A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts Read online

  She’d have to think of something. Maybe volunteer locally?

  While she liked helping people in Africa, she knew that in the long run, her work didn’t matter so much—it was just a drop in the bucket. Those people were stronger than any of those people trying to help. They had lived that way, and worse, for thousands of years, and maybe they didn’t want some of the things offered, because they didn’t actually need anything else.

  Was it really so terrible, being a dirt farmer, farming by hand still and living from crop to crop? Why did people need TV, or a radio or a car or a phone? She had learned that really, they did not. They had food—just enough—and shelter and family.

  Family . . .

  Lucy went to work, closing the back door to the sounds and smells of what was now home for now, and for who knew how long.

  ~~~

  Lucy was daydreaming again when she came back home, but the housekeeper was still at the boarding house. It was later than usual too; the woman must have waited especially to bring it up.

  Mrs. Willett said with some self-satisfaction, “It was in your sheets when I changed them too.”

  Dirt? Not likely, but Lucy couldn’t say that never happened in her life. In those other countries, that was common enough, especially in the rainy seasons—but not here. Surely she would have noticed. But she wasn’t going to argue the point now.

  Instead, she said, “So what? Dirt is just dirt, shake it out and sweep it up.”

  The housekeeper then demanded, “So, where have you been that you’d have dirt like that? It’s like you wore your shoes to bed?”Ó

  Impatient, Lucy responded, “What’s it to you if I did. You get paid to keep up the house, that includes our laundry and—”

  She stopped, sighed, apologized for her tone. Lucy didn’t want to give the woman more reason to whine—especially about someone being rude to her.

  Lucy didn’t even know if the person or people who owned this place were even in the same state; they definitely didn’t seem to have much say over what went on here. She suspected that if they got enough complaints though, that the easiest thing would be to evict her—it would be far easier, she figured, then them finding a new housekeeper.

  Lucy added, “Clearly the dirt came in from the backyard, do you know who is working in the garden? I’ve noticed that some of the weeds have been cleared, and there might be some rows ready to hoe for a kitchen garden in that patch along the west side. Say, are you letting strange men into the house? Are you letting them sleep in here? Maybe I should start locking my door.”

  Actually, she never did that, even though she had a lock, while some of the other rooms did not. Still, most of the guests didn’t bother—she assumed it was because they didn’t really have much to steal, or that someone was always here to watch what went on—whether you wanted them to or not.

  But the woman gasped, exclaiming, “No, miss, I never heard of such a thing.”

  Lucy hadn’t either, but it put the housekeeper on the defensive. She meant to do it, but now also felt felt bad for that too. True, it was none of the woman’s business, but Lucy really didn’t know what the housekeeper was talking about. Maybe one of the other tenants or someone in the neighborhood decided to make good use of the garden plot out back.

  Besides Mildred Fillmore and Mr. Stanislavski (the other tenants called him Mr. Stan), the only other permanent residents besides Lucy (who was new, and not yet considered permanent by the others) were Helen and Ralph, an elderly couple of limited means.

  Helen didn’t do domestic things and seemed proud of it. They used to be rich and still acted like it to the others. Lucy couldn’t imagine that the woman would ever get dirty.

  Helen liked to reminisce about those good old days, including the servants (a cook, a maid, a driver and a man who was part-time gardener, part-time stableman, though she never mentioned their names), and the cars, and the stables and the pool out back and the country club.

  Ralph seemed to take it all as criticism.

  Someone at work told Lucy that Ralph had shady business partners who took his good ideas and made lots of money from them—Ralph too, at first. He had been a hometown boy who made good in the city, and everyone had been proud of him.

  She figured it was true, because Ralph would mutter now and again in response to Helen’s reminiscing, “I should have patented my ideas or wrote them down or something . . .”

