Free Laura Abbot by Into the Wilderness Page A

then reluctantly left the warmth of the bed and moved to the pitcher and basin on the nightstand to make her morning ablutions. She chose her rose-colored dress, which seemed a fitting way to greet the new month.
    Her father was already sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. Rose bustled at the stove, pouring more batter into the sizzling iron skillet. “Good morning, everyone,” Lily said.
    Her father smiled. “Top of the morning, daughter.”
    “I didn’t mean to dawdle, but it was so cozy.” She moved to Rose’s side. “How can I help?”
    “Put the butter and honey on the table and I’ll bring the hotcakes.”
    When they were all seated, Ezra said grace. Lily had just picked up her first forkful of food when she thought she heard a light tap on the door. Rose, too, cocked her head toward the sound. “Did you hear that?” Lily asked.
    Her father looked up. “What?”
    “Perhaps a knock,” Rose said. “I’ll go.”
    When she didn’t return right away, Ezra called, “Was anyone there?”
    “Not exactly,” Rose said, a hint of laughter in her voice. When she came back into the kitchen, she concealed something behind her back. Ezra regarded her expectantly. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
    “A surprise was left on our doorstep.” Then she produced a small bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in a newspaper secured with twine. “Happy May Day, Lily.” Rose beamed, handing the bouquet to her sister and winking at her father.
    A blush rose to Lily’s cheeks as she studied the flowers. Nestled among the wild violets, primroses and sprigs of fern was an envelope inscribed with her name.
    “It would seem you have an admirer,” her father said. “I remember well the times I left a May Day bouquet at your mother’s door when I was courting.”
    Lily set the bouquet on the table and pulled a note from the envelope. Scanning it for a signature, she murmured, “Not an admirer, Papa. A friend.”
    Then engrossed in the message, she failed to see a knowing look pass between her father and sister.
    In strong masculine handwriting, the words blurred in her vision as she recalled her last conversation with Caleb at her mother’s grave.

    If when thy thoughts to gloom do fly
    And sorrow seeks thy soul to cloy,
    Mayhap these blooms may still thy sigh
    And serve as harbingers of joy.
    A friend

    “Well?” her father studied her inquiringly.
    Rose, as usual in sympathy with her sister, deflected his question. “I think, Papa, that such a gift is not meant to be immediately shared.” She picked up the platter and handed it to Ezra. “Have another hotcake.”
    Lily, overcome with confusing emotions, silently blessed her sister for her tact. And blessed Caleb, whose poetic bent and sensitivity to her mother’s loss belied a soldier’s stoicism.
    * * *
    The Saturday of the baseball game was especially hot for May. By late morning, the flag hung motionless from the pole and open windows did little to cool interiors. Lily pulled her cake from the oven, lamenting the slightly burned top. Rose’s pies were perfect, so, as usual, Lily’s baking paled by comparison. No matter. The soldiers would not be picky.
    By one o’clock Rose and Lily were at the makeshift ball field where, under Effie Hurlburt’s direction, some enlisted men were assembling trestle tables for the baked goods and others were erecting plank benches along the baselines for the spectators.
    As soon as all the desserts were laid out on the tables, Effie covered them with cheesecloth to protect them from dust and insects. Most of the ladies wore summer-weight dresses and sported sunbonnets for protection. Lily’s blue-and-white-sprigged muslin was last year’s dress, but showed off her tiny waist and fair complexion. When everything was done to Effie’s satisfaction, she herded the women to the benches set aside for them. Only then did the nonplayers fill in, jostling for position. Lieutenant Creekmore’s