Romancing Olive (14 page)

Jack jumped from his seat and grabbed a hammer. “I’m helping you. I’m helping you. Just saying she’d be the kind you’d be thinking about somebody else while you’re doing it.” Jack laughed and elbowed Jacob. “Like anybody, even a knot hole.”

Jacob’s eyes flashed furiously. “Don’t be talking about Olive like that. She’s a lady. And she has more courage in her little finger than you or I.” Jack stepped back as Jacob’s finger neared his face. “There’s plenty of men who would be proud to have her as a wife and be happy to bed her.” A vision of Olive and Sheriff Bentley in bed together came to Jacob and the thought incensed him more.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your suspenders in an uproar.”

“She has nice hair and pretty blue eyes,” Jacob added.

“I’m sure somebody thinks she’s as perfect as a sunset,” Jack said. He watched Jacob nod solemnly on his words and bent to retrieve the dropped hammer. “Sure seems like the sheriff does anyway.”

Chapter Six

Olive waited until the children had found something to occupy them to read Theda’s letter. A cup of tea beside her, she pulled the ivory stationery from its matching envelope.

Dear Olive,

I can think of nothing appropriate to say to you concerning dear John and Mary. I can only give you my heartfelt sympathies. The poor, poor children and your poor brother James. To have married someone of ill repute, I cannot imagine his shame. But being the gentleman he was, I’m sure the worst circumstance he handled with aplomb. Certainly his wife’s tarnished reputation led to his untimely death. I am quite sure, though, he went bravely and his last thoughts were of his family. Are the children doing any better? Has John spoken? I pray every night that God graces those children with their father’s gentle spirit.

But Olive, (forgive my lapse in grammar, for my thoughts are coming quicker than my pen can scratch) could I have possibly understood your letter correctly? You are living with a man? Driving a buggy alone for an hour is one thing, unlike you as it is, but certainly living with a man is so far removed from your sensibilities that I barely know where to begin. My mother, when she could, and your mother certainly warned us of the dangers associated with this type of behavior. I beg of you, do not allow your sympathies for James’ children to override your good judgment. You are resourceful and intelligent. There must, there simply must be another solution to this problem. The only hopeful thought in this area is that this Jacob person is far too young to be interested in you. Although sometimes youthful men have vitalities that are hard to restrain. And what of his family? Have you met his parents? What sort of position does Mr. Butler hold in the community? Please write and apprise me of the particulars and your solution to this problem.

Life here on Church Street remains the same, although I sorely miss your company. Mother is the same and requires much attention. Mrs. Benson has been ill for nearly a week and I was told, although I am unsure of the veracity of the comment, that she is not long for this world. Your friend, Miss Johnson from the library, stopped by to ask me if I heard the date of your return. Rest assured, I revealed nothing of your letter or the circumstances of James’ death, the children’s condition or your living arrangements. They are anxious to hear from you though and miss you desperately ‘in the columns.’

I have been chosen to read a Bible passage at the Ladies Aid Society meeting and have been unable to make a choice. Something from Matthew would be nice, but I am always inclined to hear the poetry of Mark’s writings. Do you have an opinion? The meeting is not until next month, so I am sure you will be able to write and advise.

Mr. Gunnerson has checked on your house faithfully and he has told me Tiger is doing well. Oh, I nearly forgot. Mr. Henderson asked me to accompany him to Bible Studies on Wednesday evening. I am quite perplexed. Would it be in poor taste to arrive with a gentleman at the pastor’s home? Mr. Henderson has been quite honorable in his approach to me, but I fear three short years with his wife dead, is not nearly long enough to be proper. Well, I have given you much to consider in this letter. Write soon and be well.

