Fillmore, Utah
JuLy 1860
The sun was just settling on the horizon when I heard Papa’s boots hitting our wooden porch.
My heart beat faster. The chores were finished and supper was nearly prepared, but I knew better than to expect smiling faces at the end of a long day in the gristmill and the fields. It was almost the harvest, which meant everyone was keyed up about preserving what was left of the meager yield. Tonight at least, the news of Peach’s engagement would put a smile on Mama’s face.
Papa came through the door first, his weathered face sunburned in patches where his hat didn’t quite shade him, and dark circles of sweat under his arms. His hands always had some new cut or abrasion from his work at the gristmill.
Mama followed behind him, her long thin hair tied back in a bun just above the folded square of fabric that caught the sweat at her neck. Her shoulders were drooped, and her steps slow as she walked inside. I glanced sideways at Peach then hurried to offer her a chair at the table. I could already see her frowning at the apple preserves we’d set out with the biscuits. There was only one jar left until the big harvest down in Fillmore, and I knew she’d been saving them for Papa’s birthday.
“We wanted to make a special dinner,” Peach said.
This made her sit up a little straighter. She glanced at Papa. Then her bleary eyes brightened and she fixed her gaze on Peach. “And why is that?”
Peach proudly held out her hand with the little silver ring she had carefully placed back on her finger.
The sight of it on her hand still made my stomach churn. Stop it, I told my insides. You’re being a baby. Be happy for your sister. This time it worked. I braced myself and kept my smile bright.
“Brother Robison—Vick—proposed today, with a picnic. He came home early from the mission.”
Mama clapped her hands with delight, and Papa’s weathered face broke into a pleased smile. “I knew it. Didn’t I tell you I knew it? He had a little spring in his step this morning when we saw him at the tithing cellar, and I just knew … Well, at least I hoped.”
She eyed the apple preserves with new approval. “A special dinner for a special day. You’re moving up in the world, my Peach.”
Papa nodded. My cheeks hurt from keeping my smile in place. She never said “my Emma” like that. I pushed the selfish thought away and sat down next to Violet at the table.
We bowed our heads and folded our arms in prayer. Then Papa offered the blessing, like he did most nights. “Father in Heaven, we bow our heads before Thee with gratitude in our hearts. We thank Thee for thy Prophet Brigham Young. We thank Thee for the food and shelter we are blessed with. We thank Thee for Peach and Brother Robison, and for the blessings that await them through Thy Endowment. We say these things with humble hearts, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” we all said together when he was finished. My stomach growled for a taste of the apple preserves, but I waited patiently while Mama, Papa, then Peach and Violet took their share. I couldn’t keep my eyes off Peach’s ring hand as it moved to scoop a helping of beans onto her plate.
I was just about to spoon a dab of preserves onto my plate when Mama suddenly stopped talking and fixed me with a glare. I put the spoon back into the jar, heart beating fast, wondering what I had done to draw her anger.
Her mouth clamped shut, and she stared at my hand, still hovering above the jar of preserves.
“What is it, Mama?” I asked sweetly.
Then I followed her gaze and looked at my hand. I couldn’t see anything amiss, at first. It was clean enough. I had washed my hands at the Robisons’ house after I finished chinking the walls, and I’d been careful not to get any of the hopper juice on me.
Then I saw it. A lump of clay had snuck onto the edge of my dress sleeve. It had dried there, and part of it had broken off into the half-full jar of apple preserves.
My mouth fell open. I’d ruined the preserves. “I’m sorry,” I rushed to say. “I’m sorry. I don’t mind, though.” I reached the spoon back into the jar, scooped up the crumbling lump of clay and ash scattered on top of the syrupy, golden apples, and plopped it onto my plate.
Before I could eat a bite, Mama reached out and grabbed hold of my wrist.
“I think you’ve had plenty,” she muttered, snatching my plate away from me with her other hand. “The pig needs fat on her bones more than you do, anyway.”