Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire

  BY LAURALEE BLISS

  SummeRSIde

  PRESS

  Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire

  © 2009 by Lauralee Bliss

  ISBN 978-1-935416-20-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.

  Cover and Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group,

  www.mullerhaus.net

  Published by Summerside Press, Inc., 11024 Quebec Circle, Bloomington, Minnesota 55438, www.summersidepress.com

  Fall in love with Summerside.

  Printed in the USA.

  Dedication

  To Cecile “Ceil” Steiner, a blessed woman and prayer warrior of the Lord, longtime friend, and a New England lady with style.

  Acknowledgments

  With thanks to Paul of the Bethlehem Historical Society for his guided tour and stories of Bethlehem’s fascinating history. To my editor, Rachel, who took a chance on my story even in its infancy. To Carrie and Robin, for your valuable insight into the mind of my manuscript. To my father-in-law, Ken Bliss, who let us borrow his wonderful car to make the journey north. And to my husband, Steve, who traveled the snowy roads with me to discover this quaint town at Christmastime.

  FOR ALL ITS POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE LATER ON, THE REGION THAT would eventually become known as Bethlehem, overlooking the Franconia and Presidential ranges of the wildly beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire, held little appeal for settlers. By 1787, things began to change. A few families—the Browns, the Warrens, and the Turners, became the first to take up the mantle and settle an unpredictable region beset by harsh winters. The families turned to the surrounding woods for their livelihood, finding wealth in the trees that provided lumber, and from that moment, Bethlehem was born. More people began to arrive and a town charter was established (which some claimed occurred on December 25), further substantiating the name of Bethlehem. After the Civil War, when visitors sought a respite from city life, guest houses and hotels began making their appearances in town. The visitors claimed that Bethlehem’s place on a hill overlooking the mountain ranges provided for healthy air. Others sought its beauty and simple living. Late in the nineteenth century, the annual Coaching Parade, which showcased coaches arrayed in ribbons and other decorations, brought even more visitors to the town. Thus was born the vacationer’s paradise to revive the soul and spirit and provide enjoyment to all who came.

  Lauralee Bliss

  Chapter One

  1890, the height of the Gilded Age

  “I don’t know if I can make it!” cried a young voice.

  The paintbrush shook in his hand, creating a zigzag of azure across the canvas. Tom Haskins tried to set the brush on the easel, but it fell to the ground, coloring the blades of grass a murky blue. Nearby, a young couple stumbled out of the woods. The man supported a finely dressed lady who limped along, wincing in pain.

  “What happened?” Tom called, hurrying over to assist them.

  “It was silly of me,” the young woman moaned. “You know the many rocks here. I was looking at a flower and didn’t see where I was going. I tripped.”

  “My wife hurt her ankle,” the man continued. “I don’t think it’s broken. It’s all right, my love,” he now said to her in a soothing voice. “We’ll take you right away to the doctor and have it examined. I’m sure in a day or two you’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, I hope so. I’d hate to ruin our holiday over such a foolish thing as this. You deserve it after all the hard work you put into the company.”

  “Never fear, my dear,” he soothed her. To Tom he said, “My carriage is there,” and pointed to the coach Tom had seen when he arrived at this fine wooded setting not far from the town of Bethlehem.

  Tom supported the woman on one side while the husband assisted on the other, escorting her to the awaiting coach, where the driver had opened the door and stood ready to give further aid. Tom watched as the husband helped his wife inside and carefully cradled her injured leg with a pillow. The man then stooped to give her a kiss of comfort.

  “All is well,” he said once more as he straightened, glancing at Tom. “Thank you for your help, Mr….”

  “Tom Haskins.” He shook the hand the man offered him.

  “Edward Newkirk…and my wife, Margaret.” The man squinted. “I noticed that you’re an artist. I saw the landscape on your easel when we came out of the woods. Did you know that, Margaret? He’s painting the splendid White Mountain scenery.”

  “How nice. But I do need to go, Edward. My ankle hurts dreadfully.”

  “Yes, of course.” Edward looked to Tom once more. “I would like to talk about your work sometime. We’re staying at the Sinclair Hotel. Would you do us the honor of joining us for dinner? Perhaps tomorrow night when my wife is feeling better?”

  “Yes, please do,” Margaret added. “We would very much like to hear about your paintings.”

  “Well, thank you. I would be honored.”

  Edward nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

  Tom watched the coach drive away, his thoughts all abuzz. And not just about the dinner invitation, for which he was eager to attend. Or the painting, as he returned to his work site wondering what he might find. It was the image of the couple that remained branded in his mind…the way they interacted with each other; cared for each other; and showed tender, godly mercy and love in the midst of trials.

  He sat before his easel and found that the painting had not been ruined as he’d feared. He’d hoped, after all, to create the perfect sky to mirror the perfect day in late July. Now it was only slightly altered, just like his thoughts. He dabbed a darker blue to create a larger sky to complete the picture and then leaned back slightly on the stool to marvel at the final product. Many would think him prideful in the way he appreciated his work. It was not pride, though, but rather disbelief that his hand could create such realistic landscapes. He was no special man in particular. He’d received no serious art lessons, save for the one man who held to the talents inherent in the Hudson River School and who taught him a little about becoming a landscape artist. The rest had been a gift bestowed by God.

