Hidden Dreams Read online

  “We don’t know anything about her, and no, you may not unpack her suitcases for her.” The two of them trudged back to the house. “What you can do is help Clarinda fix supper. She’s taken on nursing duties and is unlikely to leave Mary Anne’s side long enough to fix us anything more than cold sandwiches for supper.”

  “And you think my cooking will be better?” Winnie laughed. “I’ll rustle us up something, don’t worry. You won’t go hungry.” She headed for the kitchen while Wallace tiptoed up to the spare room and placed the bags by the closed door.

  Sighing, Wallace headed for the attic room which he had claimed as soon as he grew old enough to have one of his own. The tree outside the window had witnessed his flights when he’d attempted to escape from the house. Tear-soaked pages about his parents’ deaths during the flu epidemic back in ’18 filled the drawers of his desk. Some of his earliest sketches of local birds, encouraged by his membership in the Vermont Audubon Society, hung on the walls.

  A fall-colored braided rug, made by his mother right before her death, held the pattern of two knees where he had spent hours in prayer after each huge event that had shaped his life. Feathered pillows he had poked and punched as he fell in and out of love during his youth lay on his bed, and awards from college hung on the walls.

  The room and the farm were his life to this point.

  But he’d met a girl fewer than four hours ago. Why did a single word she had whispered toss the fragments of his life on the floor and jumble everything in a game of Fruit Basket Upset?

  Chapter 3

  Every one of Mary Anne’s muscles ached when she awakened, but a cushiony mattress helped relieve the pain. She couldn’t remember how she acquired the injuries, nor who had taken her in for the night. She wasn’t at home, she knew that much. Running her fingers through her hair, she found a lump at the crown of her head that set off alarm bells.

  Her eyes flew open, and two facts registered. She was not in the house of any of her friends. She wasn’t even in New York. The accident. An accident on a covered bridge had interrupted her flight plan, and the grumpy farmer had brought her to his sister’s house. A local doctor had treated her, and they had taken her into their home. If only she could write a thank-you note like any good houseguest when she left.

  Leave she must, as soon as possible. Fixing her car shouldn’t take too long, since she was handy with machines. A turn or two with a screwdriver, a new tire if necessary, and she hoped to be ready to go.

  First she had to get dressed. After all she’d endured yesterday, her hair must be a mess. Pulling at a few strands with her fingertips, she could tell someone had washed it. They hadn’t stopped with her hair; she was clean from head to toe. Warmth crept into her cheeks at the thought. Clarinda, that was her name. She must have done it while Mary Anne slept.

  As comfortable as the bed was, Mary Anne had to get going. Sitting up, she surveyed her surroundings. Two battered suitcases stood at the end of the bed. So someone had retrieved them from the car. Good. The dress she had on at the time of the accident hung clean and pressed on the wardrobe door. Even if her stockings hadn’t survived the accident, she could slip her feet into her shoes without too much trouble. She wiggled her toes to make sure they could move. Bouncing her knees and waving her arms gave evidence that all four limbs still functioned.

  Mary Anne’s legs protested when she swung them to the side of the bed. The granny gown lifted above her knees, revealing a three-inch long scrape on one leg. The other leg featured cuts and nicks as well. Even silk stockings wouldn’t hide the damage.

  When at last she lifted her head, she found she was facing a mirror, and she gasped. Her pale face looked unhealthy and strange without makeup. Her almost-white bob, which had struck her as perfect in the hair salon, dulled in the morning light. Her overall impression was of sadness.

  Her appearance matched her feelings. Oh, Daddy. Now he had died and left her alone—and terrified for her life.

  Mary Anne lifted her chin. She missed her father and always would. But with the kind of money she had, she could start over, even here in the sticks, if she had a mind to. But keeping her options open required checking on her car. She set her right foot on the floor, followed by the left. As she stood, her legs wobbled and she pitched back against the bed.

