Peaches in Winter (sweet romance) Page 3

  When the taxi arrived, he paid the driver and waited until the girl was safely in and the vehicle had started away before raising a hand and waving.

  As he climbed back up the steps to the brownstone, he realized it was the first time he’d been outside in weeks.

  It was snapping cold but pleasant out. The stars shone above. He looked around the empty street, rubbing his arms to keep warm, and then headed back indoors.

  When he bolted the door for the night, he realized how silent and empty the big house felt.

  Chapter Three

  Jake got up early the next day. He dressed right away and started work at his typewriter as soon as he finished his orange juice, thinking he could finish something before Betty Ann showed up and interrupted his concentration.

  Two hours later, he sat back in his chair, raking his fingers through his hair and scowling at the typewriter. Maybe it had been a false start, a mistake. Last night the idea had seemed inspired, and this morning it seemed so stupid. Stories did that sometimes. They died.

  He couldn’t choke down the taste of bile in his throat. No more stories for him, probably, until spring; she hadn’t broken his dry spell after all. He found himself oddly disappointed. She hadn’t, actually, been the magic cure-all Matt had touted. Despite his annoyance at Matt, he’d wanted to believe it—and he’d been starting to.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk, occasionally chewing a pencil, trying to think what he could possibly do to make this winter pass faster. After last night’s possibilities where work was concerned, he felt himself doubly saddened by the thought of not being able to write anything until spring.

  Lost in his thoughts, Jake didn’t notice how much time he’d spent brooding, until—

  The doorbell rang.

  Jake jumped up and dashed for the door, before he caught himself.

  What are you doing, Jake Watterson? He slowed his walk to a stroll, tugged at his shirt and straightened his shoulders. Honestly. Rushing to the door like an eager date. Next thing you know, you’ll start looking forward to seeing her! He straightened his tie, irritated with himself.

  “Come in.” He yanked the door open with a glare.

  Today she wore a decrepit red coat and once again had a big smile on her face.

  The jacket he’d loaned her last night was draped over one arm. And she held a bouquet of flowers.

  Daisies, by the look of them.

  Jake drew back, swallowing and trying to keep the surprise off his face. What did she think this was, a date? What was it about this girl that could make his life so surreal and make him instantly uneasy?

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Watterson. Did I startle you?” She held the flowers up, apologetically. “I brought these to remind you of spring. It’s coming soon!”

  She stepped into his home, wearing the same dress she’d worn yesterday underneath an unbelievably ratty barn coat. The arms were too short, and it had been patched with an almost-matching red fabric near the hem.

  She handed him back his borrowed jacket with an apologetic smile, slipped her coat off, and hung it on a hook. She was right. It was horrible. “I’ve been meaning to buy a new one,” she said. “I’ll be able to afford it soon.” She headed again to the kitchen, carrying the daisies, and talking.

  “I can’t wait for spring. This morning I woke up; I honestly thought I could smell the peach trees blossoming out my window. I guess I must be homesick. I surely do miss Ma and Pa, and Grandpa, and my brother Sam.

  “You really ought to see a peach orchard in spring, Mr. Watterson. I guess it sounds rude to say so, but I think you just haven’t lived until you’ve seen one. It looks like all the trees are going to a wedding and dressed up all fancy for it. And then there’s the wonderful smell—”

  The steady stream of words continued to issue from her mouth.

  She just can’t stop talking, can she? He watched her in wonder. Once again, he found himself following her into his kitchen.

  He stood by her side as she filled another glass jar with water and the daisies. The activity didn’t slow her flow of reminiscences. She talked on, describing the farm, talking about peaches, and discussing what her family was probably doing at just this moment.

  He listened to her, amazed and appalled. As far as he could tell, she didn’t stop for breath. He listened, trying to catch it, but he couldn’t.

