Love Finds You in Bethlehem, New Hampshire Read online

  When he returned to the porch and began to pack up his art supplies, she said, “Oh, I love the painting I bought from you the day of the parade. I plan to hang it in my room when I return home.” She hesitated for a moment. “Do you think I look like the woman in your painting?”

  He peered at her to see again her bright smile. Perhaps one day he would try his hand at painting a portrait, even if portrait painting was not his strength. “There are many similarities. You would make a nice portrait just by yourself.”

  She smiled coyly. “How sweet of you. If I weren’t leaving so soon, I would ask you to paint it, Mr. Haskins.”

  She was leaving? Then why was she interested in this meeting? Why did Lawrence insist they see each other? He cleared his throat. “You’re leaving so soon?”

  “Unless you can offer me a reason to stay… This is a beautiful place, but I had hoped for other things.”

  Tom wondered what but kept his questions at bay. “I suppose it might be better for you. I’m sure you wouldn’t like the winters. A good deal of snow and cold winds for months.”

  “Boston has winter weather also. Lawrence says he has the most beautiful sled. He said we could take it anytime we wish. That is…if you would like me to stay longer, Mr. Haskins.”

  Tom frowned and moved the rest of his supplies inside, unsure of how to answer her—especially with the note from Mrs. Whitaker still fresh on his mind. “Let’s take a stroll down the street,” he suggested, avoiding her question. He straightened his jacket and offered his arm, which she took. With his other hand he reached out and took her basket.

  Along the way, Tom pointed out the many shops and fine hotels that had been a part of Bethlehem for a number of years. They arrived at the train depot where soon he would meet the woman who had responded to his ad, though he said nothing of this to Annabelle. They turned and walked back down Main Street and to the Maplewood Hotel with its vast acreage and numerous outbuildings. The hotel itself was an immense structure of stone, with fancy appointments and rich rooms—a grand gathering place for the rich and the favorite hotel of Mr. Astor. Tom always marveled at the architecture and immense size, likening it to some European castle.

  They came to the edge of town, where a range of mountains framed the horizon. Annabelle withdrew from his grasp and headed for a patch of grass to spread out the picnic she had brought. “This is a pretty place.” She gazed at the scenery and sighed. “I don’t think I will leave quite as soon as I thought, Mr. Haskins. Boston, after all, has no such scenery…though I do love to look at the water. I often go to watch the boats coming in and out of Boston Harbor.”

  “I’ve never seen the ocean,” he confessed, wondering what it would be like to paint such a scene, with the waves caressing the shore, a boat coming to port, and the flight of seagulls in mid-air.

  “Then you must come and visit me when I return to Boston. Or we can make the trip together. My family would love to meet you.”

  She wanted him to go to Boston and meet her family? The swiftness of all this took him by surprise. Tom instead tried to turn his attention to the fine meal of fried chicken, biscuits, and applesauce. He allowed his appetite to rule him after offering a quick prayer and began to eat.

  While he ate, Annabelle chattered about her life in Boston and how her parents wanted her to attend the fine conservatory there. “I do love playing the piano, but there are so many more important things to learn.”

  “An artist should never waste his or her talent,” he said. “Maybe you should think about school. Becoming a skilled musician is a worthy pursuit.”

  “Oh, what an encouragement you are to me, Thomas. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. ‘Mr. Haskins’ seems so formal, whereas ‘Thomas’ is such a fine, strong name. And we know each other after all, don’t we?”

  He looked up from his lunch to find her staring at him with another smile poised on her lips. The image of her face appeared to draw closer to his the longer he stared, until they seemed but inches apart.

  “An artist should use their gifts for God…,” he began again, finding it difficult to speak.

  “Maybe that’s why I like it here. I feel like I belong. Bethlehem is such an artistic place, with the pretty village and grand mountains. It celebrates creativity with the Coaching Parade every summer. And of course there’s you, a fine painter who captures it all on canvas. I adore that.”

  Unexpected warmth flooded him when her lips pressed against his. He nearly fell back, startled by the contact. “Miss Loving…,” he faltered.