  “Whoa, there.” A man’s face bent over hers. His features revealed concern and an expression that said he didn’t know what to do with her. After placing strong arms behind her back, he helped her under the covers. “Where did you think you were going?”

  * * *

  Wallace noted Mary Anne’s grimace as she lay down. In his arms, she felt insubstantial, no heavier than a robin, and not much older than Winnie in spite of her flapper appearance. Beneath the bruises and the unnatural hair color lay a young beauty that wrenched his heart.

  Wallace had promised himself an hour with a good book. That wouldn’t happen, not with the patient awake. “Are you hungry?” As thin as she was, she could use a good meal or two.

  “I am.” She sounded surprised.

  “Clarinda said she would fix you whatever you wanted. You only have to give the word.”

  “Biscuits and gravy.” Her answer came out decisively. “I haven’t had that in years.”

  “Biscuits and gravy?” Wallace repeated the words to be sure he heard her correctly.

  “Oh, it’s a Southern thing. My mother was from Alabama. I haven’t had any since she passed.” Sadness chased away the pain on her face. “Sausage gravy. Or you can make it from bacon or even ground beef, but sausage is best.”

  Some kind of white gravy, then. Clarinda could probably figure it out. “And how about some sausage and eggs to go with it?” Clarinda would pile her plate high, along with a mug of coffee and a tall glass of milk.

  She nodded.

  Wallace headed for the door but stopped. “You never did say where you were going.”

  “And you never told me your name.” Laughing, she straightened up against the headboard. “I want to check on my car, see if it’s something I can fix.”

  The idea of this tiny city girl fixing a car was ridiculous. “It’s been towed already. Waiting in the barn for me to get to it.” He wouldn’t work on hers until he finished repairs to his own truck. It needed headlights and one of the wheels not ruined in the accident had a suspicious leak in it.

  Mary Anne shifted in the bed. “Your name?” The imperious tone of the question demanded an answer.

  Wallace chastised himself. Of course she wanted to know his name. She was alone and defenseless in the home of total strangers. “I’m Wallace Tuttle. You’re at the family farm, close to Maple Notch.” Before she gave him another reason to linger, he slipped out of the room and trotted to the kitchen.

  Clarinda wasn’t there, but he soon found her in the garden, preparing for spring planting. As soon as she saw him, she stood and dusted off the knees of the men’s overalls she wore when she worked outside. “Is she awake?”

  “And asking for something called biscuits and gravy.”

  Clarinda nodded. “I’ve heard of that.”

  “She said her mother used to make it, before she died. A Southern dish, I gather.”

  “As young as she is, she already lost her mother? And you said she was calling for her father. It sounds like she’s all alone. Poor thing.”

  Wallace wouldn’t admit he had the same thought, wondering who had allowed her to drive so far alone. Was she running away from home? Did she have enemies? She was what storytellers might call a “damsel in distress,” someone the Knights of the Round Table would ride to rescue.

  The idea of himself as anybody’s knight made Wallace chuckle. He was a farmer with glasses as well as a scholar with a pitchfork, two men within him who couldn’t quite agree.

  “Go back up there and keep her company unti
l I bring her food. She must have a thousand questions. After breakfast, I’ll help her get dressed and all.”

  A sigh followed a glance at the copy of Walden that Wallace held in his hand. He wouldn’t get back to Thoreau’s words today. Once Clarinda released him from his nursemaid duties, he had to work on his book. Hurrying up the stairs to his room, he replaced Thoreau with a sketchpad. Then again, he could squeeze in a few minutes of reading time while his sister fixed breakfast. He settled in his chair for a few minutes of peace.

  A short time later, after he picked up the tray Clarinda had prepared, he returned to the guestroom. Mary Anne was standing on two feet without shaking. She had managed to shove her feet into her shoes, impractical things that probably were all the rage back in New York. They looked as out of place with the nightgown as she did in the room.

  “If Clarinda finds you up from bed, she’ll fuss at both of us.”

