1931

Gemma snuggled back against the warmth of her husband's body. His arm draping over her side held her securely and she sighed contentedly. She had thought he was asleep, but was pleasantly surprised to feel him tighten the embrace and nibble gently at her ear before whispering, "Morning, Precious." Gemma smiled and turned within the circle of her husband's arms to face him, but woke with a start. Instead of meeting his smile, she saw nothing but an empty expanse of mattress. The harshness of reality crashed into her consciousness. She would never again feel his lips on hers, never feel his arms around her, never hear his boisterous laugh. Fletcher was dead. Her high school sweetheart, the husband she had vowed to love and cherish, the father of her children, the man she had expected to spend her life with; was dead. It had been six months since John Fletcher's body had been laid to rest in the small community cemetery and time had begun to lessen the aching of her heart, but some mornings, like this, she felt as if she lost him anew.

She sat on the edge of the disheveled bed, shaken from the vividness of the dream. She stared at the mirror, fingering the necklace Fletcher had brought her when he returned from the Great War. That separation had been hard too, but it had been different. The optimism of a couple newly engaged practically ensured his safe return in their minds. And he had returned to her and they were soon married to live happily ever after they thought, but there would be no joyous reunion this time, at least not on this earth. Oh, she knew that one day she would see him again. One day, in heaven, but one day and heaven seemed very long and very far away.

The door slammed open and Gemma jumped, dropping the pendant that hung from the delicate chain. In toddled her daughter, Garnet, still sleepily rubbing her eyes and climbed into her mother's lap. After wrapping her little arms around her mother's neck and squeezing tightly, Garnet pushed away and looked around asking, "Where Daddy, Mama?"

Gemma pulled her daughter close against her, and despite her attempts could not restrain the sobs that shook her own shoulders. At the sight of her mother's tears, the little girl began crying in earnest. Her daughter's accompanying wails brought her son, Gardner rushing to the bedroom door, a worried look in his dark blue eyes. He scurried over to comfort as best he knew how.

"It's okay, it's okay," he shushed. He patted his little sister on the back. "Garnet, come on now, stop crying," he coaxed gently. She drew in a quick, shuddering breath then exhaled with a little cough before tucking her thumb into her mouth and laying her head against their mother's shoulder. Gardner looked at his mother in concern, "Are you alright, Mama?"

Gemma composed herself. "Thank you, Gardner. I'll be fine."

Gardner nodded and said, "I miss Daddy too, Mama."

It took all of Gemma's strength not to dissolve into tears again, but she knew she needed to be responsible. She smiled at the miniature version of her husband – so like him in looks and actions. "When did you grow up into such a man?" she asked, more to herself than to her son.

"I didn't, Mama. I'm only six."

"Only six and already fatherless. It just isn't right. No boy should have to grow up without the love and guidance of a father, especially a father like Fletcher." Gemma felt the heaviness of depression pressing on her heart. The emotional burden was so heavy that she literally felt physically weighed down.

"I hung'y, Mama," Garnet said pounding on her mother's thigh. Gemma captured the little fist and said, "No hitting, Garnet. That's not how you ask for something. What do you say?"

Garnet's little head dropped at the admonition, but she was quick to add, "P'ease, Mama."

Gemma smiled, "That's better." She hesitated, summoning the energy to drag her weary body to the kitchen.

Gardner hoisted his sister into his wiry, young arms and headed for the kitchen as he said, "I'll get you something, Buzzy. Let's let Mama rest awhile longer."

Gemma knew she should get up. She knew she shouldn't be letting Gardner care for things. She knew it, but chose to sink back against the lumpy pillow, drenching it with her silent tears, hoping to fall back asleep where, even if it were only a dream, she could find the comfort of her husband's touch once again.

She didn't know how long she might have lain there had it not been for the knock at the door. At the intrusive sound Gemma hurriedly changed into her dress, tied on an apron and ran her fingers through her hair. She knew she still looked dreadful, but what could people expect. When she pulled open the door, Harold Ulmer, the man for which Fletcher had managed the farm, was standing on the step twisting his hat in his hands. His look reflected his shock at seeing her looking so poorly. "Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher."

"Mr. Ulmer, what brings you by today? I didn't realize you were in town." She tried to appear cheerful for no other reason than to set the old man's mind at ease.

"Mrs. Fletcher, I don't quite know how to tell you this. I'm so, so sorry, but I didn't have any choice. It's nothing personal. I just did what I had to do."

He paused and when he continued looking at her but made no move to explain Gemma prompted him, "Had to do what?"

"I had to sell the farm," he blurted out then continued in a rush. "I truly didn't want to sell it, but I couldn't keep it. I needed the money to pay the taxes on my other land. It's been in my family for several generations. When I had to choose between this property or my inheritance… well, I'm sure you understand."

Gemma nodded, "Of course, I understand. You have always been fair to us and we'll miss you, but I'll be happy to continue managing the farmstead for the new owner."

"That's just it, ma'am. I've already let the farmhands go and the new owner asked me to let you know that you'll need to move out too. He doesn't need anyone to manage the house 'cause his son and daughter-in-law are planning on moving in the beginning of next week. "

"I see," said Gemma, but could think of nothing else to say as her mind reeled with the information. "What am I going to do? I've got no money and nowhere to go!"

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave behind the furnishings and supplies that belong to the house."

"Of course," she said, mentally separating her personal belongings from those of the farm. Almost mirthfully, she wondered into which category her canning belonged. Most of the summer's abundance had been sold at market , but she had spent several hot weeks over the stove putting up the excess fruits and vegetables in the farm's numerous glass jars.

As if he had read her mind, Mr. Ulmer continued. "They bought whatever canning you've got done. I figured you were counting on that for the winter though and since you did the work I added what I could spare to your pay for the week," he said handing her the check she normally received in the mail. "I know it's not much, but I hope it helps. You're also welcome to help yourself to what's left of the garden."

"Thank you," she said, though the thought of the withered remains was hardly encouraging. She was surprised how deeply she felt the disappointment of losing the rows of gleaming jars with their jewel colored contents.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Fletcher? Is there anything I can do to help? Help you move your things? Take you to the train station or the city? If you get your younguns and things together you can ride back with me."

Gemma shook her head. She had never been good at accepting help from others and even in her shock refused to allow her worry to show. "No thank you, Mr. Ulmer. We'll manage."

"Alright then. If you could just leave the books and keys on the table when you move."

"That won't be a problem," she agreed to the reminder.

"Good," he said, shaking his head in satisfaction that he had covered everything he was responsible for telling her. He looked at the widow again and a surge of regret struck the old man again. When he had invited Fletcher to manage the farm for him, he could have never hoped for a finer job than what the young man and his wife had done. He had been amazed how competently she had continued after her husband's death, though the stress of it had taken it's toll on her appearance. Worry prompted him to ask once more, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes. I appreciate your concern, but we will be fine."

Nothing in her mannerisms or expression indicated anything other than complete control. His face softened in relief and he bid her goodbye before shoving the abused hat down on his head and shuffling back to his car. Gemma stood at the door as he drove away and only when he was out of sight did she pull her trembling hands from beneath her apron.