While he stood musing about silly things, the woman had disappeared. He’d been staring at the package and imagining silly things about his landlady and her husband so that he hadn’t even seen her leave. That was just one more sign that he needed the days off of work that he’d arranged for this week.
Climbing the steep stairs, he thought of the shorter stairway in his house across town. There, the stairs had a landing half-way up so a body could stop to rest if needed. He went weeks without thinking about the home he had refused to live in after Gloria’s death. Why did the place keep coming to mind today?
On the second floor, he paused before going into his sitting-room to look up the last flight of stairs that led to the attic room. Was Miss Withers home? Increasingly, he looked for opportunities to catch a glimpse of her but refused to allow his attraction for the spinster to go beyond the occasional greeting. He’d already had a family and didn’t want to begin again.
He rented the entire second floor. Though it should have been four bedrooms, he’d transformed one room as a small kitchen of sorts. Heading for that door, he opened it and walked to the small icebox. Placing Mrs. Klaussen’s gift inside, he turned to the hotplate and set the kettle over the burner after lighting it.
He’d have a cup of tea and a few cookies while he settled into his rocker and read the paper. That was his routine. Night after night without fail, he followed the same pattern as a clockwork toy. Wind him up and watch him perform a motion again and again.
Del knew life had become monotonous. Leaving the kitchen, he stepped out into the hallway and glanced at the stairs that led up to Miss Withers’ room. Perhaps she might—
No, best leave the door on anything between them closed tight.
The warm summer air tickled her cheeks as she strolled across the yard on the arm of her handsome beau. Thank goodness for her large wire-framed hat. The sun blazed at its hottest for the day and warmed her black hair even with the hat. With its wide, lacy brim, she had to tip back her head to smile up at Edward.
His mother’s garden party was something to which she wouldn’t normally have been invited. Not without Edward’s persuasion. His family was higher in social prominence than hers. When she’d received the embossed invitation, Josephine Withers knew her dreams were coming true. It meant Edward intended to—
“Miss Withers, can I go on now?” The small, bearded girl, costumed as one of the shepherds, waited for permission before she entered the stage.
With a play in progress, how had she slipped into memories of that long-ago summer? Smiling awkwardly at the troop of shepherds, she waved a hand to indicate they should go on stage.
Each year, she volunteered as a director for her church’s nativity play. That, along with teaching Sunday school and her job at Farley’s School for the Fine Families, gave her contact with children and brought joy to her life.
The curtain fell on her shepherds and the angel who’d come to announce tidings of great joy. As they moved past her--exiting from the wrong side of the stage no matter how many times she’d told the group of seven-year-olds to leave by the other side--twelve-year-old Minnie Perkins approached. The pink, curly-headed baby in the girl’s arms caused Josephine’s own to ache.
She never held babies. In fact, she avoided them because of this longing. If someone asked her what she craved in her heart of hearts, Josephine would have to say it was a husband and a baby. Already thirty, the possibilities of that happening for her were slim.
Gesturing for Minnie to enter, the girl who played Mary carried the dark-haired baby on stage and placed her in the manger. The audience never cared if the baby was a boy or girl. They simply expected a real baby. One year, Josephine substituted a doll since no one in the church had an infant the right age. After the play, she’d lost count of the number of people who told her, “It just wasn’t the same with a toy baby Jesus.”
Three little wisemen stared up at her. Oh dear! She’d been woolgathering again. Mary and Joseph stared toward her in the wings, waiting for the wisemen to bring them wooden boxes. Giving the actors a smile of apology, she hurried them on stage for their big moment.
Later, following enthusiastic thanks from parents and other congregation members, she slipped on her ankle-high Jersey cloth boots and secured the buckles. At eighty-five cents, they’d been the best she could afford when her previous pair were irreparable. That pair had been a remnant of days as the cossetted daughter of a financially secure family. They’d been made of leather and had fur lining to keep her feet warm. The felt inside her new boots was a sad replacement for that warm fur.
Stepping outside, she clutched the fur lapels of her dark blue velvet coat, trying to escape the cold wind. It had been silly to forgo her scarf just because it looked out of place with the coat. The matching velvet hat did little to warm her head and ears. She needed to remember that style was for people who could afford a car. A person like her, someone who walked everywhere, needed to wrap up warmly against the bitter cold that blew in off of the Damariscotta River.
A lifelong Maine resident, she’d lived on the island for three years. When Edward was killed at Ypres in 1918, hope of life with