  Suddenly she stopped and turned to him with round eyes. “I’m sorry! I’m doing it again, aren’t I? You’ve got to just tell me to stop when I keep talking and—” She stopped again, and laughed. “I’m doing it again!” She covered her mouth.

  He couldn’t help smiling in return. “That’s all right,” he found himself saying.

  She cast him a grateful smile and finished with the flowers. She set the vase on the kitchen table. He had to admit, if only to himself, that they really did brighten the room and remind him of spring.

  He wondered, suddenly, how much they had cost—and how she’d been able to afford them. With her coat in that condition and wearing the same dress two days in a row, he highly doubted she was financially well-off.

  He cleared his throat. “Let me pay you back for them,” he suggested.

  She cast him a slow, surprised glance. “Oh, no, Mr. Watterson. These are a gift. You don’t pay somebody for a gift!”

  Jake frowned. He didn’t know how he could argue with that, and he decided not to try. “All right,” he agreed, “but if you want to buy anything like that again for my home, get the money from me first. I don’t want you wasting your salary on silly things.” He realized that probably sounded rude, but it was true. Jake, at least, could afford to waste a little money.

  She blinked. “All—all right.” She looked a little chagrinned. “They do brighten the room, though, don’t they?” She tilted her head slightly, admiring the blooms.

  “Yes,” said Jake quietly. He was thinking they weren’t the only thing that brightened the room.

  She turned to him again.

  “I’m sorry I fell asleep yesterday.” She spoke quietly, and her eyes were large and serious, apologetic.

  “That’s fine,” said Jake.

  “Is your story going all right?” She looked as though it mattered to her.

  Once again, he found himself distracted by her good looks. She had a wholesome prettiness, legs that looked both strong and lithe, and a round, earnest face that was open and sun-kissed. He had no doubt her curls were natural, if only because he doubted she would have thought to use curlers.

  Or succeed if she tried. Then he felt bad for thinking that. She might not be the smartest girl, but he shouldn’t mock her, even privately. She obviously had a kind heart.

  “No,” he said, surprising himself. He regularly lied to Matt and sundry others about the progress of a story. But he couldn’t lie to her. “No, I haven’t been able to write anything this morning. I think the story died.” He shrugged, almost apologetically, and turned and trailed into his writing room, leaving it up to her whether she followed him or not. “I’ll try again, though.”

  “Maybe I can help?” she offered, hurrying to his side. Her fingers twitched slightly, as though eager to begin a new campaign of attack against his typewriter.

  “No thanks,” Jake said hastily. “I’ll manage.”

  “But, Mr. Watterson, I’ll be cheating you if I don’t do some work!”

  “Perhaps you could do something in the kitchen,” he mumbled, sitting down and slipping a pencil from behind his ear. Come to think of it, a couple of things he’d written down last night needed changing. He could at least do that.

  “Say, that’s a great idea, Mr. Watterson!” she exclaimed with such force he jumped, and one of his eyes twitched.

  He stared at her. “Oh. If you want to.” He hadn’t meant the suggestion as a serious one. It was just the first thing to come to mind that would keep her out of his way.

  Is Matt paying her, or am I? Either way, they could afford to keep her here a few more days, eve
n if she didn’t do anything secretarial. At least until she could afford a new coat.

  Half an hour later, he sat sprawled in front of his desk, chewing on a pencil, frowning at the words and sometimes scribbling out a phrase. Occasionally, he looked over at his machine and typed something. He was not working fast, not sure the story was going anywhere—but he was working again.

  From the kitchen, he heard occasional, ominous thumping sounds. He did his best to shut them out and not think about what they might mean. If she cooked as poorly as she typed, it could spell disaster. But for the moment, he was just glad to have her occupied but nearby.

  He bent over his work again.

  ~*~

  Humming quietly to herself, Betty Ann put the finishing touches to the cobbler, slid it into the oven, and stepped back, dusting her hands and smiling.

  There! It wouldn’t be as good as if she’d had fresh peaches, but the canned ones she’d found in the cupboard should work well. Like Grandpa said, you worked with what you had. He was right.

