Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire Page 2

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better, madam,” Tom said after they placed their orders.

  “Oh yes, my ankle is much better. Thank you for all your help.”

  Edward leaned over the table. “We wanted you here, Mr. Haskins, for two reasons actually. To thank you for your assistance yesterday and to ask about your work. Margaret and I couldn’t help but notice one of your paintings in the hall of the hotel. Fine work.”

  Tom knew the painting he meant, one he liked very much, of the grand spectacle of the Presidential range. The mountains of Washington, Jefferson, and Madison, among others. An awesome display to behold and to paint.

  “Do you paint much?” Edward asked. “Your style seems familiar.”

  “Yes. My landscape work is in the style of the Hudson River artists.”

  “Ah, that explains it. Quite an elite group. Now that you mention it, I can see the similarities. I’m a great admirer of Thomas Cole myself. I have several of his paintings of the Catskill region of New York State. That’s why I asked the hotel proprietor if I might be able to buy your painting. I was willing to pay quite a bit. I wanted it for my collection.”

  “But they refused,” Margaret continued. “They are fond of it as well. You’re quite the artist here in this town, Mr. Haskins.” She and Edward looked at each other and smiled.

  Tom could see the communication at work between them, not in their words but in their silent looks of affection. “Thank you. I have others who like my work, too—a Mr. James Astor from New York City.”

  Edward’s eyebrow rose. “Really. Impressive. We’re also from New York. The Astors are a prominent and wealthy family.”

  “He has great plans for me. Only…” Tom hesitated. The couple looked at him with such compassion, he couldn’t help but blurt out, “He is encouraging me to marry, of all things. He believes it will help my work and my life. In fact, he nearly demanded it.” Tom chuckled but at the same time felt warmth enter his face. Suddenly he felt foolish for having said it.

  The waitress arrived with their dinners. Edward offered a simple prayer and began to eat.

  “Marriage is indeed an excellent thing,” Edward went on. “He who finds an excellent wife does well for himself. The Bible even says so.”

  “Dear me, I cannot believe a fine and handsome man like you isn’t married,” Margaret added. “Why, a woman would be blessed to be your wife.”

  Tom hoped so. But he also hoped he might be a blessing to his intended, as this man was to his wife.

  “Oh, you must tell Mr. Haskins how we met, Edward,” Margaret urged. “It’s such a wonderful story.”

  Edward laid down his fork. “Well, if you can believe it, Margaret came to me through an advertisement I placed in a newspaper.”

  “You placed an ad?” Tom said in astonishment.

  “Yes, for a bride. I know it seems rather old-fashioned these days. But I thought I would see what happened. I did not live in the city at the time, just a small farming community in upstate New York. Perhaps like you, there weren’t many eligible women around. Remember, men long ago used to place ads for wives to settle Oregon. There are still ads like that in papers in states like Kansas and Nebraska.”

  “But I don’t live in the West.”

  “It doesn’t matter. She will go to wherever you live. It happened that Margaret came from the city. And I had planned to move there anyway to begin a business. In your case, who would refuse to come to a place like this, surrounded by these grand mountains? And meet a talented man like yourself?”

  “Look what happened to me.” Margaret sighed in content. “It turned into the greatest blessing of our lives. Edward and I are perfect for each other. It’s as if God Himself directed the result of the ad. The heavenly Matchmaker at work!”

  Tom watched as they grasped hands and stared into each other’s eyes.

  “It’s been three years now, and we couldn’t be happier.” Edward took up Margaret’s hand in his. “Perhaps you should consider placing an ad, Tom. What harm could it do? I can help you, if you wish. I know the prominent papers of New York City. This ad could lead you to a bright and prosperous future, as it did for us.”

  “Place an ad in the paper,” Tom repeated, as if trying to convince himself of such a thing. Try to win love by some advertisement. He looked at the smiling couple before him. Happy. Fulfilled. Blessed by God. A bright and prosperous future, Edward had said, the kind Tom needed and Mr. Astor requested. He could just picture the look on Mr. Astor’s face when he came next and Tom was there with a bride on his arm. The man would buy all his paintings and ask for more. And Mr. Astor would tell him of the interest to create a Currier and Ives print of his work. Tom would be happy, too, sharing in the blessing with his wife. She would love his fine home, furnishings, and everything else he would provide for her. But most of all, they would enjoy being in love.

