A Dry Creek Courtship

A Dry Creek Courtship

Janet Tronstad

“I have some roses for you,” Charley said, holding the bouquet out to Edith.

Unfortunately, she had a potted plant in her hands, so there was no way she could accept them.

Charley pulled his arm back. “I’ll just hold them for you.”

“Thank you. They’re lovely,” she said.

“Not as lovely as you.”

“That’s so kind.”

Charley took a deep breath and made his dive. “It’s not kind. I want to marry you,” he said, all in a rush so he could breathe again.

“Marry me? Marry me?”

“I know it’s unexpected,” Charley said, “but I just had to—“

“It’s very gallant of you, but there’s no need. I don’t feel bad at all anymore.”

“You think I’m proposing to make you feel better?”

“That’s why you’re so special,” Edith said before she turned and walked up the street.

Charley had no idea what to do now.

JANET TRONSTAD

grew up on a small farm in central Montana. One of her favorite things to do was to visit her grandfather’s bookshelves, where he had a large collection of Zane Grey novels. She’s always loved a good story. Today Janet lives in Pasadena, California, where she is a full-time writer.

He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord.

—Proverbs 18:22

This book is dedicated with a thankful heart

to my wonderful editor, Joan Marlow Golan.

She is the best.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Questions For Discussion

Chapter One

The disturbing letter was safely hidden in the pocket of Edith Hargrove’s apron. It had arrived along with the rest of her mail in Dry Creek, Montana, early last week, but it had not seemed right to stack a letter like that with the regular mail on the sideboard in her dining room. It wasn’t a bill or a reminder for an appointment or even a notice from Social Security. So she kept it close to her, as though this might in some way tell her more about the woman who’d had the astonishing nerve to send it.

Edith had read the letter so many times she could almost feel the texture of the paper against her fingers even when she wasn’t holding it. She kept wondering if she’d overlooked some clue.

She was still thinking about it as she sat on a stool on her front porch waiting for her recently married daughter, Doris June, to cut her hair. The morning was overcast and a bit chilly. It was quiet in the small town of Dry Creek. Edith shifted on the stool and heard the faint crinkle of paper in her pocket.

She couldn’t tell anyone about the letter, of course. The scented envelope had been hand-addressed to Mr. Harold Hargrove, her deceased husband. At first, Edith thought it was one of those letters that had been lost in the mail for a decade. She’d heard about letters like that and, since Harold had been dead for fifteen years, it seemed like that was the only possible explanation. But this letter had been postmarked in Los Angeles just a few days before she received it.

There was no return address. Edith considered giving the envelope back to the post office without opening it until she remembered the days when she could barely afford to buy a stamp. Anyone who paid to mail a letter deserved to have it read by someone, even if it was just the intended man’s widow. After all these years, Edith doubted there was anything in a letter that could disquiet her anyway.

She hadn’t counted on unfolding that piece of scented white stationery and seeing the woman’s signature at the bottom—Jasmine Hunter. Edith had felt her breath stop for a moment when she first saw the name. It was causing her to stiffen up even now just remembering it.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Doris June asked as she wrapped an old dish towel around her mother’s shoulders. The towel would keep the trimmed hairs off both of them. “You can change your mind, you know. You’ve never wanted me to cut your hair in the fall before. You always say you’re too busy to do it and that you’ll wait until the snow flies.”

Dead leaves were scattered all over Edith’s front lawn, but snow was weeks, maybe months, away.

Edith forced herself to relax. “I can’t run around looking like a scarecrow just because the weather hasn’t turned.”

Doris June gave her mother a startled look. “Your hair never looks that bad.”

Edith glanced up and gave her daughter a reassuring smile. The letter had definitely put her on edge. She thought she could still smell that envelope even though it was tucked away in her apron.

She hadn’t recognized the scent at first. But of course it was jasmine, the strong, mysterious scent that seemed to go with a sophisticated woman in a way that Edith’s simple rose water never could. She’d avoided the perfume even before she’d heard about Jasmine Hunter, the woman Harold had—what could she say?—slept with, succumbed to, maybe even loved some forty years ago.

After the first burst of passionate confession, Harold had refused to talk about it for weeks. He said Jasmine was moving away and that was the end of that. Of course, it hadn’t been the end of anything. The woman might have gone, but the pain of knowing Harold had betrayed their marriage vows was there to stay.

Edith brought her mind back to the present. “All I’m saying is my hair could look better.”

Her daughter was quietly taking the pins out of Edith’s hair. The hair itself reminded her of what she’d lost. Harold had always claimed he liked her soft brown hair pulled back in the simple bun that she wore and she’d believed him…until the affair. He’d given her the same compliments after it all happened, but she’d stopped hearing them. She’d been too proud to go chasing after a new hairstyle, but she knew something somewhere had been wrong or he wouldn’t have turned to another woman.

