Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

“For the other, I mean.”

“Now why should you apologize? Isn’t it I who have made your stay here misery?”

His sarcasm made me sorrier. “I might have made my own unfair assumptions.” I suddenly didn’t know what ground I had to stand on or for what reason. I had never felt more disconnected from the safety of my parents. Living by their plan and will, yet floundering without them—worse than a bird shoved from its nest.

I am thankful that Aunt is loving, but my mother embraced me completely. Fully. I was her life she once told me.

I leaned my chin on my hand. “The tea is excellent. Thank you.”

He nodded, suddenly distant and weary of sparring. “Good night, Miss Trafton.” He poured himself a second cup, to take with him, I supposed.

“Good night, David.”

He looked up at me in surprise. To my utter embarrassment, I realized I’d called him David. Oh, crumb.

Ernest limped in, still sore from his accident and looked at us. “I hope you can forgive my family, Dorothy. My sisters can be confusing sometimes.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll all be forgivin’ each other often, I am sure.” Ernest appeared defeated, yet accepting.

“I hope to never give offense, in any case.” I smiled.

“Lofty desires, Miss Trafton.” Mr. Bleu walked out the back door, letting the screen door slap behind him.

JAMES SIPPED THE REMAINDER of his tea, lost in thought. How easy it would have been to tell her. He sipped again. Wiped his lips with his shirtsleeve and set the teacup down on the upturned crate serving as a table. Suspicious creature. Who knew exactly what she thought of him?

If the complete truth came out, it would create a wedge in his relationship with this family he loved like his own. He’d been forbidden, but he’d done it anyway. Gave freely, or so he thought. It was easier, knowing the hands that had held the farm deed were trustworthy. But why God let the whole thing fall to Dorothy’s womanly will was beyond him.

But he’d chosen to trust God. Not doubt Him. Question Him, perhaps, as life unfolds all manner of curious happenings. Couldn’t help the questions. No man could.

He’d tried to be kind to her, but she had her own confronting to do. No doubt his lack of manners had caused doubt and grief. It took some ill words tossed in her direction. If he’d been nice to start with, she wouldn’t have known there was a can of worms to open. And he wouldn’t have added wounds to her pain.

She was right about assumptions being like lies. Good thing he told the truth. He had borrowed her father, for certain, if not his money. The past was not her business. Not at all.

Chapter 11

MARCH 9, 1880

Nightmares leave me exhausted, as though I had never slept. I remembered the pale, thinned faces of my parents as they suffered together. In my dream, I stood glancing from bed to bed, as I often had, checking that their lean bodies had been tucked into fresh, clean linens. The nurse poured beef tea through a spout between Mother’s lips. In my arms I carried a sheaf of lavender, fresh and pungent. I’d brought them life. Beauty. My flowers caught fire and blackened, smoke choked me and filled the room.  My parents were gone when the air cleared and I jolted awake. I have no wish to return to those searing, hopeless moments.

I had hoped the morning would dawn sunny and not this blasted rain. I shouldn’t have said blasted. I see the creek swelling from my bedroom window. Glad this home was built on higher ground, but what of my walk to Cedar Gate for true tea? Aunt’s umbrella is a ratty old affair. The grand Mrs. MacDonald will need to take what she gets.

I swept my unsettling dream back into the past where it belonged. I need not have worried as the rain lightened considerably by the time I put on my cloak.

Mr. Bleu accompanied me, having business with Mr. MacDonald. Our easy conversation dwelled much on surrounding farms and production. Purely business. An easy conversation—though we still have this low wall between us. At least I can see somewhat clearly on his side. I know I may not step over unless invited.

His unwillingness to tell me about my father was proof of that. Not that I knew everything that my father did every day. I’m not sure many of us girls knew the fine details of our father’s occupations. Money, business, lawyer, banker. My friends and I never thought twice about it! Nowadays, it’s a downright itch that must be scratched. It’s plain I didn’t know my dear father as well as I assumed. Or maybe it’s my assumptions that are the problem.

When we arrived at Cedar Gate Farm, I was unprepared for the vast stretch of land—surely the best in the county. Fields were already being plowed for tobacco seedlings. A steam plow chugged long straight lines on the left while men and mules worked together on the right.

The estate stood facing these fields. I envisioned a courtyard but instead, overgrown maples stretched high and round, as if here for the home’s sake, and not their own. I imagined them covered with leaves, casting a shade cool and rich in the summer’s heat. The red brick mansion with elongated windows and a low whitewashed veranda snaking around both sides threw jealousy in my mind. Now this would have been lovely to inherit!  The Grecian columns were giants compared to the scrawny pair that guarded our small porch in Cincinnati.

When we approached the steps, Mr. Bleu offered me his arm. I took it. I mustn’t be seen without manners. I gulped at the jeweled stained-glass door. It opened before Mr. Bleu rang the bell.

Chess stood with an arm stretched out “My heart keeps open house, my doors are widely flung!” followed by laughter.

“Excuse me?”

“Longfellow, Miss Trafton. David, will you stay?”

“Thank you, but