A Hearth in Candlewood by Delia Parr Page A

leave.’’
    ‘‘Are you suggesting I . . . I pay them? Like I was paying some sort of fine?’’
    She chuckled, thinking there might be more than one reason why this man was still single. ‘‘My dear Mr. Atkins, I don’t believe money ever tugged the strings of forgiveness in a woman’s heart. I passed by a millinery shop on my way here. I’m thinking that perhaps a new bonnet. . . ?’’
    He grimaced. ‘‘You want me . . . you expect me to go into the millinery and pick out a . . . a lady’s bonnet?’’
    ‘‘Not one. Two. One for Widow Garrett and one for Widow Leonard. I’m sure the shopkeeper will be able to guide your selections.’’
    She took his good arm and escorted him back toward the front of the store. ‘‘One sure way to guarantee that gossipmongers, as well as the rest of your customers, notice your apology is to have both women parading about in fancy new bonnets the milliner will no doubt tell everyone were purchased by you. It might even be a good idea to escort the ladies home to Hill House before you come back to the store,’’ she suggested, fully aware that he would have to escort them the full length of Main Street to get them back to Hill House.
    When he slowed his pace, she patted his shoulder. ‘‘On the other hand, you might want to see your visit to the millinery store as taking the first step toward humility.’’
    ‘‘I’m quite certain there will be many more,’’ he murmured.
    ‘‘Indeed,’’ she whispered and waited while he opened the cashbox. She had lived with Mother Garrett for enough years to know that her heart was a forgiving one and she would very likely accept this young man’s apology—eventually. She did not know Widow Leonard very well yet but suspected she would be just as forgiving.
    He closed the cashbox and handed her back the key. ‘‘Before I take my leave, do you have any further suggestions?’’
    ‘‘Only one,’’ she murmured and offered him a smile. ‘‘Just be sure to tell them both I’ll be home for supper.’’

11
    E MMA TRUDGED HOME TO H ILL H OUSE just before twilight. Her shoes pinched her feet and her bonnet rubbed against the lump on the back of her head. Her skirts were dusted with grime and grit. Since she had skipped dinner, her stomach growled when she dared to think of food. When she finally approached the gate in the wrought iron fence that enclosed the front yard, she could not decide whether to collapse on one of the porch chairs or use what little energy she had left to manage her way to the kitchen for supper.
    A good whiff of Mother Garrett’s vegetable soup, a favorite of her youngest son, Mark, who now lived in Albany with his wife and two little ones, tempted her past the porch chairs and into the house. When she draped her bonnet on the hat rack, she spied herself in the mirror, but she was too tired to care that her blue eyes were streaked with weariness or that her chin was smudged with dirt to do more than rub it clean with her fingers. After smoothing her hair, she followed the sound of animated conversation that led her to the kitchen, took one step inside, and burst into a fit of giggles that had her leaning on the doorjamb for support.
    Straight ahead, Reverend Glenn sat at his customary place at the head of the table. At the end closest to her, a bowl of soup and a plate piled high with bread sat waiting for her. In between, sitting at opposite places on either side of the table, was a vision that was pure ridiculousness.
    She cupped her hand to her mouth, but she could not stop the giggles.
    Mother Garrett looked up at her and sniffed. ‘‘We were just about ready to start without you. Liesel and Ditty took their suppers out to the gazebo. Reverend Glenn already said grace, so you’ll have to say your own. Assuming you can compose yourself.’’
    ‘‘Y-yes. I . . . I will,’’ Emma stammered and looked away, only to find herself staring at Widow Leonard, which inspired yet another