Edith had never met Jasmine, but she’d always pictured her as having a fancy hairdo and some kind of exotic, sultry eyeliner. Maybe she’d even had a black hat with a sweeping wide brim. Hats were fashionable back then and elegant women were pictured wearing them in glossy magazines that Edith couldn’t afford to buy on her farm-wife budget.

Edith had never looked good in a hat; the only ones she’d ever owned were the ones she wore for pulling weeds in her garden. She doubted Jasmine had pulled a weed in her life. She probably wore her hats to tea parties or presidential inaugurations or the Emmys on television. Following Harold’s confession, Edith had pictured the other woman as being everything she herself wasn’t and those pictures had grown with time until the real Jasmine Hunter couldn’t possibly have been as exciting as she was in Edith’s mind.

At the time, Edith had searched for the perfect word to name the affair between Harold and the woman. She knew it wouldn’t change anything, though she thought it might help. But she’d never found a single word big enough to contain the pain. This thing had broken her heart.

It had taken her a decade to rebuild herself enough to truly forgive Harold. The nameless pain from the affair itself and her resulting insecurity had left a dark hole in their marriage. She didn’t know if they would have made it through without the help of God and their elderly pastor. Harold had grown more distant from God in those years, but she’d grown closer. She’d had no choice really. She had to rely on Him for everything.

“Well, you’re usually so busy,” Doris June said as she paused in her movements. “Your hair can always wait. You don’t have time to spend hours in front of the mirror anyway.”

At first, Edith had thought that was part of the problem. She had always been able to think of a million things she should be doing instead of fussing with her appearance. Back at the time of the affair, she had been taking care of Doris June who had been little more than a toddler. That hadn’t left much time for extras like hairstyling.

Edith had always looked pleasant, but she knew she wasn’t beautiful in the way some women were. Her jaw was too square and her green eyes too direct for conventional beauty. She had a face men trusted, not one that inspired them to write poetry. Besides, it had seemed pointless to spend hours in front of a mirror when there were so many things to do for her family and others.

After Harold’s affair, she had become keenly aware of the troubles in other people’s lives. She knew what it was to be alone and needy. She’d started healing her own heart by helping other people.

Eventually, the questions she’d been asking herself had faded away. She finally realized that Harold hadn’t gone to bed with another woman because of her hairstyle or something she had said in a thoughtless moment. His decision to be unfaithful was simply that—his decision. All she could do in her life was be the person God had made her to be. And, if He had made her plain and serviceable, so be it. Her decision to wholeheartedly accept herself was what gradually allowed her marriage to mend.

Even now, Edith had too many things to do to worry overmuch about her hair. Like today, she should be in her kitchen boiling her Mason jars so she’d be ready when Charley Nelson finally brought over the annual bucket of chokecherries he always picked for her. She boiled the jars twice and, ordinarily, those jars would have had their first boil days ago. Charley was late with the berries and she’d just realized it this morning. She needed to make the jelly soon if she was going to be ready for the harvest dinner at church.

Edith wondered if Charley knew about Harold’s affair. The Nelson family had always been their closest neighbors when they were on the farm. Charley made some extra money working with the local vet so he managed to stay home on his farm that hard winter when most of the other men around had been forced to take temporary jobs in Billings to keep up with their bank payments. The roads were so bad and the distance to Billings so far that Harold had rented a motel room for several nights each week during the two months. It was then that he’d met Jasmine.

Edith decided Charley couldn’t have known about the affair. Harold had sworn to her he hadn’t said anything to anyone except the pastor, and he’d only talked to the pastor at her request. Edith had been adamant at the time that she didn’t ever want Doris June to find out about the affair. She was a sweet little girl and she adored her daddy. Today, of course, families would talk about something like that, but back then they didn’t. Everyone suffered in as much silence as they could manage.

“Getting a haircut is important,” Edith said. She had forced herself to call Doris June this morning and ask for her help. “Women need to be well-groomed if they’re going to be out and about with people.”

Doris June finished taking the pins out of her mother’s hair. “I’m always happy to cut your hair for you.”

Hair framed Edith’s face. It was coarse instead of soft after all the years and much more gray than brown. “I thought this time I’d have you do it shorter. Something over the ears.”

Edith had been too stubborn to change her hairstyle for Harold, but she felt a need to update it for this other woman. Jasmine Hunter was coming to Montana and wanted to meet and talk. That, in addition to an address printed on the stationery, was all the letter had said.

“No problem, I’ll just—” Doris June sputtered to a stop. “Did you say over the ears?”

Edith nodded. “I’ve worn my hair pulled back in this bun since I married your father. That was fifty years ago. Styles have changed since then.”