  “Oh, it was nothing, Thomas. Merely a thank-you for your encouraging heart.” She began packing up the lunch. “I know you have to return to your work. I’ve taken up a great deal of your time. Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”

  Tom was speechless. As they walked back toward town, she talked of his giving heart and her desire to remain another month or two at least. All Tom could think was that her stay would then carry into the very time of Sara McGee’s arrival to Bethlehem.

  “But if I do stay, I won’t be able to attend the observatory this semester,” she added.

  “You should not give up schooling, Miss Loving.”

  “Call me Annabelle, please. We’re both ready.”

  “Ready?” His voice ended with a high squeak.

  “For first names.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Their arrival back to his front porch came none too soon.

  “Well, I’ll consider what you said, Thomas. Though I do think I might stay here longer. I’m starting to fall in love.” She offered another good-bye before turning to leave.

  Tom had all he could do to stumble through the door and into a chair. Sitting on the table beside his chair was the letter from Mrs. Whitaker.

  How can you lead on two women like this? He remembered the voice of Lawrence, rebuking him. You’re a cad, Tom told himself. Then he remembered the kiss. He had kissed a woman, and another woman was coming here to be his supposed bride! What am I doing, Lord? He traced the words of the letter once more. I only have a few weeks left to put my heart in the right place. But where should it be?

  Chapter Five

  Sara sensed a sadness as she gathered up her meager belongings and put them into a shabby carpetbag. It seemed hard to believe that in less than a week she would be leaving the city for a new and strange place. Mrs. Whitaker had all but demanded that she give up her life of roaming the streets, as she put it, and stay with them until the time came for her departure to her new home in New Hampshire. The thought of living with the woman in her fine home should have excited Sara, yet she felt anxious instead. Change could be good for a soul but also frightening. Everything she knew was about to take a drastic turn into the unknown. She wondered what would happen.

  It took little time to pack up the photographs, her mother’s teacup, a ratty shawl, and her paper-thin coat. Before she left the basement, she sat on the wooden chair to consider her life. How often she sat in this same chair and pondered her future. Now she was about to embark on a new journey. In a few short days she would be on her way by train to Bethlehem. At least the name of the town gave her hope, even if the thoughts of a strange man greeting her at a depot filled her with trepidation.

  “What a wonderful adventure it will be for you,” Mrs. Whitaker had told her just yesterday. She’d also announced to Sara her going-away gift: a suitable dress for the journey. How thankful Sara was for the older lady’s provision. It brought tears to her eyes the way Mrs. Whitaker cared for her, much like a mother in many respects. But she had to wonder if she trusted Mrs. Whitaker’s decision to force this man, Thomas Haskins, upon her. And to say she should become his bride, no less! He was a strange man living in a strange place. And she really wouldn’t know what kind of man he was until it was too late.

  Sara decided to have Mrs. Whitaker reread the letter that arrived the other day. She wished she had learned to read instead, so Mrs. Whitaker wouldn’t have to do it. But she did recall some of Mr. Haskins�
��s past letters. His anxiousness to meet her. His descriptions of Bethlehem by the grand White Mountains. His love of painting. And the most recent letter that talked about a big parade. Sara wondered what a parade in Bethlehem looked like. She had seen parades here in the city, of course. People dressed in fancy outfits, waving at the crowds lining the streets. Buggies and wagons that were decorated with ribbons and flowers.

  Sara had insisted that she help craft the last letter to Mr. Haskins, which he would receive before her arrival. Sara dictated the words while Mrs. Whitaker wrote it out in her fancy handwriting. When she found her mind blank, Mrs. Whitaker encouraged her with new ideas. In the letter, Sara described more about herself, her hopes for the future, and how she came to know the Lord of heaven and earth. “He will want to know all these things,” Mrs. Whitaker stated. “You want to assure him of your Christian faith, as that is something his ad requested.”

  “So he is a Christian gentleman?”

  “Of course he is. I know his letters haven’t said as much, but he would not ask for a Christian wife if he wasn’t one himself.”

