The small restaurant in Flying Squirrel was the perfect place for the brides to meet up for a visit. It was decorated nicely, almost as though it had ladies’ luncheons in mind, and Violet settled into her seat comfortably.
Adele had more adventures to share of her life with Liam, and Violet listened politely. She’d have to let go of her immediate dislike of the man at some point, but she wasn’t quite ready yet. Perhaps once the beaver situation had been resolved, she would, but for now, knowing that he was the ringleader, so to speak, she would just keep her mouth shut and not say more. The pie she was eating was quite delicious, and she could concentrate on that.
Ethel, the proprietor of the restaurant, came over and refilled their teacups, then asked if they’d heard about the fair and pie baking contest that was being held that Saturday.
“Mrs. Dandy mentioned a pie contest, but I didn’t know there was a whole fair,” Violet replied. That sounded like fun—she wondered if all the Mounties would be able to go, or if they’d be on duty.
“It’s the event of the season,” Ethel went on. “The Mounties judge the pie contest, and there are games and quilt displays and all sorts of things. And that night, there’s a dance. It’s the perfect chance to meet the other families in the community.”
“And to dance with your new husbands,” Miss Hazel added, and the women all laughed.
“You have to stay that long, Miss Hazel. Your pie would win for sure,” Adele told her.
Miss Hazel seemed pleased by the suggestion, and even agreed to teach Adele how to make a pie of her own so she could enter. Poor Adele wasn’t very adept at such things, but Violet couldn’t hold it against her—she hadn’t known how to cook meat until Miss Hazel came along. It seemed that good woman would be saving each of the brides from their weaknesses in one way or another. “Me too?” Violet asked. She could use a pointer on her crust—it was tasty, but never quite as flaky as she liked.
“Won’t it be fun to see if our husbands can guess which pie is ours?” Caitlyn suggested.
It would be tricky, practicing for the contest without Richard noticing. How would she go about it? She didn’t want the practice pies to go to waste, but she couldn’t feed them to him or he’d know right off the bat which was hers on judging day, and that wouldn’t be fair to the other girls. She’d have to figure something out.
She and the other brides finished up their visit, and as she walked home, her brain was churning. Ideas … ideas … Hmm. Maybe. She stopped in at the mercantile and waited a moment until Mrs. Dandy was free.
“I wonder something, Mrs. Dandy,” she said, glancing around to make sure she wasn’t being overheard. “I’m reasonably good at making pie, but I want to practice a few times before Saturday. I don’t want Richard to see what my pies look like because we’ve decided we want to put our husbands to the test and see if they can correctly identify the ones we made, so . . . I need to get rid of my practice pies in some way. Are there any families in need who could use such a thing?”
“You’d just give away your hard work like that?” Mrs. Dandy asked.
“I can’t keep them, and it seems like the best thing to do,” Violet explained.
“Well, aren’t you sweet for thinking of it! Yes, there’s a family who lives on the west edge of town. She’s Inuit, and he’s from Toronto. He was out here on a hunting trip, fell in love with her, and they were basically rejected by both families for mixing their cultures. They’ve struggled some since, and I think a hand of kindness would go a long way. Their last name is Tremblay.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Dandy. They sound perfect.” Violet couldn’t wait to go meet this couple. Could anything be more romantic—falling in love, but having to fight every bit of conventional wisdom to stay together? It made her own situation seem much less dramatic than it had a week before, and much easier to overcome as well. She’d already won her husband’s approval—now all that was left was to win his love, and if the glances she’d been noticing were any indication, that wasn’t out of the question. She felt that perhaps her situation was really a blessing in disguise. If the society of Ottawa hadn’t turned on her, she never would have met Richard Murray, and that would have been a shame.
***
Richard had to go a little bit out of his way to find some fireweed for Violet’s vase, but it was well worth it. He’d promised to bring her flowers on a regular basis, and her wedding bouquet was looking a bit worse for wear. It was time to replace it with something fresh. Ever since he’d kissed Violet’s cheek, he’d been thinking about giving her a good and proper kiss, and he hoped that showing up with flowers would help set the tone. He had to choose the right moment, though—their friendship was still delicately balanced, and he didn’t want to push the issue and cause that balance to topple.
Violet met him practically at the door. “I’m making a pie for the contest on Saturday,” she told him, “and I’m going to take the practice pies to the Tremblays.”
“All right,” Richard replied, a little surprised at this greeting. He’d expected a “Hello” or something. “And these are for you.” He held up the vase of fireweed, and she took it eagerly.
“They’re so pretty, and thank you for the vase!”