  She went back to the door of the writing/sitting room and peeked in. Mr. Watterson was bent over his desk, hard at work. His brown hair stuck up in soft-looking tufts where he’d run his fingers through it.

  She smiled and moved back into the kitchen. He was really smart and diligent, if he could keep at it and write books as long and complicated as the one Betty Ann had tried to read yesterday.

  She hadn’t been able to make it past page five, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. It’s probably because I was distracted. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

  And she had been. He seemed to think so hard about his writing that it was impressive just to watch. Between watching him and running out to the kitchen to refresh his lemonade every so often, she hadn’t sat still for very long.

  She turned to the sink and cleaned the dishes she’d used to make the cobbler, along with the others that had been sitting there. She kept checking the clock over the kitchen table while she worked.

  When enough time had passed, she pulled the cobbler from the oven and set it on the stovetop to cool.

  Betty Ann smiled. At least it smells good! She went to the gleaming new electric ice chest and pulled open its spiffy white door. Looking inside, she peered around for milk but didn’t see any.

  Perplexity wrinkled her brow. Surely he must have some milk in the house! Then again, he was an author, and they were liable to be eccentric. Well, you couldn’t eat cobbler without milk. She thought for only a moment before making her decision.

  She walked into his writing room, hearing the tap-tap-tap sounds of slow, thoughtful typing. “Mr. Watterson, you’re out of milk. I’m going to the grocery market down the street to buy some. I won’t be long.”

  She waited a moment for his response. When none came, she said, “‘Bye, Mr. Watterson. I’ll be right back.”

  She took her coat off the hook and headed out the front door. He really was a nice boss, she thought. He hadn’t sent her away even though he obviously didn’t need a secretary.

  He needs a cook, though. She couldn’t believe he’d run out of milk and not bought more. And there hadn’t been much food in the icebox, either.

  She tried to imagine him standing in the kitchen, cooking himself a meal. She couldn’t.

  Back on the farm, they hadn’t needed to buy milk at all. Bessie and Molly, the two farm cows, kept them supplied with what they needed. It was a chore to milk them every morning, but Betty Ann hadn’t minded. In a way, it was easier than going to the store and shelling out perfectly good money for milk.

  She wondered if Ma minded doing the milking, now Betty Ann was gone. She wondered if the cows missed her in the mornings.

  “Thank you!” She smiled as she handed over her next-to-last dime to the grocer for a pint of milk. Payday was tomorrow, and anyway, Mr. Watterson would probably be willing to pay her back. Either way, she couldn’t let him have peach cobbler without milk!

  She walked back to the brownstone, humming to herself. Miss Mable was wrong. I did get a good job!

  Of course, it wouldn’t last long; she realized that. But at least she wouldn’t starve or be forced to go back to the farm before she was ready.

  Coming straight from there to the big city had been hard. It was a huge adjustment just getting used to the crowds of people, the huge buildings, and the fast, heavy traffic.

  Secretarial school, in many ways, had been harder yet. She’d barely graduated, and only then, by working twice as hard as the other girls seemed to need to. She’d never learned to type very fast, and she still took dictation poorly, even in shorthand.

  After she’d barely passed all the tests, on her third try, Miss Mable sat her down and talked to her in her office.

  “You know, Betty,” she’d said, “not every girl is cut out to be a secretary. Some girls would be much happier marrying a nice man and living out their lives on a farm. I think you might be one of them.”

  Betty Ann had taken her time responding. Miss Mable was so sincere in her kind warning—it was definitely a warning—that she couldn’t answer too quickly in case she sounded flippant or angry. She knew she wasn’t as good as the other girls, but somehow it was important to her not to give up.

  “I know,” she’d said at length. “I might be. But I want to be a secretary first.” She looked straight at Miss Mable. “I think that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

  There wasn’t much left that Miss Mable could say. But her face held a tight, worried look when she said good-bye to Betty Ann for the last time. A look like she didn’t know whether she was throwing a lamb to the wolves, or a wolf at the world.

