Hidden Places (11 page)

‘‘This orchard is worth a lot more than five thousand dollars,’’ I said.

‘‘Well, no, actually it isn’t. At the moment, no one has any money to buy it and the banks have no money to lend.’’

‘‘Besides,’’ Bertha said with a frown, ‘‘Alvin and I ought to get a discount because we’ll be keeping the orchard in the family. My maiden name was Wyatt, you know.’’

‘‘Bertha’s father and Frank Wyatt’s father were brothers,’’ Alvin explained. ‘‘The two brothers grew up in this house and the property should have rightfully been divided up between them when old Isaac Wyatt died. I never did understand how Frank and his father ended up owning all of it.’’

‘‘Everyone agrees that the orchard should stay in the family instead of going to an outsider,’’ Bertha added.

‘‘I may be an outsider,’’ I said, fighting tears, ‘‘but my children aren’t. Their father was Samuel Wyatt and this land rightfully belongs to them. I’m not about to just hand it over—’’

‘‘How old is your oldest boy? Nine, ten years old?’’ Alvin Greer was beginning to lose his temper, something he’d probably promised his wife he wouldn’t do. ‘‘There’s a lot of responsibility in running a big place like this, and by the time your boy is old enough to run it the way his grandfather did, this orchard will be in ruins.’’

‘‘Mrs. Wyatt—Eliza—can’t you see that my husband and I are just trying to do our Christian duty and help you out?’’

‘‘I’m making you a very fair offer,’’ Mr. Greer added.

I stood up, so angry my knees shook. ‘‘I need some time to think this over. I’ll let you know when I’ve decided.’’

I took their coats off the coat rack and handed them back. They were being dismissed without my signature on the deal, and they weren’t very happy about it.

‘‘It’s a very fair offer,’’ Greer repeated on his way out the door.

‘‘Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Greer.’’

After they’d gone, Aunt Batty came to me with a worried look on her face. ‘‘Are we hosting an open house today, Toots? Because if we are, I really should give Winky a bath and change my dress.’’

‘‘No, Aunt Batty. Believe me, none of these
guests
were invited.’’

‘‘Well, they have a lot of nerve coming over here uninvited, don’t they? I never could stomach that snotty-nosed Greer boy. I’m telling you, that sleeve of his would just make you sick to look at it.’’

‘‘I need to drive into Deer Springs,’’ I said, suddenly deciding what I would do. ‘‘Will you watch Becky Jean and Mr. Harper for me while I’m gone? I’ll be back before the boys get home from school.’’

‘‘Sure, Toots. Is the open house tomorrow, then?’’

‘‘No. There’s no open house.’’ I had to walk away before she had me thoroughly exasperated.

I rummaged through my father-in-law’s office and gathered up his lockbox and all his important papers, then drove into town to talk to John Wakefield, the family lawyer. Mr. Wakefield was just about as old as Methuselah and had probably been practicing law when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt. But Frank Wyatt had trusted him and that said a lot.

Mr. Wakefield’s secretary, who was nearly as ancient as he was, led me into his dusty office to see him right away when I told her it was an emergency. We caught the poor old man napping at his desk, so I had to let his secretary bring us a pot of tea—even though I was too upset to drink any—in order to give him time to come fully awake.

‘‘Yes...yes...’’ he kept saying, and his head wobbled all around on his scrawny neck like it might come loose. ‘‘Yes...what can I do for you, Mrs. Wyatt?’’

I told him all about the bank foreclosing on me and showed him the letter. Then I explained Alvin Greer’s offer. It was hard to keep from bursting into tears because I was still so outraged that he would dare to offer me only five thousand dollars for Wyatt Orchards and then expect me to rent my own house from him.

‘‘I don’t know anything at all about my father-in-law’s finances, Mr. Wakefield,’’ I finished. ‘‘He never confided in me like he did in you. Can you help me figure out how to pay back that bank loan?’’

‘‘Give me a few days to look through all these papers,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll give you a call when I’ve got them straightened out.’’

‘‘I don’t have a telephone.’’

‘‘Yes, yes, that’s right. Frank wouldn’t own a telephone. Come back in a week, then.’’

I left Mr. Wakefield’s office feeling no comfort at all.

