Mrs. Barker stood on the porch talking to a couple who rented a room from her. Mary and Constance waited on the front walkway until the trio finished their conversation.

“Mary Reeves,” Mrs. Barker called from the porch. “What are you doing standing out there in the sun? Bring your friend up here for a cool drink of water.”

Constance followed Mary up the steps, and the two women sat in inviting cushioned rocking chairs. These were just the kind Constance imagined should be on the front porch of the Mitchell’s farmhouse.

“So what brings you here?” The proprietor of the boarding-house dropped into the third rocker.

Mary leaned forward. “I want you to meet Constance Miller. She’s new to town, and she knows how to bake.”

At that last statement, Mrs. Barker’s face beamed. “Does she now?” She peered at Constance over the top of her glasses. “Are you looking for a job?”

Constance wasn’t sure why she felt so nervous. Maybe because she had never had a job in her life. “I understand you need someone for a while. I won’t be here too long, but I could stay until your other cook comes back to work.”

The older woman tented her fingers under her chin and stared out at the treetops across the street. After a moment, she turned back toward Constance. “So what exactly do you know how to bake?”

Constance had expected to be asked such a question, so she had a ready answer. “It’s been said that my biscuits are the lightest ones in the holler back home. I always make berry pies in the summer. We dried peaches and apples so we had those kinds of pies all year round. No one has ever complained that my crusts were tough.”

Mrs. Barker rocked her chair back and forth. “This is sounding better all the time. Is that all?”

“Well, my pa was partial to yeast rolls, but sometimes I made potato rolls or sourdough rolls when we couldn’t get the yeast.”

“My mouth is watering just from the telling.” Mrs. Barker smacked her lips. “What about cakes?”

Constance didn’t want to brag too much. She’d done enough of that in the last few minutes to last all year. But she needed to give Mrs. Barker enough information so she could make her decision.

“My pound cake always gets eaten first on Sundays when we have dinner-on-the-grounds. I can make other kinds, too. Apple spice, pumpkin, several others.”

Mary rocked contentedly and gave Constance an encouraging smile.

“Would you be willing to show me what you can do?” Mrs. Barker sounded eager.

“Do you want me to make biscuits for dinner tonight? There’s time.” Constance felt a spark of excitement inside.

Mrs. Barker stood up. “Come right on in. Mary, are you going to stay and visit while we do this?”

The beef stew simmering in a large kettle on the back of the stove filled the kitchen with an enticing aroma. Constance realized with a start that she was hungry again. She would enjoy eating here.

“Since you’re having stew”—Constance hooked one of Mrs.

Barker’s aprons over her head and tied it behind her back—“why don’t I make a pan of cornbread, too?”

“Sounds good to me.” Mrs. Barker started putting containers out on the table. Then she turned toward Mary. “You and Pastor Jackson would be welcome to stop by for supper.”

After Mary agreed, she left, presumably to tell her husband about the invitation.

Mrs. Barker sat beside the table, greasing baking tins, while Constance got started mixing the dough. They chatted while they worked, and soon Constance knew she would like to live here and work for this woman.

When the first pan of lightly browned biscuits came out of the oven, Mrs. Barker exclaimed, “Constance, you have a job if you want one.”

Constance dusted the last of the flour from her hands and smiled at the other woman. “I want one.”

“Then you can move your things from the hotel after supper. Come upstairs, and I’ll show you your room.”

After dinner, Pastor Jackson and Mary walked back to the hotel with Constance. He waited in the lobby while the two women went upstairs. Constance pulled her carpetbag out from under the bed and carefully packed her belongings in it.

“I’m glad you could help Mrs. Barker this way.” Mary stood by the window, gazing out into the twilit evening.

Constance stopped folding her unmentionables. “It’ll help me, too. I won’t have to be quite so careful with the rest of Pa’s money.” She went over to the other woman and gave her a quick hug. “Thank you.”

