The Brushstroke Legacy (32 page)

Meaning that he was fired. For what? And what about my job?
“I see. I take it you are no longer on my team?”
Were you the saboteur? Was all this in the works before I went on vacation, and no one let the cat out of the bag?

“There has been a major re-org, and our former team system has been dissolved. We do have a new position for you, and we will discuss that on your return.”

The feline purring tone was driving Ragni nuts. “Why don’t you just give me a hint now?”

“If you would prefer.”

“I do and I would.” Ragni kept a smile plastered on her face so that her voice wouldn’t bite.

“In accordance with our new budget constraints—”

Good grief, I don’t want to play their games.
“Stop. Helene, wait. Write this into your budget. I quit. I do hope you have a nice day. Good-bye.” Ragni flipped her phone shut.
Woman, what did you just do?

“What is it?” Paul’s voice came as through a filter.

“Just a minute.” Ragni inhaled and ordered her lungs to function correctly.

A tether to sanity, Paul’s hand warmed her shoulder. She turned
in her seat to face him, wanting to throw herself into his arms and bawl against his chest. Her whole life had just been thrown up in the air and was coming down in scattered pieces, none larger than a postage stamp.

“Okay,” Paul said. “I can tell you’ve been dumped in a cow pie, so let me help you.”

In spite of herself, Ragni laughed. “just another sorry tale in a rather sorry life.” She flipped off the comment and immediately felt like a cry sissy. Whining was not an attractive trait. Neither was swearing, the other reaction she was trying to stifle. “And besides, if you try to help me up out of that mire on the ground, you might end up wearing some yourself.”

“Won’t be the first time and most likely not the last.” His fingers dug into the muscles in her shoulder, which she could feel twanging like an overtightened guitar string. “How about you tell me while I drive so we can get these supplies to the labor force before they run out of things to do?”

“Fine with me.”
Besides, it is easier to think and talk when your hand isn’t doing good stuff to my shoulder.

She buckled her seat belt as he started the truck. “Oh, what have I done?” She paused.
Was that a cheering section she felt going on in her middle?

When he waited at a stop sign, he glanced over at her. “Shoot.”

“I think I feel like I’ve been shot. Two phone calls. The last one from the company I work for. There has been a re-org, my boss was let go, and a woman from my team is now in his place. She assumed I would be thrilled with their games.”

“You know what happens when one assumes anything?”

“Yes. And I don’t feel like being made into that biblical word for donkey.” His chuckle made her glad she could still retain a sense of humor. “So I quit.”

He turned to stare at her, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You quit.”

“I did.”
Talk about a shocker.
“I had no idea this re-org stuff was coming, and yet it couldn’t have just happened overnight.” She shook her head and reached for the soft drink container he’d put in the holder.
I quit. I can’t believe I did this.

“That’s Diet Coke.”

“Good. My favorite.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“The cans in your garbage might have been a clue.”

“Oh.” She smiled back at him.

“And the other call?”

She looked away, checking the scenery through a sheen of tears. “They had to put my father in a nursing home yesterday. I’m sure in the high-security wing for those with dementia. Mom said she could no longer handle him, so he must have either hit her or wandered off and gotten lost.” She shook her head, slowly, as if too tired for speech.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, me too.” Her sigh hurt. “And that’s not all. My sister has had both a lumpectomy and radiation, without telling either me—with whom she has always shared everything—or her daughter, who fears something is terribly wrong. Which it is. Or was. They say they got it all.” She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her upper arms as if she were chilled. But the chill was inside where
stroking hands couldn’t reach. “I told my mother I’d be home soon to help her, but she no longer really needs my help.”

“You can help Erika.”

“I can’t tell her. That’s her mother’s job.”

“No, but you are here for her, and she knows that. Besides, she is having a wonderful time.”

“I know.”
Me too. And to think I didn’t want to come out here.
She turned to watch the man driving. He turned to smile at her and reached over to take her hand.

“It will all work out.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I have an inside track with the head designer. He said so.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Nope, He said so. You know you believe that.”

“I know, but—” She stopped herself. “I’m glad someone believes God will work all this out.”
Right now I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of buffalo.

I quit, I really did it. Did I do the right thing? Lord, I know You know what’s coming, but would You mind giving me a clue?

Was he angry because he’d learned of her paints?

Nilda tossed and turned in her bed several times before she could get comfortable. The look on his face in the store haunted her. Had he been like that from the time he picked her up at the train station those months before, she might not have stayed. Or at least not fallen in love with him—which was a reality still hard to believe. But she knew when the seed of love was planted: when he was kind to her daughter, to Eloise, who reigned queen in her heart. His infrequent smiles watered the seeds; his rush to the windmill that day was the sun beginning to bring those seeds to life.