  “We can write it together,” Edward encouraged, “and I’ll see that it gets placed in the paper. I know you’ll receive many replies. To come from the city to a place like this will be the answer for some woman in need, and it will be completion for you.”

  And also fulfill the inquiry from all who have been wondering about this plan for my life, he thought. Like Mr. Astor. Lawrence Boshen. His own heart. Tom nodded to the delight of his hosts and thanked them for the suggestion. He agreed to blindly venture into the unknown. To take a leap off the cliff of faith. And where he would land, he had no idea.

  Chapter Two

  Sara McGee cradled the loaf of bread in her arm as if it were a priceless object worthy of serving to a king. She vowed to think of this meal like a banquet, even if the main course was bread. The loaf had been given to her by Mrs. Whitaker, like so many other meals the older woman provided. And each time Sara received one of the loving gifts, she would race to the small dark room in the corner of the basement to enjoy every tasty morsel.

  Wiping damp strings of hair out of her eyes, Sara hastened to the place she called home—the basement of a furniture store in the center of New York City. The day had been hot, as was typical of summer living in the city. Sara slipped around the side of the building where a small window swung free, allowing her access to the dingy basement. By now the people of the establishment had already left for the day. No one knew she lived here, not even Mrs. Whitaker. She feared telling anyone, for they might alert the owners of the building and she could once more find herself homeless on the street.

  The bread smelled so good that she nearly broke off a piece to eat. Instead she felt the urge to hurry. She worked quickly to bring each of her legs through the narrow opening, touching her feet to the stack of boxes that acted as a ladder. Climbing down, one by one, Sara reached the safety of the floor below only to feel something small and furry scurry past her leg. Startled, Sara bit her lip at the last moment to keep from screaming. In the window’s dim light, she discovered that a rat had come to see if she might share her dinner.

  “Not tonight. This bread is for the Lord and me. He is my guest.”

  She stumbled along, pausing every so often to make sure the owners had not ventured downstairs and put some surprise barrier in her way. She walked carefully, counting the usual twenty-eight steps until she reached her “home,” a back room in the far corner. Inside the room on the left, beneath a small table, rested a piece of flint and a candle. In no time, a soft glow greeted her. Quickly she shut the door so no light would bleed out of the room and through the basement window, alerting others on the street to her presence.

  Sara looked now at the bread. What a great bounty it was. She closed her eyes and thanked the Lord for it, as well as for Mrs. Whitaker. Without her, she surely would have starved after her mother died. Sara tore off a chunk of the bread and began to eat. As she ate, she fumbled for a few photos lying near the table. They were the only reminders of her mother, who had been taken from Sara when she was still young and pretty. Sara treasured them like the finest gold. Wealthy women might have their jewels, but Sara had her
pictures.

  She kissed the face of her mother, propped the small picture against the wall, and began telling her of the day she had on the streets of New York. She told her how she’d found some fish heads at the market and fed them to a few stray cats that lived nearby. A mother gave her a nickel for helping with her children. And Mrs. Whitaker gave her yet another nickel for rearranging the baking supplies in the storage room.

  Sara put down her bread and reached into the pocket of her dress to pull out the money. She felt rich indeed and wondered what she might buy with the two nickels. Lord, please show me what I should do. Buy more food, perhaps? Or an old dress that someone is willing to sell? Sara closed her hand around the money then went back to eating. She would save the rest of the bread for her breakfast and perhaps a noonday meal if she had enough. Maybe she would buy some cheese to go along with it. Oh, to have a hunk of hard yellow cheese—the thought of the tangy flavor sent the juices swirling inside her mouth. It would be a heavenly banquet, better than tonight’s.