CHAPTER FIVE

I
’ll bet you’re getting tired of laying there flat on your back all day,’’ Aunt Batty told Gabe when she brought in his breakfast the next morning. I had bought some iodine and other medicines at the drugstore in Deer Springs and I was doctoring his leg. He still ran a low-grade fever.

‘‘Don’t get any ideas about moving him all around,’’ I said, ‘‘or his leg is going to rip wide open again.’’

‘‘Do you want me to help you sit up,’’ she asked him, ‘‘so you can read a book, maybe?’’

‘‘I can do it,’’ Gabe said, pulling himself upright. ‘‘You don’t need to fuss over me, Aunt Batty—though I appreciate your kindness.’’

‘‘It’s no trouble at all. The Bible says that when Elijah was all worn out the angels took care of him, so I figure we can all use an angel now and then, right? Now, what kind of books do you like to read, Gabe?’’ She started digging through the nearest box. ‘‘It looks like these are all adventure stories. Would either one of these interest you?’’ She pulled out two books and handed them to him. From the look on his face, she might have handed him a king’s ransom.

‘‘Wow!
Danger in the Jungle
and
African Treasure
, by Herman Walters!’’

‘‘You’ve heard of him?’’ she asked.

‘‘Who hasn’t heard of him! He’s one of the most popular adventure writers of his time. I loved these books when I was a boy! I must have read them a hundred times.’’

‘‘Oh, then maybe you’ll want to read something else.’’ She bent to pull out more books and piled them on the bed beside him.

‘‘These are all by Herman Walters!’’ Gabe said in surprise. He leaned over to peer into the box. ‘‘I can’t believe it! How many of these do you have?’’

‘‘I own every single book he ever wrote.’’

‘‘And they’re all first editions, too,’’ he said, leafing through several of them. He acted as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. ‘‘Look at these—they’re in mint condition! Do you have any idea what these would be worth?’’

‘‘Let’s see. Forty-three—no, forty-four books—at a cover price of seventy-five cents comes to...’’ She started drawing numbers in the air on an invisible chalkboard, trying to do the arithmetic.

‘‘They’re worth much more than seventy-five cents apiece to a collector!’’ Gabe said. ‘‘Especially if this is Herman Walters’ complete works. Don’t ever sell them that cheaply, Aunt Batty. You would be giving them away.’’

She looked confused and worried. ‘‘Oh dear. I’m afraid I’ve already given them away.’’

‘‘You did? I don’t understand. How is it that you still have them?’’

‘‘I gave one set to Matthew and Samuel to read and kept the other set for myself. The boys loved reading them when they were young.’’ She smiled, remembering.

‘‘I did, too,’’ Gabe murmured, still leafing through one of them. ‘‘I grew up on these books. They’re one of the reasons I decided to make writing my life’s work.’’

‘‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence?’’ Aunt Batty exclaimed. ‘‘These are Herman’s life’s work! You remind me a little bit of him.’’

‘‘You knew Herman Walters?’’ he asked in amazement.

‘‘Oh yes. Very well. In fact he wrote every single one of these books in my little stone cottage down by the pond.’’

I decided it was time I jumped into the discussion. ‘‘That’s a little hard to believe, Aunt Batty. He was a very famous writer, and—’’

‘‘Wow!’’ Gabe cried, interrupting me. ‘‘You have all of Betsy Gibson’s books, too?’’ He had pulled himself over to the edge of the bed and was sorting through a second box of books. ‘‘I didn’t realize Miss Gibson had written this many!’’

‘‘Yes, she wrote sixty-two of them down in my little cottage.’’

‘‘Don’t tell me you knew Betsy Gibson, too?’’ I said skeptically.

‘‘Yes, she was a very close friend of mine—but you won’t tell anyone, will you, Toots? It can be our little secret.’’

Gabe and I both stared at her, unsure whether to believe her or not. As a girl, I had read every Betsy Gibson book that I could get my hands on. They were wholesome tales of spunky young girls who went looking for adventure and love—and usually learned an important moral lesson along the way. I had convinced myself that I could be as brave as one of her heroines the day I stepped off the train in Deer Springs. But could Aunt Batty really have known the author of all those books? I remembered the desk that took up her whole dining room and the huge typewriter, big as you please, sitting on top of it. I dug into a third box of books.

