Carla Kelly (42 page)

She thought of James, pained that she couldn't be there to celebrate with him.
I can make it up to him next year,
she thought, but remembered that by this time next year, she would be home in Salt Lake to stay.

When she finished, Julia sat in front of the tree, breathing deeply of the pine scent, relishing the calm. The bishop had invited them to Christmas dinner the next day, and she had promised the mince pies and pumpkin pies. She could get up early and make them. There were just a few presents under the tree. Papa had mailed hers to Wyoming a week ago, and in her desperate hurry to leave, Julia had not brought along her presents for her parents, not that they were anything more special than knitted mufflers and mittens.

Papa and Mama had gifts for each other, and she put them under the tree. She held the closet door open a long time, looking at the little cache of gifts they had planned to take to Iris and Spencer in Draper. When she finally closed the door, she leaned against it, her head down, until the tears passed.

On Christmas morning, Julia was up well before sunrise, starting the fire in the cookstove, comparing it yet again to the Queen Atlantic, which easily outranked something called merely “Majestic.” The mincemeat was still cooling in the icebox, and she had prepared the pumpkin yesterday between visits from Mama's visiting teachers and block teachers. Everyone asked her to let them know what they could do, but no one stayed long.

Just listen to my folks,
Julia thought, as she rolled out the dough.
Don't try to remind us that we'll see Iris again someday. We will, but it's hard slogging right now, even with what we know.

After a day of being cheerful, she had been relieved each evening to take refuge in her room to read the Book of Mormon. If someone had told her only a month ago that she would find scriptures essential to her heart, she might not have believed them.
I know so little,
she thought,
but I am learning. Maybe Mr. Otto knows what he's talking about.

Last night's reading had been balm to her soul. She had found that beggars passage Mr. Otto had been searching for. When she came to it, she had put the book on her chest and closed her eyes in utter satisfaction. Now she knew. She read it over and over, savoring each word, thinking of King Benjamin, near death and wanting to serve his people to the very end by sharing his wisdom.

Have you found it yet?
she asked herself.
Are you in Chicago? Are you home at the Double Tipi? Are you doubting I'll return?
Maybe she could write a letter tomorrow, just to reassure him, or maybe, if she was honest, to reassure herself.

The pumpkin pies went in the Majestic at 8:00 a.m., and still her parents slept. Julia sat down at the kitchen table and rested her elbows on it, aware of the pain between her shoulder blades that rolling pie dough always produced. If only she could have cooked Christmas for the men of the Double Tipi before she left. They were probably eating out of cans right now.

Next year,
she thought.
No, there won't be a next year at the Double Tipi.
Some things couldn't be helped, she decided as she closed her eyes and rested her head on her arms.

Someone was knocking on the door to the back porch. Julia opened her eyes, startled awake. She sniffed the air; the pies weren't done yet. She stood up and stretched, wondering who would be at the back door on Christmas morning, when none of the tradesmen were delivering.

Maybe she imagined it. No, someone was definitely knocking. She opened the door to the back porch, which was steamy with heat from the cookstove. She could see an outline, even though the sun wasn't quite over the mountains. She opened the door, and her heart turned over.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Otto,” she said. “I knew you would come.”

he stared at his face and absorbed it, seeing only concern there. He hesitated for a small moment and then opened his arms. With a sob, she walked right into them. He seemed to flinch ever so slightly, but he held her so close that she could feel the buttons of his overcoat practically through to her backbone. Her relief was enormous.

“I found that scripture, Darling,” he said into her ear, as though they had just finished an earlier conversation a minute ago and not several unhappy weeks in the past. “And I found one even better that got me here.”

She didn't want to cry, but something about his presence allowed her to for the first time since leaving Cheyenne. She sobbed into his overcoat, knowing how wrong it was to burden him with her problems but unable to help herself.

He didn't object. He didn't step back or try to distance himself from her anguish. She was barely aware when he picked her up and sat with her in one of the kitchen chairs. He didn't speak, but above her tears, she heard him humming “Sweet Evalina,” which only made her cry harder because she thought of James missing Christmas.

