A Thousand Little Blessings

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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Thank you

A Thousand Little Blessings

 

 

Claire Sanders

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

 

A Thousand Little Blessings

 

COPYRIGHT 2014 by Claire Sanders

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

 

eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

 

Contact Information: [email protected]

 

Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated are taken from the King James translation, public domain.

 

Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

 

White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC

www.pelicanbookgroup.com
PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410

 

White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC

 

Publishing History

First White Rose Edition, 2014

Paperback Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-409-1

Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-408-4

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

 

For Kristin Morris

 

 

 

 

 

 

God is a refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in times of trouble
. ~ Psalms 46

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Burnet, Texas - March 1919

Henrietta Davis clenched her jaw and forced herself to look at the casket. The spray of yellow roses covering her mother's final resting place was oddly cheerful for such a somber occasion. Not even her mother's favorite flower could lessen the shock that quaked through Etta's soul. Her mother's life had been whisked away like a fragile blossom before a bitter winter wind, leaving Etta grasping for the cherished flower and finding nothing but cold air.

Reverend Martin stood in the Davis family cemetery and read from his dog-eared Bible in the same deep voice Etta heard every Sunday morning. The reassuring words stilled her trembling hands. Her mother was with her Lord, surrounded by love and reunited with her parents and grandparents. But the words did little to relieve the cold stone of grief lodged beneath Etta's heart.

Next to her, Etta's father shifted in the rickety folding chair the funeral home had supplied. Henry Davis had donned his most stoic face that morning, giving no hint of the keening grief she'd heard coming from his bedroom a few nights ago.

It was early spring, a time when birds sang with renewed vigor and dormant trees budded in promise.

But her father and she weren't thinking about new life. They were burying the person who'd given them love, comfort, and joy.

Etta's nose tingled, a sure sign tears were imminent. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. She wouldn't embarrass her father by crying. He'd schooled her to portray their family as upright members of the community, always in control, never fodder for the town gossips. She raised her lace handkerchief and sniffed.

Her mother's best friend, Sara Benson, leaned against Etta's right shoulder. “It's almost over. Almost.”

Etta nodded slightly and lifted her gaze. Through the black netting attached to her broad-brimmed hat, the cloud-dotted sky shone. How many times had her mother encouraged her to daydream on early spring days such as this? “What about that cloud?” she'd ask, her face as animated as a child's. “It looks like an elephant.”

“No,” Etta would disagree. “It's a poodle with a leash.”

“It's an elepoodle,” her mother would pronounce, as though her word was the last to be uttered on the subject. “What? You've never heard of an elepoodle? They're native to Finland.” Then she'd dissolve into girlish giggles and dare Etta to find another imaginary animal.

Etta's father cleared his throat and stood. Was the service already over? He shook Rev. Martin's hand and then crooked his elbow toward his daughter. Etta slipped her arm through his and walked down the gently sloping hill. Decorum surrounded her father like heavily-starched linen as they made their way toward the house.

Fellow mourners trailed after them.

Etta would be expected to fill her mother's role as hostess, a job for which she felt woefully unprepared. How could she smile and chit-chat when all she wanted to do was crawl under the covers? Her queasy stomach clutched as she pasted a false smile on her face and stepped through the door.

Two middle-aged ladies dressed in black pushed themselves up from generously upholstered chairs in the parlor. The two matrons formed the church bereavement committee, a detail Etta had forgotten amidst the confusion of the week.

Mrs. Henrichson approached with open arms. “You poor thing. Come and sit down. We've got everything under control.”

Mrs. Stoutman nodded vigorously, causing the black feathers on her hat to quiver. “Don't worry about a thing, Henrietta. We found your mother's china and set out refreshments.”

Etta allowed Mrs. Henrichson to lead her to the dining room table. Her grandmother's antique gold-rimmed plates held slices of cake and finger sandwiches. A silver coffeepot and a crystal pitcher of lemonade sat nearby.

“Mother never used these dishes,” Etta began and then censored herself. Her mother had cherished each dish as a memento of her own mother and kept them stored away, never to be endangered by careless hands. But it seemed trivial to make a fuss over dishes when the ladies had come to help. “Oh, it's all right. Thank you for taking care of everything.”

A crescendo of noise swept into the dining room as friends and family made their way to the refreshments.

Her father shouldered his way through the crowd, shaking hands and nodding before exiting through the casement doors that led to the side courtyard.

Another tug of sympathy wrenched Etta's heart.

Her father must want to get away from the crowd as much as she did. Her guests were quite content visiting with each other. Perhaps she could shirk her hostess duties for a few minutes. She forced herself to walk slowly up the polished oak stairs, but once out of sight, she ran into the quiet stillness of her bedroom.

After closing the door, she placed a hand on her roiling stomach and blew out a breath. How long would the guests stay? An hour? Two? She removed her hat and gloves, laid them on her dresser, and then, crossed to the windows that overlooked the courtyard.

