Read Online The House on Malcolm Street by Leisha Kelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leisha Kelly
Ads: Link
much appetite, but I hurried to finish the rest of what was on my plate, not wishing any of it to be wasted.
“Does your father still have his orchard?” Marigold persisted.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, then, I suppose it must be nearly harvest time there.”
“I suppose so.”
Of course it might occur to her that for me to go there and help with the harvest would seem like an ideal arrangement for my father and me both. But she said no more about it, perhaps realizing that I wasn’t going to open up very much on the subject. When she started to clean up a bit, I hurried to help and soon had breakfast dishes washed and the whole kitchen looking neat and tidy. Eliza was itching to get outside, and Marigold seemed to be too, though I wondered how she’d manage it. She seemed to be having trouble with her legs again this morning.
“Would you like me to carry a chair out for you?” I asked when she was ready.
She frowned. “How am I going to pick apples from a chair?”
“You can just sit and tell us what to do and we’ll do it. Or, if you like, we can carry the drops to you and you can sort or even start cutting some while we pick.”
“I certainly need to be cutting a few if I’m going to get pies made. Josiah knows it’s high time we had an apple pie, and I’m sure Mr. Abraham’s had his eye on them too.”
With my help, she gathered baskets, buckets, and boxes to hold the fruit we picked. Eliza thought we had an impossible number of containers, but I knew from experience that if Marigold had healthy trees, it might not be enough.
While carrying everything out to the backyard, it was impossible not to think of Father and his trees again. Marigold might think it shameful that I knew so little about his health or his harvest this year. She might think I should have gone to him after John died. She might even get around to suggesting it if things did not work out well here. But I couldn’t. There was no way. The last time I’d tried to talk to him, the only time I’d been to the farm since Mother’s death, he was so hateful, so horribly painful, that I’d left, never wanting to go back.
“Can we make applesauce and pie? An’ even cimmanum apple tarts?” Eliza asked, evidently remembering the fun we’d had when our good friend Anna had given us a bushel basket full of cooking apples last year.
“Cinnamon apple tarts, hmm?” Marigold asked. “That’s something I’ve never done. You’ll have to show me how.”
We set down the baskets and buckets beneath an old tree, rather small and misshapen but loaded with apples nonetheless. There would be plenty for tarts or anything else that Marigold wanted to make. The pear tree across the generous backyard, though taller, was not nearly so laden. But there would be plenty of those too.
“Do you want to just pick what’s hanging down in reach?” Marigold asked me. “Or are you comfortable enough with a ladder to get some of the high ones too?”
“I’ll pick whatever you want picked. A ladder won’t bother me a bit,” I promised. “As long as we give it level footing.”
“I should’ve had Josiah set it up for you. Do you think you can manage it? It’s in the shed over there.”
“Not a problem at all.”
Marigold smiled. “You’re a go-getter, aren’t you? I used to climb the ladder myself and do all of that. Might try it today, but – ”
“I can easily do it,” I stopped her. “There’s no need at all for you to.”
She nodded. “Then I suppose I might take the chair you offered. In a bit. I mean to take a load of weight off some of these low-hanging branches first.”
I wished I could caution her even about that. I was a little worried about her limp and the stability of her footing in the yard. If she were to fall, would I be able to get her up again? What if she broke something? Such fears were probably completely unfounded, and though I couldn’t quite shake them, I kept my mouth shut. Marigold struck me as an
“Does your father still have his orchard?” Marigold persisted.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, then, I suppose it must be nearly harvest time there.”
“I suppose so.”
Of course it might occur to her that for me to go there and help with the harvest would seem like an ideal arrangement for my father and me both. But she said no more about it, perhaps realizing that I wasn’t going to open up very much on the subject. When she started to clean up a bit, I hurried to help and soon had breakfast dishes washed and the whole kitchen looking neat and tidy. Eliza was itching to get outside, and Marigold seemed to be too, though I wondered how she’d manage it. She seemed to be having trouble with her legs again this morning.
“Would you like me to carry a chair out for you?” I asked when she was ready.
She frowned. “How am I going to pick apples from a chair?”
“You can just sit and tell us what to do and we’ll do it. Or, if you like, we can carry the drops to you and you can sort or even start cutting some while we pick.”
“I certainly need to be cutting a few if I’m going to get pies made. Josiah knows it’s high time we had an apple pie, and I’m sure Mr. Abraham’s had his eye on them too.”
With my help, she gathered baskets, buckets, and boxes to hold the fruit we picked. Eliza thought we had an impossible number of containers, but I knew from experience that if Marigold had healthy trees, it might not be enough.
While carrying everything out to the backyard, it was impossible not to think of Father and his trees again. Marigold might think it shameful that I knew so little about his health or his harvest this year. She might think I should have gone to him after John died. She might even get around to suggesting it if things did not work out well here. But I couldn’t. There was no way. The last time I’d tried to talk to him, the only time I’d been to the farm since Mother’s death, he was so hateful, so horribly painful, that I’d left, never wanting to go back.
“Can we make applesauce and pie? An’ even cimmanum apple tarts?” Eliza asked, evidently remembering the fun we’d had when our good friend Anna had given us a bushel basket full of cooking apples last year.
“Cinnamon apple tarts, hmm?” Marigold asked. “That’s something I’ve never done. You’ll have to show me how.”
We set down the baskets and buckets beneath an old tree, rather small and misshapen but loaded with apples nonetheless. There would be plenty for tarts or anything else that Marigold wanted to make. The pear tree across the generous backyard, though taller, was not nearly so laden. But there would be plenty of those too.
“Do you want to just pick what’s hanging down in reach?” Marigold asked me. “Or are you comfortable enough with a ladder to get some of the high ones too?”
“I’ll pick whatever you want picked. A ladder won’t bother me a bit,” I promised. “As long as we give it level footing.”
“I should’ve had Josiah set it up for you. Do you think you can manage it? It’s in the shed over there.”
“Not a problem at all.”
Marigold smiled. “You’re a go-getter, aren’t you? I used to climb the ladder myself and do all of that. Might try it today, but – ”
“I can easily do it,” I stopped her. “There’s no need at all for you to.”
She nodded. “Then I suppose I might take the chair you offered. In a bit. I mean to take a load of weight off some of these low-hanging branches first.”
I wished I could caution her even about that. I was a little worried about her limp and the stability of her footing in the yard. If she were to fall, would I be able to get her up again? What if she broke something? Such fears were probably completely unfounded, and though I couldn’t quite shake them, I kept my mouth shut. Marigold struck me as an
Similar Books