“I told you I’d get one. Now we can have a real flower arrangement on our table.” He picked up the jar that held her wilted bouquet and walked over to the front door, opening it and tossing the flowers outside. Then he put the jar next to the wash basin. “Now, what was that about pie?”
“The Mounties’ wives are all going to enter, and you’ll have to tell me which pie you think is mine. You aren’t allowed to peek, so I’m going to hide all my efforts, and you won’t have any sort of advance warning. I think it’s only fair that way, don’t you?”
“I do. And we must be fair about the fair.”
She furrowed her brow. “What?”
“The fair. On Saturday. Where the contest is being held. We need to be fair about it.”
She rolled her eyes. “That was a dreadful pun, and I’m going to ignore it. Also, I ordered a book through Mrs. Dandy about the flora and fauna of the Northwest Territories.”
“That’s a good idea.” He paused. “So, about this pie. If I’m not allowed to see any until after the contest . . . that means no pie for me until Saturday.”
“That’s right.”
“But now I’m hungry for pie. I wasn’t even thinking about it before, but now I can’t get it out of my head.”
She laughed. “Saturday’s not that far away, and I actually made you a cake this afternoon.”
“You did? You’re the best wife I’ve ever had!”
Her eyes narrowed. “Aren’t I the only wife you’ve ever had?”
“Yes! So it wasn’t a hard contest . . . but you still win.” He grinned, loving their easy banter. “I’m going to wash up.”
As he combed his hair, he studied himself in the mirror. If he were a young lady, would he kiss that face? Hmm. He didn’t know—he wasn’t a young lady, and he didn’t know what they would consider attractive. He’d been told often enough that he was handsome, but that was often by friends of his mother’s, older women who were hoping to match him up with their daughters or granddaughters, and he wasn’t sure if their opinions should be entirely trusted. He supposed the best thing to do was to see how Violet herself felt about it.
She was bustling around the kitchen, stirring something on the stove and then adding a little pepper, when he came back in and sat down. He found himself nervous. Kissing a girl was nerve-racking, but kissing one’s own wife? Shouldn’t that be more natural and intuitive?
She carried a skillet of sausage and potatoes over to the table and set it down on a plate she was using as a trivet. He made a mental note to get an actual trivet for the table. It wasn’t the most romantic gift, but it would be useful. She slid into her chair and smiled at him brightly. “Grace?”
Yes, she was graceful. He hadn’t pinpointed that trait as of yet, but now as he watched her, even the way she moved her hands was fluid, almost as if she was dancing.
“Richard?”
“Yes?” he replied, blinking.
“Are you going to say grace?”
“Oh. That’s what you meant. Yes, of course.” He bowed his head, knowing his ears were pink. He needed to pay better attention—he couldn’t keep mooning like this if he wanted the evening to go well.
When he ended the prayer, he saw that she was looking at him strangely. “What did you think I meant?” she asked.
“Um . . . I just didn’t hear what you said properly.” He scooped a serving of the potatoes and sausage onto his plate, hoping she’d be willing to change the subject. He didn’t want to explain himself any further—it was embarrassing.
The meal was delicious, as was the cake, and Richard leaned back, utterly content. A pretty wife, a delicious meal, a cozy home, a satisfying career—he really didn’t know what else he could ask for.
Well, he did know, and he figured now was as good a time as any.
He stood up from the table. Her back was to him as she organized the dishes to be washed, and he thought he could come up beside her, thank her for dinner, and give her a nice kiss. That was a simple plan, yet it would be effective. It would break the ice, and might even lead to two kisses the following day.
He stepped up beside her. “Violet?”
She turned quickly, holding the skillet, and dumped drippings all down his front. “Oh!” she gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry! You startled me, and I wasn’t careful, and . . .”
Richard looked down at his shirt, then back up at her, and started to laugh. “At least it’s not hot,” he said, grabbing a dish towel and trying to sponge off the mess.
“And I was planning to do laundry tomorrow,” she added. “You had everything nicely done when I got here, so I didn’t need to do it before, but now I do, and . . . I’ll wash your shirt. I promise.”
She looked so upset and forlorn, Richard couldn’t help it. It wasn’t the way he’d envisioned it, but he leaned forward and gave her a kiss, careful not to let his shirt touch her. It was the softest, most tender kiss he’d ever experienced, and it set his senses reeling. When he stepped back, she looked up into his eyes, wonder on her face.
“What did you need?” she asked.
“What?”
“When you came over here and said my name. What did you need?”
“I wanted to kiss you.”
She smiled. “It looks like you got your wish.”
He smiled back. “Yes, I believe I did.”
***
“And I don’t know how to get grease out of a shirt,” Violet finished, looking across her table at Miss Hazel, who had come for a visit and found Violet all flustered.
