Page 56 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
“I don’t have my things. How can I stay?”
Her father snapped his fingers. “Carlson.”
The driver went around to the trunk of the car. When he retrieved her brown leather valise and came to set it down by her feet, Fern wished the ground would split open, swallow her, and seal itself up again. Even their driver had known she would not be returning to Chicago with her parents.
“Margie packed everything you will need,” her mother said brightly.
Fern’s throat closed off. “You said it was just a visit, Mother.”
She folded her hands together in front of her waist. “Your father thinks it’s for the best. You were willing to have a look; now it only makes sense that you be willing to try it out for a time.”
“You tricked me,” Fern said, her voice breaking.
Mrs. Crane cleared her throat. “Perhaps I should leave you to discuss things.”
“No need,” the judge snapped. “Don’t be overdramatic, Fern. This place is perfect for you. One week. If you’re not happy after one week, Carlson will fetch you.”
Fern hated him right then. She hated all of them. Even their driver, who had never been anything but kind to her and now was an accomplice. She was an adult. She could make her own decisions, and yet this one was being foisted upon her. Pitching a fit and making a scene would be childish, even though it’s what she wanted to do. They were treating her like a child, but she refused to act like one.
“One week,” she said, blinking back her tears. Born offrustration, not fear, though her parents wouldn’t know that. One week, and then she would leave. Although she wouldn’t be returning to South Woodlawn. Fern didn’t know where she would go just yet, but it wouldn’t be there.
Her mother kissed her cheek as Fern stood still, unresponsive. Judge Adair got into the car first, and after another encouraging smile, his wife followed him.
Mrs. Crane waved as the Nash pulled forward and drove toward the road, which was lined with leafy trees, showing their silver backs in the breeze.
One week. She could get through one week here.
The room Fern was assigned was small but tidy, with a view of the apple orchard behind the main house. She couldn’t clear the stone lodged in the base of her throat that first evening, so when Mrs. Crane introduced her to some of the other girls and women on her floor, she only nodded in greeting. Their names entered one ear and dissipated out the other almost immediately. The girl with the hump she’d seen in the garden earlier had a room diagonal to Fern’s, and a blind woman lived right across the hall. Another woman who lived on her floor but didn’t appear to have anything wrong with her at all, knocked on Fern’s door to tell her dinner was being served.
She wasn’t hungry, but as she sat at one of the three round tables in the large dining room, there were so many eyes lifting to get a glimpse of her that she ateevery last morsel on her plate, if only to avoid conversation. The food might have been tasty, but as she lay in her slim bed that night, looking out the window, she couldn’t remember.
How relieved they all must be, back at home, to have her out of the house, out from underfoot, off their minds and consciences. What did it matter really? No one would miss her. No one would wonder where Fern had gone off to. Cal, whatever he was doing, wouldn’t wonder either. She was nothing but a disaster—and Buchanan’s sister—to him.
The next morning, Mrs. Crane led Fern to the library, which was housed in the east wing of the main house. There were other buildings around the property, including a greenhouse and a well house, several workshops, and a garage for the two autos they kept for making runs into town.
“I’ve been told you’re an avid reader,” Mrs. Crane said as they entered a dark and musty room. It was about the size of the dining room back home, with shelves on every wall and a few freestanding stacks.
“I am,” Fern managed to reply. Her throat hurt from the first few words she’d spoken since the afternoon before.
One week. Just a few more days.
“We have a number of residents who enjoy reading as well,” she said, “but none of them have enough of an interest in tending the shelves. I’m afraid many books have been returned without care and are no longer in their appropriate locations. I wonder if you might be ableto dedicate some of your hours in the day to their re-organization?”
“Have the books been cataloged using a decimal system?” Fern asked, appalled that someone would just place a book back randomly in such a large collection. How was one to ever find it again?
The superintendent frowned, as if flummoxed by what that meant. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Don’t you have a school on-site here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Don’t the children use the library?”
She laughed. “Not this one. The younger students have their own books.”
Fern glanced around the dim room. Motes of dust lingered in the air. She supposed there were worse things to do while waiting for the week to end itself.
She agreed to the task, and Mrs. Crane left her to get started. She likely knew Fern didn’t wish to interact with the residents, and she was thankful for her understanding. It bothered her, admitting that the superintendent was a nice woman. That this placedidseem like a good home. No one was offensive; no one was rude. At breakfast, she’d received smiles and a few “good mornings” from the others.