  It all struck Lucy as rather sad that they had been treated so badly, but she wouldn’t put gardening down to either of them. Even if they had, that didn’t explain how all that dirt might get into the hallway . . . and also into her rooms.

  Someone sneak in a stray, and it then went wandering in the house? Perhaps a cat or a dog . . . even some kind of midnight marauder like a raccoon or fox, rabbit or owl?

  Owl? Owls don’t leave tracks . . . why think of that?

  Maybe somebody just said, “Who?”

  Who is that? Shush, she’ll hear.

  It sounded like faintly familiar banter, said in a whispered voice. Had someone said it nearby, just low enough for her to barely hear?

  Lucy was going to ask, but just then her stomach growled. She had a kitchenette, true, but a short, round woman named Mrs. Robbins cooked the major meals in the kitchen on the ground floor for any of the tenants who wanted them. This place was run like a bed and breakfast, but Mrs. Robbins—also a local woman who did not live here—made lunch and dinner as well if she knew in advance that someone would want it. Turns out that mostly someone did, so there was always something cooking or baking, and the smells were wonderful in here.

  The cook was usually here early enough to whip up something special for breakfast if you asked nice enough. Lucy seldom partook; she had an irregular schedule with work because she also took other shifts when she could. She was hoping to buy her own house someday soon. She had a special account for that, and every extra cent she had went that way.

  She could have lived in her parents’ home and found a job in that other town, but she didn’t have the heart. She sold it cheap to a family who couldn’t afford more, moved closer to the coast, and never looked back . . . but still thought back to her childhood quite a bit.

  Lucy missed them terribly and felt guilty for all the time she’d been gone and hadn’t kept in closer contact. Seeing them on a regular basis wouldn’t have been possible—she lived on a different continent—but talking on the phone, writing . . .

  That had been difficult too, but if she knew then what was going to happen . . . would she have kept in touch more, no matter how hard . . . would she have even gone?

  And she missed all sorts of other things too, like the decorations for Christmas, or going to church in new clothes on Easter, or barbecues for family and friends, waiting for the smell of grilling things to overcome the smell of gasoline and new-cut grass from when her father prepared his domain, the backyard.

  It’s amazing how much money you can save if you didn’t have relatives or friends to talk to long distance, or buy birthday presents or Christmas gifts, or go traveling to see them.

  Yeah, that’s why it was so practical, being a lonely orphan, she thought.

  “Or pathetic,” she mumbled—something she had begun to do lately.

  “What was that, miss?”

  The housekeeper stressed the miss part, Lucy was sure.

  Fine, she thought, rub it in. She didn’t know why lately that had so bothered her. She’d always been around kids before, but not so much lately. Still, there was something nagging in the back of her mind . . . something about children playing where they shouldn’t have been.

  Surely that’s no reason to be blue.

  Then she remembered, then she knew: It had been her birthday not two weeks ago. It was the first time in her life she had spent it alone.

  She said, “I was just wondering if anyone had a dog who might have tracked something in?”

  The housekeeper blushed then. Seems someone did.

  Lucy d
idn’t care to know more; her point was made.

  She said, “I’m going up, got any mail?”

  There was a bank statement, and a flyer for some new restaurant.

  As a peace offering, the housekeeper said, “That place is good, my niece works as a waitress there. She said the tips are good too.”

  Lucy nodded. “Thanks, that’s good to know. Sometimes we have to take clients out to lunch or dinner. I’ll keep it in mind. What’s your niece’s name?”

  The housekeeper blushed again, but told her.

  There, Lucy thought, a truce, now up to bed.

  But it wasn’t all that late. She watched some TV over a big bowl of popcorn instead. Not much of a dinner, but popcorn is a whole grain, she reasoned. It’s like cereal, only fluffier.

  She fell asleep on the couch again.

  ~~~

  Lucy woke with a start—late for work!

  No, it was the weekend. She sighed and sat up clumsily, but when she put her feet to the floor, she pulled them up again.

  She had spilled the remnants of dinner—popcorn kernels and salt—all over the floor. Must have tipped it over in my sleep.

