Ruth Morren - Wild Rose

The thudding between Geneva’s temples drowned out their voices. She was sick and tired of hearing the captain gossiped about. It seemed she couldn’t come into the village anymore without hearing the accusations hashed and rehashed. Didn’t people have anything else to talk about?

“He had to pay for that big, fancy cottage on the Point,” Mrs. Webb reminded the others. “The old farmhouse wasn’t good enough for him. Oh, no. He had to tear that down. He probably ran short of money to pay for it all.”

Mr. Watson looked toward the women and gave a chuckle. “I hear Phelps Senior’s a mite close to the bark. I figure he kept young Phelps on a tight leash with his salary. The young captain probably got impatient, wantin’ to give that pretty Miss Harding all that money can buy. After all, he had to fight off her other suitors. She was the belle of Boston, I hear.”

Geneva told herself to turn around and march out of the store, but her feet seemed stuck to the floor with spruce gum.

Mrs. Webb tapped the counter with a large knuckled forefinger. “That doesn’t excuse what he did. If he was short on money, he should have gone straight to his father. What did he do with all the money he earned as a captain? Look at our own captains—they live well on their shares the rest of their lives.”

Mrs. Bidwell sniffed. “They don’t squander their wealth on extravagant living. I saw the wagon-loads on their way to the Point to build that grand summer cottage of his. Cap’n Caleb only bought the best for his place. No hand-split shakes for his roof. Only slate all the way from Wales. And the glass! Enough panes you’d think he was going to live in a greenhouse. Mahogany shipped in from Santo Domingo. And that’s not sayin’ a thing about his residence in Boston. He overreached himself, all right!”

“I hear he up and left everything in Boston.” Mrs. Webb snapped her fingers. “Just like that. If anything’s proof of guilt, it’s running. Now he’s buried himself up in that mausoleum. Thinkin’ he can hide himself here.” She sniffed. “We’re honest, God-fearing folk. He’ll find that out in short order.”

Mr. Watson nodded. “What I always say is, money’s the root of all evil.” He wrapped up the nails in brown paper. “That’ll be twelve cents,” he told Geneva, then turned back to the ladies. “You know how rich folks think they can be above the law, but things have a way of catchin’ up with ’em.” He gave a final nod of emphasis.

Geneva slapped her coins onto the counter. Mrs. Bidwell opened her mouth to speak. Before she could draw breath, Geneva turned to the three women, hands on her hips, her back straight, her eyes narrowed.

“Poor folks seem to think they’re above mindin’ their own business. Guess they’ve never heard gossipin’s a sin just like stealin’. Nor ’bout hittin’ a man when he’s down, even though he’s never done nothing to them. I seem to recall just a while back, nothing but praise for Cap’n Caleb. Now he’s tarred and feathered with your tongues when no one knows what really went on down there in Boston. Why, he’s never treated any one of us but kindly and fairly, even some that don’t deserve it!”

She glared at each one in turn. They stared at her, their jaws slack. These women probably hadn’t ever heard her say so much all of a piece. Deciding the sooner she was away from these old harpies the better, she turned back to Mr. Watson.

Stifling the urge to tell him to wipe the smirk off his face, she picked up the parcel of nails. “Good day to you!”

She shoved away from the counter. It was then she noticed the silence. Not one of the women had said a word, not even the outspoken Mrs. Bidwell. In fact, they weren’t even looking at her. Everyone was staring at the door.

Slowly Geneva turned. There, his dark form silhouetted against the sunshine of the open doorway, stood Caleb Phelps. She couldn’t make out his features, but she could feel his gaze on her, as intense as it had been that day last summer.

Hugging the parcel to her chest as if it might conceal the workings of her heart, Geneva took a step forward, then another. The pounding of her heart was so loud, he must surely see the bib of her overalls flapping up and down clear across the store. She kept on marching until she reached the captain’s looming figure. She’d forgotten how tall he was, a good head above her, and she was as tall as several men of her acquaintance.

He moved aside just as she approached and tipped his hat to her as she passed. Touching her own hat briefly at the brim, she lunged through the doorway into the sunshine. She took the steps down two at a time, her boots clattering on the rickety wooden planks.

Why was it that every time she ran into the captain, she felt compelled to flee afterward, as if she were guilty of something?

Caleb Phelps turned toward the banging screen door, the only sound in the small village store. He watched the long strides of the overalled figure taking her rapidly away from the store and toward the wharf.

Only her voice gave her away as a woman.

In the couple of weeks he’d been back to Haven’s End, he’d felt a distinct chill every time he was in the presence of the villagers.

Funny how quickly bad news traveled. He had thought he’d become inured to suspicious looks—or worse, those self-righteous, smug expressions that said more clearly than words, Well, he got his just deserts! He’d certainly endured enough of them in Boston.

Somehow he’d thought this little village where he was scarcely known, but where he’d always had pleasant if superficial dealings with the residents, would welcome him differently.

The woman’s harsh words to the villagers rang in his ears. She’d expressed more clearly than he ever could exactly what he’d felt.

Strange, how belief in one’s integrity could come from the strangest quarters. What did she know of him or of events in Boston?

From her yard farther up the road from Ferguson Point, through the thin screen of hackmatack trees, Geneva watched her new neighbor with a frown. Ever since Captain Caleb had begun to turn the soil in a portion of his yard, she’d started to worry. When it became clear he was making a garden, her concern deepened. As she hoed her own young plants, she fretted that her neighbor wouldn’t have the same success, not knowing the land in these parts.

“If I was plantin’ a garden on the Point,” she told her black Labrador, Jake, “I’d make it on the other side. For one thing, it’d get sun there the whole day. I remember Pa telling me there used to be a chicken yard nearby, so the soil’ll be rich over yonder.”

She banged her buckets together. “Ain’t none o’ my business what he does. Even if nothin’ comes up, he won’t go hungry. Isn’t as if he depends on his garden to live, like most of us.”

But no matter how much she debated with Jake over the next few days, Geneva couldn’t help observing Captain Caleb each time she went outside. And the longer she watched him bent over his fork, the more she itched to offer her advice. He had helped her out of a mess once. She told herself she owed it to him.

Finally, making up her mind, she threw down the pump handle. “No, you stay here,” she told Jake. “Don’t need you scarin’ him before I can get a word out.” She wiped her hands down the sides of her trousers and headed for the dirt road. When she saw Jake at her heels, she stopped once again and shook a finger at him. “Now, do I have to chain you up, or are you going to obey?”

The dog whined, but after another stern look from Geneva, he stayed put. Her tone softened. “That’s a good fellow. I knew I could count on you.”

She walked down the sloping dirt road to the end of Ferguson Point, where a gate stood. The newly erected barrier, the lumber still raw and unpainted, matched the house beyond it. Together, house and gated fence stood out like intruders against the familiar landmarks of the Point. Geneva’s gaze swept the vista before her, never tiring of it. She’d always thought this the best location in all Haven’s End.