Through the massive limbs of the live oak, Etta watched her father. He slumped in the wicker chair, slowly rubbing his left temple. She'd bring him some pills to relieve the pain as soon as she got downstairs. A soft knock sounded on her door. “Come in, Rosa.”

“It's not Rosa. It's me.” Sara entered the room carrying a cup and saucer. “Rosa's in the kitchen. Do you need her?”

“No. I'll be down in a few minutes. I just wanted to..uh…to take off my hat and gloves.”

Sara patted Etta's arm. “I know, honey. Stay up here as long as you need. I brought you some coffee. Two sugars, no cream, just the way you like it.”

“Thank you. You know me so well.”

“'Course I do. I was there on the day you were born.”

Sara was unlike her mother in so many ways, yet the two women had been best friends for years. Etta's mother had been fair-haired and petite, but Sara was as tall as most men and her hair was as black as the jet beads she wore around her neck.

Etta sipped the hot coffee and returned her gaze to the courtyard. Several men had joined her father. “I'm worried about Papa.”

Sara leaned against the window frame. “Me, too. I wish he'd take some time off, but knowing him, he'll be at the bank tomorrow.”

Several automobiles drove up and more people piled out.

“I can't believe how many people are here. Seems as though the whole town is parked in our front yard.”

“Lots of people want to pay their respects. Catherine will be missed.” Sara pursed her lips in a sign of disapproval. “I see your Uncle Carl decided to show up. You'd think he'd make it to the services for his only sister. But then, he's always been more interested in fun than in paying his respects. That man thrives on being the main attraction of whatever social circus he can find.”

Etta choked on the coffee.

Sara's description of Uncle Carl was almost identical to her father's. More than once Papa had referred to her uncle as “the family clown.”

Sara patted Etta's back. “You OK, honey?”

Etta nodded and cleared her throat. “I'd best go downstairs.”

Sara brushed her fingertips through Etta's hair. “You're so pale. Why don't you lie down for a while? I'll bring you something to eat.”

Etta leaned her head toward the older woman's shoulder, willing to surrender her constraint for a moment of maternal affection, but the unmistakable crash of dropped dishes jerked her to full attention. “I should go,” Etta said as she brushed her hands down her black serge skirt. “I'm sure Rosa needs help.”

Sara reached for her, but Etta couldn't give in to her desire for comfort. One kind touch and her false bravado would collapse.

The family's housekeeper stood at the sink, elbow deep in suds while Mrs. Stoutman and Mrs. Henrichson threw away broken pieces of china. Rosa's dark brows were drawn into a fierce scowl, an ominous portent of the scolding brewing in her mind.

Although she didn't think it was possible, Etta's heart fell even further as she looked at the ruined dishes. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Stoutman. I'll finish this.” Etta set her cup and saucer on the counter and took the broom and dustpan from the large-bosomed woman. “You, too, Mrs. Henrichson. It's so kind of you to help at a time like this.”

Mrs. Stoutman pulled Etta's head down to her shoulder. “Oh, Henrietta, I know you're going to miss your momma. Sometimes I still pine for my momma, and she's been gone for nearly thirty years.”

Etta's nose itched dangerously from Mrs. Stoutman's honeysuckle-scented talc. She sniffed in an effort to stifle the sneeze, and Mrs. Henrichson threw her arms around Etta, sandwiching her between the two matrons. “Go ahead and cry all you want,” Mrs. Henrichson said. “Nobody would fault you for crying on a day like this.”

“I'm all right.” Etta's voice was muffled between the women's soft bodies. “Just let me get these broken dishes cleaned up.” She struggled to escape, but the two ladies crowded closer.

“You're so lucky you still have your mother,” Mrs. Stoutman said to Mrs. Henrichson. “There's nothing worse than burying your mother.”

“I know that's true,” Mrs. Henrichson replied. “I remember your mother's funeral as if it was yesterday. So many flowers.”

As the two ladies talked on, Etta slid slowly toward the floor until she was free of their suffocating condolences. Breathing deeply, she backed away from the pair and picked up the largest pieces of broken china.

Mrs. Stoutman retrieved a tray of finger sandwiches. “How many pies do we have left?”

“Only three.” Mrs. Henrichson slid an apple pie onto a silver platter. “Maybe I should cut thinner slices.”

Mrs. Stoutman backed through the kitchen's swinging door. “Good idea.”

Etta's shoulders slumped in relief once the ladies left the kitchen. She wanted her normal life back. She wanted her mother.

Rosa touched Etta's arm. “Are you all right,
mija
?”

As Etta looked into Rosa's kind, dark eyes, gratitude welled in her soul.
Mija.
Rosa had used that endearment since she'd first come to work for her family fifteen years ago. Did Rosa really think of Etta as her daughter? “I'll be all right. Don't worry.” Etta emptied the dust pan. “Let me help you with the dishes.”

Rosa made a clucking noise with her tongue. “No, no. Why don't you check on your Papa? Bring him some coffee.”

Etta tied a white linen hostess apron around her waist, slipped a small tin of pain reliever into the pocket, and prepared a tray.