  To Tom’s studious gaze, when he beheld the scenery and the people he wanted to capture within a painting, his mind separated the scene into a myriad of colors. From the strokes of brushes in different sizes, dipped into the appropriate color and painted onto the canvas, the image was born. Perhaps he was like the famous Italian sculptor, Michelangelo, who believed that his work existed within the very fabric of the stone, only to be released under the chisel’s blade. Likewise, Tom chipped away at the white of a linen canvas with his brush, allowing the picture to come forth. He captured whatever images existed around him in the place he called home, the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

  But now he wanted to dedicate a new painting to the couple he’d seen today, of helping one another and living out the bond of matrimonial love. Love. How far removed that seemed in his life. Tom packed his art supplies into a horse-drawn cart while allowing the warm breezes of summer to dry the new color he’d added. He liked it best when he found his attention drawn into his work. Now thoughtful contemplation took over as he reflected on the couple in his memory. The loving care of the man for his wife. The way they interacted in thoughtful words and glances. The ability to share life, no matter what it present
ed.

  Tom dismantled the easel. At age thirty and still unmarried, love had seemed to pass him by. It hadn’t been his fault entirely. Only two years ago he had been at home caring for his ailing father. When Father passed away, Tom found himself consumed by his work. There had been brief attention paid by several ladies, but none had drawn him. He’d convinced himself that God would rather he paint than marry.

  Tom climbed into the seat and flicked the reins to begin the bumpy ride back to town. He’d accomplished much in his life, he reasoned. A prosperous business as an artist…a nice home with all the furnishings one needed for comfort…. But now he began to consider what he lacked. The companionship of marriage, where two people shared in life’s trouble and happiness. A sweet voice exclaiming over him or his work. A soft hand to take his elbow and walk the dusty street. One to share in this work and whatever else the Lord would have them do. To make a fine home and raise a family. To live in love forever—like the husband and wife he’d just met. Despite the accomplishment of his paintings, he yearned for that important piece of life that still eluded him.

  Tom arrived in Bethlehem in time to see his good friend Lawrence Boshen strolling along the wooden walkway on Main Street. To Tom’s chagrin, Lawrence’s newlywed wife, Loretta, walked beside him, her hand nestled in the crook of his elbow. Tom had attended their lavish wedding just last year at the Maplewood Hotel. After the wedding, Lawrence asked if Tom would be next. A year later, he was no closer to any such covenant.

  Lawrence waved to Tom. “Have you completed another masterpiece?” he called out.

  “Better than before.” Tom brought the cart to a halt before them, eager to show his friend what he’d accomplished. “What do you think?”

  “Excellent! Perfection. Be sure you have some paintings for the Coaching Parade. It’s coming up in a few weeks, and I know you will sell plenty.”

  Tom thanked him for the reminder and for his encouragement. He tipped his hat to Loretta and watched them stroll away, giggling to each other. He returned the painting to the cart, but instead of expectation, he sensed loneliness. He looked at the other couples passing by. They stared into each other’s eyes, to places often kept buried, as if attempting to uncover the inner soul of their lifetime companion. He felt God whispering to his own secret place of want, nourishing the seeds of hope for a future covenant. He felt confident that God would direct his steps, as He directed his paintings. Tom must be faithful in planting and watering and allow the Creator to cause the growth. And that flower of a woman to call his own would surpass anything his feeble mind could ever imagine.

  Tom arrived at the two-story framed house with the black shutters and large front porch, a home that was now his after his father’s death. Before he took ill, Father’s life was spent in the upkeep of the fine home with many rooms. Father often housed guests and made a bit of money at it in the peak of the fall and summer seasons. Even though Tom knew the house was far too large for a single man like him, one day he hoped to hear the sounds of life again, of feet padding the hall and warm voices filling the spacious rooms. Entering the home, the only sounds greeting him today were the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the parlor, the clank of the oak door that shut firmly behind him, and his heart seemingly beating in his ears.

  Tom had just removed his coat when a knock came on the door. He never thought such a sound would prove delightful. Perhaps an older gentleman would be there, with his eldest daughter on his arm, waiting to be introduced.

  He shook his head to compose himself, and it was good that he did. He opened the door to reveal a distinguished gentleman in a dark suit, with graying hair and a mustache. Tom stepped back. “M–Mr. Astor!”

  “Thomas, my good man.” His mustache twitched. He waited a moment. “Do you plan to invite me in?”

  “Yes, of course. Excuse me, sir. Please come in.” Tom stepped aside.

  The man nodded and walked in, surveying the interior. Tom had all he could do to look and act dignified. He immediately smoothed down his hair and checked that the cuffs of his sleeves were buttoned. James Astor of New York City, a relative of the wealthy Astor family, was a prosperous businessman and frequent visitor to Bethlehem. Mr. Astor often bought whatever Tom painted. In fact, Tom had received a letter from him not long ago detailing the man’s plans for a lengthy stay in Bethlehem and his hopes that Tom would have more paintings for his choosing.

