Carla Kelly (29 page)

Della yawned. “There is one thing I believe: Owen was kind to find me. He said you were worried and sent him out to look.”

“He doesn't lie any better than he cooks!” Mabli retorted. “
I
knew you'd be back. Who can get lost on a wagon road? He came off the day shift like he was shot from a cannon, cleaned up, and told me he was going after you. You have a champion.”

“I need one,” Della replied, choosing honesty over embarrassment. “Tell me, Mabli, how did he get that blue scar on the back of his head?”

Mabli poured them both some warm water from the cookstove's reservoir and they washed for bed. “My lovely Gwyna had been dead about a month, and Owen was trying to work and take care of an infant. He was getting so little sleep. I think he just got careless in the mine—so unlike him.”

Della shivered. “I wonder why he didn't give up mining altogether after that.”

“He thought about it.” Mabli took the pins from her pompadour and brushed her hair. She put down her brush and her gaze turned inward. “My Dafydd called it the lure of the mine. They can't leave it behind, drat them.”

“But if something happens to him …” Della thought of her father. “Angharad will have no one.”

“Not true!” Mabli said stoutly, then repeated it softly. “Not true, my dear. You would never have been treated so poorly if you had been in
our
canyon.”

Mabli picked up her hairbrush. “And now you
are
in our canyon for better or worse, think on. So is Angharad.” She had to smile at that. “Every nursing woman in Winter Quarters owns a part of Angharad. When I think of all the breasts that suckled her! I doubt my brother-in-law has a single blush left in him. He took his baby from breast to breast until she was weaned.”

“He's a good father.”

“The best. Now, go to bed!”

“Not yet,” Della said, looking away, shy. “Mabli, could we say our evening prayers together? I've never done that and I would like to, if you don't mind.”

“Mind? Never. Let's kneel by your bed.”

They took turns. Mabli's prayer was longer because she had more people to pray for than Della's paltry contribution of students and Jesse and Amanda Knight. She finished her prayer in Welsh.

Della climbed in bed, punching her pillow until it was concave enough to handle the exuberance of her tangle of curls. To her surprise, Mabli tucked the blanket up higher on her shoulder and gave her a pat. No one had done that since her father was alive. After Mabli blew out the lamp and closed the door, Della added a postscript:
Father, keep us safe in this canyon
,
and bless my landlady
.

She lay in bed, a smile on her face as she listened to the wind suddenly pick up, and the low growl of thunder from the west. The clouds she had watched in the canyon had finally made their way to Winter Quarters.

She listened, alert now, for the next sound. It received a welcome in her own dusty heart. The rain came, washing the canyon clean and sluicing away the sorrow in her heart. She knew that Owen had dislodged it that late afternoon, forcing her, in a gentle way she didn't understand, to root out the festering sores in her life by telling them to another human being. Maybe the Welsh really did know something about the healing power of conversation. Whatever it was, she was grateful. She knew she owed him a debt she could never repay. She was trusting Owen with her dreads and secrets and had given him permission to tell another her story.

unday morning, Della took extra time for her hair, that cross of hers to bear that had formed a love-hate relationship with her from the time she was old enough to brush it. Soon she had her mass of curls corralled into as sedate a bun as she could manage.

Time was passing, but she looked at herself in the little mirror over her bureau, pleased with what she saw. In a moment of bravery, she turned slightly sideways to see her Greek nose in profile, happy with it for the first time.

In a rare burst of candor—for her, anyway—she had once confided to Miss Ordway in the library that no one else had a nose like hers. In answer, Miss Ordway had marched her to the stacks, to the section on Greece. She found a book then pointed in triumph at a statue with Della's precise profile, right down to the full lips so mysteriously smiling.

“She could be your ancestor,” Miss Ordway had pointed out.

“I'm not a statue,” Della had protested.

“Someday you will see yourself for what you are, Della, and when you do, I'll expect a thank you,” Miss Ordway had told her.

Della looked at her face now, with its olive complexion, deeply porched eyes, full lips, and nose of character. “Thank you, Miss Ordway,” she said to her reflection. “I wish I could tell you in person.”

Walking quickly in the Sabbath stillness, Della couldn't have said just when she decided she was beautiful, but it had happened, as Miss Ordway had somehow known it would. Between the meadow yesterday and her entrance into the Pleasant Valley Ward meetinghouse, Della just knew. Just knowing made her stand taller.

It was early. Della knew that priesthood meeting was probably concluding right now. She waited in the chapel, happy to sit there in the quiet for her turn.

The building emptied quickly as priesthood holders hurried home to escort their families to Sunday School. When all was quiet again, Della went to Bishop Parmley's office.

“Sister Anders, you look finer than five pence this morning,” he said, standing up to shake her hand, then gesturing to a chair. “Any news for me? I'll take whatever you give me.”

“Bishop, it's yes. I'll be secretary for a choir that doesn't need one.”