Sincerely,

Theda

Olive lay back on her pillow to reread Theda’s letter. As she read, she could hear her friend speaking but she could have never replied what she was thinking now. Theda loved James. All these years. Olive had been clear in her letter about James’ duplicity as well as Sophie’s. But Theda had read only what she wanted to read. James was innocent and his unnamed wife, guilty. Olive closed her eyes and imagined Theda’s unspoken longing and her own blindness, so like Theda, where James was concerned. ‘Jacob is far too young to be interested in you,’ her friend had written and Olive reread time and again. So reassuring in her old world, so discouraging in her new. She’s right of course, Olive thought. Where have my good manners and breeding gone? Certainly nowhere to be found when Jacob brushed my hair, slept beside me or kissed me. Olive’s hand came to her mouth, unbidden, as she recalled his kiss.

Olive chuckled to herself as she continued reading, ‘Life is the same on Church Street.’ She both longed for that familiarity and dreaded the sheer sameness of it.  More new, more different things had happened to Olive in these short weeks than in her whole life before. And what of it, Olive said aloud. The differences, the challenges have yet to kill me, but I fear the boredom of life on Church Street quickly would. Within a blink of an eye, I would be back to my old habits and Theda and I would sit up to the unheard of hour of ten o’clock, deciding her Bible passage for the Ladies Aid Meeting. I would mull over the correct number of years that a widow should wait before asking a woman to the pastor’s home. The demise of my newfound perspective will make the time frame no matter and I will simply wait to cease breathing, may it be one year or fifty. I will die there.

With that thought, Olive saw clearly that she would not return home. Could not. But what was she to do? She could not stay with Jacob. Now her injuries were truly frustrating, for they would keep her from setting a new path. Olive’s thoughts ran fifty ways at once as she envisioned her life hence, unchartered.

The week went by slowly for Olive. And by Friday, she thought she would indeed lose her mind. The house was a witness to her lack of attention and the children were suffering from lack of routine. When the sheriff visited she entrusted him with a letter for the president of Spencer’s one and only bank. Saturday, she dressed and did a few chores with the help of Mary in the morning and had a long afternoon of study time with the children. The rain had made playing outside impossible and Olive felt after only a few hours on her feet that she would surely pass out, so she gathered the children around the table and spelled and read and read and spelled.

Monday morning came and Olive dressed and looked in her hand mirror at her injuries. She hadn’t known that bruises could look worse nearly a week after the injury than the morning of it.  Shades of yellow, brown and an awful green graced Olive’s jaw, but she snapped the mirror closed tied her bonnet and went on the hunt of Jacob.

“Mr. Butler?” she called near the barn.

“Olive, what are you doing out of the house?”

“I’ve been looking for you. I’d like to borrow the wagon if I may. I need to go in to town,” Olive said.

Jacob tilted his head. “Are you sure you’re up to it? If you need something, I’ll go for you.”

“No, thank you. I have an appointment.” Olive did not elaborate and she watched Jacob narrow his eyes in wonder.

“Your room will be ready tonight,” he said.

Olive began to smile but the healing skin on her mouth pinched and she grimaced. Jacob had been scarce company the whole week with weeding and hoeing during the day and completing the bedroom in the evening.

“I know you’ve been working very hard, this week, with me laid up and the children unattended. The bedroom could’ve waited. But now that I know it’s nearly done, when can I see it?” she asked.

“Whenever you want.”

“Well, then, as soon as I come back from town,” Olive said and looked up. Jacob didn’t move and Olive waited. “May I use the wagon?”

“I’ll hitch it. Do you want me to ride in with you?” Jacob said.

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine,” Olive replied.

“Not sure if I like this, you alone on the road and Jeb Davis out and about,” Jacob said.

“I won’t be a prisoner, Mr. Butler,” Olive said.

“Suit yourself.”

* * *

Jacob hitched up the wagon, helped Olive get seated and asked again if she would like him to accompany her. She refused, as he knew she would and he watched her pull away from the house. He hated the idea of her on the road alone and it irked him that she had not revealed why she needed to go into Spencer. Near noontime he went to the house and found Mary.

“What’s your Aunt need from town?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” she said.