Edith had sent her answer to the letter in the mail several days ago. She explained that Harold had died, but that she would be willing to meet Jasmine and talk if that would be “an acceptable alternative.” Edith had struggled with the words and been pleased when she thought of “acceptable alternative.” It sounded so businesslike and not at all like the words of a woman who’d been betrayed.

Of course, she knew she would have been within her rights to simply not answer the letter. No one could blame her if she just copied the address from inside the letter on the envelope and sent it back through the post office with a big Deceased stamped across the front. But it hadn’t taken Edith long to realize this would probably be her only chance to face the woman who had haunted her marriage. Maybe those images she’d had in her mind for years would finally be laid to rest if she met Jasmine.

“I know how long you’ve worn that bun. That’s why you should think about it before you cut your hair short,” Doris June said as she started to comb her mother’s hair.

“What’s to think about? Your father—bless his soul—is the one who liked it this way. At least that’s what he always said. And he’s not around to notice anymore.”

It was possible this Hunter woman wouldn’t even want to talk to her, Edith thought. Jasmine might not know that Harold’s wife knew about the affair. Edith may have worked up her courage for nothing.

“Well, no, but—” Doris June stopped combing and stepped around to look at her mother. “This isn’t about missing Dad, is it? I know you loved him terribly. He was a wonderful man. But you’re not alone now that he’s gone. Lots of people will notice a new haircut. There’s me. And your Sunday school class. The whole church, in fact. And I’m sure Charley will notice.”

Edith managed to nod. She wondered if she’d need to tell Doris June that her father wasn’t as perfect as she’d always thought. Edith would rather have her heart broken all over again than cause her daughter that kind of pain.

Doris June seemed to be waiting for some response so Edith said, “I know.”

And she did know she could count on people to care about what happened with her. Charley was her best friend. The two of them had fallen into the habit of looking out for each other after his wife had died. They’d started doing it when they both lived on their farms and continued when Edith moved to her house in Dry Creek.

Still, Charley wouldn’t pay too much attention. It was only a haircut. And she wanted it to stay that way. Which meant she needed to get her daughter’s mind on something else before Doris June started asking why her mother had felt this sudden need to change the way she wore her hair.

“Of course, Charley has other things to worry about. He’s growing a moustache,” Edith said.

“Charley? Are you sure?”

Edith nodded. She didn’t think Charley would mind that she was using him to distract her daughter.

“Well, I’ll be—I wonder if he’s planning to start dating.”

“I don’t think—” Edith blinked in surprise. Charley, dating! He never dated. Then she remembered that Harold had grown a moustache when he’d been courting her. It’s what men of her generation did when they wanted to attract the attention of a particular woman. They were like peacocks displaying their feathers.

For the first time since she’d gotten that letter, Edith completely forgot about Jasmine Hunter. She wasn’t sure she liked the thought of Charley dating someone. It was unreasonable, of course, but she had gotten used to the way things were between her and Charley. She depended on him. If he started dating someone, everything would change.

“I’m sure he would have said something,” Edith said. By now, she was frowning a little. “Wouldn’t he?”

Doris June shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him at your place much lately. You two aren’t arguing, are you?”

Now that her daughter mentioned it, Edith realized Charley hadn’t been spending as much time at her place as he had in the past. She would have noticed sooner if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with her own problems.

“No, Charley and I are fine.” She hoped.

“That’s good.” Doris moved around and started combing her mother’s hair again.

“You’re not worried about something yourself, are you?” Edith thought her daughter was combing her hair longer than usual.

“Nothing big,” Doris June said a little cautiously as she kept combing. “It’s just that, if you want your hair that short, it needs to be cut by someone who knows what they’re doing. I think we should go to the beauty place in Miles City.”

Edith turned around. “But you always cut my hair.”

“Yes, and I can do a straight cut with the best of them. But that’s just getting things even. What you want is a whole lot more complicated. Your hair has to curve to go over the ear.”

Edith had gone to that beauty shop with Doris June so they could both get their hair styled for the wedding. Doris June had married Charley’s son, Curt, some months ago. They’d been high school sweethearts who’d been apart for over twenty-five years before Edith and Charley brought them back together. Edith thought it was the best thing she and Charley had ever done. It was also the last thing they’d done together.

She wondered who Charley was hoping to impress with his moustache.

Doris June kept combing. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get that deep oil treatment they offer. It’s good for your hair follicles.”

“My hair follicles are doing just fine, thank you.” Maybe he had met someone in Miles City. He’d been driving there a lot for one reason or another lately.

“Hmm, maybe,” Doris June said as she parted her mother’s hair and clipped half of it back. “But something isn’t right. You feeling okay?”

“Of course.” There was that new woman at the beauty shop.