  Sara picked up a photo that showed her mother holding a cup of tea. The same porcelain cup stood on the stand. It was Sara’s most treasured possession. The photos were important, but Mama used that cup each day to drink her tea. It meant more to Sara than anything else. Somehow the teacup kept her connected with her mother in heaven. As long as she had the cup, Mama felt close by.

  With growing weariness, Sara straightened the few blankets on the floor that would become her makeshift bed. The candlelight flickered as she worked. She could not think about what tomorrow might bring. She only thought about yesterday, a year ago actually, when her mother was still alive and they had a nice room—small but cozy. At that time Mama worked as a seamstress. Sara wished she could have found work at the same establishment after Mama died, but they had refused to hire her. She was forced instead to look for odd jobs given out of the merciful hearts of those who felt inclined to help some poor woman of the streets. And she lived here in this small room, unnoticed by the occupants who owned the building…at least for now.

  She could still hear Mama’s voice, full of faith and purpose. “You’re not poor as long as our heavenly Father is with you, Sara. He’ll supply all your needs according to His great riches. And He cares about you, even more than I do, and I love you very much.”

  Sara smiled in remembrance. Most would think she had nothing left in her life. But at that moment she had everything. The friendship of Mrs. Whitaker. Beautiful memories. Peace in her heart. And the comfort of God shielding her mind, body, and spirit. She lay down on the dirty blankets. It was enough.

  “Sara McGee! At last I found you!”

  Sara whirled at the sound of the frantic voice. She had been walking the streets, as she did every day, looking for a job to do while thinking of the coins jingling in her pocket and the cheese she would buy at the market. Now she saw the large figure of Mrs. Whitaker hurrying toward her. Sara stopped in her tracks, concerned that something might be wrong.

  Mrs. Whitaker was panting heavily, beads of perspiration gathering on her brow from the warmth of the day. Suddenly she thrust something into Sara’s hand. “This is for you.”

  Sara wondered why she, of all people, would be receiving a personal letter. No one knew her, save Mrs. Whitaker. “What is this? How did you get it?”

  A broad smile filled the older woman’s face. “It’s a surprise. Come back with me to the bakery, and we will read it there.”

  Sara shrugged and walked along obediently. “I made ten cents yesterday, Mrs. Whitaker, did I tell you?”

  “Very nice, very nice,” she responded absently. Sara sensed that something was on the woman’s mind. She couldn’t begin to imagine what, except for the letter in her hand. “What is this, anyway?” She waved the envelope before the woman, hoping for a clue to its contents.

  “You’ll see, you’ll see. Oh, I do pray it’s a good letter.” Arriving at the bakery, she pushed Sara towards the back room. “I must take care of the customers first. Read the letter yourself; it will be good practice. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  Sara did as she was told, for she would never deny the kind Mrs. Whitaker anything. She was like a mother to Sara in many ways, caring for her needs as best she could. She once said Sara would have lived in her home if not for her cantankerous husband. He would have nothing to do with “some foundling,” as he called Sara, even though she was eighteen. But Mrs. Whitaker helped Sara in other ways, providing the daily bread and friendship that meant more to her than anything.

  Sara found a place to sit on a crate inside the storeroom. The flour dust tickled her nostrils, making her sneeze. She scrutinized the envelope and tried to read the postmark.

  “New Hamp–sher,” she read. I know no one in New Hampshire. At least I don’t think I do. But her name was clearly printed on the outside envelope: SARA ELISABETH MCGEE. Elisabeth had been her mother’s name. Maybe a long lost relative of Mama’s had finally contacted her. One who had money. Maybe she was now an heiress.

  She undid the envelope with trembling fingers, trying hard not to tear it.

  “Haven’t you read the letter yet?” Mrs. Whitaker asked, her bulky form filling the doorway. “Goodness’ sakes, child, what’s taking you so long?”

  “I—I hope I can read it.”

  Mrs. Whitaker shook her head. “Just give me a few more minutes and I’ll come back and read it to you. You should have accepted my suggestion for more lessons. I had a customer who was willing to teach you.” At that moment a customer bellowed for assistance inside the bakery, and Mrs. Whitaker disappeared once more.

