Entangled Hearts

Chapter 8

Spring had again brought new life and beauty into the valley after the blanket of snow had disappeared. School was out and Martha, who had made a success of her teaching thus far, was home again to spend her vacation.

All morning there had been the clatter of pie tins and cookie pans along with the other dishes in the Porter kitchen. Clara was cooking special foods to be placed on the pantry shelves until time to serve them. Laura Mae was out in the yard beating the rug from the parlor.

"Is it about ready to bring in?" Clara called from the kitchen door.

"In a minute, Mother," came the cheerful answer. The tapestry Brussels rug had served for many years and its pattern was quite well worn and faded except in two places, one, where the stove board under the heater had lain on it and the other, where the organ had protected it from the sunlight and the tread of feet.

Martha volunteered to assist in carrying the rug in and in spreading it out on its place on the Parlor floor, so Clara went on with her work in the kitchen.

"We had better hurry, girls," she called to them. "It's almost train time now. Your Aunt Laura May will be here before we are ready for her if we are not careful."

"Mother, are you going with Father to the station to meet her?" Laura Mae asked.

Martha spoke up. "I will go with him if you are busy, Mother. I haven't had much of a chance to visit with Father since last fall!" She still had a dread of having to use a dust cloth or mop and she could see where one or the other awaited her if she remained home.

"You get yourself ready, then and go with your father," Clara said and sighed deeply. "I have some more cleaning to do. You know how precise your father's sister is."

Martha hurried to her room to dress in her best. Aunt Laura Mae must be welcomed in the grandest of style. Clara and Laura May went on with the conversation.

"Mother, how did you happen to give me the same name as Auntie?"

"It was your father's wish, dear. The names sound alike but her second name is spelled M-a-y and yours is spelled M-a-e. Does that help some?"

"A little, I guess, but maybe I should quit liking Gene and start a home for homeless cats just because I was named after her," Laura Mae grinned and went on, "Martha and Father always enjoy her company so thoroughly, but, I think, that as far as you and I are concerned, she only makes a lot of extra work and fussing around here."

"Maria Beckman always enjoys her visits, too, you know," the mother put in, sweeping vigorously with the straw broom as she spoke.

"Yes, she does, because she is always lonesome," came the tart reply. "But I am not so dumb that I can't see that Auntie has another purpose in going to the Whitmer Mansion. She likes to purr around Gene's Uncle Everett. It is funny Father doesn't offer any objections to that."

"Hush, darling, you are letting prejudice get an upper hand on you," the loving mother chided gently.

"Well, then I will start on Martha. Do you think she will ever learn to do housework and like it? Father has always encouraged her to be a fine lady. It will be all right if she marries a rich man who can afford servants for her."

"Laura Mae, don't—" the answer was interrupted by Eli as he walked briskly into the kitchen to wash his hands before starting to the station. He did not don his Sunday clothes just to meet his sister. It pleased him very much, however, when Martha stepped out ready to go with him in her best.

Neither Laura Mae nor her mother spoke until the buggy, in which Martha and Eli were riding, had turned out of the big gate and down the lane toward the crossroads, then they began talking again while they worked.

"We mentioned Gene a while ago, Mother, what do you think of him?" the girl asked, her face beaming with smiles as she turned to her mother.

"I think he is a very nice young man, but I don't dare let your father know you are keeping company with him secretly, and that I approve of it."

"It would please Father if I would like Phil Dreyer better, but I can't, Mother. I just can't feel toward him like I do Gene. Don't you understand?"

"Yes, dear girl, I understand. I had a childhood sweetheart and my father did not like him. He went away and I tried so hard to forget him, then your father came and I married him." Clara stopped her work long enough to take her sixteen-year-old daughter into her arms in a loving caress. When she released the girl, she said, "Laura Mae, do be careful. You are only a mere child yet. Perhaps by the time you are old enough to know your own heart, for sure, your father may see his mistake and will learn to like your friend. Let your heart guide you, dear, or all your days may be full of sorrow and regret."

"Mother, do you mean that you have regret? Are you sure that you are really happy?"

"Yes, child, happy to think that I have been blessed with good children. You have always been so loving to me Laura Mae, how could I help but be happy?" Clara looked so far off into the distance through the kitchen window, with its pretty potted geraniums and tried to hide her true feelings from her young daughter. Laura Mae was her only source of real joy, but she was so used to working without thought of pleasure or joy that it did not make much difference.

The house was spotlessly clean when the buggy turned into the yard with its three occupants. Clara and Laura Mae were immaculate in their fresh starched aprons, as they went out to the buggy to greet the visitor.

Aunt Laura May was just the same as she had been every summer since Laura Mae could remember. The same long black coat, the same queer little hat on the top of her head, the same black umbrella with the pearl handle, and the same old odd shaped satchels. Summer would not seem right without her coming to spend a month or two during vacation time. She was just a typical "Old Maid" and her achievement in that line had been perfected through her having lived alone in the Porter House in Denver, with only a housekeeper and an Angora cat for company. The home had naturally fallen to her, being unmarried at the time of her father's death. Even now she would give up that home and marry if she could find some truly nice man. A man, perhaps, as nice as Everett Whitmer, who surely must get lonesome at time and need a companion other than the old Swedish woman he had working for him. Her design on Everett Whitmer failed to increase Clara Porter's love for her sister-in-law. On the contrary, it caused only inward jealousy in Clara's heart. She might have married him herself then everything would have been different, but she must not permit herself to harbor any such thoughts, her future was already outlined before her.