  Sara hoped she was right. How often she thought about the night she gave her life to the Lord, shortly after Mama’s death. On the day when Mama lay at death’s door, Sara remembered Mama’s weak voice calling for her. Mama’s cold hand reached out to touch Sara’s.

  “You must know how much God loves you, Sara,” she said weakly. “He wants you to know Him and to live your life for Him.”

  Sara wasn’t certain what Mama was talking about. Who was this God that supposedly loved her, despite her hard life and a mother ready to die? Why would Mama want her to know Him? Mama’s cold hand continued to grip hers with surprising strength. “Let Him into your heart, dear Sara, and don’t ever let go. He will lead you and guide you for His name’s sake.”

  That night Mama slipped away to heaven. Though her passing was filled with sorrow, Sara realized there was also joy. Mama’s face looked so serene. She no longer writhed in pain. Even a small smile sat on her still, blue lips. She had entered through heaven’s gate to eternity.

  Sara considered the ideas Mama had spoken of so ardently. She sought out Mrs. Whitaker so she could learn about God. From the woman’s tender words and readings from the Bible, Sara’s spirit sprang to life. She asked the Lord of heaven and earth to dwell in her heart, and He’d been with her ever since. Caring for her. Whispering to her in the night shadows. Giving her comfort and a place of refuge. And now providing a guiding light to this new journey laid out before her.

  Sara gripped the handle of the carpetbag while surveying the dim surroundings. Little remained of the makeshift home but a few sticks of furniture, a candle, and the dust. “Good-bye, dear room,” she said softly. “You’ve been a fine place for me. Now I’m going elsewhere, to a new place I know nothing about.” She heaved a sigh and tried to contain the anxiousness welling up within her.

  Slowly she made her way to the basement window, where she would climb out for the last time. No longer would she feel like some rodent scrambling in and out of the narrow window. As Mrs. Whitaker put it, the time had come for her to act like a young lady and not some ragamuffin of the street. And for the next few days, Mrs. Whitaker would give her lessons on such things. “Time to bid your old life farewell, young lady,” the woman had said with a wink. “You must embrace the new things God has for your life.”

  Sara arrived at the bakery to find Mrs. Whitaker serving a customer. She waited patiently outside, staring at the stone buildings. She watched the people walking along the street, the young men and women pushing their carts, looking to sell their wares to roving customers. Women grasped children’s hands as they hurried to do their shopping. Men in tall hats and suits talked with each other or walked with their gazes focused ahead, intent on their business. Wagons, carriages, and carts moved along, stirring up clouds of dust. These were the sights and sounds of a busy city she would not likely see in some far-off village nestled beside the mountains.

  Sara gripped the handle of the carpetbag. What would it be like to see mountains instead of buildings? She had never seen mountains except in pictures. They appeared tall and commanding, reaching toward heaven. Some were dusted with snow. What an awesome sight it must be.

  Sara nearly bumped into the customer leaving the shop. She curtsied and begged her pardon then noticed Mrs. Whitaker waving her inside. “Have you your things?”

  “There’s not much,” she confessed, holding up the carpetbag. “It’s mostly empty.”

  “I often wondered where you stayed, but you never told me.” She led the way into the house behind the bakery and stopped beside a closet that had been converted into a tiny room for Sara.

  “You would have disapproved, Mrs. Whitaker. No one knew where I stayed. Not even the owners of the building.” She hesitated. “I did wonder if I should have told them I was there. I was trespassing, after all….”

  “Tsk, tsk. At least you’re out of that place and no longer living a life of secret. I told Mr. Whitaker that I’m taking you in for a few days, but you must take care to keep out of sight in the evening. You know he has a bad temper.”

  “I will. I’m used to being very quiet at night.” She often wondered why Mr. Whitaker didn’t possess the charitable heart of his wife. What was it about people that moved some to pity for those less fortunate and others to look on them with stony indifference? It was like the contrast of day to night…or maybe the light of God shining in one compared to another that lacked it.

  Mrs. Whitaker soon appeared with a dress, and her face lit up with a grin. “Here’s the present I promised you.”

  Sara fingered the material of a soft blue that looked much better than what she was wearing. “It’s very pretty.”