Mary turned back toward her. “I can see God’s hand in all of this, can’t you?”

Constance nodded. Of course. How could she ever have gotten this far without God’s help? But why couldn’t she find Jim Mitchell, and why did God want her here in Browning City, Iowa, if she couldn’t?

Constance stood looking out the window of her upstairs room in the boardinghouse. A nearly full moon shone through the cold night air, lighting an inky sky that contained pin dots of stars. A soft breeze ruffled the leaves recently emerged from their buds on the trees. She felt so far from her mountain home.

Time and distance hadn’t really dulled the pain of being alone. Even though she tried to keep all her grieving to the nighttime hours, some days it was extremely hard to keep up the strong front she maintained before others.

The little girl inside her wanted her mother back. Had it really been three years since Ma died? That event so soon after Pa returned from the fighting seemed to change him more than the war had. Maybe that was the reason he wasn’t able to fight off his final illness.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to rub them away. Not only did she long for a comforting hug from her mother, she wished she were still a little girl who could climb up in her daddy’s lap and lay her head on his shoulder. How safe she had felt there.

She turned back toward the pleasant room. Mrs. Barker made the rooms homey. Constance had never had things this nice when she grew up. Mother did make quilts out of the good parts of their worn-out clothes, and she used every scrap left over from making new things, but her quilts were more utilitarian than beautiful. Constance crossed the room and ran her fingers along the honeycomb pattern so different from Ma’s nine-patch quilts.

If Pa had used more of the money he saved, they could have had nicer things. It wouldn’t have been soon enough to save Ma, but…her mind couldn’t even imagine what it would have meant.

The tears came faster, flowing down and spotting the multicolored cover. Constance pulled it back and slid between sheets smoother than she had ever slept on before. Even the ones in the hotel weren’t this nice. She turned her face into the pillow to muffle her sobs and cried for her losses and for what might have been. But there was something more inside her that she couldn’t explain. Some deep longing she had never felt before.

Because she slept fitfully, Constance was up before the chickens, as her mother would often say. She bathed her face in the cold water left in her pitcher, hoping it would erase the ravages of a night spent in grief. She peered into the looking glass above the washstand. Her skin only had a few red blotches on it. By the time she was dressed, more natural color filled her face.

Constance pasted on a smile, took a deep breath, and opened the door. When she reached the kitchen, it stood empty, silent, and lonely. She went to the black cast-iron stove and stirred the embers, adding more wood from the pile on the back porch. While the fire built up, she put ground coffee and water in the blue graniteware pot and set it on the back of the stove.

By the time Mrs. Barker came into the kitchen, the room had warmed, and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air. Constance stood beside the table, cutting biscuits from the dough she had patted out on its floured surface.

“Why, Constance.” Mrs. Barker went over to pour herself a cup of coffee. “You don’t have to get up so early. I usually stoke the fire and start the coffee.” She turned and leaned against the cabinet that held the empty dishpan and a bucket of water.

Constance continued cutting the dough and putting the biscuits in a greased pan. “I woke early, so it didn’t make any sense to lie abed.” Although she didn’t glance up, she could feel Mrs. Barker looking at her.

“I have a rolling pin.”

Constance turned to look at her employer before concentrating on her task. “I don’t really like to roll the biscuits. I know I did last night, but I was just getting used to this kitchen. They will be lighter if I don’t work the dough too much. I just pat it to the thickness I want.”

Mrs. Barker came over and glanced at those in the pan. “I never thought of doing something like that.”

Once again, Constance felt the woman looking at her. She raised her head and smiled at her employer.

After setting her cup on the edge of the table away from where Constance worked, Mrs. Barker studied Constance’s face as if she were reading a book. “I see a hint of sadness in your eyes that I didn’t notice yesterday. Are you homesick for your family?”

Constance swallowed around the lump in her throat, a lump that was probably made up of more tears waiting to be released. “I don’t have any family left.” She sobbed on the last word.