Chapter One Emily Drake looked admiringly at the even rows of hand-dipped chocolates. With Christmas less than a fortnight away, she had put in a hectic week, working ten and twelve hours a day. Oregon's Finest Chocolates was a popular gift item. Not that she'd be receiving any candy from a suitor. At twenty-four, she had become resigned to the title of "Spinster." She supposed she'd still be dipping chocolates when she turned fifty. Kate caught her attention from the next table. Smiling, she popped a small imperfect chocolate into her mouth and raised a finger to her red lips. "Sh-h-h," she whispered, her dark eyes flashing. "Don't tell now." Laughing, Emily took a lopsided one from her row and bit into it. Maple creme. Her favorite. It was okay to eat an occasional chocolate, but she usually didn't. Working at the factory full-time took away any desire for the sweet confections. Kate wiped her hands on her apron. "There goes a pound." Kate had a buxom figure, which she constantly lamented about. "When I think of all the dresses in my closet I can't wear--I shudder. Look at you--slender as a stick--just as I used to be. I'm truly envious." Emily's face reddened as it always did whenever she received a compliment. She never quite knew how to respond. Perhaps it was because she received so few. But getting acquainted with Kate these past two months had changed all that. Kate was fun. Daring. Talkative. And beautiful. Emily found herself eager to come to work, eager for each day to start, wishing she could be half as daring, half as beautiful. "Are you sure you've never been married?" Kate had asked the day after they met. She stood at the production line next to Emily. Emily had been assigned to oversee her, making sure she dipped the chocolates just right. The fondant or caramel had to be completely covered, yet too much chocolate was a waste. "I--" Emily hesitated, "have never had anyone come calling." Kate's mouth opened in surprise. "I hardly believe that. You're attractive, even if you are shy." Shy. The stock boy had said that about her when she turned down his offer to go for a buggy ride back when she first came to work here. That was in 1899. It was now December of 1907 and nobody had asked to come calling since. She rarely explained why she didn't date, the real reason being she couldn't see anyone who didn't belong to the Friends Church. Not that she couldn't, but that she wished not to. There was a difference. It was also her beliefs that kept her from going to dances though Kate had asked her twice now. "Some day I hope to have a family," Emily said, pausing to look at her row of chocolates. Kate rolled her eyes. "You have to get married first. And before you get married you are courted. There's another dance next Saturday at the Grange Hall. Why not go with me?" Emily sighed as she dipped another mound of fondant. "I can't. I explained that already." "This isn't just any old dance," Kate said. "They have food and toe tapping fiddle music. The people are friendly, and this one man--his name is Ben Galloway--is so handsome and probably the best dancer I've ever seen." "The Religious Society of Friends doesn't believe in any kind of dancing," Emily explained. "It's worldly and we do not partake of worldly ventures." "Well, my goodness. Isn't that something! Quite frankly I can't imagine not being able to dance," Kate went on. "It's a good way to meet people." "If you like this--this Ben so much, maybe you'll get married again," Emily said. She knew Kate was lonely. Being widowed at nineteen had been difficult. It was that loneliness that made her leave the farm in Cottage Grove and move to Portland. She didn't talk much about that period of her life, not even when Emily asked questions. "Ben's not my type," Kate said. "We're too much alike." Emily stared at her friend. How did one know if a man was her type or not? The concept sounded strange to her. But, then, she didn't think like Kate, nor did she dress like her. Kate wore her dark hair in tight curls that made her hair net spring to life. Emily's hair, neither brown nor black, was dull. Straight. Her mouth was too wide for her face, her nose small. Her eyes, the color of Persian violets, were her best asset. Not that she should be thinking about such things. Hadn't Grandmother said that beauty didn't count? "It's what's inside that matters, Emily." Well, if it's what's inside, I guess that needs some changing, too , she thought now as she heard Kate exclaiming about the polka, her favorite dance. "About the dance ..." Kate was also persistent. "Maybe I will go. Just once, mind you." Once said, Emily couldn't believe the words had come from her mouth. Why had she agreed? How could she even consider it? The Friends would newer understand. And how could she begin to explain what prompted her affirmative response? Besides, she didn't have the sort of attire suitable to wear to a dance, Her wardrobe consisted of two dresses: the simple gray cotton she wore to church (it was plain; definitely not a dancing frock), and the brown muslin, her everyday dress. Faded and worn at the seams, it looked like what it was: a work dress. And if that wasn't enough reason, she didn't have the slightest idea of how one danced. "Oh, Emily, I'm so glad!" Kate bounded over, hugging Emily hard. "You'll have ever such a nice time!" A smudge of chocolate ran across one cheek still pink from rouge. Rouge and lip coloring was something else Emily didn't use. Another reason for not going to such social functions as dances. "I just finished my last chocolate," Emily