  She went to get a whiskbroom and pan, but then noticed the tracks—mud—leading from the door. She opened it up to see that they led out into the hall. They were clear footprints pointing her way—coming up, but not going down the stairs.

  A flash of fear swept across her face.

  Was someone hiding up here?

  She gripped the whiskbroom tighter, and wondered if she should grab a knife instead. Lucy went back into her rooms, cautiously searched the whole place—checked the closets and under the bed and even into the attic crawl spaces under the eaves that had little half doors in the hall to enter both side.

  There was nothing but the smell of old things and some cobwebs. She could tell by the dust that nothing had been disturbed.

  That was a relief . . . wasn’t it?

  Given it was the weekend she knew the housekeeper wouldn’t be working. That was a relief too. But the cook would, but only for breakfast and lunch on Saturday, and only for Sunday dinner, after church. The woman got Wednesday and Thursday off to make up for that too, and some other woman usually took her place, though Lucy had yet to meet her.

  She glanced toward the time—it was not too late to catch the cook.

  Luckily, Lucy caught Mrs. Robbins alone. Lucky too that it was Saturday, as the cook went to the early church services. Mrs. Robbins didn’t consider cooking Sunday dinner as work. The tenants in the boarding house made an event of it. It was always the same meal—roast chicken and mashed potatoes, coleslaw with apples and raisins, and there would be dessert of some kind, and also sherbet.

  In the kitchen, the cook was peeling apples for an apple crisp. Lucy loved the smell of it—cinnamon and nutmeg and the tang of tart apples too, and warmed butter to make it soft. Lucy poured them both some coffee and mentioned the tracks in the hallway, and the housekeeper’s concerns.

  Mrs. Robbins finished her current apple, and then took a sip of the coffee before she said, “I heard about that. You know there are always stories about old houses being haunted, and rumors about people dying in old places like this.”

  Lucy was skeptical when she said, “Yes.”

  The cook started mixing the ingredients for the crisp topping—brown sugar, rolled oats, some flour, and of course, those spices.

  Lucy helped her measure them while the woman blended the other dry ingredients by hand. When it was all mixed together, the butter would come in to make a crumbly topping.

  But the cook wasn’t saying anymore, so Lucy prodded, “So what was your point?”

  Mrs. Robbins shrugged. “Some people think that sort of thing is funny, that’s all.”

  “Oh, you mean it’s a practical joke? That’s not funny, that’s scary and a little mean. Especially when it makes more work for Mrs. Willett and she blames it on me.”

  The cook dumped the mixture onto the apples and used her hands to spread it out. Lucy decided maybe Sunday dinner might be worth it this time around. Between Helen’s nagging of Ralph, and the questions from Mr. Stan or whatever latest guests were in the house . . .

  Lucy said, “But who would track mud into my apartment up there?”

  The cook was bent over pushing the apple crisp into the oven, but she rose up quickly and put her hands on her hips. Only in afterthought did she remember to close the oven door too and set the timer.

  She said, “You don’t say.”

  Then the woman glanced toward the back door. There was a little room there, a sort of foyer the older folks called a mudroom. They hung their coats there and set out their overshoes and boots. Lucy took her coffee and followed the cook out there.

  Nothing seemed amiss, except that her rubber rain boots were now missing.

  She blurted, “What happened to my—?”

  Then she rushed outside, and Mrs. Robbins followed. Some of the lily pads had been moved, pushed to one side, and it looked as if someone had been attempting a cleanup of the pond slime.

  The cook said, “That will look nice when it’s done. Those froggies though are as loud as a freight train going through. Wonder where they go when they aren’t living here and always talking.”

  “Frogs, don’t they like this sort of pond. And toads, they like to live in gardens. They eat flies and things, right?”