  “You’re back.” She suddenly stopped and sat down on the bed.

  “I’m under strict orders to keep you company until you get some breakfast.” He rounded the bed. “Clarinda won’t mind if you sit in the chair so you can sit at the writing table to eat.”

  Mary Anne glanced at her nightwear and, kicking off her shoes, drew her legs up and pushed her feet back under the covers. “I’ll take my breakfast in bed, thank you.”

  Wallace almost chuckled at that. The dress she was wearing when she arrived exposed more of her than the neck-to-ankle nightgown. The fact that she still felt the need for modesty tickled him.

  Unfolding a bath towel, Wallace prepared to spread it across her lap, but was that too intimate? Instead he handed it to her and waited until she had it smoothed over the quilt. Setting the tray on her lap and picking up the book resting next to the plate, he sat down in his chair, glancing her way every once in a while.

  Crunching bacon told him she had started to eat. “Mmm, something tastes different. Almost like—maple syrup?”

  He shut the book as a lost cause. “Maybe so. It’s cured over wood from maple trees.” The bacon he ate at college always tasted different from the home-cured, but Mary Anne identified the reason. “It’s tasty.” He pointed to the biscuits smothered in white gravy, heavy with chunks of bacon and dotted with black pepper. “How does the gravy compare to what your mother used to fix?”

  She split a biscuit with her fork and brought it to her mouth. As she slowly chewed, pleasure danced across her face. “Oh, this brings back memories. Here, you must try it.”

  When she handed him the fork like that, he couldn’t refuse. The taste of the gravy lingered on his tongue for a few seconds, and he quickly swallowed the mouthful. “It’s good. I’ll ask Clarinda to fix me a plate.”

  Mary Anne tilted her head to one side and laughed. “I’m glad you like it.” Winking at him, she made a display of savoring each bite. Clarinda would enjoy watching. Their guest had a sense of humor, a plus in her situation.

  “When did your mother die?” The question popped out.

  Mary Anne’s skin paled even further. “I was only five. Daddy pretty much raised me on his own.” She paused for a minute before continuing in a shaky voice. “He wouldn’t let me cook, so I don’t know how to fix many things.”

  Daddy...Did he dare bring up that subject? He would take the cowardly way out. “Is there someone you want us to contact, to let them know what has happened?”

  “No.” A shiver passed over Mary Anne, as if she was cold—or afraid.

  She couldn’t be cold, not on this mild early spring day and under those covers. So, something—someone—frightened her. Once again he felt the need to rush to her rescue.

  “I lost both of my parents, during the flu epidemic. First Dad, then Mom.” Wallace fixed his gaze out the window, staring at the familiar farmyard, the place that had been his home and not his home for most of the past decade.

  Mary Anne drew in a breath. “What did you do?”

  “Our Aunt Flo took us in. The problem was, she runs a girls’ school.” He grinned at the memory. “At times, it was fun. There was quite a bit of competition for my attention, if you can imagine.”

  “And did anyone catch you?”

  He smiled. “Lucky for me, no, they didn’t. I dreamed of going away to college, and Aunt Flo made sure it happened. Clarinda married Howard and moved back out to the farm.”

  “And the girl I’ve seen running around the farm yard? Pretty thing, with dark hair in braids?”

  “That’s my little sister, Winnie. She likes living out here, where she is closer to the ice rink. She lives for skating.”

  The sad, fearful look left Mary Anne’s face and she finished everything on her plate. Wallace stood and picked up her tray. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Mary Anne shook her head. “I haven’t eaten much breakfast for a while. If I keep up at this rate, I’ll be too big for any of my clothes.”

  From what Wallace had seen, she could use a few more pounds on her frame. She didn’t look strong enough to sweep the floor.

  “If you still feel like getting up, I’ll send Clarinda to help you get dressed.”