  Sara unfolded the letter to find paper currency inside. Her heart leaped. She then looked at the scrawls written on the linen paper. She brought the paper to her nose, wondering if she could inhale the fragrance of this place called New Hampshire and the person who had sent her the money. It did not smell like New York, with its cinder smoke and dust filling the air. Nor did it smell like fresh baked bread or fish at the market. She could make out nothing at all.

  Sara examined the signature and recognized the letters: T–H–O–M–A–S. “Th…th,” she began to sound out. “Th–om Az.” She looked up, pleased with herself. “It’s from a Th–om Az,” she told Mrs. Whitaker when the woman returned. “And he sent me money!”

  “Whatever do you mean?” The woman took the letter out of her hand. “Sara, honey, the man’s name is Thomas. Mr. Thomas Haskins of Bethlehem, New Hampshire.”

  “Bethlehem! He lives in the place where Jesus was born?” Excitement bubbled up at the mere possibility.

  “It’s the name of a town in the state of New Hampshire. Let me read it.” She cleared her throat. “‘Dear Miss McGee…’”

  “That’s me!” Sara exclaimed. “That means the money is for me!”

  “Let’s see what it says. ‘I am responding to the letter you sent to me with regards to the ad placed in the newspaper.’”

  Sara stared blankly. “Ad? What ad?”

  Mrs. Whitaker waved her hand. “Never mind, never mind. Just listen now.” She peered at the letter and continued. “‘I would very much like to make your acquaintance. Your letter indeed charmed me, and I do believe it would be good and proper for us to meet as soon as it is convenient. Please be so kind as to respond if you are interested and let me know your arrival date. I thought early October would do well and also give time to make arrangements. I have enclosed the money for your train fare. Thank you, and may God bless your journey. With fondest regards I am yours truly, Thomas E. Haskins, Bethlehem, New Hampshire.’”

  Sara sat still, trying to make sense out of it. “What does this mean, Mrs. Whitaker? Why is a Mr. Haskins sending me money for a train? How do I know him? Why does he want me to visit? Is he a relative of Mama’s?”

  Mrs. Whitaker leapt to her feet and began to sway as if music were being played by some trumpeter. “It worked! Oh, bless my soul, it worked, dear Lord! And my husband said nothing would amount to what I do in life. But I have opened
the door to a new life for you. I couldn’t give you a home with me, but I could find a home for you elsewhere.”

  Sara stared, unblinking, wondering if Mrs. Whitaker was suffering some mental illness. “I—I don’t understand….”

  “I’ll tell you. I saw an ad in the paper about two weeks ago. A man from New Hampshire was asking for a young woman to share a life by the mountains. When I saw it, I immediately thought of you.”

  Sara continued to look on in disbelief, even as her eyes began to hurt from staring so long.

  “So I wrote him and told him all about you. And now he wants to see you! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “He wants to see me? Me?” Sara looked down at her tattered dress and holey stockings. “He can’t possibly want to see me. What did you tell him about me?”

  “That you have beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. That you know how to sew. That you care about children and feed abandoned cats. That you will do anything you set your mind to and do it well. And that you love our heavenly Father.”

  Sara could not argue with the description, though she was uncertain her hair looked beautiful, being a snarled mass likened to a bird’s nest perched on a lamppost. “I don’t know about this.”

  “I do know. This is the answer for your life, Sara. It’s a chance for a new beginning, a better life—a life away from the city and in the country with a wealthy man.”

  “He—he’s wealthy?”

  “I’m sure he is. I don’t know for certain, but you can tell he is a learned man. And learned men make money. He’s an artist by trade.”

  “An artist,” she repeated. She used to look at the fine paintings displayed in a store not far from Mrs. Whitaker’s bakery. If Mr. Haskins painted like that, he must be an interesting man, with a mind and hands that could create wondrous images. “But I can’t visit a man I know nothing about. I’d be too frightened.” Tears suddenly sprang into her eyes. “I would have to leave you.” She thought of the little home she’d made for herself in the dark basement. It was hardly suitable, but at least it was familiar. “I’ll be leaving the city where Mama and I lived all our lives.”