“Have you been sleeping okay?” Doris June asked. “I know sometimes when people get to your age they have to keep getting up during the night to—”

“I sleep just fine.” Charley might even be having that woman trim his moustache. What better way to get to know someone?

“Good.” Doris June finished combing one side of her mother’s hair. “Are you taking your vitamins? I read the other day that—”

“For pity’s sake, I take my vitamins.”

“Well, I’m only trying to show that I’m here to help you with your problems, whatever they might be.”

“I’m sorry.” Edith supposed she did owe her daughter some kind of an explanation. She could hardly mention the letter or Charley’s moustache. She could talk about the feelings they both prompted, though. “It’s just…It’s the dead leaves outside. And making the same old kind of jelly. I’ve been feeling like my life just isn’t very exciting.”

It might be selfish, but she didn’t want Charley to date someone. When Harold died, she’d vowed no other man would ever make her feel the way he had. That’s why she liked her friendship with Charley the way it was. She thought they were both past all that dating business.

“But everyone loves your chokecherry jelly. The whole church raves about it at the harvest dinner. It’s practically a town tradition to have it.”

Edith brought herself back to the conversation. What Doris said was true. Everyone in the congregation tried to provide locally grown food for the harvest dinner and Edith had brought homemade chokecherry jelly and baking powder biscuits for decades. People said they loved her biscuits and jelly.

She’d always been a good cook—in fact, that’s how she’d gotten to know Harold. She’d been a teenager when she cooked for the thrashing crew that cut the Hargrove wheat one fall. Harold was nineteen; she was seventeen. She’d been speechless with awe just looking at him. He was a laughing, sculpted work of art like she saw in her textbooks. She’d thought a miracle had happened when he proposed. After they became engaged, he used to joke that he’d fallen in love with her cooking first and then with her.

She’d never dreamed at the time that there was anything wrong with what Harold had said. She’d told herself that just because a man liked her cooking, that didn’t mean he didn’t love her completely. Those doubts came later.

After Harold told her about his affair, she’d spent days making chokecherry jelly from the raw juice she’d canned the fall before. The bitter tartness of the berry matched the sourness of her soul. The chokecherry was one of the few fruits that grew wild in the southeastern plains of Montana and it was able to survive in the drought in a way something sweeter and softer, like a peach, couldn’t.

From that winter on, Edith had always pictured Jasmine as the exotic peach and herself as the sturdy chokecherry. She was the one who belonged; she was the one who could endure the dry days with or without Harold’s love.

“If it’s the jelly that’s troubling you, I can help you with that,” Doris June said. “Just pick the day and I’ll arrange my schedule. But it’ll have to be soon. The harvest dinner comes up on the tenth.”

That was a little over a week away.

“Charley hasn’t brought me the berries.”

Summer was already moving into early fall and chokecherries didn’t stay on the bushes forever. Edith could already detect the musty smell of grass turning brown. The berries would be ending soon.

If she hadn’t been so worried about that letter, she would have thought to remind Charley about the berries. According to the calendar, she should be making that jelly now. She wished she had finished the jelly before she got the letter. The satisfaction of seeing all those jars of dark red jelly would have eased some of her nerves.

“Maybe Charley’s just off his schedule since he moved into his place in Dry Creek,” Doris June said. “He’s probably so busy unpacking he doesn’t even know what month it is.”

“Maybe,” Edith said. After the wedding, Charley had rented the old Jergenson house and moved off the farm, leaving the place to Curt, Doris June and Curt’s teenage son, Brad. He claimed the small town of Dry Creek was more restful than the farm and allowed him to be closer to his friends.

Edith leaned forward so she could see down the street to the hardware store. Yes, Charley’s pickup was parked out front just like it usually was unless he was out doing a small vet job. The Jergenson place was only a quarter mile from the hardware store, but Charley preferred to have his pickup with him in case he got a call about an animal.

“You don’t suppose he’s sick?” Doris June asked.

Edith shook her head. “He wouldn’t be out in public if he was sick.”

Every fall a group of men, mostly retired farmers, started to gather each morning around the potbelly stove in the middle of the hardware store. The warmth of the burning wood and the smell of the coffee brewing on the counter made these men feel right at home. The gathering was a ritual of sorts.

In the summer, the men met over at the café, where there was air-conditioning. But their hearts were with that aging stove and as soon as the fall chill was in the air, they returned like homing pigeons to the unvarnished wood chairs clustered around the old thing.

Even before Charley moved into town, he had always joined the other men around the stove when he could. That part of his behavior wasn’t puzzling. What was just becoming clear to Edith, however, was that Charley was no longer making it a point to stop by her place for breakfast before settling down with the men. And he’d never forgotten her chokecherries before.

“He’s not sick but something’s wrong,” Edith said. Maybe he knew she wouldn’t like him dating.