  Betty smiled at the thought. It was a good metaphor. Was that the right word? She could ask Mr. Watterson later, when he came up for air from his story.

  She smiled again. It had been nice of him to use her idea. He really was a good man.

  Not like her first boss. Betty Ann’s eye twitched, and her smile vanished at the memory. Mr. Kidd hadn’t thought much of her typing skills, either. He’d wanted her to do…other things for her salary. Betty walked faster, carrying the cold milk between her chilly hands.

  After a moment, she started smiling again and humming. You couldn’t let life get you down. It had looked bad for a while, but she didn’t work for Mr. Kidd anymore, and she wasn’t going to starve, either.

  Mr. Watterson will keep me on for a few more days. I’m sure of it. If nothing else, I won’t have to write Pa for the money to go home.

  A slow sadness crept into her chest, and she hugged the milk bottle close, trying to keep its cold from her hands by shifting it around. She wasn’t ready to go home, not yet. When she was a city girl, when she had enough money that she didn’t need to feel like she was going home in disgrace, then it might be okay.

  Maybe.

  She thought again of Jimmy, and the last little bit of her smile disappeared. It wasn’t time to go home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  If I can find a good job, a job that pays well and where I can really earn my pay honest, then I want to stay for as long as I can.

  It would be hard to miss spring on the farm, but it would still be harder to go back.

  Time. I just need some time.

  She was almost smiling again by the time she returned to the brownstone.

  Like grandpa said, you got to make the most of what you have. That’s what I’ve got to keep on doing.

  When she got back to the kitchen, Betty saw a large black woman who was just finishing tying the strings of a work apron.

  She crossed her arms and looked at Betty. “Mm-hm. I didn’t figure he got up and made that dessert all by his lonesome. Who are you, and what are you called?”

  Betty introduced herself and set the milk down. She explained about the secretary job and how Mr. Watterson hadn’t needed her to do typing or take shorthand but had kept her on anyway, and she felt she had to do something, so she’d made this, and how much better it would taste with fresh peaches.

&nbs
p; “You’ve got that right,” said the lady, who introduced herself as Mrs. Estelle Robertson.

  While they were finishing their discussion, Mr. Watterson came padding out in his stocking feet. Betty noticed his socks didn’t match.

  ~*~

  “Hi ladies. What’s up?” said Jake, looking at them, from face to face, young to old, pale to dark.

  These are the women in my life, he realized, with a strange, odd feeling inside his chest.

  Even though she was his employee, Mrs. Robertson took care of Jake like a surrogate mother. Many were the days after his parents died when he wouldn’t have eaten or even gotten out of bed if she hadn’t been there to make him do so.

  And Betty. He’d known her—what—two days, and already she meant something peculiarly important to him.

  Well, to his writing, at least. When she was around, he could write. He would have to keep her working here, secretarial skills or no.

  He was still looking at the women.

  Something about the way they had fallen silent when he entered the room made him feel vulnerable. He crossed his arms self-consciously—and realized he’d forgotten to wear shoes again. He couldn’t look a very impressive sight standing here in his stocking feet.

  “What are you ladies talking about?” he asked.

  Betty Ann finally came to life and smiled one of her big grins. “Oh, I was just telling Mrs. Robertson how I came to work here. She knows about fresh peaches, too. It’s really wonderful how—”

  Since he’d entered the room, he’d been vaguely aware, in the part of his mind that wasn’t occupied with his story, with his lack of shoes, with these women, or what they might have been saying about him, of a wonderful aroma. Now he caught sight of its source, and his mouth watered.

  A big, delicious-looking cobbler sat on the kitchen table. The crumbles on top were thick, generous, and browned just past golden. Hints of yellowish-orange fruit, peaches naturally, bubbled up tantalizingly here and there.