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

“I’m sure she meant no harm. Just trying to make it on her own, without bothering any of you. She never wanted to be a burden.”

Hammond grunted. “MacDonald’s been after my plot forever. Building himself an empire, as greedy as Napoleon. Ready to attack at any sign of weakness.”

James glanced at Ernest who looked away. The MacDonald’s had supplied a great deal of effort towards rebuilding Hammond’s house. Ernest had accepted that neighborly help with open, humble hands, desperate to return to the life they knew. Hammond must not realize this or he’d cease his grumbling. If only Ernest might speak up like a man should. His words could help set things right.

James wasn’t going to start another fight. The foundation of a bridge had been built, but it still needed more work. To be made secure, to stand.

He caught Jenny in the kitchen. “You might want to go see Dorothy. Been through a tough spell, I think.”

She balked, but didn’t seem opposed to the idea. “Maybe sometime. When Hammond can forgive her.”

“What about you? Dorothy’s had plenty to forgive too.”

Jenny’s face scrunched with pain. He left her.

He hadn’t liked Dorothy selling the twenty acres, but now he rather agreed with her action. He admired her will to survive. And her ingenuity. Understood the odd position she’d found herself in. No one else had been there for her. Except for Ruth.

Chapter 35

SEPTEMBER 16, 1880

The MacDonald’s have had me over for dinner. Don’t know why I was surprised by the invitation. Such dear folk. They’ve always been more than generous towards me on all counts.

When I stepped into Cedar Gate’s foyer, I momentarily wondered why I ever felt compelled to leave! Until this moment, I hadn’t realized what a haven this place had been for me. But then, I remembered. Why I had to be on my own. In part to connect with Ruth. Her freed life—right out of slavery—freed mine up too. To rest where I am. To think of others ahead of myself for a change.

“Oh, you’ve grown up, my child!” Mrs. MacDonald took in my tan with laughter. “Keeping house quite right, I imagine.”

“And learning how to grow potatoes, believe it or not.” I laughed with her.

“We miss you, dear. All of us do.” Her smile wavered slightly. “You were becoming part of our family, you know?”

Mr. MacDonald sent me a quiet wink.

The three of us dined together. Chess, they said, had left the harvest to the workers and settled in for his final year of college life. Philip was still sightseeing in New York.

I missed them. Chess’s wit, Philip’s pointed rejoinders. I imagined Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald miss them too. This large home, full yet empty. And then I consider Mr. Bleu’s merry eyes... the thought had me staring down into my pile of potatoes far too long. I recovered, thankfully, with a spontaneous offer. “Will you please come to my home for dinner next? I am quite alone and would value your company.”

Mr. MacDonald’s smile rarely blooms, but instead slowly pushes upward when he’s amused. Now it actually blossomed along with his wife’s. Like roses together in a garden. “We’d love to,” she said.

I wondered then, even with the great gala they put on every year and the great wealth at their disposal, how many true friends they have. How often are they merely trophies invited to functions by those seeking to scurry up the slippery social ladder?

How many people know Mrs. MacDonald’s story and still judge her by dollar signs? My invitation may have been presumptuous, but I don’t think so. After all, their smiles blossomed.

Oh, the fried chicken was remarkable. I must learn to make this country dish.

I might ask Aunt over for tea. Should I? Or shouldn’t I? Helen and Kirsten as well. Given time maybe their smiles will blossom again too.

SEPTEMBER 17, 1880

My time at the Birch farm, what can I say?  To them it seems the god of the soil is to be worshipped and loved despite Truth and God above? They are an odd lot.

I do rightfully own this small acreage. No guilt besieges me whatsoever. This place, this strange, unused wedding gift to Mother and her first husband can’t have been overly loved or valued if it sat here derelict for nearly forty years. A home for spiders and graveyard for opossums and other critters. What makes me worse than those creeping creatures? Am I not more valuable? Don’t I deserve a place to rest my head?

I sat at my table, filling Mother’s old teapot with freshly cut zinnias. A soft breeze is coming through the window and I feel that everything ought to be right in this world because this single moment is so good, so soothing. Can’t the Birch’s sense it? Aren’t they profoundly aware of the abundance of land at their disposal? The wealth of family that lives around them and supports them?

Kate Birch knows, yet is drawn away from her home at the same time. She came to me with a look of relief on her face, as though she’d finally found at last a kindred spirit. A niggling feeling comes over me—that our friendship has riled up the family. Charles is still friendly, but I rarely see him, so busy is everyone with the harvest.

I wonder if I am being unfair to think that my friendship with Kate could possibly cause division within yet another family.

When I see Kate, the day is brighter. We laugh. She exudes a joy that rarely disappears.

Except on certain occasions, when her grannie comes to the door and shouts for her for some unknown chore. So bossy in her expectations. Or when her mother, who has still not bothered for an introduction, waits at the garden’s edge for Kate to draw near, not willing to come to us. To me.

And then my imagination goes wandering. Why did Mr. Birch choose mother’s farm instead of his own? Why is he buried on Uncle’s property instead