So what had happened? All was well until they went to the store. The ride into town would remain one of those memories she could take out and burnish when needed. She thought again of leaving, and this time the thought lingered.
I don’t know where we would go. But I cannot bear this man’s changes any longer.
She woke long before the cock crowed and tiptoed into the kitchen, not putting on her shoes until she sat on the front stoop. If she started breakfast, she would wake the men and there was no need for anyone else to be awake at this hour. If she lit a lamp, it would draw the bugs. The pots of pigments
lay like jewels in her reticule. She closed her eyes and pictured the design she would paint above the door frame. Could she include a blessing? In English or Norwegian? A small piece of herself—a memory. A cool breeze trifled with her hair and bussed her cheek.

“Are you all right?” Joseph Peterson spoke from within the door behind her.

“I am fine.”

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Why would he ask that? His voice wore none of the abruptness of the day before. Was it really him or a figment of her imagination?

“Not at all. I did not want to wake you, but now that you are up, I will make coffee if you want.”

“No, no thank you.” He started to open the screen door so she had to stand to let him out. He held the door so it closed lightly, not the usual banging of the spring, and then sat down, patting the stoop beside him.

When she sat, she wished she could spring up and move away; the heat of him, the smell of him were so intense she felt overwhelmed. She turned her knees slightly away to let more air between them, but that only put her shoulder into closer proximity. Her breath caught on something in her throat and stumbled.

“I have something to ask you.” His voice rumbled in the soft darkness.

Dawn was only a dream on the eastern horizon, but the sky was lighter than utter darkness. Did the stars indeed shed enough light so that she could see his outline, or did she only feel it and know it by her heart?

“Ja?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Mr. Peterson!” She must have moved as if she would jump and run, because his hand on her arm locked her into her position.

“I know this is abrupt, but…”

But what? What has happened that he
…? The words sunk into her mind.
Marry you? Of course I will marry you. I will dance among the stars for the joy of this. But I cannot.
Her dream crashed and shattered, glass tinkling about her feet.

“Why?” she asked.
Why are you asking me now? Why do you want to marry me? You’ve shown no signs of love, at least that I have seen.

“Because it is proper. You’re an unmarried woman, I mean, out here with two men…” Now it was his turn to stumble over words. “You could still have your own room and, I mean…”

“I see.”
So something has happened that makes him think he needs to marry me, not just have me as a hired woman.
A picture of the two women at the store came to her mind. “Mr. Peterson, please, I do not believe this is necessary.” She kept her voice gentle, like the sweet air brushing against her face.
Tell him your secret.
The voice was insistent, like it had been so many times before. She ignored it and went on. “What seems like a long time ago to me now…after a terrible loss…I promised myself that I would never marry a man unless I loved him with all my heart and he loved me in return.”

“Who’s to say that I don’t love you?” His voice took on his normally gruff tone.

Tell him your secret!
The inner war continued. She wanted to run, to hide among the trees. Why had he come out here and ruined this beautiful morning? She sighed, both inwardly and audibly.
If I tell him, he’ll take back his offer. So tell him.

She ignored the screaming in her mind and focused on what she had seen. Surely if she brought this up, he would leave and take his proposal with him. She knit her fingers together for support. “Mr. Peterson, I have a feeling that something has happened in your life that makes love come very hard, if at all.”

Joseph Peterson sighed. “First of all, would you please call me Joseph? If we are to be married, I think Mrs. Torkalson and Mr. Peterson are a bit formal.” He touched his chest. She could see the movement of his hand now. “I am Joseph.” He looked at her, waiting for her answer.

Did you not hear me at all?
She took in a deep breath and let it out. “I am Nilda. Ragnilda, really, but all my life Nilda.”
Did you not hear me? I cannot marry you.
She wished she could turn and see his face, but for some reason she could not move.

“I think I must tell you a story.” His pause made her try to think of something to fill it. When he continued, she sighed in relief. “Years ago when I was a very young man, I fell in love with a girl who lived near us. She loved me, and we talked of getting married when we were older. But my older brother, who inherited the farm when my father died, also loved her, or said he did, and she married him. I left.” Barbs of steel replaced the gentleness in his voice. “I never spoke to them again, and I never will. I came west and made my home here.”

Oh, you poor man.
The easy way he had been sitting now radiated with anger. She could feel it rising, like a fetid cloud. Again the urge to run made her start to rise, but she refrained.