said, removing her soiled apron. "Me, too," Kate added. "I must rush home. Grandmother likes to serve supper at six." A sinking sensation hit the pit of her stomach. How could she possibly get permission from her grandparents? If she mentioned the word "dance" they would first pray, then preach at her for hours. "You always rush home," Kate said. It was true. But there were chores to do. Wood to chop and bring in for the night's fire. Water to fetch, the chickens and rabbits to feed. Kate retrieved her wraps from the cloakroom hook. Her blue-flowered dress flounced as she walked. She wore several crinolines, even to work. Emily wondered how she would look at a dance, a dress-up occasion. "I can hardly wait for you to meet Ben. I have this inner feeling that he's right for you." That was something else. Inner feelings. Didn't Kate realize that God put those feelings inside a person? It wasn't luck or happenstance. When you believed, you stood ready for His guidance and direction, what Friends called "inner light." She moved past Kate. "I doubt that this Ben is a man of God. And that's important as the Bible teaches that a believer cannot be unequally yoked--" "I didn't say you were going to marry him," Kate interjected. Emily buttoned her threadbare coat, then reached for her hat. "Just the same, the possibility exists whenever you keep company with someone that this might be the one." Only, if only she had heeded those words. If only she had listened to her convictions. "We can't all go to the same church, believe the same things," Kate said then. "Maybe he believes in God. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt?" "Sorry." Emily waved her hand in dismissal. "Are you like those Quakers who pray in silence all day?" Kate, all five-feet, nine-inches, stood in the doorway. Emily tied the strings of her brown woolen bonnet and reached for her gloves. "When George Fox, our founder, said: `We tremble at the word of the Lord,' people started calling us Quakers, but we prefer the name Friends ." Emily had heard the story countless times, and it always amused her. "Come to meeting sometime, Kate. See what it's like for yourself. I play piano for the services." Kate hugged Emily again, knocking the hat askew. They both laughed. It was one thing Emily liked about Kate. She was loving and kind. You could get into discussions and even though she didn't agree, she never became angry, never judged. She was the best friend Emily had ever had--the only friend. Emily knew she shouldn't bargain, but couldn't resist this one time. "Would you consider going to meeting with me? We could sit together and--" "Write notes." "Write notes?" Kate laughed. "I'm teasing. I meant if the sermon got tiresome I might write or doodle." Emily couldn't promise that it wouldn't be tiresome. When one wasn't familiar with the teachings of the Bible, or not used to praying, she supposed it could be tiresome. "Of course I'll go, if only to hear you play." It was settled then. Emily would go to the next dance on Saturday night, and Kate would attend meeting the following morning. Kate headed west to catch the streetcar, while Emily caught the one heading east. While Kate's stopped at the corner next to her house, Emily had several blocks to walk since the tracks didn't go that far. Emily could hardly believe Kate had agreed to accompany her to meeting. She had asked before, only to have Kate scoff, saying she didn't need any church telling her how to live, or what to wear. Kate wouldn't want to give up her brightly colored dresses, the lip color and rouge, the rings or perfume. Yet if she understood the reasons, it might make a difference. Though Kate seemed happy, there was a restlessness about her, and Emily knew she needed God in her life. He could heal all hurts--big ones and little ones 'alike. As Emily hurried the half-mile walk home, the evening air nipped at her cheeks. Winter would soon be here and with it came rain, winds out of the east, and sometimes snow. She needed a new coat, but doubted that there would be enough money for one this year. She thought again about dancing, what it must be like to dance with a man, to feel one's arms around you. Would she ever know love? Was there someone in her future? Or would she be like the Ditler Sisters who owned and operated the Dry Goods Store on Foster Road? It was where her grandmother bought material for their dresses. Always brown, gray, and black. Never red, pink, or blue as Kate wore. She didn't want to remain a spinster, but if that was what God had in mind for her, so be it. "Thee is late," Beulah said when Emily came in through the back door, bringing a gust of wind. "I've been holding supper." Emily shrugged out of her coat. Both grandparents often slipped into the old way of talking, referring to her as "thee," and saying "thou" and "thine." Emily rarely used the terms now. It was warm inside, and the lamp on the sideboard was lit, casting shadows across the kitchen. The smell of fried potatoes and freshly baked bread made her stomach tighten. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. "We stayed to finish an order that came in this morning. Mr. Roberts said it would be extremely busy for the next week." "More money in thy check then." Beulah, a formidable woman with wide shoulders and gray hair pulled back into a severe bun, regarded her granddaughter. "Not that there will be enough for Christmas presents, however." Yes, more money, which Emily never saw. She turned her earnings over to her grandparents as that was expected of her. Though most of her money was set aside "for a rainy day," as Grandmother put it, she often wondered what might happen to them if she were to marry and move out. Before she had been old enough to work, Grandfather had farmed the land, but as his rheumatism worsened, he planted less and only recently had sold several parcels of land, banking the proceeds. Now all that remained was the lot the house sat on, and a partial acre. "Fetch the water, then we can eat," her grandmother said. Emily grabbed the bucket off the counter and hurried back outside. The water was crystal clear. Cold. She looked at the clumps of green grass poking through mounds of dried, brown maple leaves. The zinnias she'd planted earlier that spring were mere straggly stems with drooping heads. She'd plant more next year. And the year after that. Douglas fir dotted the landscape, giving protection against the bitter east wind. It was this rugged Oregon country her great-grandparents had moved to from Missouri back in the mid-1800s. How she wished she could have known them. Were they as stern as Grandmother Drake? As quiet and deep-thinking as Grandfather? Would they have given up one of their daughters, sending her from California to live with grandparents? She blinked back sudden tears, as she carried the full bucket up the path toward the house. No sense in dwelling on things from the past. The dinner didn't quite fill the empty space inside, but Grandfather cleared his throat, saying his usual litany, "'Tis better to leave the table a little hungry then too full." The teakettle hummed on the stove. After washing the supper dishes, Emily worked on her quilt squares, sitting close to the kerosene lamp so she could see better. Grandfather might request she play some of his favorite hymns on the old pump organ, followed by a chapter or two from the Bible. Then it would be time to slip up the attic stairs to bed. "Is something troubling thee, child?" Grandfather asked after Emily had played his favorite, "Count Your Blessings." Emily wasn't a child anymore. Would her grandparents ever see her or think of her as a woman? Yet she wouldn't correct her grandfather. He was old and set in his ways. He was also growing deaf. She wanted to run to him, question him about the dance, ask if he had ever once danced, but she didn't dare. She couldn't risk the anger, the accusations from Grandmother. She would never understand. Never. "I am fine, Grandfather. Just a bit tired, I guess." "It's nearly bedtime," Grandmother said from her corner where she rocked the evening hours away. "Thee can read one chapter of the Bible, then go up." Emily's fingers touched the pages of the big book. She was reading Isaiah now and it tied in with the Christmas story. "`For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace'" (Isaiah 9:6). "Bless Thy word, bless Thy holy name," Grandfather said as Emily closed the book. She sat thinking about the Christmas story. She never tired of hearing it, and it warmed her heart as she thought about the promise of the coming Messiah, and how the Jews didn't believe that this precious infant was Jesus. Since they didn't believe that, they didn't believe in salvation, and Emily thought that was sad. Emily bade her grandparents good night and headed for the stairway. Holding the lamp in one hand, lifting her skirts with the other, she climbed the steep attic steps. She was tired, but there would be time to pray, to write. As the house settled to a quietness, Emily stared at the soft, steady glow of the lamp. It was wasteful to use the kerosene, but she must write in the diary. It was one of her few pleasures--something only she knew about. Something Grandmother could not be critical about. Emily closed her eyes and thought of the dance. Even if it was a little more than a week away, she couldn't get it out of her mind. She uncapped the bottle of India ink and dipped the pen. Mama . Emily always addressed the small leather-bound book in that way. It was as if she was talking to her mother, and in turn her mother answering her. It wouldn't make sense to anyone else, and that's why it was a closely guarded secret. I've been invited to a dance. I know I shouldn't have accepted, but something inside me said yes, do it. Just this once. I want to see Kate dance, Mama. I want to hear the music. Is that so terribly wrong? Did you ever attend a dance? I also want to see this Ben Galloway Kate talks about. Now, that's wrong. I know it is, and yet something is propelling me on.... Oh, what is to become of me? Emily wiped the nib clean and capped the ink bottle. Shivering, she blew out the light, burrowing under the heavy quilts on the four-poster bed. No heat came up the stairs, and as the wind howled outside, rattling the window, Emily was glad she'd read Scripture downstairs in front of the fire. After warming up just a bit, she flung the quilts back and kneeled on the small rag rug beside her bed--the rug she'd braided from old quilt scraps. She'd been twelve that year. She folded her hands and prayed. "Forgive me my transgressions, O God. Let me be ever mindful that as Your child I must do what is right to bring glory to Your name. Amen." It was a long time before Emily could shake the dance from her mind, and it wasn't until she'd made the decision not to go that she felt better. She would explain to Kate that it was wrong to put desires of the flesh before godly things. It couldn't be helped, but she must decline. They could still be friends at work, couldn't they? Kate would have to understand. Copyright © 1997 Barbour Publishing, Inc.. All rights reserved.
