April would marry someday, and not far off, if Datha guessed right. April was bound to hook a man soon, pretty as she was. Chances were it’d be that Henry Trampas Long, the handsome, no-good swain she’d had a crush on lately.
Riley had never liked the young scamp, and he would be having a fit if he knew April was interested in Henry. It wasn’t Datha’s place to say anything, but rumor had it that April was seeing Henry more than socially.
Of course, Mr. Ogden was blind as a post when it came to April. Anytime Henry’s name was mentioned, he’d change the subject, saying he had better things to talk about. Datha didn’t have any trouble seeing that Miss April had a powerful crush on Henry Trampas Long, so why couldn’t her grandfather?
The gossip mill predicted that Henry would be asking her to marry him soon; then he’d whisk her off to some high-falutin city, and they wouldn’t see much of her after that.
Datha could either take Henry or leave him. He was too smooth for her liking, but she could see why April would be caught up by his youthful good looks. Words poured out of him like honey, words that sounded nice but didn’t make a whole lot of sense.
But Datha knew her place, and she kept it. If April wanted to waste her life on the likes of Henry Long, it was hers to waste. Datha only worried for Mr. Ogden’s sake. What with his heart acting up, she sure didn’t want him finding out that April was selling Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound with Henry Long. Law sakes, it would be like waking up a nest of snakes, and no one wanted to do that. Certainly not Datha.
Humming to herself, she dusted around a lamp.
When she heard April coming in the front door, she hurriedly stuffed the dust rag in her pocket and called out, “Supper’ll be on the table in ten minutes, April girl.”
“Thanks, Datha. I’ll tell Grandpa.”
The cloying scent of gladioli permeated the air as April passed the open parlor doors. Clarence Deeds was laid out in his best blue suit, awaiting services in the morning.
It was sure to be a big funeral.
Clarence had been town mayor, and friends and business associates from neighboring communities would turn out in droves to pay their final respects.
Proceeding to the side porch, she found Riley sitting in his rocking chair, staring off into space. He’d been sitting like that when she left the house early this morning, and she was starting to get concerned. It wasn’t like him to just sit and stare at nothing.
“Grandpa?” When he didn’t respond, she pushed open the screen door. “Are you all right?”
“Right enough,” he said.
“Supper’s ready.”
Riley got slowly to his feet and followed April to the dining room table, which was set with fresh flowers and white china. Taking his place at the head, he reached for the butter, silent as a mouse.
Shaking out her napkin, April noticed his hand was trembling as he buttered a piece of cornbread. Perusing his pale features, she frowned. He hadn’t had a spell with his heart for weeks now. Was he ill again and not telling her?
Picking up a dish of Datha’s watermelon pickles, she offered it to him. “You’re awfully quiet today. Don’t you feel well?”
He was bad about not telling her when he felt poorly, thinking to spare her unnecessary worry. But she worried anyway. Grandpa wasn’t young anymore, though the way he worked like a harvest hand around the mortuary, lifting bodies and moving heavy pine caskets, you’d never guess it.
“I feel fine, thank you.” Riley’s face flushed with color as he snapped open his napkin.
“You look odd. Is the heat bothering you?”
It was insufferably hot for fall. Muggy, as if a storm was waiting just off the coast. A good rain to settle the dust and cool dispositions would be appreciated.
“Nothing wrong that a little dinner won’t take care of. Pass the preserves, please.”
They waited in silence for Datha to bring the main course.
“Clarence looks nice. I’m sure Edith is pleased.”
“Hmm,” Riley muttered, taking a sip of coffee.
Datha carried in a large platter of roast beef, boiled potatoes and carrots. Dishes of cooked cabbage, brown beans, plump ears of corn, festive red beets and thick brown gravy followed.
April’s distraught gaze swept the heavily laden table and she sighed. Datha cooked enough to feed an army of foot soldiers, but April had given up complaining. It didn’t matter what she said. Having learned at her grandmother’s side, Datha couldn’t seem to cook meals for fewer than twelve people.
Now the two of them just let her cook to her heart’s content, resigned to share leftovers with neighboring shutins.
Serving herself potatoes and meat, April smiled. “This looks delicious.”
“Thank you, April girl.” Smiling back, Datha returned to the kitchen.
The two of them ate in silence, until Riley suddenly cleared his throat and laid the butter knife aside.
April, knowing some kind of pronouncement was forthcoming, put down her fork.
“April Delane, I’ve mulled this over all afternoon.”
Her pulse jumped. Grandpa never used her middle name unless he was upset with her. By the thundercloud forming on his face, he was more than upset. He was furious….
Oh, no! He knew she was working with Lydia Pinkham. Someone—some blabbermouth doctor—had told him! Dr. Fuller had recognized her, after all!
Dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin, she steeled herself. Riley Ogden was a patient man, but when he was angry, he was just like Great-grandfather Owen. Impossible to reason with.
Managing to keep her tone light, she asked, “Is something wrong?”
“April.” Riley’s voice held a rare hint of authority as his faded blue eyes pinned her to the chair.
Swallowing, she feigned unusual interest in the bowl of potatoes. “Yes, Grandpa?”
“Young lady, you’re old enough to do what you want, but how can you think of selling that Pinkham woman’s poison?”
April’s knife clattered to her plate. “Who told you?”
“Never mind who told me!”
“I know who it was! That snoopy doctor told you, didn’t he! That interfering, sanctimonious—”
“Never mind who told me!” Riley thundered. “Doctoring’s best left to doctors! No silly brew concocted by that Pinkham woman is going to fix women’s ills. No vegetable compound is going to cure what ails them. People get sick and die, April. Living in a mortuary, you should know this. Mrs. Grimes died in childbirth. Mrs. Wazinski from influenza. Bertha Dickens from a burst appendix. Why, I’ve buried a half dozen women just this year—”
“Not from taking the compound!” April interrupted. “And if Ginny Grimes, Mary Wazinski and Bertha Dickens hadn’t listened to some overzealous doctor, but tried to find other ways to treat their problems, they just might be alive today!”
“Hogwash! Not one of those women died from a doctor’s neglect!” Riley’s face was as red as the bowl of beets he was holding. “Young lady, you are to resign from the Pinkham ‘circus’ first thing tomorrow morning! Do you hear me?”
“Grandpa—”
“Tomorrow morning, April Delane!” A vein in his temple throbbed.
She knew better than to argue with him; it would be like barking at a knothole.