‘‘What about all these other authors,’’ I said, testing her. ‘‘Jack London, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens. Did they write all their books down in your little cottage, too?’’

‘‘Don’t be silly! I never met
those
people!’’

‘‘But you knew Betsy Gibson
and
Herman Walters?’’ I asked.

‘‘Oh yes. Quite well. But to tell you the truth, I always liked Mr. Walters just a wee bit better. He was the more adventuresome of the two.’’

Gabe leaned back against the pillows and laughed. ‘‘This is unbelievable! Your cottage was a writing haven for Herman Walters? Now I can’t wait to repair that roof.’’

I remembered the information that Gabe had just let slip and saw my chance to learn more about him. ‘‘I couldn’t help noticing that you carry around a typewriter, Gabe. It seemed like a very unusual thing for a hobo to have. You say writing is your life’s work, too?’’ His grin faded away.

Aunt Batty clapped her hands in delight. ‘‘Oh, are you a writer? How wonderful! What kinds of things do you write?’’

I could see Gabe was reluctant to answer, but as he gazed from the book in his hand to Aunt Batty in obvious awe, he finally confessed. ‘‘I’m a journalist. I do free-lance work for the
Chicago Tribune
and sometimes for the
Saturday Evening Post
.’’

‘‘And are you down on your luck at the moment,’’ she asked, ‘‘or is this your disguise?’’

‘‘I was doing research, Aunt Batty. I’m writing about the hobo life, and all the interesting people I’ve met who ride the rails.’’

‘‘I never would have guessed!’’ she said. ‘‘You look just like a real tramp with all that shaggy hair—and you even smell like one!’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ he said, smiling slightly. ‘‘Actually, I’ve been on the road for quite a while and my story is nearly finished. I was working my way back to Chicago to submit the piece to my editor when I had this little mishap with my leg.’’

‘‘Well, as long as you’re going to be laid up awhile,’’ Aunt Batty said, ‘‘why don’t you type up your story and mail it from here? I’ll be glad to give you a hand. What do you need, some typing paper? Maybe a little table to set your typewriter on? We can fix everything up for him, can’t we, Toots?’’

‘‘I guess so,’’ I said. Aunt Batty made it sound like such a simple matter that it was pretty hard for either Gabe or me to turn her down.

She lugged her great big typewriter up the hill to my house that very day, insisting that it was much better than Gabe’s little old rickety one, along with a stack of typing paper. Gabe worked on and off all that week, as often as his fever allowed. He still tired very easily, and he would have to stop every so often and sleep, but then I’d hear him typing again, sometimes in the middle of the night.

By the time I drove into town for my appointment with Mr. Wakefield, Gabe’s story was all finished. Aunt Batty wrapped it all up in a package and I took it with me to the Deer Springs post office and mailed it off to Chicago.

We have a problem, Eliza.’’ The first words out of the lawyer’s mouth sent a shiver through me. I didn’t need any more problems. I had more than enough problems as it was. How could God even think about heaping any more on me?

‘‘Are you aware that your father-in-law was speculating rather heavily on the commodities market?’’ Mr. Wakefield asked.

‘‘I don’t know anything about his business dealings. Is that like playing the stock market?’’

‘‘It’s similar, but it involves speculating on farm commodities rather than on corporate stock. Unfortunately, commodities traders can lose a great deal more money than they’ve invested—and it seems that Frank lost his entire life’s savings.’’

‘‘So there’s no money at all? How will I pay back Mr. Preston at the Savings and Loan?’’

Mr. Wakefield’s mournful face reminded me of a heavyhearted bloodhound. ‘‘I’m sorry, but that money will still have to be paid within ninety days or the bank’s creditors will take possession. Some folks are holding auctions and selling off their equipment to raise funds. But I have to warn you, with this economic depression we’re in, they’re not getting anywhere near what the equipment is worth. That goes for farm acreage, too, I’m afraid.’’

I was much too shocked and stunned to cry. ‘‘So...so you’re telling me that...except for the orchard and all the equipment— I’m broke?’’