Miss Hazel chuckled. “But you did get a nice kiss out of the bargain.”
“Yes, I did, and I wouldn’t mind it happening again, but that doesn’t tell me how to fix his shirt!”
Miss Hazel reached across the table and patted her hand. “It’s simple, my dear. Coat it with soap, let it sit while you wash the other clothes, and then give it a scrubbing. If the grease doesn’t come out, throw it away and get him a new shirt.”
Violet blinked. “Throw it away? But isn’t that wasteful?”
“I’m going to tell you a secret. A man who enjoys giving his pretty wife a kiss won’t mind if she has to replace a shirt once in a while. It’s a small price to pay for marital happiness.”
Violet’s cheeks felt warm. When she thought back on it, it really had been a nice kiss, and she supposed that she didn’t need to feel as guilty as she’d been making herself feel. At the same time, though, she knew he didn’t have much income. Maybe she could buy the shirt with some of the money she’d brought with her and give it to him as a gift.
“I see that you’re coming around to my way of thinking,” Miss Hazel said. “You’re not looking so much like a scared rabbit.”
“I’ll try the soap and scrubbing, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll get him a new shirt,” Violet replied. “I just hope you’re right.”
Miss Hazel gave her a look. “I’m not correct about everything all the time, but I’m almost shockingly right about the other things,” she said. “Matters of the heart? They’re so much easier than people make them out to be. Now, stop your fretting and get to work. It’s not the end of the world, and trust me, you’re not going to break his budget. You’re far too sensible for that.” She rose from the table and gave Violet a hug. “Thank you for the tea and cake, my dear. I enjoyed our visit very much.”
“What are we going to do without you, Miss Hazel?” It was the question that the brides couldn’t stop asking. She’d done so much for them.
The older woman smiled. “You’ll find your way as God intends. You’ll be fine.”
Violet certainly hoped so—she didn’t feel capable of much of anything at the moment.
After Miss Hazel left, Violet put a pie in the oven, then set to work on the laundry. There wasn’t a great deal, but she wanted to stay on top of things and not let them pile up—in addition to needing to wash Richard’s shirt. She rubbed the stains with soap and let the shirt soak while she washed the other things, then took the pie out of the oven. It looked perfect, but she wasn’t going to rest on her laurels. She would taste it, see what she thought, and then make a decision.
While the pie cooled, she attacked the shirt, scrubbing it for all she was worth. Her forehead broke out into a sweat, and she wiped her face with her forearm. She would give this her best effort—no one would be able to say she did less. After it was rinsed and wrung out, she hung it with the other clothes, knowing she wouldn’t be able to tell if it was truly clean until it was dry.
She washed her face and re-pinned her hair, which had come loose and was flying around, making her look like a crazy woman, and then she sampled a taste of pie. Hmm—she had done an apple/peach filling, and she thought it could use just a tiny bit more ginger. She’d try that next. First, though, she’d been working hard and she could use a break—she’d walk over to visit the Tremblay family and take them some pie.
She looked down at the tin and gasped. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She couldn’t give away a practice pie – it had a piece cut out of it! She could never give away a pie with a piece missing! She sat down at the table and rested her head on her hand. She needed to calm down. She’d been buzzing around in a tizzy all day, not knowing whether she was coming or going, and she was flustered. She took a few deep breaths and told herself to slow down and think reasonably.
All right—the pie. She would let it cool completely so the apples and peaches were set in their sugary juices, and then she’d cut slices and set them on a plate. That would hide the fact that there was a piece missing, and since it was just a small piece—a sliver, really—she’d still be able to cut eight proper pie wedges without raising any eyebrows. That problem was now solved. The shirt—well, she’d done what she could, and now it was up to the sun to dry the shirt and reveal her answer.
She stood up, got herself a glass of water, and decided to stop being so dramatic. As soon as the pie was cool enough, she sliced it, arranged it on a plate, and covered it with a clean dish towel, then began her walk to the Tremblays’ house. She only had a vague idea of where it was, so she asked a man she passed on the street.
He raised an eyebrow and looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “What you be wanting them for?”
“I’m just paying a visit,” she replied, wondering at his reaction. She had a right to go visiting, didn’t she?
He shook his head. “If you be wanting to do that to yourself.” He turned and pointed, telling her to go straight and then take the right fork in the path and follow the log fence to the end.
“Thank you,” she called out as he strode away, obviously eager to distance himself from this odd woman who wandered around town with plates of food, asking directions of strangers.
She followed the right fork in the path and walked along the log fence, noticing that the trees were growing thicker and thicker the farther she walked. It almost felt like they were leaning in toward her, although she knew that was silly. The tops filtered the rays of sun, creating some pleasant shade and coolness. Maybe this was the way to experience darkness in the Northwest Territories—build a house in the forest where it’s naturally darker to begin with.