  The cook snickered, and said, “I know if I were either one, I certainly would like it back here. You should go to the new county library; they have pictures of the old homes on the walls there. Old fashioned pictures too, with ladies in old-fashioned gowns and gents in bowler hats. There are croquet games going on, and little tables with ladies and their parasols.”

  Lucy mumbled, “Must have been nice to be rich in those times.”

  “Nice to be rich in any times,” the cook said and laughed.

  Lucy didn’t notice when the woman went back inside, and she didn’t know how long she’d been standing here either when she heard the sound of shouts and laughter—kids were playing close by. Not many kids in this neighborhood, the homes were too old and too large for young families to afford. Some of the houses were rentals, she’d heard, but she hadn’t seen so many kids to make much noise.

  Of course, when was the last time she’d spent time outside on a weekend. Some times it was work, most times it was chores or errands or sleeping.

  She turned to go, but then saw the little faces staring at her—there were three of them. Ah, the frog hunters seemed to be next-door neighbors then. Surely they hadn’t come into the house and tracked in all that mud.

  No, the tracks were coming in, none had gone out again.

  She turned to go back in too; she had to find her rain boots. As she trudged up the stairs, Lucy also wondered whom she could ask about working in the garden. She wouldn’t mind trying her hand at growing some things in the vegetable garden. She had experience with that, but had to admit that she had no idea about the ornamental plants in the rest of the grounds.

  The exercise would be good, because just coming up the stairs once or twice a day was not giving her much of a work out these days. A good workout could help her sleep better too, she figured. Lucy had to admit that she did feel a little dirty and sweaty sometimes on the waking, but she put that down to living on the third floor—warmer air goes up, doesn’t it?

  She lived in what the other tenants called the Big Tower, but her suite was only part of it. There was another door to another large room that the housekeeper and cook just called ‘the attic.’ The other door Lucy hadn’t asked about. She had peered into the keyhole once and saw that there were stairs leading up.

  The fact that there was light meant that the stairs led up to the very top, just under the roof. From outside, there were decorative windows on all sides—colored glass windows that were shaped like the suites of cards: a diamond (blue), a heart (red), a club (gold) and a spade (green). In the morning the stairs on the other side of the door
were shaded red—the heart. In the afternoon, they were shaded blue—the diamond.

  Maybe someday Lucy would find a way to go up to the top of the Big Tower just to see what was there. In any case, the name was an exaggeration—Big Tower. It was not like a castle keep or anything from Camelot.

  It was not a full-sized apartment either, but more than a loft—there were actual rooms dividing it up—living room with the kitchenette in one corner divided by a small bar at an angle with stools for eating at the counter. The bedroom was a little smaller, but it had part of a wall divided off as a closet under the eaves, and there was a full bathroom with a claw-foot tub and pipe holding up a showerhead.

  One side of the living room was almost all windows, and that also had an enclosed sun porch wide enough for a small table, a couple of seats and also a loveseat swing. It was only screen though, and she couldn’t use it in cold weather. Only the swing was there now, and Lucy contemplated sleeping out there in the summer, if it got too hot in here.

  She now stood in the sun porch looking down on the garden below. Sometimes she wondered who had lived here in the tower when the wealthy family occupied the house they had built. Surely the tower had been planned, else why have all this space?

  Maybe some crazy aunt, or had it been a mad first wife like in Jane Eyre?

  Perhaps it was the daughter of the house, so she could feel like a princess. It was too nice for servants’ quarters; she had seen some of those rooms in the basement. They all had windows but those were at ground level, and the rooms were smaller than any dorm rooms she’d seen—not that there were any live-in servants now, and if there were, she’d guess that no way would they want to stay there.

  The damp would be uncomfortable, and the spiders would be scary.

  This space was bigger than the other rentals on the floor down below her—four large rooms were on the second floor, one in each corner. Two of those facing the front of the house were smaller and shared a communal bathroom between them. The other two rooms at the back of the house were larger with their own bathrooms and views to the garden. Mr. Stan and Miss Fillmore occupied those and had for several years.