For Camellia, that meant feeding her husband and sending him off to the mercantile with a little pat and a lingering kiss. After that, there were always dishes to wash and meals to prepare, the laundress to contact (she had not yet resigned herself to heavy-duty washing and hanging on a line), the rooms to restore to pristine condition. Sometimes, depending upon schedule, she wandered over in early afternoon to work a pleasant shift at Forrester’s; sometimes she actually took a book onto the shady front porch and lost herself between the pages of some thrilling adventure.
As one of the up-and-coming young matrons in town, Camellia was already realizing that she might play an active role in improving community spirit. Turnabout showed a definite lack in sponsoring any social events and impromptu gatherings. Oh, there was the rare barn-raising, from what she had been told, and an occasional dance held for the public at Calico Bar (once the tables and spittoons had been cleared away to make space). And a church picnic, once in a while. But never anything definite, that residents and outliers could look forward to.
A committee could be formed to plan some sort of monthly function, and a calendar listed in The Turnabout News. Time to broach the idea to Ben, so that a suggestion could be brought forward at his next council meeting, and, hopefully, acted upon.
How exciting to be on the forefront of great change for the better, and a bright future!
Her hours were full, which was just the way she liked them.
For her sisters, not so much.
Hannah’s tentative employment as waitress at the Sarsaparilla Cafe, which she had earlier mentioned only with the greatest reluctance, had failed to succeed. She had tried. Oh, indeed, she had tried, for all of four hours during one breakfast shift.
But the patrons were in a constant rush, and impatient. The owner and short-order cook, Wilbur Knaack, who assumed she possessed average intelligence, lost his temper when he realized she was exhibiting none; that, actually, instead of helping to lighten the work load, his new waitress was making matters worse. During the constant dash back and forth, her rich black hair fell out of its updo to tumble enticingly around her shoulders. Several of the lumber yard
employees, delighted to find such a lovely creature in their midst, insisted upon making lewd comments while they pawed at her skirts for attention.
Worst of all, her feet hurt unbearably.
Embarrassed by her lack of stamina, feeling an utter incompetent, she had slunk back to the boarding house and collapsed in a frenzy of weak tears upon her bed.
The terrible thing about leaving a place of employment so ignominiously was that she would never dare show her face in this town again!
Her sisters immediately disabused her of that notion. And comforted her, all at the same time. She had certainly done her best, hadn’t she? Wilbur Knaack had no sense of appreciation for a lady of such high caliber; of course this work was menial, and far beneath her efforts! She must wait until something better came along. If she were even inclined to do so.
When her equilibrium returned, she dusted off her pride, donned a much-worn, rather shabby shirtwaist and skirt, and set off for Camellia’s back yard. There, wearing a huge floppy straw hat and a stout pair of gloves, she had begun the arduous work of whipping the flower garden into shape.
Camellia was astonished to find her there. She had stepped out onto the back porch to fling a wet tea towel over the railing to dry, only to discover Hannah crouching in the bushes like a felon.
“Hen! What on earth are you doing?”
Hannah, her face slightly reddened by incipient sunburn (and dampened with a most ladylike “glow”), straightened her aching back to stand erect.
“You really should take better care of your roses,” she scolded. “They are in desperate need of trimming, pruning, and watering. And lots of attention. This is the wrong time of year to put in new plants of any kind, but I can look into doing that this fall. And, for heaven’s sake, do a bit of weeding now and then. These flower beds are pathetically overgrown.”
“I admit I enjoy the results,” agreed Camellia. “There’s nothing like the fragrance and color of rosebuds to perk up a woman’s mood. But I’ve never claimed any skill in getting them to produce.”
Aiming a pair of gardening shears toward the border row of tall, majestic iris (already way past their first blush), Hannah pointed out the visible flaws ranging from dimpled hollyhocks and sweet peas to purple pansies and stately phlox and brilliant red salvia. Plants with curled brown leaves. Root bound plants. Plants whose blooms had dried into husks.
“Give me time,” said Hannah, “and I shall make this a showplace for the town.”
“That’s fine and dandy. But, first, come in and have some raspberry shrub while you tell me all about this mad desire to go digging in the dirt.”
She was feeling so much at loose ends, Hannah explained, once seated in Camellia’s cool, homely kitchen. Having long admired anyone with the talent to create and maintain a lovely flower garden, she had decided to take her sister’s neglected plots—both front and back—in hand.
“It’s a lot of hard work.” Camellia’s response, as she poured two full glasses, was noncommittal.
“Well, of course. But that’s true of anything worthwhile, isn’t it?”
“And knowledge.”
“My dear sister,” said Hannah loftily, “we have a library, with a book or two on local flora. I’ve already done a bit of research.”
And a handy handyman / groundskeeper who was happy to share tips, advice, and, in a pinch, his strong muscles, would be a helpful addition.
“I met him during my—um—brief foray into the restauranting business,” she confessed. “I overheard him talking to a friend over breakfast about certain plants, and so on, and I asked a few questions.”
Overhearing, and asking questions, and bothering a patron, which had gotten her fired.