Mary shrugged and continued feeding mush to Mark. When he was near the door, dismissing thoughts of Olive, Mary stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Maybe it had something to do with the letter she gave the sheriff when he came out to see her. I don’t know.”

“What letter?” Jacob said as he turned back to the girl.

“The one she handed the sheriff. It sure did stink.”

Jacob shook his head. “What stunk?” The girl turned to him eyes wide and exasperated.

“The letter. The letter stunk of lilacs or somethin’.”

Olive gave the sheriff a perfumed letter and now she was going to see him. Jacob sucked wind through his teeth and headed to the barn. Lots of work to do he said to himself, but his mind drifted again and again to Olive. As he fixed his plow, he scowled at her behavior. Chasing the sheriff around and sending him notes like she was some young girl. Well let the sheriff worry about Jeb Davis then, he thought.

* * *

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Olive said and was seated in a worn but comfortable leather chair.

“As it is to meet you,” the pinched face man said.

Olive could tell the banker was all business. Ink stained hands and stacks of papers piled neatly littered his desk. Nearly bald, Olive observed, with just a few wisps of gray hair, flopping around his ears. His white collar was oversized around his thin throat and the skin hanging in folds. The banker wiped his smudged glasses on a white hanky and proceeded to skim Olive’s letter.

“Well, Miss Wilkins, I believe I have compiled all the information you requested,” he said as he nodded his head and read.

“Thank you so much.”

“Pertaining to your house on Church Street in Philadelphia, your banker there, a Mr. Cummings believes the house would sell for approximately $2000.00. Now, that is just an estimate of course. Wouldn’t be right to hold Mr. Cummings or I to the figure,” the banker said over his glasses.

Olive’s eyes widened. “I had no idea that my family home was worth that much money.”

“In normal circumstances it would not fetch that much. But Mr. Cummings has had recent inquiries in your neighborhood. Apparently a merchant is interested in buying a few homes adjacent to each other, in order to build a store and your banker is confident that negotiations would yield in that area,” Mr. Holmes said.

“A store?” Olive asked.

“Yes, a mercantile of some sorts,” he replied.

Olive sat back against the cool leather and frowned. What would her neighbor hood become? What did her elderly neighbors think? Nothing would remain the same on Church Street once a busy retailer set up shop. Crowded streets and buggy traffic would keep them in their houses and off of their porches all summer.

“Has this merchant already purchased any property?”

“Yes, I believe he has. Things are already underway,” the banker said.

Then this is truly for the best, Olive thought.
“Can you wire Mr. Cummings and tell him to begin negotiations immediately. I would like all my funds transferred here to your bank from the sale of the property and what I have in savings. I will write my friend to handle the shipping of my house wares and furniture once the sale is complete.”

Mr. Holmes nodded. “I will tell him as much when I wire him. Now about your brother’s farm. You seem to be under some misconceptions concerning the mortgage.”

Olive’s shoulders dropped. What had James done? She took a deep breath.  “What misconceptions?”

The banker rifled through a stack of papers and looked up to her. “Your brother never really owned that farm. And upon his death and the death of your parents, you became sole owner.”

“What?” Olive asked, eyes wide.

“I’ve checked everything carefully, Miss Wilkins. Seems your father bought the property back in ’83 and he held and paid the mortgage. We need to send death certificates to Mr. Cummings, but that’s just a formality. The farm is yours.”

“Do I still owe anything on the property?”

“No mortgage. Your father paid it in full. But apparently last year’s taxes are overdue. Let me see here. Yes, here it is. $82.63 will clear the taxes. I can take care of that for you when your property on Church Street is sold, if you’d like,” the banker said.

James never paid the taxes on his own property. Father paid them until his death and mother and I had no idea we owed anything. Olive felt betrayed by a family secret but empowered all the same. She was a property owner, a landowner with money in the bank and more to come on the sale of her house. She was free. When all was said and done, she would have enough to last a lifetime.