The Secret of Morton's End

The Secret of Morton’s End

by

Patricia E. Canterbury

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Pegasus Books/Patricia E. Canterbury on Smashwords

The Secret of Morton’s End

Copyright © 2015 by Patricia E. Canterbury

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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ISBN - 978-1-941859-20-9

Comments about The Secret of Morton’s End and requests for additional copies, book club rates and author speaking appearances may be addressed to Patricia E. Canterbury or Pegasus Books, c/o cmoebs@pegasusbooks.net, or you can send your comments and requests via e-mail to Patmyst@aol.com or to contact us at www.pegasusbooks.net.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

To my husband, Richard, who has always believed in me

And to

Aunt Marie Louise Reneau

CHAPTER 1

Nothing ever happens here in the Coves, why can’t we spend Christmas in San Francisco with Aunt Annabelle and Uncle Philip? Amber Walker whined, squinting through her new glasses, to her mother, Mabel Louise, who’d just walked past her bedroom.

We’re going to Uncle George’s and visit with your father’s great Aunt Beatrice. I don’t want to hear any more about life in Poplar Cove. If you’re so bored there’s plenty to do to get this house ready for the holidays. You can start by picking up your clothes and helping Myrtle starch the curtains for the parlor.

Oh, dear, if she’s bored, she and her friends are bound to find an adventure or two, especially with two weeks off for the holidays. I’d better speak with Ruby Sue and Ethelene and try to keep the girls occupied, Mabel Louise thought.

Mother? Amber asked, her soft husky voice beginning to whine.

Yes? Stopping outside her daughter’s door, Mabel Louise paused at the top of the stairs, holding an armload of laundry in a large wicker basket she’d taken from the cleaning woman, Myrtle.

The girls are coming over. They should be here any minute. Taking off her glasses Amber squinted through the lace curtains to the house across the street. I hate these glasses. But I can barely make out the shape of the Barton house without them, she thought, putting on the thick wire rimmed glasses. She looked over at her mother leaning against the door frame, who waited for Amber to continue. Her pale yellow wool slim skirt and matching large cardigan sweater complemented her olive complexion.

Mother looks so nice, I wish I were as pretty as she. I’m never going to be tall like Robyn or thin like Jessica. I’m never going to lose this baby fat and now I have to wear these horrible things, Amber thought, taking off her glasses and laying them on the bed near her pillow. She glanced over at the photograph taken at the previous year’s Labor Day picnic. She couldn’t see an olive skinned gray-eyed girl who was the miniature of her very beautiful mother. She saw only her hated glasses and round face surrounded by a halo of dark, unruly curls. Mabel Louise continued to stand by the door holding the basket of linens.

Mother, why are you dressed up?

I’m going to see your father at a town hall meeting after lunch.

Oh. Can I wear your sweater when we go to Uncle George’s?

Of course you can wear it. Grandmother Rachel knitted this for me. I’m glad that you like it. It might be a little too long for you. But you can wear it if you like. Oh uh... Honey? Mabel Louise said, smiling.

Yes, Mother.

I wish you’d ask me before inviting your friends over. Don’t you see enough of them at school?

But Mother, its vacation time and we’re working together on Mrs. Blake’s baby things. Besides, it’s too late now, I can’t call Jessica, and she doesn’t have a phone. She’s probably already on her way. Robyn came by yesterday when she was walking the baby and I told her to come by. Adam’s driving her crazy. I promised that we’d get together today, Amber replied, sitting down on the left corner of her large four-poster bed, knocking the glasses off onto the floor.

All right, this time I want you girls to clean up behind yourselves. Amber, we’ve discussed how times have gotten hard for the farmers and fishermen who depend on your father for advice. If they don’t have money then they barter with food or goods. We’ve already had many discussions over supper about this. You know that money doesn’t grow on trees. I don’t know how we’re going to be able to keep Myrtle if things don’t improve—and she needs the money, poor dear, Mabel Louise said, speaking mostly to herself.

Mother, are we poor?

No, what gave you that idea? Oh, no dear we’re not. Forget what I was saying. Your father and I work hard to keep our money. We don’t want to squander it on unnecessary trips to San Francisco. Have a good time with your friends, clean up behind yourselves. I already told you that I’m going out for a while this afternoon. The town council has to do something about all the hobos hanging around the train station. I don’t want anything to happen to any of the town’s people. Some of the hobos are very undesirable.

Because they’re white? Amber asked.

No, I don’t want your repeating what you hear ignorant people say. The men, whether white or Negro, are undesirable because they drink and cause trouble. We’re finding some of them drunk, sleeping in the meadow where we have the Labor Day and Armistice Day picnics. We’re just seeing too many here. We’re a tiny peaceful town. Our jail only has two cells. We can’t handle them.

But daddy’s a lawyer, and the mayor. He can handle any troublemakers.

Honey... honey.... Mabel Louise put the basket of linens down and walked over to the bed where she joined her daughter. She smoothed Amber’s dark sausage curls back from her unblemished face and took her hands into hers, and said, Honey, your father is a small town lawyer. Most of his clients are people you know, the farmers and miners in the Coves or over in Weed. Except for the Anderson’s, most are just like us, struggling each day. They don’t have much money. Mostly they pay your father in eggs, butter, and occasionally a side of beef. We’re just a little more fortunate than others in our part of California. We’re not like your Aunt Annabelle. We can’t afford to live in San Francisco or travel to Paris whenever we like.

I understand.

Don’t forget to pick up your glasses and wear them. You’ll never get used to them if you keep leaving them about.

Okay. Amber replied, picking up the glasses and putting them back on.

Once I’m a famous writer like Zora Hurston, I’ll take you and Daddy to Paris.

We’ll be honored to come with you.

###

Nothing ever happens here in the Coves, Jessica Johnson said, in a soft lisp, sweeping the hair clipping from her fresh cut coarse red braids out of Ruby Sue’s Beauty Salon, into the damp leaf covered wooden sidewalk of Main Street. Taking a blue embroidered handkerchief from her back pocket she blew her red nose. The crisp winter airs brought red blotches to her already pale complexion, making her freckles seem more prominent.

Jessica, I don’t have time for your whining. Mrs. Wilson will be here in a few minutes to get her hair pressed and I can’t find my fine hot comb. Sweep behind the chair. Pointing to the large red peeling leather chair she reserved for customers, Jessica’s mother, Ruby Sue, stoked the fires of the large Wedgwood stove, which heated the tiny two chair shop to a cozy warmth as Jessica returned to the shop, shutting the door behind her.

Did you put paper in the privy?

Yesh, Mom... when are we...?

Jessica, don’t start about the indoor plumbing. We just got the fixtures in the house. You know we can’t afford to put all that stuff in here and make a profit. It’s hard enough trying to convince colored women to come to a beauty shop and have someone fix their hair without you talking about indoor plumbing.

I didn’t train all those years under Madame Walker’s tutelage to give up my dream of having my own hair salon, even if we’re open for only two days a week. It’s a start, Ruby thought.

Next you’ll be asking for a telephone. Back fences—and, if I have anything to say about it, beauty shops—that’s how folks will get their news. We don’t need telephones and fancy indoor plumbing in a salon. Ah, here this comb, Ruby Sue said, picking up a fine tooth hot iron comb from the middle of a stack of white terry cloth towels. "Folks are used to using the privy and we keep it clean. You did clean it didn’t