  Now Tom silently thanked himself for having painted a new scene today. “Sir, I have a new painting that I’d like you to see.” He hurried to fetch the work he’d done that day—the balsam fir and hardwoods of New Hampshire. “Isn’t it fine? See the texture of the woods? It nearly looks alive, almost as if you could smell the balsam.”

  Mr. Astor chuckled. “You never cease to be amazed by your work, eh? And so you should.” His mustache twitched in amusement as he gazed at length at the landscape. “Very good.”

  “I’m sorry I appear vain. I was only anxious to have you see it when you came to town. And then I was thinking of another scene I would like to paint, one from a new destination. I have not yet painted the view from the summit of Bethlehem’s own mountain, Mount Agassiz. Would that interest you?”

  “Perhaps.” Mr. Astor looked around before settling into a chair.

  “Can I bring you some tea, sir?”

  “Scotch would do, Thomas. But you’re not a drinking man, am I right?”

  “No, sir. But I do have lemonade.”

  Mr. Astor nodded and relaxed in the chair.

  Tom left to fetch the man a drink. He hands trembled slightly as he poured the beverage. He prayed he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. He must remain confident.

  Mr. Astor took a long drink and leaned back in the chair. “Ah, excellent. So what else do you have for me?”

  Tom went at once to gather his remaining works. Ducks on a still pond. The sun setting beyond a row of distant mountains that comprised the Presidential range. A couple enjoying a picnic. Mr. Astor examined each one. His face remained impassive, much to Tom’s anxious heart. “Thomas, I must tell you, I think of you as a protégé in many ways. Not that I am an artist by any means, as you are well aware. I’m a businessman, as are all in my family. I have a desire to see you succeed in this business.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate all you’ve done for me and your interest in my work.”

  “It’s not my interest alone, young man; many of my associates are intrigued by your work, as well. In fact, several have decided to spend their holidays here in New Hampshire, all because of the fine landscapes you paint.”

  Tom sat straighter, feeling the strength of confidence surging in him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I want to see you rise to the pinnacle of your talent. To see you go to new places.”

  “Well, as I mentioned, I believe a walk to the summit of a mountain with my paints and brushes would be a fine illustration,” he mused. “Mount Agassiz is the logical choice.”

  Mr. Astor looked around the drawing room. “Such a large house for one man. Have you considered adding to your life’s pursuits by finding a wife?”

  A tickle gripped Tom’s throat, and he fought to silence a cough. “Sir?” he managed to say.

  “My darling wife died not too long ago, and I’m seeing more and more how her influence affected my work. Now that she is gone, there is a certain emptiness I can’t describe.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Thank you. But I’ve come to discover how much marriage is a necessity. If you marry, you will see your work grow beyond your expectations. A woman makes a man complete in his business. Your creativity will expand. The colors and textures of your work will take on new vitality. Two are better than one.”

  “I’m certain of that, sir. In fact, I met a couple today while I was painting. She had hurt her foot, and it was interesting to see how they interacted. I’m trying to study people more, sir, to help better my work. To bring more humanity into the landscapes.”

  He
nodded. “A relationship in your life will add that dimension you seek. You would do well to heed your observation in the matter. In fact, I would introduce you to some ladies, only the ones I know here are visitors. And I do not personally know those who reside in this town.”

  “Bethlehem is small. We’re here mainly to serve the needs of the guests who come to visit.”

  Mr. Astor nodded. “But it is not the only town in this region. Thomas, you must think on this as a step in your career that you cannot pass up any longer. Your work will improve. Then I can show you off to more of my clients. Good things await you—perhaps even a Currier and Ives print of one of your paintings. Would you like that?”

  Tom caught his breath. “Yes, sir. That would be excellent!”

  Mr. Astor stood to his feet. “I must be going. I’m meeting a friend for tea at the Maplewood Hotel.”

  “Sir? Did you…did you prefer any of the paintings?”

  He shook his head. “Not at this time. I hope that when next we meet you will have a better selection. And more of that humanity, as well. Good day, Thomas.”

  “Good day, sir.” The door shut heavily before him and, with it, the command that remained. Find a wife, Tom, and you will have buyers and perhaps even a new outlet for your work. He wanted to resist Mr. Astor’s suggestion, yet he couldn’t afford to offend his mentor and the primary buyer of his work. The future of his work rested on this. And then there was his lonely heart to consider. His age. And Lawrence pestering him about it. He’d prayed earlier that the Lord would show him his path.

  Find a wife. That seemed to be the call on his life this day. Yet how exactly was he to accomplish it?

  “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.” Tom admitted he was quite hungry for a good meal. He never ate well as a bachelor, and this invitation was a blessing.

  Margaret and Edward Newkirk looked composed and elegant before him—her in an agreeable evening gown and Edward in his fine black suit. They made a radiant couple. For a time they exchanged pleasantries about their holiday in Bethlehem and how they loved the scenery.