After she’d been walking for what felt like an eternity, she saw a small cabin up ahead. She didn’t know what the proper protocol would be, so she called out, thinking to give the Tremblays fair warning that she was approaching.
“Hello? Is anyone home?”
There wasn’t an answer, and the place seemed still. She wasn’t about to be discouraged, though. She’d come quite a way, and she wasn’t leaving until she knew for sure they weren’t there. She walked up to the front door and knocked. “Hello? My name is Violet Murray, and I’ve brought you some pie.”
The door opened a crack, and a dark-haired woman peered out. “Why are you here?”
Violet held up the plate. “I’ve brought you some pie, Mrs. Tremblay, and I’d like to get acquainted.”
The woman eyed her suspiciously, but finally said, “Your name is Murray?”
“Yes. I just married Richard Murray, the Mountie.”
Mrs. Tremblay nodded once and opened the door. “He’s a good man. Please come in.”
Because the forest was so dark, Violet expected the inside of the cabin to be dark as well, but instead, she found it quite light and cheery. Lanterns were set in strategic places here and there, and the back of the cabin had a large glass window that let in some afternoon sun from the other direction. Mrs. Tremblay motioned to the table, and Violet placed the pie on it, then sat.
“I hope you don’t mind my dropping by,” Violet said. “I’m looking forward to meeting everyone in the community.”
Mrs. Tremblay shook her head. “Not that we’re considered part of the community.”
Her voice was low and mellow, but held an understandably bitter note. Violet wanted to know more about this woman and her history. Just in glancing around the cabin, she saw a blending of cultures—animal skin wall hangings along with pictures framed with glass, a rifle over the fireplace with a small skull on the mantel below it.
“What sort of animal is the skull from?” Violet asked.
“A fox. My husband hunts them.”
Violet nodded. She wouldn’t have had even a guess at identifying it. She turned back to her hostess and smiled. “You say you aren’t considered part of the community. Why is that?” She knew she was probably asking a question that should only be asked by a close friend, but she didn’t know how to create a close friend without asking questions. It was quite a confusing cycle, really.
Mrs. Tremblay looked down at her hands, and then back up. “My husband is a white man,” she replied. “He came from a rich family in Toronto—his father was going to give him the business when he turned twenty-five. But instead, he came up here, we met, and we fell in love. He took me back home with him and introduced me to his family, and they disowned him on the spot. My family did much the same thing. Being Inuit carries certain responsibilities, and my father felt that I had not only gone against our cultural traditions, but that I had betrayed my family as well. I was confused—I’d never heard these laws, but apparently, I should have, and I was told to leave with my husband and never come back.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Violet replied. She’d heard the story from Mrs. Dandy, of course, but hearing it spoken with such emotion was an entirely different experience. “But isn’t Flying Squirrel a fresh start for you? Don’t the people here treat you differently than your families did?”
Mrs. Tremblay shrugged. “The newer folk do, but the people who have been here for a long time can be cruel. They tell me I’m trying too hard to be a white woman, and they tell my husband he’s becoming an Inuit. They’d like to keep those lines firmly drawn.” She pointed at Violet. “Not your Mountie, though. He and the other men have been good to us. They’ve helped us settle a few arguments in the past, and last year, when we were having some difficulties, they arranged guards to see my husband to the trading post with his furs. He’d been threatened, but we needed the money, so the Mounties gave up a few days’ time to see to his safety. We’ve been indebted to the Mounties ever since.”
“They are a good bunch of men,” Violet replied. She looked forward to getting to know them better as they met up as couples. She’d hardly spoken to Curtis at all, and Commander Jacobs seemed like a kind man.
“Now, what’s this you’ve done?” Mrs. Tremblay asked, motioning toward the pie.
“Just some dessert for your dinner. Apple pie.”
The other woman smiled. “My husband and son will be glad to hear that. It’s their favorite. Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” Violet replied. She was so glad she’d brought the pie out here instead of disposing it in some other way.
“Let me put it on a different plate so you can take this one back with you.” Mrs. Tremblay began to stand up, but Violet held up a hand.
“No, keep it. This way, I’ll have a perfectly legitimate excuse to come back. I’ll say I need to fetch the plate, but in reality, what I want is to sit and visit. Would that be all right with you, Mrs. Tremblay?”
“You . . . you want to come back?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Well, all right, then. And you should call me Anna.”
Violet smiled. “I’m Violet. And I have a feeling we’re going to become good friends.”
Anna nodded. “I’d like that. I haven’t had a good friend in a very long time.”