Bishop Parmley nodded, obviously pleased. “I prayed you would accept the call. It's a calling you'll enjoy.”

The old Della almost said, “I doubt it,” except that the new Della who had looked out of the mirror at her that morning was in charge. “I know I will. Thank you.”

Della sat close to Sister Parmley again that Sunday. Mabli sat next to her, with Angharad. Della looked for Owen, then noticed he was seated at the sacrament table this time, looking vaguely disgruntled.
Well, Brother Davis, it appears that someone didn't see a happy face in
his
mirror this morning
, Della thought with amusement. She whispered to Mabli, “Your brother-in-law looks discouraged.”

“He was uncharacteristically dramatic this morning,” Mabli whispered back. “Claimed he was doomed to disappointment. I haven't a clue what he means.”

Della shook her head, striving for a sympathetic look. She would have to watch his face when the bishop made his announcement. She noticed Dr. Isgreen, seated beside Brother Hood. She caught his eye and smiled, thinking that if the new Della still had the nerve today, she might ask him if the Saturday dinner appointment could be revived.

After Brother Hood's opening remarks, Richard Evans invited his talented congregation to sing the “Never Be Late” song, which still didn't perk up Owen Davis. Angharad didn't notice because Mabli and Della both sang directly to her, “Try to be there, always be there, promptly at ten in the morning.”

Bishop Parmley rose to announce new callings, new teachers for the Primary Association and Relief Society. Then the bishop looked at Della.

“Will Sister Della Anders please stand?”

She did, her face rosy, seeing the sacrament table out of the corner of her eye and Owen's sudden interest.

“Sister Anders has accepted a call as choir secretary.”

Owen's head went back in surprise.

“All in favor? Vote for yourself, my dear,” Bishop Parmley said.

She did, making it unanimous. Apparently everyone in the Pleasant Valley Ward harbored the illusion that their choir needed a secretary. How wise of them.

This time the YL class sang “We Ever Pray for Thee,” during the sacrament, and Della was ready for their lovely voices. Once she had taken the bread, she closed her eyes, letting what she was doing assume its rightful importance over the sound of voices, singing even softer as Owen raised his hands and blessed the water next.

She opened her eyes and watched the progress of the goblets as parents sipped, then helped their children. No one said anything, the quiet as eloquent as the music had been. Without a word, Brother Hood rose and gestured people toward the door and their classrooms.

Emil sat next to her in theology class. “Well done, Sister Anders,” he told her. “You're just the person to whip that choir into shape.”

Della laughed softly. “I am certain that's why I was called,” she said, turning to Exodus as the teacher wrote verses on the blackboard.
Now or never, Della
, she told herself. “Emil, does your Saturday night invitation stand?”

“Pending any emergency, oh yes,” he replied, ruffling through his scriptures.

When Sunday School let out, Della prepared for her usual mad dash up the canyon with Mabli to get dinner on the table for the boarders.

“Take your time,” Mabli told Della. “I can get this dinner myself.” She touched Della's arm. “Better yet, I'll get Angharad to help me. See if you can coax Owen up the hill with you. What we're eating has to be better than oatcakes.”

Emil strolled with her out of the meetinghouse, where Owen stood with the Evans family. Owen glanced at her and Emil once, and he seemed shy for some reason that eluded her, especially since he knew her now better than anyone in the canyon. For one terrible moment, she feared he knew too much. But that was the old Della, talking in one ear.

She said good-bye to Emil and joined the Evans family. “Brother Evans, I am now your secretary,” she said, standing by Owen. “I trust you and your assistant here to invent any number of ways to keep me attending every choir rehearsal. Probably singing too.”

Sister Evans turned away to laugh, and Richard Evans reeled back theatrically, as if she had dealt a body blow. “Owen, you never warned me about her skeptical and sharp tongue,” the choirmaster exclaimed.

“She's shrewd, is Sister Anders,” Owen said.

“She's also hungry, and the assistant choirmaster has been appointed to escort her to the boardinghouse, since his sister-in-law has invited him to dinner,” Della told the Evanses.

“Now then, you had me going,” Owen said as they walked up the slope.

“I'm not in the habit of turning down callings, even manufactured ones,” she said.

Apparently Owen decided not to let that embarrass him. “I'll have a letter about Eisteddfod scratched out by Tuesday and a list of addresses for you to send it to. You can make any corrections you choose.”

She nodded, almost too shy to say what she wanted. “Did you … did you talk to the bishop about, well, you know?”

“Aye, miss. He's a discreet man, so the right word will get around. And Mabli?”

“She knows now.”

“How do you feel about this?”

Della thought about his question, and her conversation with the new Della in the mirror that morning. “Like a boulder is off my shoulders,” she said finally

“It needed to be done.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then she spoke. “You were wrong about that meadow, though. It was a very good place to reflect.”

“I'm glad someone found it useful.”