  “I kept it from when I was young. I know it’s not the style of the day, without the puffed sleeves and straight skirt, but it will wear well until Mr. Haskins buys you new dresses. And he will, I’m sure.”

  “I hope so.” Sara tried to contain her rising doubt. What would he say when he saw her? Would he be like Mr. Whitaker and take one look at her, pronounce her a foundling, and send her on her way? She dismissed the thought and went to try on the dress. The cuffs reached to her knuckles, and the hemline dragged on the ground.

  “Oh, dear. I guess we are two different sizes. I haven’t much time to take it in, either.” Mrs. Whitaker fingered her chin. “No matter. I’ll hem it, at least, so you won’t step on it. It will have to do.”

  “It’s better than anything else I have. Thank you.”

  “It’s just enough so you can be properly introduced. A man should not be looking on the outside anyway but on the inside. And I daresay that Mr. Haskins has already fallen in love with you.”

  Sara stared at her, aghast, at the meaning of such words. “How can you say that?”

  Mrs. Whitaker helped her draw the dress up and over her head. Sara quickly donned her tainted gray dress over her cotton slip and drawers.

  “Don’t you remember the letter he wrote back?”

  “I was hoping you would read it to me again.” Sara couldn’t help the smile that escaped.

  “How I wish I had the time to tutor you in reading and writing. But we will have to let Mr. Haskins do that as well.” Mrs. Whitaker went to fetch the latest letter while Sara sat, waiting expectantly on the small cot that had been made up for her. Mrs. Whitaker returned and promptly began to read.

  Dear Mrs. Whitaker and Sara,

  Thank you very much for your recent letter. I was happy indeed to hear more of Sara and her kind heart. How we need such people to bring joy into the lives of those who have none. And I must say I’m eager to meet her and share that joy. You have written wise words when you say that beauty is found inside. That is the beauty I cherish, too, and hope to share. Please don’t think anything of Sara’s circumstances, for they mean little in the picture of life. We will have much to do and share when we meet. I look forward to it.

  “Don’t you see? It�
��s a letter of love, for certain, and by one who looks at the heart.”

  Sara could hardly keep from climbing to her feet and doing a little dance around the room. “It’s wonderful.” She looked at her own disheveled dress. To know the man’s gaze would not be on her tattered garment but on her heart sent songs of thanksgiving rising up within her. “Please, may I hold onto the letter?”

  Mrs. Whitaker obliged. “I’ll get the dress ready so you can wear it on the train. There are only a few days left.”

  Sara didn’t want to think of losing Mrs. Whitaker, another one dear to her heart. It would be like the horrific pain of losing Mama all over again. No, she must think of the bright future before her, lest the tears blind her and she be too sad to even step onto the train. She would think of the blessings that lay ahead, a bright new land, a gentleman to woo her, and a new destiny to grab hold of and never let go.

  The day had finally come. Sara tried to hold tight to those blessings waiting for her, even as she winked back the tears. Mrs. Whitaker stood on the platform, dabbing her eyes every so often with a handkerchief. Soon the train would pull out of Grand Central Depot, and Sara would be on her way to the town of Bethlehem. The name of the Savior’s birthplace. The mere thought brought calm to the emotional tide surging within.

  The whistle sounded. Sara pressed her face and palms against the cool glass, her fingers spread open. Mrs. Whitaker nodded, again dabbing her eyes. “I love you,” Sara said aloud. She thought Mrs. Whitaker’s lips formed similar words of affection before she waved good-bye.

  The cars jolted. The whistle blew again, and the train began to move. She held tight to the carpetbag sitting on her lap. This was really happening to her. She was leaving New York forever to embrace a new life.

  One last train whistle bid the occupants of New York City and Mrs. Whitaker a final farewell. Sara wiped another tear from her cheek and whispered a prayer for peace. Now began the long trip to the wilds of northern New Hampshire. A few days ago, inside the shop, Mrs. Whitaker had found a friend who’d been to this state. The woman talked of cold, snowy winters and mountains unlike anything she had ever seen.