“Dear Evalina, sweet Evalina, my love for thee will never, never die,” he sang softly.

“I wish you wouldn't sing that,” she managed to say as he handed her a handkerchief.

“Oh, harsh. Would you prefer ‘Redeemer of Israel?’ ”he asked. “Thanks to you, I've doubled my repertory.”

She leaned against his chest again. “Evalina just reminds me how I failed James. It was going to be such a nice Christmas,” she told him, unable to keep the wistful tone from her voice.

“Let me bring you good news from home,” he assured her, somehow assuming that his home was her home too. He took her hand. “Darling, remember that James doesn't precisely understand dates and calendars. Before I left the Double Tipi, I assured James that Christmas wasn't coming until two days after you returned.”

She started to cry again. He tightened his grip. “Hey now,” he murmured. “It's a serviceable lie.”

She nodded, relieved again to breathe his particular fragrance of bay rum. “I can do that. Sister Gillespie was going to send me some Christmas candy.”

“She did. It's at the Double Tipi, along with more books for James, something for you, and a pamphlet for me.”

“Did you read it?”

“Sure I did.” He sounded doubtful. “I don't know. That's a lot to swallow.”

Maybe it was too much to hope he'd find it fascinating. Julia wiped her eyes and sniffed the air. She was off Mr. Otto's lap in a moment, reaching for her pot holders. The pumpkin pies were perfect, with just a hint of over-brown on the crust that probably only Miss Farmer would notice.

“We've been invited to the bishop's house for Christmas dinner,” she told her guest.

“I can leave.”

“Oh, no. You'll be coming too.”

“They won't mind?”

“Of course not.” She couldn't overlook his dubious expression. “Mr. Otto, you need to learn a few more things about Mormons. There's always room for another potato in the pot.”

He took off his overcoat and looked around for a peg to hang it on. Julia took it from him and hung it in the back hall closet. She stood in the closet a moment, taking several deep breaths, trying to compose herself. She had been a strength to her parents all week. Mr. Otto's unexpected arrival had released emotions she had stifled because her parents’ needs were greater. How did Mr. Otto know?

And there he was, standing by the closet now, that same look of concern on his face.

“Darling, how about you slice me off some of that bread and find me some milk? I'm gut foundered and missing the Fannie Farmer touch, I suppose.”

She did as he asked. “It's cinnamon raisin bread,” she told him, placing two generous slices on a plate along with butter and honey.

“Jerusalem crickets, that's good!” he said as he ate quickly. She handed him a glass of milk. “Thanks.”

She sat down to watch him eat, and he grinned at her a moment later. “You know you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Watch people eat. I think it gives you abnormal pleasure.”

She knew he was teasing her, trying to coax another smile, and she had no trouble satisfying him because she was genuinely amused by his comment. “I guess I do,” she admitted. “It's not abnormal pleasure to a chef!”

“I stand corrected.” He held out the now-empty plate. “Any more of that, or are you saving it for a snowy day?”

She glanced out the window to see the snow falling and refilled the plate.

“You eat one too.”

She shook her head. He raised an eyebrow. She took a piece, remembering her experience with Mr. Otto and the canned pears. Was that only last fall?

“Did you just get here, Mr. Otto?” she asked after dividing the next piece between the two of them. She knew it was time to build up the fire again before baking the mincemeat pie, so she did that. Mr. Otto poured himself more milk as she worked.

“I got here yesterday.”

“Why didn't you—”

“—come here right away?” he scratched his head, looking sheepish. “Didn't have your address. It occurred to me at about Rock Springs that I was missing a key ingredient in this mission of mercy. Didn't know Salt Lake was this big.”

She nodded and sat at the table again. She didn't ask, but Mr. Otto poured more milk into her glass. She drank. “How did you find me?”

He ran his finger around his collar and looked at her. “D'you mind?”

She shook her head, and he undid his collar button. “Collars drive me nuts after awhile. I checked into a downtown hotel and remembered that your father worked for Zion's Bank.”