Oh, Lord, what do I say? How do I help this man?
She waited seeking wisdom, all the while her heart weeping for him. “The Bible says that not forgiving someone will eat one up, dry up the bones, and
when bitterness grows it is like quack grass.” Nilda wished she could look deep into his eyes, but they were still dark holes in his face. “That’s not exactly the verses but good parts of them.”

“I grew up going to church, I know Scripture also. It says an eye for an eye. I did not exact my vengeance. Instead I left, for I could not bear to see them together. Part of the farm had been promised to me.”

“But I think you will not be able to love again until you have forgiven them.”
I cannot believe you are saying such things to him. Before he orders you away, you will pack your bags when the sun rises, and if you must, you will walk to town and get on that train going east.

And leave my broken heart behind? If necessary.

The voices in her head drowned out the song of the crickets. Or was it the predawn hush that daily fell upon the earth? Either way, a tear dripped onto her clenched fingers.
If he could not forgive his brother, he will never forgive my secret either.
The agony of leaving—but she knew she could stay no longer. It would hurt too much.
He says he loves me, but those are just words. He knows not what love is, not with hate in his heart.

The rooster made his first attempt at rising the dawn, a scratchy attempt, but the sky had lightened considerably.

“We are not finished with this yet.” He rose and stretched. “Be assured, we are not done.” He smoothed his hair back and settled his hat in place. “I believe I will go milk Daisy.”

I will paint my design over the doorway before I go. To leave something of me and my love here.
With that promise to herself in hand, Nilda returned to the house and lifted the round stove lids and the divider, setting them aside to rekindle the fire.
I cannot marry a man
who does not love me. I have been a convenience before; I will not be again.

“Today we start cutting the oats,” Joseph announced at the end of breakfast, when she refilled his coffee cup.

Very good, that gives me time to paint my design. Then I will leave.

But when she went out to the garden, the beans were ready to be picked again. She couldn’t bear to let them go to waste after all her hard work. So she and Eloise picked the beans, snapped them, and set another boiler of full jars to steaming. Once that was done, she had to make dinner, ringing the bar when the sun was straight up, like Mr. Peterson, or rather Joseph, had requested, nay ordered. Definitely, her mind was in a dither. She looked over the oat field at the southern end of the hay field and saw Joseph halt the team pulling the mower and unhitch it. He came striding across the field, behind the horses, kicking her heart into high gear again. She went back inside to dish up the meal while the men unharnessed the team and let them into the corral.

“Men coming,” sang Eloise from her watch by the corner of the house.

“Thank you.” Nilda set the pot of ham and beans in the middle of the table and returned to cut the corn bread. After dinner—that was when she would paint that spot above the door. Should it say
welbekommen
or good-bye or be only flowers? Or peace to all, or just peace? Only in Norwegian or in English as well?
Joseph may not like
my art, but this is who I am. This is what I can leave for him
—
along with a clean house.

Before they ate, Joseph bowed his head. “We will have grace.” He waited and then intoned,
“I Jesu naven, gor ve til brod…”

Her voice caught in her throat and stayed there when she tried to join him. With the plates in front of her, she dished up the baked ham and beans, then passed the corn bread.

“I have rabbits from the snares cooling in the wellhouse. You will fix them for supper?” Hank reached for a second piece of corn bread.

“Ja.”
That I can do easily in between the colors. So we will leave tomorrow. Will he take us to the train if I ask, or would it be better to just leave? That will be a long walk to town but not impossible.
She ignored the voice that reminded her she would be carrying Eloise much of the way. She ignored the questions of where she would go, what she would do when she got there, and how a move would affect Eloise’s health. She just knew she had to leave.

With the men back in the field and Eloise sleeping, she fetched the cleaned rabbits from the cooling tank where Hank had left them in a bucket of cold water, and after cutting them up, dredged the pieces in flour and laid them in the skillet to brown. Out in the garden, she dug under the potato vines to find the new potatoes, easing out only the ones near the surface so the rest could grow larger. She checked the ears of corn, which were not yet full enough, closed the silk back, and pulled beets instead. She should can beets instead of painting. Pickled beets would be such a treat. She pulled extra, washed them, cut off the greens to serve separately, and set the beets to boiling.

Finally, she fetched the pots from her hiding place under the bed and sat down to mix the oil with pigments of red, yellow, and blue. The colors mesmerized her, enchanting her as she dabbed a brush into the blue to create a petal, then into the red. Purple, more red, so rich. When she added a bit of black, the color deepened. Yellow and blue made green, and a dab of the red-brown she’d created on her own yielded a rich brown. Her heart smiled at the glorious colors.