  At her nod, he left the room. When he dropped off the tray in the kitchen, he dipped a clean spoon into the gravy. He might ask Clarinda to make it again. In the afternoon, her husband, Howard, would take him into town to purchase parts for the truck. Until then, he would tramp to the old mill pond with his ever-present sketchbook. Once Winnie finished, he’d bring her home.

  That was his plan, but his traitorous feet took him to the family grave plot, where his ancestors, from those who died shortly after the Revolutionary War to the most recent dead, his parents, were buried.

  Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he looked at the simple inscriptions: Beloved wife and mother. Beloved husband and father. Would he ever find the same kind of love?

  Chapter 4

  On Saturday morning Mary Anne awakened from a dream about Daddy. It took a moment to remember her surroundings. She was at a farm near Maple Notch, the town lying between her and freedom—Canada. All that stopped her from leaving was a matter of fixing her car. That, and escaping Clarinda’s ever-watchful eye.

  Yesterday, Mary Anne admitted she wasn’t in good enough shape to go anywhere. Last night she had stood and walked around the room, exercising her still sore muscles. Today she might make it, if she could get down the stairs without being discovered.

  The girl, Winnie, said they had towed her car to the barn and then she had asked an endless stream of questions. When she wasn’t asking about the car, she wanted to know about life in the city, and why Mary Anne had changed her hair color. Ten minutes in her company left Mary Anne exhausted, but she loved the chatter.

  The sun cast pale light through the window. Mary Anne hadn’t made it out of bed this early for months. Chuckling, she remembered the nights she hadn’t made it to bed at all, until Daddy put his foot down. Just because you’ve got money enough to burn doesn’t mean you have to stay up all night. You can’t burn the candle at both ends without getting consumed along with it.

  “Oh, Daddy.” She’d hated his interfering ways, but now, how she wished she could have his advice. If only she could ask him one more question, have one more conversation, one last chance to tell him how much she loved him and missed him....

  She dashed the tears away. Stop wasting time and get moving. Put one foot in front of the other. A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Daddy had fought in Cuba before she was born, and he liked to talk about his travels.

  The trip to Canada wouldn’t cover a thousand miles, but she knew the first step: put on one of her clean dresses in the suitcase Wallace had brought to the room.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she set her feet on the floor without wobbling. A good thing she had packed at least one pair of flats. High heel
s were out of the question until her body healed.

  Mary Anne’s right arm protested as she pulled the gown over her head. She forced herself to check her reflection in the mirror. Her face had largely healed, except for a patch of forehead covered by a bandage. She already knew about the lump at the back of her head. She had slept on her right side to keep from bumping it throughout the night.

  Mary Anne sat down on the bed to gather her thoughts. Her bruises had largely faded; that wasn’t the problem. But Maple Notch must be abuzz about the city girl who hadn’t known better than to plow onto a covered bridge without taking any precautions.

  Maybe staying as a guest of these kind people was the safest choice after all. All it had taken to transform herself from an ordinary girl to a flapper was money for new hair and clothes. If she stayed in Maple Notch long enough, her hair would return to its normal color and she could wear out-of-date fashions. She didn’t know if she could ever change back to the girl she had once been, but she could try. Add sensible flat shoes and dirty fingernails, and she would have changed enough that no one would look at her twice.

  As simply as that, the decision was made. Give her body time to heal and her hair time to grow. Her hosts wouldn’t ask her to leave. Clarinda, and Wallie, too, in his own brusque way, had reassured her that she could stay as long as she wanted.

  She would leave Maple Notch before Easter Sunday—Decoration Day at the latest. By then the gang chasing her would have given up hope of finding her.

  * * *

  “I can’t get it to start.” Wallace squatted and put his left hand on the engine crank for the farm truck. Half a crank, a full crank, but still the engine didn’t start.

  Mary Anne watched, frowning. He didn’t want to blame her. The accident had caused more damage to her car than to his truck. The coupe’s front bumper was scratched from side to side, and all four of the tires had shredded.